The History of Cartography, Volume 4: Cartography in the European Enlightenment 9780226339221

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T H E H I S T O RY O F C A RT O G R A P H Y VOLUME FOUR

V o l u m e F o u r E d i t o r i a l A d v i s o r s D. Graham Burnett Johannes Dörflinger João Carlos Garcia Anne Godlewska Anthony Grafton John P. Greene John Hébert

T h e

John L. Heilbron Roger J. P. Kain Robert W. Karrow David Livingstone Dorinda Outram Anthony Pagden Alexey V. Postnikov

H i s t o r y

o f

Hélène Richard Günter Schilder Norman J. W. Thrower Sarah Tyacke Vladimiro Valerio Albert Van Helden Glyndwr Williams

C a r t o g r a p h y

J. B. Harley and David Woodward, Founding Editors Matthew H. Edney, Project Director 1 Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean 2.1 Cartography in the Traditional Islamic and South Asian Societies 2.2 Cartography in the Traditional East and Southeast Asian Societies 2.3 Cartography in the Traditional African, American, Arctic, Australian, and Pacific Societies 3 Cartography in the European Renaissance 4 Cartography in the European Enlightenment 5 Cartography in the Nineteenth Century 6 Cartography in the Twentieth Century

T H E H I S T O RY O F C A RT O G R A P H Y VOLUME FOUR

Cartography in the European Enlightenment PART 1

Edited by

MATTHEW H. EDNEY and

MARY SPONBERG PEDLEY Associate Editors RO BERT W. KARROW DEN N I S REI N HARTZ SARAH TYACKE

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS

•

CHICAGO AND LONDON

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2019 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637. Published 2019 Printed in Canada 28

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S et ISBN-13: 978-0-226-18475-3 (cloth) ISBN-13: 978-0-226-33922-1 (e-book) Part 1 ISBN-13: 978-0-226-18476-0 Part 2 ISBN-13: 978-0-226-18477-7 This material is based on editorial work supported in part by the National Science Foundation under Grant Nos. 0322129, 0322200, 0749522, 0749687, 1354100, 8812674, 9320895, 9975699, and 9975705. The History of Cartography has also been made possible by major grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities. For a complete list of financial supporters, see pages v–vii of part 1. DOI: https://doi.org/10.7208/chicago/9780226339221.001.0001 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Edney, Matthew H., editor. | Pedley, Mary Sponberg, editor. | Karrow, Robert W., editor. | Reinhartz, Dennis, editor. | Tyacke, Sarah, editor. Title: Cartography in the European Enlightenment / edited by Matthew H. Edney and Mary Sponberg Pedley ; associate editors: Robert W. Karrow, Dennis Reinhartz, Sarah Tyacke. Other titles: History of cartography ; v. 4. Description: Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 2020. | Series: History of cartography ; volume 4 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019049553 | ISBN 9780226184753 (set) | ISBN 9780226184760 (cloth) | ISBN 9780226184777 (cloth) | ISBN 9780226339221 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Cartography—Europe—18th century—History—Encyclopedias. Classification: LCC GA236 .C39 2020 | DDC 526.094/09033—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019049553 Any opinions, findings, and conclusions or recommendations expressed in this material are those of the editors and authors and do not necessarily reflect or represent the views of the National Science Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, or other sponsors.

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Financial Support Federal Agencies Division of Preservation and Access of the National Endowment for the Humanities Geography and Spatial Sciences Program and Science, Technology, and Society Program of the National Science Foundation

Foundations and Institutions Caxambas Foundation The Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation T. Lloyd Kelly Foundation Jay I. Kislak Philanthropic Foundation, in honor of Matthew H. Edney The Muriel and Norman B. Leventhal Family Foundation, Inc.* Andrew W. Mellon Foundation National Geographic Society Jack Ringer Family Foundation

Salus Mundi Foundation The Hermon Dunlap Smith Center for the History of Cartography, The Newberry Library University of Wisconsin–Madison, College of Letters & Science University of Wisconsin–Madison, Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research and Graduate Education, with funding from the Wisconsin Alumni Research Foundation

Organizations and Corporations Richard B. Arkway, Inc., and Cohen & Taliaferro, LLC Chicago Map Society Martayan, Lan, Augustyn, Inc.

The New York Map Society Philadelphia Print Shop The Rocky Mountain Map Society Snap-on Incorporated

Page Stockwell Old Maps & Prints Western Association of Map Libraries

Matching gifts from The Capital Group Companies Charitable Foundation Cray Research Foundation

ExxonMobil Foundation General Motors Foundation Samuel H. Kress Foundation

Lehman Brothers Norfolk Southern Foundation

Associates Arthur and Janet Holzheimer*

John Taylor

Sponsors Roger and Julie Baskes Richard Brown William B. Ginsberg Arthur L. Kelly Bernard Lisker Barry L. MacLean

Glen McLaughlin Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Nebenzahl* Mary Sponberg Pedley* Estate of Walter W. Ristow David Rumsey

Jeanne K. Snyder, in memory of John P. Snyder William S. Swinford Clark L. Taber Rosalind Woodward*

Founders W. Graham Arader III Rand and Patricia Burnette* Matthew H. Edney Ralph and Tess Ehrenberg Joseph H. and Monica G. Fitzgerald Dr. and Mrs. Robert W. Graebner Warren Heckrotte Robert A. Highbarger Robert A. Holland Roger J. P. Kain Andrew J. LeRoy Duane F. Marble

Douglas W. Marshall Barbara Backus McCorkle Thomas McCulloch Harold Moellering Joel L. and Beverly S. Morrison Samir and Suzy Murty Erhan Oner Harold L. Osher* George Parker* Brian D. Quintenz William Sherman Reese Steve Ritchie

Rudy L. Ruggles, Jr. Thomas F. Sander Joseph and Françoise Shein Rodney W. Shirley Tom and Lee Touchton Sarah Tyacke* Albert R. Vogeler Edward Alex Wiegner Alberta A. Wood, in memory of Clifford Harlow Wood* William C. Wooldridge

Benefactors Cyrus Ala’i Peter M. Enggass Mary H. Galneder, in memory of Richard “Dick” Stephenson and Arthur Robinson* Gail L. Geiger* Alice C. Hudson

Bert and Mary Lee Johnson* P. J. Mode Mark and Margaret Monmonier Virginia S. Morbeck, in memory of Barbara Bartz Petchenik Barbara Mundy

Constantine B. Scarvelis, in memory of Kiky Polites Florence I. and John E. Townsend, in memory of Anthony “Tony” Dolphin James V. Walker

Patrons Joseph Aieta III James R. Akerman Julie A. Anderson Stanley K. and Patricia L. Arnett II Christopher and Barbara Baruth Sanford H. Bederman, in memory of Louis De Vorsey Karen Beidel and Greg Carbone, in memory of Susan MacKerer Waltraud A. Brinkmann Wesley and Linda Brown Barbara E. Butler James R. Carter Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth A. Chambers* Barbara M. Christy Michael P. Conzen James Cox Christina Elizabeth Dando Gerald A. Danzer Christiaan Debrauw Dick DePagter Jordana Dym Adele C. Edgerton Constance A. Fairchild Gail E. and James A. Flatness John Fondersmith Richard V. Francaviglia Joel and Kristie Frieze Gregory J. Gajda

John W. Galiardo Bob Gordon Linda Grable-Curtis John M. Gubbins, F.R.G.S. Bob Gurda Stan and Nancy Morbeck Haack, in memory of Barbara Bartz Petchenik Susanne A. Haffner Joan H. and George E. Hall* Steve Hanon John H. and Corbin C. Harwood Guntram Herb and Patricia LeBonHerb* Al Herman Marianne Hinckle Philip Hoehn Tracy L. Honn and Mark R. Bernstein Megan A. Kealy Josef W. Konvitz Jon M. Leverenz G. Malcolm Lewis* Jane C. Maher, in honor of Professor Louis J. Maher, Jr. Paul C. Marengo and Joan P. Simmons Jack and Carmen Miller Victoria M. Morse and Bill North, in honor of the History of Cartography editorial team Andre J. and Christine Navez

In memory of Oscar I. Norwich Mark H. O’Donoghue Judy M. Olson Frank T. Padberg, Jr. Theodore W. Palmer Christine M. Petto Jeremy Pool Peter and Bernice Porrazzo Thomas Ports M. Reilly and B. K. Schnee George and Mary Ritzlin* Joseph E. Schwartzberg* Marsha L. Selmer, in memory of Mary E. Fortney Robert Shilkret Robert B. Silberman Albert H. Small Bruce N. Spring Julie Sweetkind-Singer Richard J. A. Talbert Waldo R. Tobler Mel and Irene Tremper Judith Tyner Richard Umansky Peter H. Van Demark Herbert M. Vogler Larry A. Vos W. Ken Westray Thomas B. and Amy Worth

Friends Joseph A. Abel Michele Aldrich Randy Anders Judith F. Bell Jeffery A. Bernard Aníbal A. Biglieri Steve Bolssen and Margo Kleinfeld Lindsay Frederick Braun In memory of Marie Braun Christian Brun and Jane Fristoe Brun Charles A. Burroughs Martin M. Cassidy Karen Severud Cook

Lesley Cormack Jeremy Crampton Donald C. Dahmann John W. Docktor Geoffrey Dreher Jane Drummond Evelyn Edson, in memory of Dick Stephenson David Fairbairn Craig David Flory James Gifford Fred J. Goldsmith

Nicole Gotthelf, in honor of Jude Leimer Pearce S. Grove Adele J. Haft* John K. Hall Linda Halvorson, in memory of Robert and Jane Halvorson John Hawkins Erin Healy, in memory of Victor Healy Paul Herrup Nikolas H. Huffman Fuad Issa Andrew Kapochunas

Anne Knowles Joel and Deborah Kovarsky Larry B. Kramer Valerie Krejcie George Leonard and Susan Hanes Wolfgang Lierz Allen K. and Sara A. Lydick T. K. McClintock Darrel L. McDonald Sherry Wilson McEwen, in memory of Dr. Alec McEwen

Marianne M. McKee William A. McKinstry Alberto Montilla Frederik Muller R. Michael Peterson Kirsten A. Seaver Douglas W. Sims Dava Sobel* David and Ingrid Stallé David and Deirdre Stam, in memory of J. Brian Harley*

Trudy A. Suchan G. Thomas Tanselle Stephen C. Thomas Linda Franklin Tobin Brian A. Turk William L. Unger* Carol Urness Calvin P. Welch Cordell D. K. Yee and Ingrid Hsieh-Yee

Additional support from William R. Adler* William A. Bauer and Sally M. Rowe Stephen A. Bromberg David Buisseret Vivian C. Carter In memory of Jan Dixon Geoffrey H. Dutton, in memory of William Warntz Bruce Fetter, in memory of J. Brian Harley* Gregory L. Fullerton

Barbara A. Jenkin* John T. Juricek James P. Lacy Evelyn Lincoln* Jennifer Martin and Mark Matthias Carol Medlicott Dennis L. Merritt* Harry and Geraldine Montgomery Susan Morris Curt Musselman* John C. Phillips

Penny L. Richards and Peter Turley* James Henry Romer Sinclair A. Sheers Benjamin Spaier Paul F. Starrs Scott Steinke Holly Stevens, in memory of Dr. Noel Stevens David G. Utley

*A portion or all of this donation was given in memory of David Woodward (1942–2004).

Contents

Entries Listed by Conceptual Cluster List of Tables xv List of Abbreviations xvii

endpapers

Allegorical and Satirical Maps 94 Anich, Peter 103 Antiquarianism and Cartography 104 Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’ 111 Art and Design of Maps 117 Artaria Family 125 Astronomical Models 127 Atlantic Neptune, The 132 Atlas 133 Atlas in the Enlightenment 133 Geographical Atlas 138 Marine Atlas 140 Composite Atlas 142 School Atlas 144 Historical Atlas 146 Austrian Monarchy 148

PART 1 Preface, Matthew H. Edney and Mary Sponberg Pedley xix Introduction, Matthew H. Edney and Mary Sponberg Pedley xxiii

A Académie de marine (Academy of Naval Affairs; France) 1 Academies of Science 3 Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France) 3 Academies of Science in the German States 7 Academies of Science in Great Britain 12 Academies of Science in the Italian States 13 Academies of Science in Portugal 18 Akademiya nauk (Academy of Sciences; Russia) 20 Academies of Science in Spain 23 Adair, John 24 Administrative Cartography 25 Enlightenment 25 Denmark and Norway 31 France 33 New France 38 French West Indies 40 Great Britain 42 British America 47 Italian States 52 Netherlands 60 Ottoman Empire 64 Poland 69 Portugal 71 Portuguese America 73 Russia 75 Spain 78 Spanish America 82 Sweden-Finland 90 Switzerland 92

B Balkans 152 Beautemps-Beaupré, Charles-François 153 Bellin, Jacques-Nicolas 154 Bering Expeditions to Northeast Asia 156 Boscovich, Ruggiero Giuseppe 159 Bouguer, Pierre 161 Boundary Disputes and Cartography 162 Boundary Survey Plan 167 Boundary Surveying 174 Enlightenment 174 Austrian Monarchy 179 Denmark and Norway 181 France 182 New France 187 French West Indies 189 British America 191 Italian States 193 Ottoman Empire 199 Portugal 203 Portuguese America 206 Russia 210 Spain 212 Spanish America 213 Sweden-Finland 218 Switzerland 220

ix

x

Contents British America 222 Buache, Jean-Nicolas 226 Buache, Philippe 228 Bugge, Thomas 230 Büsching, Anton Friedrich 231

Dépôt de la Guerre (Depository of the War Office; France) 346 Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France) 349

E C Cadastral Surveying 232 Calcografia Camerale (Copperplate Printing Administration; Rome) 235 California as an Island 237 Carte de France 239 Cartouche 244 Cassini Family 251 Cassini (I), Jean-Dominique 251 Cassini (II), Jacques 254 Cassini (III) de Thury, César-François 255 Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique 257 Cassini, Giovanni Maria 258 Celestial Mapping 259 Enlightenment 259 Denmark and Norway 274 France 276 Great Britain 278 Italian States 281 Portugal 283 Spain 285 Sweden-Finland 286 Chabert, Joseph-Bernard, marquis de 287 Cities and Cartography 288 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste 293 Color and Cartography 294 Commission topographique of 1802 302 Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France) 303 Connoissance des temps 305 Constellations, Representation of 307 Consumption of Maps 309 Cook, James 314 Coronelli, Vincenzo 316 Cosmographical Map 319 Covens & Mortier (Netherlands) 320 Cruquius, Nicolaas Samuelsz. 322 Customs Administration Map 324

D Dalrymple, Alexander 327 Danish West Indies 329 De Brahm, William Gerard 331 Decoration, Maps as 332 Defoe, Daniel 336 Delisle Family 338 Denmark and Norway 343

East India Company (Great Britain) 353 Eclipse Map, Solar 357 Economy, Cartography and the 360 Education and Cartography 367 Encyclopedias 379 Engineers and Topographical Surveys 383 English Pilot, The 393 Enlightenment, Cartography and the 396 Euler, Leonhard 400 Evans, Lewis 401

F Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands Flamsteed, John 406 Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de 408 France 410 Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis 414 French East Indies 416 French West Indies 419 Fricx, Eugène Henry 421

403

G Games, Cartographic 425 Garden Plan 430 Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth 433 Geodetic Surveying 439 Enlightenment 439 Austrian Monarchy 450 Denmark and Norway 452 France 454 Great Britain 458 Italian States 463 Portugal 467 Spain 468 Sweden-Finland 471 Switzerland 472 Geographical Mapping 474 Enlightenment 474 Denmark and Norway, with Topographical Surveying 489 France 495 New France and the French West Indies 501 German States 505 Great Britain 509 British America 513 Italian States 519 Netherlands 525

Contents

xi

Portugal 529 Portuguese Africa 532 Portuguese America 534 Portuguese East Indies, with Topographical Surveying 538 Russia 541 Spain 546 Spanish America 550 Sweden-Finland 554 Geography and Cartography 557 German States 562 Globe 566 Globes in the Enlightenment 566 Terrestrial Globe 570 Celestial Globe 571 Instructional Texts for the Use of Globes 572 Pocket Globe 573 Lunar Globe 575 Relief Globe 577 Cultural and Social Significance of Globes 578 Great Britain 582 Green, John 586 Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain) 588 Greenwich-Paris Triangulation 589 Guettard, Jean-Étienne 591 Gulf Stream 592

Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography 663 Instruments, Astronomical 672 Instruments for Angle Measuring 674 Back Staff 674 Plane Table 675 Marine Compass 677 Circumferentor 678 Precision Devices for Angle Measurement 679 Octant and Sextant 680 Theodolite, Graphomètre, and Similar Instruments 682 Repeating Circle (Repeating Theodolite) 686 Great Theodolite 687 Instruments for Distance Measuring 689 Chain 689 Perambulator 691 Level 692 Irish Plantation Surveys 693 Isoline 695 Italian States 697

J Jefferys, Thomas 704 Josephinische Landesaufnahme (Josephine Survey; Austrian Monarchy) 705

K

H Halley, Edmond 596 Hase, Johann Matthias 598 Height Measurement 600 Altimetry 600 Leveling 602 Heights and Depths, Mapping of 604 Relief Depiction 604 Relief Map 610 Isobath 614 Bathymetric Map 615 Heights and Distances, Geometric Determination of 618 Hevelius, Johannes 621 Historical Map 622 History and Cartography 624 History of Cartography 631 Holland, Samuel (Johannes) 634 Homann Family 636 Household Artifacts, Maps on 640 Hudson’s Bay Company (Great Britain) 644 Hydrographical Office, Admiralty (Great Britain)

Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699) 709 Kipriyanov, Vasiliy Onufriyevich 710 Kirilov, Ivan Kirilovich 713

L La Caille, Nicolas-Louis de 716 La Condamine, Charles-Marie de 718 Lambert, Johann Heinrich 719 Landscape, Maps, and Aesthetics 720 Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to 727 League of Augsburg, War of the 731 Liesganig, Joseph 732 Lomonosov, Mikhail Vasil’yevich 734 Longitude and Latitude 735 López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás 750

M

648

I Iconography, Ornamentation, and Cartography 651 Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages 658

Madrid, Treaty of (1750) 753 Map Collecting 756 Enlightenment 756 Austrian Monarchy 759 Denmark 762 France 763 Great Britain 766 Netherlands 768

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Contents Ottoman Empire 769 Portugal 772 Russia 774 Spain 775 Sweden-Finland 777 Switzerland 779 Map Trade 780 Enlightenment 780 Denmark 787 France 788 German States 798 Great Britain 812 British America 826 Italian States 828 Netherlands 834 Poland 842 Portugal 844 Russia 846 Spain 849 Sweden-Finland 851 Switzerland 854 Marine Chart 856 Marine Charting 866 Enlightenment 866 Denmark and Norway 877 France 881 German States 889 Great Britain 891 Netherlands 898 Ottoman Empire 902 Portugal 907 Russia 910 Spain 914 Sweden-Finland 917 Marinoni, Johann Jakob 919 Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando 920 Mason-Dixon Line 922 Masse Family 924 Mayer, Tobias 925 Measures, Linear 926 Linear Measures in the Enlightenment 926 Itinerary and Geographical Measures 927 Marine Measures 928 Surveying Measures 929 Reform of Linear Measures 930 Medals, Maps on 931 Memoirs, Cartographic 933 Meridians, Local and Prime 936 Metaphor, Map as 942 Meter, Survey for the 945 Mikoviny, Samuel 946 Militär-Ingenieurakademie (Academy for Military Engineers; Austrian Monarchy) 948 Military and Topographical Surveys 949

Military Cartography 954 Enlightenment 954 Austrian Monarchy, with Topographical Surveying 966 Denmark and Norway 973 France 975 German States 980 Great Britain 984 Netherlands, with Topographical Surveying Ottoman Empire 993 Portugal 999 Spain 1002 Sweden-Finland 1004 Switzerland 1009 Military Map 1013 Battle Map 1013 Fortification Plan 1014 Plan-relief 1015 Modes of Cartographic Practice 1017 Müller, Johann Christoph 1019

990

PART 2 N Nagayev, Aleksey Ivanovich 1021 Nationalism and Cartography 1022 Naudin Family 1027 Navigation and Cartography 1029 Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique 1037 Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise 1039 Neptune oriental, Le 1043 Netherlands, Republic of the United 1046 Netherlands, Southern 1049 New France 1055 Niebuhr, Carsten 1060 Nolli, Giovanni Battista 1061 North, Magnetic and True 1064 Northwest Passage 1064

O Officina Topografica (Topographical Mapping Office; Naples) 1069 Ogilby, John 1071 Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the 1073

P Pacific Voyages 1083 Packe, Christopher 1090 Pallas, Peter Simon 1092 Pardies, Ignace-Gaston 1093 Paris Observatory (France) 1093

Contents Picard, Jean 1095 Pilot Book 1097 Poland 1100 Poland-Lithuania, Partitions of 1102 Ponts et Chaussées, Engineers and École des (School of Bridges and Roads; France) 1105 Portugal 1109 Portuguese Africa 1110 Portuguese America 1112 Portuguese East Indies 1114 Privilege and Copyright 1115 Projections 1119 Geographical Maps 1119 Marine Charts 1126 Topographical Survey Plans 1128 Property Map 1129 Cadastral Map 1129 Estate Plan 1133 Property Mapping 1138 Enlightenment 1138 Austrian Monarchy 1149 Denmark and Norway 1152 France 1156 New France and the French West Indies 1161 German States 1166 Great Britain 1171 British America 1175 Italian States 1181 Netherlands 1185 Ottoman Empire 1190 Poland 1192 Portugal 1194 Portuguese America 1196 Russia 1200 Spain 1203 Spanish America 1208 Sweden-Finland 1214 Switzerland 1216 Public Sphere, Cartography and the 1219

R Reilly, Franz Johann Joseph von 1227 Religion and Cartography 1227 Rennell, James 1236 Reproduction of Maps 1238 Manuscript Reproduction 1238 Engraving and Printing 1248 Color Printing 1260 Typographic Printing 1263 Revolution, American 1265 Revolution, French 1270 Rizzi Zannoni, Giovanni Antonio 1275 Robert de Vaugondy Family 1277

xiii Roy, William 1279 Russia 1281

S Samplers, Map 1285 Sanson Family 1286 Sarychev, Gavriil Andreyevich 1289 Science and Cartography 1291 Scotland, Military Survey of (Great Britain) 1297 Sea of the West 1299 Seutter, Probst, and Lotter Families 1301 Sibbald, Robert 1304 Signs, Cartographic 1304 Society of Jesus (Rome) 1311 Sørensen, Jens 1319 Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation 1320 Southern Continent 1325 Soymonov, Fëdor Ivanovich 1327 Spain 1328 Spanish America 1330 Statistics and Cartography 1334 Sveriges Lantmäteriet (Swedish Land Survey) 1340 Sweden-Finland 1342 Switzerland 1343

T Tatishchev, Vasiliy Nikitich 1347 Taxation and Cartography 1348 Thematic Map 1354 Climate Map 1354 Geological Map 1355 Thematic Mapping 1359 Enlightenment 1359 Austrian Monarchy 1365 France 1369 German States 1373 Great Britain 1377 Italian States 1382 Netherlands 1387 Poland 1390 Russia 1392 Spain 1395 Sweden-Finland 1397 Switzerland 1401 Tofiño de San Miguel y Vandewalle, Vicente 1402 Topographical Mapping and the State 1404 Topographical Survey Map 1410 Topographical Surveying 1417 Enlightenment 1417 France 1428 New France 1435 French West Indies 1437 German States, with Geodetic Surveying 1439

xiv

Contents Great Britain 1447 British America 1451 Italian States 1455 Ottoman Empire 1464 Poland 1469 Portugal 1472 Portuguese Africa, with Urban Mapping 1475 Portuguese America 1478 Spain 1482 Spanish America 1488 Sweden-Finland 1490 Switzerland 1493 Trade and Plantations, Board of (Great Britain) 1495 Transportation and Cartography 1497 Transportation Map 1497 Canal Map 1497 Canal Survey 1500 Post-Route Map 1502 Road Map 1504 Route Map 1504 Travel and Cartography 1507 Traverse 1517 Surveying Traverse 1517 Itinerary Traverse 1519 Marine Traverse 1521 Triangulation Surveying 1522

U Ulloa, Antonio de, and Jorge Juan 1525 United States of America 1527 Urban Map 1529 Urban Map in the Enlightenment 1529 Urban Plan 1530 Urban View 1537 Urban Mapping 1540 Enlightenment 1540 Austrian Monarchy 1547 Denmark and Norway 1551 France 1553 New France 1559 French West Indies 1562 German States 1566 Great Britain 1569

British America 1572 Italian States 1575 Netherlands 1579 Ottoman Empire 1586 Poland 1591 Portugal 1595 Portuguese America 1599 Portuguese East Indies 1600 Russia 1602 Spain 1604 Spanish America 1608 Sweden-Finland 1613 Switzerland 1616 Urban Planning and Cartography Utrecht, Treaty of (1713) 1624

1618

V Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC; United East India Company; Netherlands) 1627 Videnskabernes Selskabs kort (Academy of Sciences and Letters map series; Denmark) 1632 Vischer, Georg Matthäus 1633

W Wall Map 1636 West-Indische Compagnie (WIC; West India Company; Netherlands) 1638 Wiebeking, Carl Friedrich von 1639 Women and Cartography 1641 World Map 1644

Z Zach, Franz Xaver von 1647 Zürner, Adam Friedrich 1648

Editors and Contributors 1653 Entries Listed by Conceptual Cluster Index, Do Mi Stauber 1673

1665

Tables

4 The cartographic modes pursued in modern Europe as applied in this volume 1018 5 Modern European cartographic endeavors, or institutional groupings, within which multiple cartographic modes are pursued, as applied in this volume 1018 6 Development over time of large multisheet urban wall maps in the Netherlands 1582

1 Summary of major differences between the two main categories of mapping undertaken in the European Enlightenment xxxi 2 James Horsburgh’s observations of Jupiter’s satellites to determine the longitude of the Bombay esplanade from Greenwich, 1803 739 3 Costs of engraving, Geographischer Entwvrf der Hochfürstlich Brandenbvrg-, Cvlm- und Onolzbachischen rings, 1764 806

xv

Abbreviations

HC 1

The History of Cartography, vol. 1, Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean, ed. J. B. Harley and David Woodward (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987)

HC 2.1 The History of Cartography, vol. 2, bk. 1, Cartography in the Traditional Islamic and South Asian Societies, ed. J. B. Harley and David Woodward (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992)

HC 2.3 The History of Cartography, vol. 2, bk. 3, Cartography in the Traditional African, American, Arctic, Australian, and Pacific Societies, ed. David Woodward and G. Malcolm Lewis (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998) HC 3

The History of Cartography, vol. 3, Cartography in the European Renaissance, ed. David Woodward (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007)

HC 6

The History of Cartography, vol. 6, Cartography in the Twentieth Century, ed. Mark Monmonier (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015)

HC 2.2 The History of Cartography, vol. 2, bk. 2, Cartography in the Traditional East and Southeast Asian Societies, ed. J. B. Harley and David Woodward (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994)

xvii

Preface

The History of Cartography lays a new foundation for the study of early maps and mapping. It promotes a catholic definition of “map” that understands cartography to have been an inherently cultural as well as a technological endeavor, and it provides reliable and comprehensive assessments of the scholarly literature. Each of its volumes is at once a definitive work of reference and a call for further, interdisciplinary study. At the same time, each volume’s intellectual flavor stems from the character of the particular eras and cultures it covers. Volume 4 in the series, Cartography in the European Enlightenment, thus adheres to the series’ ethos, even as it has been designed and structured to encompass mapping in a particular and distinctive period. Brian Harley and David Woodward initiated the History in 1977; in 1981 David established the History of Cartography Project at the University of Wisconsin– Madison [UW] to prepare the series’ volumes. Brian and David commissioned some chapters for volume 4 early in the 1980s, but they had to file away the few they had received in order to focus on other volumes. Their original plan to coedit all the volumes ended with Brian’s death in December 1991. By 1998, when David recruited us, together with D. Graham Burnett, to edit volume 4, the series and its volumes had grown ever larger, the field of map history itself had changed significantly, and the volume’s original table of contents was quite out of date. Those early chapters no longer matched what was needed. Our first thanks must therefore be to those first authors, and we sincerely apologize to them for having to set aside their work. We must also thank Graham for his contributions to our conceptualization of the volume, especially as we took the necessary step of adopting an encyclopedic design, before it became clear by early 2005 that the press of his own professional commitments made it impossible for him to continue as a volume editor. After much discussion, David decided in 2001 that the last three volumes in the series must comprise interpretive encyclopedias. It would otherwise be impossible to provide comprehensive coverage of the post-1650 expansion of both cartographic activities and the cartographic record—more maps were made, and more of

those have survived—and still keep each volume within the permitted one million words. It was no longer possible to focus on individual works and mapmakers, as was the case in volumes 1 through 3. Instead, volumes 4 through 6 must address broader themes and refer to individual works and mapmakers to exemplify those themes. Designing such reconfigured volumes was a highly challenging task. Together with Mark Monmonier, whom David had already recruited to edit volume 6, we were carefully led through the process of designing the remaining volumes as encyclopedias—from ensuring a comprehensive treatment of the subject to the proper formation of the headings for each entry—by Linda Halvorson, head of the University of Chicago Press’s division of reference works, to whom we are thoroughly indebted. We continued to receive excellent support from Linda’s successor, Paul Schellinger,  who agreed with Matthew Edney (as director of the Project) that the last three volumes should appear in full color, acknowledging color as an integral element in the cartographic process. The continuing publication of the volumes as hardbound paper books also acknowledges the long-term value of printed books, which continue to be definitive, authoritative, and proven to last. Continuing to publish scholarship in print guarantees stable access to the complete series over time. Since 2013 we have been most ably assisted by editorial directors Christie Henry (through July 2017) and Alan Thomas, and more especially by senior editor Mary Laur. The detailed tasks of issuing contracts, paying honoraria, etc., were managed by Linda’s, Paul’s, and Mary’s editorial assistants: Kira Bennett, Jenny Gavacs, Rachel Kelly Unger, Mollie McFee, and the late Christopher Rhodes. Mary saw volume  6 through to publication in 2015 and we are very pleased that she did not run away when volume 4 landed on her desk! The Press has done a sterling job, as ever, in laying out and printing the volume thanks to a production team led by Michael Brehm, Joseph Claude, Michael Koplow, and Ryan Li. The intellectual principles that guided the structure and content of volume 4 are explained in the following Introduction, which also explains the volume’s spa-

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tial and temporal constraints. We needed specialized expertise to help refine and implement our design for the volume, for which we relied on a number of advisors. Early in the process, we recruited an international editorial advisory board to which we could turn for cogent advice about the volume’s contents and also for suggestions about potential contributors. The full editorial advisory board is listed facing the title page. We relied extensively on several of the board’s members and on other scholars as well to identify and recruit contributors and then to coordinate effort within regional teams: Jadwiga Bzindowska, Henrik Dupont, Ulla Ehrensvärd, Hans-Uli Feldmann, Júnia Ferreira Furtado, João Carlos Garcia, Gottfried Hagen, Markus Heinz, Agustín Hernando, Catherine Hofmann, Antti Jakobsson, Roger J. P. Kain, Ingrid Kretschmer, Peter van der Krogt, Luisa Martín-Merás Verdejo, Jan Mokre, Carme Montaner, Joachim Neumann, Alexey V. Postnikov, Hélène Richard, Fikret Sarıcaog˘lu, Vladimiro Valerio, Liudmila Zinchuk, and Lothar Zögner. The other volume editors were also, of course, immensely helpful: David, before his untimely death in August 2004; Mark; and Roger Kain, who in 2008 accepted the position as volume editor for volume 5. Our semiannual editorial meetings with the other editors and key Project personnel were always convivial as well as intense and productive. With the submission in Fall 2005 of the final text for David’s own volume 3, the Project’s staff could begin to devote time and effort to volume 4. In particular, project manager Beth Freundlich created the database to integrate authors with entries and wrote the scripts to generate invitations, attachments for authors’ contracts, and reports to monitor progress; for this, she also organized the work of several consultants: Judah Bloom, Alison Glass, Theresa Hudacheck, Duane Maas, and Mark Slosarek. This crucial work was in addition to Beth’s primary work, since 1996, of coordinating the Project’s financial, data management, fund-raising, and outreach activities. Since 2007 she has served as Edney’s administrative deputy in Madison. Beth has supervised the Project’s financial specialists—Cathy Debevec, Jan Manser, and Renee Raines—and the student employees who have kept the office working: Fernando Gonzalez, who helped send out the volume’s first invitations; Catherine Koss; Joel Longsdorf; Michelle Michiko Prestholt; Sam Ropa; Stephen Wyman; and Madeline Zastrow, who played a key role in our major 2017 website update. Beth also coordinated the preparation of the Project’s annual literary broadsides, printed at UW’s Silver Buckle Press by artistic director Tracy Honn and her students. Beth’s work on behalf of the volume and, indeed, of the series as a whole has been absolutely crucial, and we are immensely grateful to her and her team. The database permitted invitations to be generated

Preface

for over 250 potential contributors for over 500 entries, starting in mid-2006. A wide array of scholars from Asia, Australia, Europe, and the Americas agreed to write for volume 4. There were the inevitable changes in authors and entries (see the Introduction), producing a final count of 479 entries by 207 authors (see the list of Editors and Contributors at the end of the volume). We thank each and every one of our authors for so generously contributing their expert knowledge; without their work, this volume could simply not exist. Our own primary editing of so many entries to ensure they have met the volume’s needs proved somewhat overwhelming and we eventually recruited some skilled associate editors. We are deeply grateful to Robert W. Karrow, Dennis Reinhartz, and Sarah Tyacke for working directly with the authors to move the volume along, and we are pleased to share the title page with them. We must stress that the goal of the volume is to provide a comprehensive overview of mapping activities in the Enlightenment, not to provide a comprehensive bibliography. The long period between the submission of many entries and the final submission of the entire manuscript to the Press means that some recent and possibly relevant research has been overlooked. We have further worked with our authors to minimize this problem. Once entries had passed through this first round of editing, they began to be handled by the Project’s managing editor, Jude Leimer. Jude has been the painstaking arbiter of content and style for every volume in the series, and she deserves as much credit for the success of the History as the founding editors. She has trained all the graduate students who have joined her in the detailed fact- and reference-checking of each and every entry and bibliographic citation in the volume. The long-serving Jennifer Martin and Jed Woodworth were succeeded as volume 4’s diligent and painstaking reference editors by Paul Hansen, Nichole Barnes, Peter Bovenmyer, Berke Torunoglu, and Tania Kolarik. Lindsey Buscher, volume 5’s research editor, has also checked volume 4 entries, and she implemented digital file sharing and editing tools. Jude supervised another graduate student, Dana Freiburger, who has been the Project’s dedicated illustrations editor since 2000, responsible for sourcing and acquiring digital images, preparing those images for publication (cropping, color-checking, etc.), and acquiring the necessary permissions to reproduce them for all of volume 4’s 954 figures; since 2016, Dana has been ably assisted by student employees Cody Schmitt and Genesie Miller. Dana has also provided much-needed technical support for the Project’s staff and editors. Jude has also recruited the professional translators for those contributions submitted in languages other than English, specifically: Claudia Asch, Gigi Branch, Kimberly Coulter, Ethan Footlik, Eric Goddard, Claudia

Preface

Jorge Silva, David King, Barbara Marshment, Leonard Morin, Rex Nielson, Morten Christian Renskoug, Neil Safier, Jeremy Scott, Shawna Woodworth, and Nadine Zimmerli. Jude worked with the UW Cartographic Laboratory in the drafting of line diagrams; Tanya Buckingham, the lab’s director, generously provided her team’s services at a reduced rate. Artwork for volume 4 was prepared by Tanya herself and by Grace Vriezen. Finally, Jude corresponded frequently and closely with contributors to ensure that all changes are appropriate, and she supervised the assembly of the volume. She has shepherded each volume through production, reviewing the copyedits, galleys, and page proofs, contracting and proofing the volume index, etc. Jude’s extensive work has been of paramount importance for volume 4, and we are profoundly grateful to her and her team. Others at UW deserve notice. Tom Tews, librarian of the Geography Library, has been a stalwart facilitator for the Project, along with his assistants and student employees. Librarians and staff across campus were unfailingly supportive and helpful, especially in Interlibrary Loan and Special Collections. Jay Scholz provided superb assistance on networking and server support. Many chairs, faculty, and administrators at UW have materially assisted the Project, and have advocated for it on campus. Jim Burt graciously served as interim Project director in 2004–5. Chris Glueck of the UW Foundation was a tireless advocate. The faculty and associate deans of the UW Advisory Board for the History of Cartography have been crucial in securing institutional support. Such a huge endeavor cannot exist without exten-

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sive financial and administrative support. The Project is funded by a mix of awards from federal and private agencies and the University of Wisconsin–Madison and by donations from many private individuals. Our many donors are identified in the preceding pages, which list those who have cumulatively given more than $5,000 to the Project or who have given smaller gifts since 24 May 2014, the cut-off date for the last time we printed acknowledgments in a volume. We thank them all for their support. We must especially thank the program officers at the major funder for volume 4, the National Endowment for the Humanities, Division of Preservation and Access: Nadina Gardner, Charlie Kolb, Barbara Paulson, and Joel Wurl. Some foundations and individuals deserve special thanks for their extremely generous support for volume 4: the Caxambas Foundation; the Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation; Art and Jan Holzheimer, who also funded the David Woodward Memorial Fellowship; and John Taylor, in particular for his 2015 challenge grant. On a personal note, we are immensely grateful to Rosalind Woodward for her continuing role in offering emotional and moral support to us and the Project staff. And, finally, we dedicate this work to our long-suffering spouses, Kathryn and John, who both tolerated this incredible intrusion into their lives with forbearance, support, and remarkably little complaint. Matthew H. Edney and Mary Sponberg Pedley Portland, Maine, and Ann Arbor, Michigan December 2017

Introduction Matth ew H. Ed ney and Mary Sponberg Pedley

The proliferation of maps and the development of new kinds of maps between 1650 and 1800 indicate that the producers and consumers of maps shared in the great intellectual and social changes that were then transforming Europe. These changes form the core of what is commonly known as the Enlightenment: the development of modern scientific practices, the formation of bureaucratic states, the remarkable growth and integration of the national economies, and the reformulation of the nature and locus of social and cultural authority with the rise of the public sphere. Yet we cannot say that either the Enlightenment or cartography in the period constituted coherent and uniform phenomena. In particular, there was a great deal of variation in how mapmakers and map users participated in and contributed to these trends. Moreover, even as new modes of cartographic practice evolved, notably the geodetic surveys that measured the size and shape of the earth and the nascent thematic mapping pursued by natural philosophers and political economists, so other modes continued with little change from earlier periods, notably those of property and urban mapping. And while maps themselves generally acquired a new authority as reliable and truthful images, the logic underpinning any “factual” status was not monolithic but relied variously on reason, observation, and a newfound professionalism among practitioners. Cartography in the European Enlightenment, volume  4 of The History of Cartography, has been carefully designed and assembled so that its detailed studies and assessments of cartographic practices contribute to the ongoing reassessment of the nature of the Enlightenment as a period and as an intellectual movement. The volume explores the social and cultural ramifications of mapping in different parts of Europe and its overseas territories, in urban and rural sites, and in private councils and emergent publics. These insights require that we not only follow other scholars in abandoning the concept of the Enlightenment as a single endeavor, but that we abandon the apparent uniformity of cartography as well. This introduction therefore offers several ways to delineate the complexities and dissonances that characterized Enlightenment cartography.

A Tale of Two Images Two images from the mid-eighteenth century incorporate the primary characteristics of European cartography in the period between 1650 and 1800. Each image references a distinct category of mapping activity that experienced significant changes during the Enlightenment period. At the same time, many aspects of both images would not have been completely foreign to a map reader from 100 or even 150 years earlier. The first image appeared in Paris in 1753, when a French engineer with the corps des Ponts et Chaussées and a contributor to the Encyclopédie, Nicolas-Antoine Boullanger, published a Nouvelle mappemonde or “new world map” (fig. 1). He framed this double-hemisphere world map with flowery swags and abundant fruits and vegetables placed on architectural cornices. The personification of Reason, the génie des sciences, equipped with her attributes of dividers, globe, and telescope heralds the title of the map: she raises up her hands and exclaims the well-known phrase from Genesis, Fiat lux (Let there be light); the clouds respond by opening to reveal the sun, that is, the light of knowledge, an interpretation reinforced by the map’s dedication “to the progress of our knowledge” (Boullanger 2006, 398–99; see Palsky 2017). A long textual passage printed below the map explaining its content is integral to the overall composition. The graphic syntax of the Nouvelle mappemonde would have been familiar to a reader in the Renaissance: the representation of the world’s hemispheres in matched circular frames; the use of the term mappemonde in the title; a surrounding decorative motif with an emblematic personification to emphasize the words of the title; a dedication and explanatory text; areas of incomplete geographical outlines. All these were staple elements of cartographic design from medieval mappaemundi to the baroque-style printed maps of the early sixteenth to mid seventeenth century. Even the celebration of new knowledge repeated the manner in which Renaissance Europe distinguished between the present and the past, to be considered and mapped separately (Woodward 2007, 16–17).

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Fig. 1. NICOLAS-ANTOINE BOULLANGER, NOUVELLE MAPPEMONDE DEDIÉE AU PROGRÈS DE NOS CONNOISSANCES (PARIS: R. J. JULIEN, 1753).

Size of the original: 39 × 65 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque national de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [104 B]).

Introduction

Yet Boullanger’s map modified and changed these standard elements in order to accommodate new ways of thinking about the earth and its properties. In particular, while he used the long-established doublehemisphere format, he employed the oblique stereographic projection, whose construction was understood but unused in the Renaissance (Snyder 1993, 24–27). Boullanger explained this structure’s metaphorical function in an accompanying pamphlet, Mémoire sur une nouvelle mappemonde (Boullanger 2006, 383–99). For readers without access to the memoir, Boullanger helpfully included an explanatory text at the bottom of his map, which begins: “This new world map is presented as being useful to the study of geography and for the theory of the earth.” It was useful because of the way in which Boullanger had adjusted the oblique projection of the two hemispheres so that one contains almost all of the world’s ocean (Hemisphere maritime) and the other, almost all of the land (Hemisphere terrestre). In his memoir, Boullanger postulated that this remarkable pattern in the distribution of land and water across the earth was not accidental but resulted from the earth’s elasticity, which responded in an architectural way to the earth’s dynamic and fluid core and so was defined by the actions of Nature herself (Boullanger 2006, 383). His map thus demonstrates the power of theoretical science as a driver of geographical research and the map as a tool and recording device for scientific research. Boullanger’s mappemonde encapsulates the eighteenthcentury’s turn away from studying the earth as an integral element of the cosmos toward studying it as a selfcontained “terraqueous globe” (Boullanger 2006, 392; Broc 1975, 187–229; Porter 1980). If the Renaissance was the era in which Europeans discovered and mapped both the world and the self (Woodward 2007, 6), the Enlightenment was when they discovered an autonomous earth and understood more fully the power of the state. The latter is evident in the precision with which Boullanger constructed the oblique projection. As he noted in the map’s lower register, he achieved the earth’s division into land and water hemispheres by centering the former at 45°N on the meridian of Paris, the latter on the antipodes. He wrote that he consciously chose this natural point, halfway between the equator and the north pole, rather than center the hemisphere on Paris itself (at 48°50′10″ N) because such blatant flattery of the French state would only discourage foreigners from engaging with his larger argument. Boullanger’s dedication of the map to “the progress of knowledge” and his invocation of Fiat lux further places his work between two worlds: that of received wisdom based on biblical tradition and the authority of religion, and that of knowledge based on observational inquiry. He was sensitive to the fact that his memoir and car-

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tographic ideas, which tried to synthesize biblical flood myths with his theories about the fluidity of the earth’s core, touched “certain theological chords,” as he wrote to his immediate supervisor (Boullanger 2006, 373–74). Thus he felt it would be inappropriate and perhaps indelicate to dedicate the map to his ultimate supervisor, the director of Ponts et Chaussées; instead he dedicated it, more safely, to the spirit of inquiry. Boullanger’s Nouvelle mappemonde exemplified one category of mapmaking that resulted in smaller-scale representations based on the compilation of a wide variety of sources with the goal of visualizing and comprehending geographical patterns or ideas. He employed an array of representational devices from map projections to iconographical decoration to achieve his goal. The second image indicative of Enlightenment cartography appeared in the first edition of De re ichnographica (1751), Johann Jakob Marinoni’s treatise on surveying. The frontispiece summarizes Marinoni’s pedagogic approach to observing and measuring landscapes (fig. 2). In it we see a student of geometry at his desk in a study, surrounded by the iconography of book learning and theoretical knowledge: a filled bookcase behind him and two geometrical solids (a cone and a dodecahedron) on the floor below. A textbook lies open in front of him, and he measures its geometrical figures with a pair of dividers. Similar dividers adorn the brow of Geometria, who stands before him, hand outstretched to draw him from the study to the world outside, where a pair of putti are ready to survey the land, one bearing measuring rods, the other the stakes used to align the rods properly. In case the viewer misses the visual point, the Latin epigram below states that once one knows the theory, the work can only be completed by labor in the field. This image replicates and reinforces the structure of Marinoni’s text and that of many other contemporary surveying manuals, such as Johann Wilhelm Zollmann’s Vollständige Anleitung zur Geodæsie oder practischen Geometrie (1744), in which a theoretical treatment of geometry is followed by more practical instruction in surveying techniques. The tools of such geometrical work are displayed in the foreground on a separate pedestal: a terrestrial globe, surveyor’s circle, dividers, book, and rolled and unrolled sheets of paper, ready for maps. Marinoni’s image thus encapsulates the second category of mapmaking: larger-scale representations of the world based on direct observation and measurement. The iconography of Marinoni’s frontispiece would have been familiar to some educated readers even in the sixteenth century: the allegory of geometry, identified by the key attribute of a pair of dividers and the globe; the angelic putti representing the perfect act of measurement (Heilbron 2000, 5–11); and the geometrical figures that were icons of the perfect solids that could give structure

Fig. 2. FRONTISPIECE TO JOHANN JAKOB MARINONI, DE RE ICHNOGRAPHICA, CUJUS HODIERNIA PRAXIS EXPONITUR, ET PROPRIIS EXEMPLIS PLURIBUS ILLUSTRATUR (VIENNA: LEOPOLDUM KALIWODA, 1751). Designed and engraved by Franz Mayr in 1749.

Size of the original: 25.2 × 16.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

Introduction

to the cosmos. The very idea of a treatise explaining the techniques and instruments of surveying had been part of the general attempt by Renaissance mathematical practitioners to apply geometrical principles to all aspects of daily life. The obsession with geometry and its potential for understanding physical nature was established well before 1699, when Bernard Le Bouyer de Fontenelle celebrated what he called the new esprit géométrique. The uses of surveying in the Enlightenment were also broadly the same as in the Renaissance—to measure and map properties, cities, fortresses, and even regions—and the surveyor’s circle in the foreground was one of two basic instruments inherited from the Renaissance. The other was the plane table, which Marinoni described in great detail in his treatise, along with the improvements that he had made to it. What was different about the observation and measurement of the world after 1650 was the pragmatic strides made by European states to implement geometrical principles. Enlightenment practice actively embraced Geometria’s invitation to apply theory to the practice of creating knowledge about the world. While Gemma Frisius had described the surveying process of triangulation in 1533, for example, it was widely adopted—both graphically and trigonometrically—only after 1650. Although Renaissance surveyors had described many complex instruments to execute geometrical principles, it was after 1650 that surveyors and instrumentmakers worked to improve the quality of simple instruments and to systematize their use. This last effort included the progressive application of telescopes, first to the highquality quadrants used for geodetic surveys and later to the graphomètres and theodolites of common field surveyors. Trends in surveying were similarly oriented to the Enlightenment consideration of the autonomous globe and the emerging power of the state, best seen in the emergence of geodetic surveys, which employed innovative technologies to answer new questions about the measurement of the terraqueous globe, to determine its size and shape, the heights of its mountains, the depths of its rivers and seas, and the variation across its surface of the compass (magnetism) and the pendulum (gravity). Mathematicians turned their attention to the problems of numerically combining and graphically presenting large numbers of measurements of the physical environment. The geodetic surveys also exemplify the capacity of developing state institutions to employ large numbers of surveyors and the support labor needed to survey and map large areas. They were paralleled by another new mode of cartographic practice, thematic mapping, which sought to depict and comprehend the spatial distributions of both physical and social phenomena. As engineers, both Boullanger and Marinoni were

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members of that class of Renaissance “superior artisans” (Woodward 2007, 22; see Long 2011) that proliferated within the Enlightenment state. They represent a new type of technologically trained and mathematically educated military and civil engineer who, working both in the study and in the field, embraced maps as basic tools and made innovations to their graphic language and mathematical foundations. Marinoni taught the rulers of the Austrian monarchy the benefits of visualizing and quantifying their territories. Boullanger used reason and logic to assess both observed and theoretical information within a framework of meridians and parallels, to replace one set of man-made concepts, such as the distinction between the old and new worlds, with another that illuminates hypothetical natural principles. It was precisely this novel spirit of inquiry that informed much Enlightenment thought. The elevation of Reason to a status alongside, if not superior to, the Deity, provoked the most profound debates of the period. In its own way, cartography reflected and responded to the shifting intellectual ground by inventing new methods to answer new questions and, by retaining older systems of measurement and representation, to provide a framework of comparison and utility. As in Boullanger’s hypothetical world, where some lands rose up as others fell to be submerged by the sea, all in reaction to forces at the earth’s core, so cartography preserved older methods and forms and developed new ones to accommodate new conditions. Continuity and change are the hallmarks of any periodization of the mapmaking process and therefore become key rubrics for understanding cartography in the period of the long eighteenth century.

The European Enlightenment as a Distinctive Period in the History of Cartography We have chosen to call this period the “European Enlightenment” for reasons similar to those that persuaded David Woodward (2007, 5–6) to retain “European Renaissance” for volume 3 in this series, even though the Renaissance has similarly been discredited as a coherent phenomenon. The term “Enlightenment” is understood by many to refer to both a general chronological period and an intellectual process informed by a frame of mind or way of thinking (Withers 2007, 2). In its various forms (Aufklärung, Illuminismo, Lumières, Enlightenment) the term was used by scholars and commentators in the eighteenth century to describe the intellectual and philosophical framework of the moment they lived in (Stewert 2001, xi–xii). Enlightenment thinking focused on sources of knowledge and on ways of understanding and using knowledge. Concerns about the authority of sources and the processes of gathering information

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joined considerations of how to use knowledge once acquired and how to accommodate conflicting information. In addition, Enlightenment thinkers faced the conundrum of how natural philosophy’s propensity toward the creation of general rules could accommodate the seemingly infinite variety of data being gathered about the natural world. Cartography, encompassing a wide variety of processes for making and using maps of different sorts, was deeply implicated in questions of how to acquire, display, and disseminate knowledge and the more intractable problem of choosing which knowledge (see the entry “Enlightenment, Cartography and the”). How maps and mapmaking reflected and affected Enlightenment thinking and action is a core focus of this volume. Just as the roots of the Enlightenment extend deeply into the Renaissance and thereby necessarily reach ancient writers, so this volume has its roots in volume 3 of this series: Cartography in the European Renaissance. The chronological range of volume 3 extended from ca. 1480 to ca. 1640. The contents of volume 4 continue from the middle of the seventeenth century (ca. 1650) to the end of the eighteenth (ca. 1800); the two volumes thus incorporate a period of transition in intellectual history emerging from the “Scientific Revolution” of the early seventeenth century and extending to the liberation philosophies of the end of the eighteenth century. However, the chronological limits are highly variable according to political, economic, and social differences between regions and the intellectual developments occurring during the entire period. The starting date of this volume is well defined by the Peace of Westphalia (1648), which ended the Thirty Years’ War and inaugurated a new era of comparative economic and political stability, especially in the German states but also in the Netherlands, France, Scandinavia, and the Austrian monarchy. The cartographic effects of this stability are clearly indicated throughout this volume, for example in the steady growth of Europe’s commercial markets for maps and property. For some parts of Europe, this volume tends to start coverage somewhat later, notably after 1660 in Great Britain, with the Restoration of Charles II, and in Russia with the reforms of Peter I in about 1700. Intellectually, the midcentury moment of ca. 1650 marks the publication of significant geographical works with applications to mapmaking, such as the Geographia generalis (1650) of German geographer Bernhardus Varenius, which set out principles of small-scale geographical mapmaking, and the work of Italian Jesuit father Giovanni Battista Riccioli, whose Geographiae et hydrographiæ reformatæ (1661) and Astronomiae reformata tomi dvo (1665) reassessed the state of understanding of the measurement of longitude and latitude and of the resultant co-

Introduction

ordinates. As these works were translated from Latin into the vernacular at different times and in different places, their impact on literate elites was considerable. Even with these varied starting points, many entries in this volume necessarily root their narratives firmly in the Renaissance. In retrospect, 1750 marks something of a cartographic watershed within the Enlightenment. Entries throughout this volume suggest that the cumulative effects of economic growth, state centralization, and shifting military strategy began to make themselves felt by midcentury, producing an appreciable increase in the commercial publication of maps and atlases and in the official undertaking of regional surveys. What we think of as the intellectual ideology of Enlightenment might have had its origins in the later seventeenth century but that “quantifying spirit”—Fontenelle’s esprit géométrique— was not widely accepted beyond natural philosophical circles until after 1750 (Heilbron 1990; see Edney 1999, 166). By midcentury, emergent publics were asserting their interest in the constitution and affairs of their respective states, an interest that extended not only to general knowledge of the world but to specific and detailed knowledge of their own countries. The Seven Years’ War (1756–63) seems to have been particularly significant in promoting new initiatives, standards, and renewed efforts on all fronts: military, administrative, and commercial. Among geographic writers, the midcentury marks a shift in their focus away from cosmology, the earth’s place in the universe, and toward consideration of the physical nature of the planet and its parts, as intimated above with respect to Boullanger’s Nouvelle mappemonde of 1753. As these new interests were reflected in maps and mapping projects, it has therefore appeared to many commentators that geography and cartography entered a new era in 1750, that of transition to a demonstrably post-Enlightenment cartography with nationalized projects, standardized methods, state agencies, increasing professionalization, academic geography, and commercial consolidation (e.g., Godlewska 1999; Besse, Blais, and Surun 2010). Yet in terms of the various processes whereby maps were produced, circulated, and consumed, there remain substantial similarities between the early and late eighteenth century in the nature of the public discourse fed by maps, the organization of the map trade and institutionalized surveys, and the technologies of mapping. If there was a period of transition then it was the era of the French Revolution and the convulsions of the Napoleonic Wars (i.e., from 1789 through 1815). Significant historical, technological, and spatial changes throughout Europe after 1789 mark a turning point for cartography as it entered the nineteenth century. Revolutionaries set out to reconfigure territory as well as society,

Introduction

as seen in France and the newly independent United States of America, as well as emerging Caribbean and South American countries; the postwar realignment of Europe’s states engendered the modern, territorially obsessed national state. Military and governmental needs prompted the widespread undertaking of new, extensive, and systematic surveys, whether topographical, cadastral, or hydrographic. The work of the Commission topographique in 1802 standardized official mapping practices in France before they spread to the rest of Europe. The mathematical technique of least squares analysis was first applied to a survey in 1815, inaugurating ever more accurate geodetic surveys. The invention of lithography by Alois Senefelder in the 1790s altered the technology of map production, allowing the common use of printed color and increased printing runs. The results of Alexander von Humboldt and Aimé Bonpland’s expedition to the Americas in 1799–1804 prompted profound changes in the nature of the field sciences and in the rapid development of thematic mapping. These features of nineteenth-century cartography allow the entries in this volume to close their discussion as appropriate around 1800 or in the decades just before or after.

Enlightenment Cartography and the Dangers of Oversimplification With its equal concern for continuity as well as for change, this volume seeks to prevent a misplaced emphasis on change from promoting a distorted view of Enlightenment cartography. Such distortion would situate Boullanger’s and Marinoni’s images within a progressive narrative of continuous “improvement” and an ongoing quest for “factuality” and an elusive “accuracy.” Since the end of the nineteenth century (e.g., Mackinder 1895, 368–70; Sandler 1905), map historians have given the European Enlightenment special significance as the period when the Enlightenment’s rationality and “quantifying spirit” thoroughly imbued European cartography with a scientific ethos. As the essential locus of cartographic practice seemed to move from mapmakers in the studio to military engineers in the field (Valerio 2007), so the Enlightenment appears to have been when “science claimed cartography” and extirpated older elements of art, craft, myth, and religion (Rees 1980, 60). To support this progressivist argument, map historians have provided a checklist of technical accomplishments and so-called firsts: the problem of determining longitude solved, both on land and at sea; multiyear geodetic surveys at home and abroad, measuring the size and shape of the earth itself; the first national survey accomplished; the first thematic mapping of physical features; the dramatic improvement in the precision of surveying instruments, even those of the meanest surveyors.

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Changes in the graphics of maps add to the rhetoric of progress as impressionistic sketches of hills and mountains seem to give way to measured hachures and contours. The tenuous conclusion is that mapmakers eliminated imagination, belief, and artistry from their maps, leaving them austere, unadorned, and “factual.” This triumphal but erroneous story projects an intellectual and technological transformation, claiming it to be integral not only to the “Enlightenment Project’s” progressive disenchantment of nature but more fundamentally to its disenchantment of the mechanisms of knowledge acquisition and representation (Edney 1999, 167; 2015, 609–10). There are two major problems with this argument. First, as many scholars have demonstrated at length, the Enlightenment was never a unified intellectual movement (Hunt and Jacob 2003). Broadly speaking, it comprised several cultural and intellectual developments, expressed through burgeoning networks of print and material exchange that sought to shift the sources of knowledge-making from the theological and authoritarian to the rational and experiential. These movements thus articulated some radical conceptions that prefigure modern liberal democracy. However, the geography and chronology of these intellectual movements were complex, as they must account for developments in different continents and countries, in different places within those countries, at different times and in different ways, all to different ends (Withers 2007). Second, the narrative of progress and of the rise of cartographic science requires historians to emphasize the new and to overlook the persistence of the old; it distorts precursors, it sees crises where none exists (e.g., Shirley 2010), and it forces what should be careful analyses of complex cultural, social, and technological changes to fit a predefined teleology. Our response, which we have sought to implement in this volume, is to understand cartography as comprising a series of discrete sets—or modes—of mapping practices (see entry “Modes of Cartographic Practice”). Each mode featured specific processes for producing, circulating, and consuming maps that developed over the course of the Enlightenment in sometimes similar, sometimes different ways as established practices variously resisted and embraced innovations. Having a wide diversity of goals and interests, the multiple modes deny teleological interpretations: there was no single endeavor that could be transformed and no single Enlightenment Project to accomplish such a transformation. Some generalities are nonetheless possible. Boullanger’s world map (fig. 1) is representative of the several modes concerned with the “top-down” organization of knowledge about extensive regions that are beyond the capability of a single individual to know directly. In particular, world maps such as Boullanger’s were typical

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Introduction

of the mode of geographical mapping, which compiled information about the world and its regions within a framework of meridians and parallels. The same practice of compilation of multiple sources was also characteristic of the modes of marine charting, celestial mapping, and thematic mapping. By contrast, Marinoni’s frontispiece (fig. 2) exemplified the “bottom-up” observation and measurement, enhanced by instruments wielded by individuals, of the world at a more human scale. This second category encompassed the cartographic modes of property mapping, topographical surveying, urban mapping, and boundary surveying. One mode of mapping—geodetic surveying—straddled the two categories. The oversimplification of the history of Enlightenment cartography lies in the common conflation of these two primary sets of mapping practices. Erwin Raisz (1938, 40–41, 45–54) unified these otherwise distinct practices into a wholesale “reformation” of all cartography driven, he argued, by the Enlightenment’s scientific ethos. In this context, Raisz reinterpreted the nowfamous quatrain by Jonathan Swift (1733, 12): So Geographers in Afric-Maps With Savage-Pictures fill their Gaps; And o’er unhabitable Downs Place Elephants for want of Towns.

Raisz turned what Swift had originally written as a metaphorical diatribe against poets who stuffed too much extraneous matter into their work into an equally derisive comment about the practices of geographers. Raisz’s literal reading of Swift seems to praise the new Enlightenment concern for cartographic science and empirical rectitude and the rejection of what might seem to be the overly decorative character of Renaissance mapping. Overall, Raisz depicted the Enlightenment as the period when the Age of Reason extirpated Renaissance cartography’s overtly artistic and “unscientific” elements. Postwar authors, notably Lloyd Brown in his The Story of Maps (1949), G. R. Crone in his Maps and Their Makers (1953), and R. A. Skelton in his edition of Leo Bagrow’s The History of Cartography (1964), further developed and popularized the sentiment that the traditional art and craft of cartography was transformed into a rigorous science through the 1700s (Edney 2015, 609–10). However, the common omission of cartography as a unified subject from general histories of science in the era (e.g., Clark, Golinski, and Schaffer 1999; Porter 2003) makes it clear that this argument by map historians constituted an ideological privileging of cartography rather than a historically valid description of Enlightenment mapping. In fact, the one sustained account of eighteenth-century cartography by a historian of science did argue for the unity of the era’s mapping practices,

but it has proven to be inadequate. Eric Forbes (1980) coined the term “mathematical cosmography” for the intertwining of geographical and astronomical practices, including geodetic and territorial surveys (Edney 1994 followed suit). Forbes had realized that the activities described in 1752 by Philippe Buache under the heading of “géographie mathematique ou astronomique” (Buache 1761, pl. 5) were precisely the same as those listed under “mathematische Astronomie” by Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr in the same year (posthumously), and that both were closely akin to the range of activities pursued by the Societas cosmographia in Nuremberg (1746–54) in association with the publishing firm of Homann Heirs. However, Forbes’s realization has proven difficult to recreate. Not only were his citations incomplete, so that Doppelmayr’s account remains unidentifiable, but the concept of mathematical cosmography refers less to a unified practice of Enlightenment cartography than to the idealization of geographical mapping and its cosmographical foundations (see entry “Geographical Mapping in the Enlightenment”). That is, Forbes’s work addressed only one half of Enlightenment mapping practices. A full accounting of Enlightenment mapping practices must consider both halves.

Characteristics of Cartography in the Enlightenment The two major categories of mapping modes identified above reveal the shared characteristics of European cartography in the Enlightenment. The differences between them were not hard and fast, but represent strong tendencies one way or another with a great deal of overlap in between (table 1). The more conceptual modes (as fig. 1) were generally the preserve of the educated and more literate members of society, mostly men and mostly from the aristocracy, the gentry, and the wide compass of the middling sort; they were generally integrated into the commercial marketplace for printed goods, and their maps could circulate widely. The more observational modes (as fig. 2) were generally pursued on behalf of landowners, bureaucrats, and royalty by the middling sort of surveyors and engineers, and even laborers trained in basic surveying skills; they were less integrated into the marketplace and the maps tended to circulate in small numbers in manuscript. These patterns of circulation and consumption are broadly descriptive. To understand how and why they changed and the degree to which they changed, we must study each mode separately. And when we do, we realize that some modes barely changed at all over the course of the Enlightenment. The techniques and instruments used in property mapping, celestial mapping, and urban mapping did become more refined, but their respective

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Table 1. Summary of major differences between the two main categories of mapping undertaken in the European Enlightenment. Small capitals indicate significant changes. Boullanger, Nouvelle mappemonde (fig. 1)

Marinoni, frontispiece, De re ichnographica (fig. 2)

representational context

smaller-scale representations based on “topdown” compilation to visualize broad geographical patterns and situations

larger-scale representations based on direct, “bottom-up” observation and measurement

resolution

gross, coarse resolution mapping of extensive areas

detailed, fine resolution mapping of precise areas

modes

celestial mapping; geographical mapping; marine mapping; thematic mapping

boundary surveying; coastal charting; geodetic surveying; property mapping; topographical surveying; urban mapping

actors

produced by a wide range of educated individuals, from specialized scientists to the general public interested in the nature of the world; their numbers increased through education and literacy and expansion of published texts

produced by expanding number of surveyors and civil and military engineers; increased access to training and education through academies, military institutions, and textbooks

purposes and users

produced for wide array of interests, from the dedicated student to the general public; increased appearance of maps in public display, in literature, and periodicals

produced for a wide range of land owners, civil and military officials, politicians, and royalty with dedicated interests; increased administrative demand for information most efficiently presented by maps

distribution

broader and more widely distributed circulation, therefore most maps reproduced in print and many reproduced further

largely limited and directed circulation, therefore most maps produced in manuscript, with the major exception of maps of places of interest to the public

observational technique

observations of latitude and longitude (more convincingly established) to control the compilation of texts, maps, and theoretical structures; the process explained by accompanying texts

direct observation and measurement of physical and cultural landscapes using distance-, angle-, and height-measuring instruments

geometric technique

used spherical geometry of meridians and parallels used plane geometry, treating earth as flat space (projections) graphically and intellectually structured by cosmography

map concept

metaphorical use of “map,” as when trees of knowledge were called “maps of knowledge”

flavors altered little. It was as common in 1800 as it had been in 1650 to display cities in view as opposed to orthogonal plan, the choice between the two representational strategies being a question of particular function and consumer taste. The manner and style of property mapping simply became more precise in many parts of Europe in response to increasing property values. Astronomers in 1800 knew many more stars with greater exactitude than did their predecessors, but this had little effect on the function and form of star charts. It could also be argued that the practicalities of marine navigation did not change until about 1800, so that marine charting changed little in form, though much more in content. What led to substantial changes in the functions and type of activities within each mode and to the creation of new modes of mapping was the increasing centralization of European states and the growth of the public sphere.

metonymic use of “plan” as strategy

Profound changes in the art of war, the growth of armies and navies, and the associated growth of centralized bureaucracies to manage and pay for the enlarged military increasingly turned civil and military authorities toward mapping as an administrative tool. Large areas of European territory were mapped in detail, a process extending even to some of the colonial territories, in particular the great Josephinische Landesaufnahme covering some 570,000 square kilometers of Austrian Habsburg territory. Europe’s states established new institutions and promoted new techniques in support of their mapping endeavors. The Académie des sciences and the royal observatories in Paris and Greenwich were all founded at the start of our period in large part to solve fundamental mapping problems: the size (and later shape) of the earth, the determination of terrestrial longitude by observations of Jupiter’s satellites, and the

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determination of maritime longitude by observations of lunar distances. Military and civil engineering corps were steadily established to meet the demand for skilled surveyors and mappers, as were military academies, civil academies (notably the École des Ponts et Chaussées), and private schools specializing in “mathematical practice.” As the Renaissance had witnessed the development of “superior artisans,” so the Enlightenment saw this group expand in almost every region of Europe. Their work, so often encouraged and promoted by state or provincial interests, ensured that maps assumed a role in administrations as tools for decision making, political dialogue and dispute, and diplomatic purposes in treaty and boundary negotiations. Conversely, the pursuit of mapping activities became a means of professional and social advancement for lowborn men. We can see how several further cartographic innovations during the Enlightenment stemmed from this expansion of state sponsorship of mapping. Some of these innovations have long been celebrated by historians of cartography. The cartographic work of the Académie des sciences led both to the initiation of an entirely new mode of geodetic surveying and to the pioneering of triangulation-based topographical surveys in the form of the post-1750 Cassini surveys. At the same time, the géographes de cabinet supported by the French state actively fostered a conception of small-scale mapping as an innately progressive, critical, and rational process. This “reform” originated in Riccioli’s work (Dainville 1940, 447), but would be celebrated by contemporaries (e.g., Robert de Vaugondy 1755, viii) as the product of Jean-Dominique Cassini (I)’s successful implementation of the method of determining longitude by observing Jupiter’s satellites, as often symbolized by Jean Picard and Philippe de La Hire’s 1693 map of the “corrected” French coastline (see fig. 625); but even before this new technique could be widely deployed beyond France, French geographers also developed new methods of critical map compilation, inaugurated by Guillaume Delisle’s recalculation of longitudes from mariners’ logs. Moreover, state mapping activities produced an international community of peripatetic engineers and other mapmakers who sold their services to whichever state could afford them; these men produced an international style of military mapmaking. Several new or refined technological innovations were introduced, initially at state cost before being more widely adopted, notably the telescope and angle-measuring instruments, all to make the necessary surveys both better and easier to complete. Finally, in this respect, the application of cartographic methods to display the results of inquiries into the nature of populations and natural resources, whether by state agents directly or by their proxies, led to the for-

Introduction

mation of another entirely new mode, that of thematic mapping. The diffusion of authority and fragmented responsibility endemic to early modern governments meant that there could in fact be no coherent attempt to unify mapping activities within governments. The weight of official mapping activities lay with the larger-scale cadastral surveys for taxation and military topographical surveys, although plenty of civil and military officials undertook smaller-scale regional mapping for planning and logistical purposes, as did naval officials in their efforts at marine mapping. Moreover, mapping projects directed by central government officials were augmented by those undertaken by provincial authorities and urban corporations. The success and particular character of these efforts depended on each state’s financial and institutional capacities. Thus, while the European Enlightenment witnessed a significant upsurge in official mapping activities, we cannot say that these activities entailed an attempt at the kinds of coherent systems that would characterize the nineteenth century. The growth of European states was paralleled by the formation of the European public, the increasingly literate middling sort who claimed what had been the strictly royal privilege of setting cultural and social (military, religious, economic) policy. Europe’s burgeoning public provided a hungry market for printed materials, the cost of which nonetheless remained sufficiently high to exclude most of the laboring classes from acquiring and consuming them. Within the genteel circumstances of salons, coffee houses, masonic lodges, and most especially the printed page, men and some women of means could come together and debate the events and issues of the day. To this end, their appetite for information was vast, and they consumed a wide array of material that emphasized the kinds of small-scale mapping with which people organized and structured the world and its regions. In their consumption of geographical maps within political debates, the new publics evinced a protonationalism that in turn shaped the production of new maps. The result was the steady expansion of the map trade in much of Europe, whose participants reflected the innovations in mapping technologies and practices in claims that their work was indeed (if, however, rarely) based on “science” and the “latest surveys” to distinguish and sell their stock. Such intellectually minded work underpinned the widespread metaphorical use of “map” as a hierarchical structure of knowledge, most famously in the preface to the influential Encyclopédie (see the entry “Metaphor, Map as”). Smaller-scale maps based on compilation were produced and consumed within multiple communities, whether scholarly or public or governmental. Yet the public continued to be interested in larger-scale im-

Introduction

ages, for example, urban maps, news maps, and maps of warfare and military campaigns. Public interest in how maps were made spurred a strong market for printed textbooks about surveying practices of property and place mapping. Geographical texts and atlases included instructions in how to read maps, opening up the code of graphic symbols to a wider public and encouraging the standardization of a map’s system of signs.

Volume Design and Structure Faced with a rapidly expanding amount of information about the world, its inhabitants, and their habits and activities, eighteenth-century scholars focused on ways to clarify and evaluate sources of knowledge and on different methods to organize knowledge in a way that showed hierarchies, relationships, and dependencies (Siskin 2016). To present knowledge in book form in a way that conserved these relationships, they turned to the encyclopedic format, beginning with Ephraim Chambers’s Cyclopædia (1728) and Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert’s grand Encyclopédie (1751– 72). Similar reasons led Woodward in 2001 to adopt, appropriately enough, an encyclopedic format for Cartography in the European Enlightenment. In short, its goal, as with the Encyclopédie, is “to change the common mode of thinking” (Diderot 1755, 635). Two particular factors led to the structural change. First, given our desire to create an intellectual guide to the cartographic practices of the period, we found the secondary research literature to be of only limited use. Studying the eighteenth century, map historians have tended to emphasize certain modes of mapping (notably geographical, marine, urban, geodetic, and topographical) and downplay others (especially boundary, thematic, and celestial); they have tended to privilege the printed map; and their interpretations have been strongly shaped by a triumphal, progressive, and teleological narrative. In addition, many treatments focused on the mapping of particular areas or regions rather than on the practices of mapping pursued in those areas or regions. Lacking consistent and comprehensive road signs to a burgeoning subject matter, we set out to create them by defining conceptual principles built around mapping practices rather than around regional histories. This design, which undergirds the encyclopedia format, permits the reader to discern trends and to compare and contrast similar activities in a diachronic way, observations that would be more difficult in a volume of regional essays. Because encyclopedias possess multiple entry points (explained below), the reader enjoys a wider range of efficient starting points that help create a more nuanced and subtle tale of “cartography in the European Enlightenment,” one that resists over-

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simplification and progressivist history. In this respect, Cartography in the European Enlightenment embodies another stage in The History of Cartography as it seeks to build a strong foundation for the development of new historiographical interpretations without advocating for any particular theoretical or conceptual approach. Second, mapping practices in the long eighteenth century became more international in scope and achievement and began to lose the regional and cultural distinctions that had permitted previous volumes of The History of Cartography to be organized primarily by cultural and state contexts. The last three volumes of the series accommodate this increasing internationalization of mapping practices by turning the established, regionally focused historiography on its head: the primary organization of volumes 4 through 6 is by mapping practices, whether of particular modes or institutional endeavors, and only secondarily by regional context. Thus, treatment of each mode and endeavor is introduced by a broad, interpretive entry (e.g., “Property Mapping in the Enlightenment”) followed by more detailed accounts of how the mode was expressed in particular spatial contexts (e.g., “Property Mapping in France,” “Property Mapping in New France and the French West Indies”). In designing the volume, we sought to treat all types of mapping equally, ensuring that the diverse systems of map production and consumption receive equal attention, without unduly privileging any one cartographic mode or endeavor, and also giving due weight to each of the national traditions. This required us to be disciplined in our selection and framing of entries. A particular example of such discipline that needs to be explained is how we determined whether people and institutions deserved their own entries. We established specific criteria: did they contribute prominently in more than one mode or endeavor; did they possess special significance for a single mode or endeavor; or did they exemplify aspects of Enlightenment cartography in a particularly revealing manner? If a mapmaker was associated with only one main work, then we let the entry on the work include the relevant biographical information; thus, the entry “Neptune oriental” also discusses the life of JeanBaptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette. At the same time, we wanted to structure the volume so that its connective tissue would permit readers to make new connections. To achieve this, we followed a procedure long used for designing encyclopedias. We first identified major conceptual groupings or clusters, which allowed us to identify topics for individual entries ranging from the general and interpretive to the specific and focused. The primary groupings are the representational contexts of the modes of cartographic practice and the political contexts of the institutional endeavors, as indicated by the general characteristics of cartogra-

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phy in the Enlightenment. Secondary groupings cover topics that run across the modes: methodologies, people and institutions, the regions within which cartographic activities took place, and finally how historians have studied the era’s cartography. The resulting hierarchy of conceptual clusters is as follows: Historiographic Context (how eighteenth-century cartography has been studied) Representational Contexts Larger-scale representations based on direct observation and measurement, including modes Property Mapping Boundary Surveying Topographical Surveying Urban Mapping

Smaller-scale representations based on compilation to show broad geographical patterns and situations, including modes Geographical Mapping Celestial Mapping Thematic Mapping Marine Charting

Methodological Contexts (production of maps) Art, Craft, and Cartography Science and Cartography, including the mode Geodetic Surveying

Political Contexts Public Sphere and Cartography, including endeavors Map Trade Map Collecting

State Formation and Cartography, including endeavors Administrative Cartography Military Cartography

Individuals, Institutions, Artifacts (requiring special treatment as exemplary of particular modes or endeavors, or embracing multiple modes or endeavors) Spatial Contexts (accounts of regions in Europe and its colonial possessions within which cartography of all sorts was practiced) The expanded conceptual groupings are found in the back matter and endpapers of the volume, which the editors intend as a road map to guide the reader, who may locate the particular entries within each grouping. This design has informed many of the volume’s composite entries, in which each cartographic mode or endeavor can be compared region by region. Whereas in volume 3, for example, readers read about marine charting by the French in conjunction with other essays on French cartography, in volume 4 readers find informa-

tion about marine charting by the French in the midst of a series of entries on the same mode, permitting readers to directly make their own connections and to draw contrasts between national schools within the context of similar and related practices. This innovative approach is, we feel, a major strength of the volume. Our definition for most of the regions into which we have divided the world, and by which modes and endeavors are studied, is explained in the respective entries. But some regions do require special explanation here. We have included Russia in our European embrace: the westward turn of Peter I led to significant changes in the nature of cartography in that empire; our Russian entries outline the rapid adoption of European processes of mapmaking in almost every mode of cartography. Coverage of Ottoman mapping in volume 2.1, Cartography in the Traditional Islamic and South Asian Societies, ended at about 1650, so we have included mapping within the Ottoman Empire in the present volume, even though a narrative of adoption of European methods was much slower than in the Russian case and occurred largely in a military capacity. A pragmatic distinction is drawn between areas of extensive European territorial control in and around the Atlantic Basin, which are treated as extensions to European states (e.g., New France, Portuguese America), and the work of commercial companies, especially those in the Indian Ocean and China Sea (e.g., East India Company). Because indigenous mapping practices were addressed in volume 2.3 of this series, Cartography in the Traditional African, American, Arctic, Australian, and Pacific Societies, volume 4 considers them only in the context of European cartographic practices. The encyclopedic format, and especially the structure of discussing different mapping modes within specific spatial contexts, has made it impracticable to continue with the practice followed in volumes 1 through 3 of providing detailed maps showing the locations of places mentioned in the text. Eighteenth-century territorial boundaries were, however, fluid and often quite different from the present; we therefore refer readers to standard historical atlases to identify the period’s territorial arrangements. We especially recommend works such as the Times Atlas of World History (several editions, 1978– 98) and the many editions of Friedrich Wilhelm Putzger’s Historischer Schul-Atlas (1887–1960), which are especially useful for the territorial complexities of central, eastern, and southern Europe in the early modern era.

This Is Just the Beginning Our work in implementing this large reassessment of Enlightenment cartography has echoed the experience of the editors of the great Encyclopédie:

Introduction

As we worked, we watched as the subject matter expanded before our eyes; the nomenclature became obfuscated; objects were brought in with a multitude of different names; instruments, machines, and processes multiplied beyond measure; and innumerable detours of an inextricable labyrinth became increasingly complex. We saw how difficult it was to be certain that the same objects were in fact the same, and, likewise, how hard it was to be sure that things that appeared very different were not actually different. We saw that the alphabetical format not only brought us peace of mind, variety, and fundamental advantages but it also brought certain hurdles that had to be constantly overcome. (Diderot 1755, 644)

Similarly, we found that our nomenclature was indeed obfuscated by the manner in which the literature has long used words such as “accurate,” “modern,” and “scientific” as terms of approbation rather than of explanation. We accordingly encouraged our contributors to be more careful and analytical when using such terms so as to reveal the nature of eighteenth-century practices rather than impose twentieth-century preconceptions. The same concern applied to the application of terms such as “good,” “better,” “best,” or “first” because of their evaluative and teleological ramifications. We too were drawn by the “innumerable detours of an inextricable labyrinth” and were tempted to tell the inexhaustible backstories of every map and to develop a complete dramatis personae. We therefore encouraged the contributors to summarize and explain, clearly and cogently, their complex stories. In doing so, we have allowed the bibliography of some 2,700 works to bear the weight of the volume, each cited work offering further access to the substantial scholarly literature. Every cited work has been carefully vetted by the authors and the editors; moreover, authors have been asked to update the bibliography for each entry, as best they could, in the final round of editing. Discerning similarities and differences was equally elusive. In the first place, discrepancies in the bibliographical description of certain maps and atlases, both in the history of cartography literature and in library catalogs, led to uncertainty and confusion, often solved only after careful analysis. Furthermore, there has been ambiguity in the terms applied to some mapping practices. In resolving these problems, we have tried to refine our vocabulary to be specific and in line with contemporary practice, as for example in distinguishing between triangulation per se and trigonometrical surveying. It was not always possible to draw such neat distinctions because contemporary usage was itself not always clear. For example, German usage used Geodäsie (geodesy) to refer to land surveying in general; by contrast, French

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usage accepted this general meaning yet emphasized géodésie as the practice of measuring and defining the size and shape of the earth, the precise definition that we have adopted for this volume. And like Diderot, we also found peace of mind in the alphabetical format, which for all its difficulties has indeed been advantageous for this long work. Nonetheless, an alphabetical format does not preclude clear demarcations between topics and so has required the editors to eliminate overlapping material and to fill unintended lacunae. Our goal of promoting a new way of thinking about eighteenth-century cartography was in some respects impeded by the current state of the literature and critical apparatus in the field. Inevitably this volume has not been able to include every topic encompassed by its conceptual structure and design. In particular, some larger interpretive entries have been unattainable for several reasons: a lack of conceptual framework hindered the desired entry on “Law and Cartography”; unclear definition of concepts prevented an entry on “Mathematics and Cartography”; and the frustrating lack of existing scholarship, especially in comparison with the Renaissance and nineteenth century, doomed the entry on “Literature and Cartography.” When our contributors identified gaps and silences in the literature, we encouraged them to suggest avenues for new research, and as a result many of our entries outline outstanding historiographical needs. At the same time, the last decade has seen a great increase in the kinds of scholarship this volume has sought to promote, and keeping up with the bibliography has been an exciting and gratifying editorial challenge. This volume should at least provide a foundation from which to initiate new scholarly trends.

Using this Volume How might readers approach and use this dauntingly large volume? After all, we have emulated the challenge posed by the philosophes to received authority by consciously breaking with traditional historiographic practices in order to make new connections and to promote new interpretations. In other words, this is a book designed not to be read from beginning to end but to be explored. For readers who are entirely new to the field, or who come to the volume without a specific theme or question in mind, we recommend browsing through the books until a particular image grabs one’s attention! Dipping into the book in this manner is highly rewarding, as reading the associated text will reveal terms and concepts that demand further investigation and exploration. Several sets of signposts guide readers in exploring the volume:

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• Entries in alphabetical order: Each entry has a title that reflects its primary subject matter, and entries are arranged throughout the volume in alphabetical order by these titles. Some titles have been inverted; for example, entries on map projections are titled “Projections. . . . ” The titles are listed, in order, in the table of contents at the front of each of the volume’s two parts. • Entries in conceptual groups: The endpapers in each part also list the entries according to the conceptual groupings by which the volume was designed (as explained above); a reader interested, for example, in celestial mapping will find that this concept is treated across a variety of dedicated entries under a range of titles. • See also lists: At the end of every entry, a See also list points to one or more entries that are substantially and generally concerned with related matters, without seeking to duplicate the specificity of the index; See also references are not provided to other entries within the same composite. • Illustration cross-references: When appropriate, cross-references are provided that direct the reader to specific maps that are reproduced and discussed elsewhere in the volume. • Index: The index, at the end of Part 2, is comprehensive and covers all elements of the volume—from concepts to people to artifacts—and provides the best way to access specific topics as well as topics that might be covered in multiple entries; individuals are listed in the index with the year of their birth and death, if known, rather than repeating this information throughout the volume. • Keywords: Readers of the e-book of the volume can also search the full text by keyword. • Editors and contributors: The list of contributors, preceding the index, also indicates the entries each authored and can be used to identify related entries.

The alphabetical ordering of entries by title is modified slightly for entries within each of thirty “composite entries.” Composite entries are internally arranged in a logical but not necessarily alphabetical sequence; each composite entry therefore begins with a list of the constituent entries in sequence. The regional entries within each composite entry for a mode or endeavor are arranged consistently: the general entry (e.g., “Urban Mapping in the Enlightenment”) is followed by each region in alphabetical order (ignoring “the”), but with colonial regions following immediately after the parent country (so that “Urban Mapping in British America” follows “. . . in Great Britain” and comes before “. . . in the Italian States”). With these signposts and guiding principles in place,

Introduction

we wish the reader an enjoyable and intellectually productive journey through the remarkable history of mapping in the European Enlightenment.

Bi bli ography Besse, Jean-Marc, Hélène Blais, and Isabelle Surun, eds. 2010. Naissances de la géographie moderne (1760– 1860): Lieux, pratiques et formation des savoirs de l’espace. Lyon: ENS Éditions. Boullanger, Nicolas-Antoine. 2006. Œuvres complètes, vol. 2, Anecdotes physiques de l’histoire de la nature avec la Nouvelle Mappemonde et le Mémoire sur une nouvelle mappemonde. Ed. Pierre Boutin. Paris: Honoré Champion Éditeur. Broc, Numa. 1975. La géographie des philosophes: Géographes et voyageurs français au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Editions Ophrys. Buache, Philippe. 1761. Géographie physique, politique et mathématique des etats et royaumes de l’Europe, dédiée et présentée aux enfans de France: Nouvelle maniere de considérer la Terre, par la disposition naturelle de ses parties, par les différents peuples qui l’habitent, et par sa correspondance avec le ciel. Paris: Dezauche. Clark, William, Jan Golinski, and Simon Schaffer, eds. 1999. The Sciences in Enlightened Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dainville, François de. 1940. La géographie des humanistes. Paris: Beauchesne et Ses Fils. Diderot, Denis. 1755. “Encyclopédie.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 5:635– 49. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Edney, Matthew H. 1994. “Mathematical Cosmography and the Social Ideology of British Cartography, 1780–1820.” Imago Mundi 46:101–16. ———. 1999. “Reconsidering Enlightenment Geography and Map Making: Reconnaissance, Mapping, Archive.” In Geography and Enlightenment, ed. David N. Livingstone and Charles W. J. Withers, 165– 98. Chicago: University of Chicago Press ———. 2015. “Histories of Cartography.” In HC 6: 607–14. Forbes, Eric G. 1980. “Mathematical Cosmography.” In The Ferment of Knowledge: Studies in the Historiography of Eighteenth-Century Science, ed. G. S. Rousseau and Roy Porter, 417–48. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Godlewska, Anne. 1999. Geography Unbound: French Geographic Science from Cassini to Humboldt. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Heilbron, J. L. 1990. “Introductory Essay.” In The Quan-

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tifying Spirit in the 18th Century, ed. Tore Frängsmyr, J. L. Heilbron, and Robin E. Rider, 1–23. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 2000. “Domesticating Science in the Eighteenth Century.” In Science and the Visual Image in the Enlightenment, ed. William R. Shea, 1–24. Canton, Mass.: Science History Publications USA. Hunt, Lynn, and Margaret Jacob. 2003. “Enlightenment Studies.” In  Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, 4 vols., ed. Alan Kors, 1:418–30. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Long, Pamela O. 2011. Artisan/Practitioners and the Rise of the New Sciences, 1400–1600. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press. Mackinder, Halford John. 1895. “Modern Geography, German and English.” Geographical Journal 6: 367–79. Palsky, Gilles. 2017. “Une cartographie des Lumières: La Nouvelle mappemonde dédiée au progrès de nos connaissances de Nicolas-Antoine Boullanger (1753).” Cartes et Géomatique, no. 234, 81–90. Porter, Roy. 1980. “The Terraqueous Globe.” In The Ferment of Knowledge: Studies in the Historiography of Eighteenth-Century Science, ed. G. S. Rousseau and Roy Porter, 285–324. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———, ed. 2003. Cambridge History of Science, vol. 4, Eighteenth-Century Science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Raisz, Erwin. 1938. General Cartography. New York: McGraw-Hill.

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Rees, Ronald. 1980. “Historical Links between Cartography and Art.” Geographical Review 70:60–78. Robert de Vaugondy, Didier. 1755. Essai sur l’histoire de la géographie, ou sur son origine, ses progrès & son état actuel. Paris: Antoine Boudet. Sandler, Christian. 1905. Die Reformation der Kartographie um 1700. Munich: R. Oldenbourg. Shirley, Rodney W. 2010. “Crisis in Cartography: Three Impediments to Map and Chart-Making in 1700.” IMCoS Journal 122:51–56. Siskin, Clifford. 2016. System: The Shaping of Modern Knowledge. Cambridge: MIT Press. Snyder, John Parr. 1993. Flattening the Earth: Two Thousand Years of Map Projections. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Stewart, Philip. 2001. “Preface to the English Edition.” In Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment, 2 vols., ed. Michel Delon, 1:xi–xiii. Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn. Swift, Jonathan. 1733. On Poetry: A Rapsody. London: J. Huggonson. Valerio, Vladimiro. 2007. “Cartography, Art and Mimesis: The Imitation of Nature in Land Surveying in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries.” In Observing Nature–Representing Experience: The Osmotic Dynamics of Romanticism, 1800–1850, ed. Erna Fiorentini, 57–71. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Withers, Charles W. J. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Woodward, David. 2007. “Cartography and the Renaissance: Continuity and Change.” In HC 3:3–24.

A Académie de marine (Academy of Naval Affairs; France). Around 1749, Sébastien-François Bigot de Morogues, a marine artillery captain from Brest, and Henri-Louis Duhamel du Monceau, engineer and inspecteur général de la Marine, began gathering with other naval officers who shared their passion for science and technology with the goal of compiling a nautical dictionary. On 30 July 1752, the ministre de la Marine, Antoine-Louis Rouillé, comte de Jouy, officially established the assembly at Brest as the Académie de marine with its inaugural meeting on 31 August 1752. Joining theory to practice, the Académie members assembled a substantial library and collection of instruments and discussed everything related to the navy; thus its members embodied the model of learned officers in the century of Enlightenment. While most of the naval elite were Académie members, officers of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine among them (Chapuis 1999, 154– 58), membership was not limited to established figures. Initial regulations planned for seventy-five members, not counting correspondents: ten honorary, ten independent, thirty ordinary, and twenty-five adjunct (Junges and Niderlinder 2002, 6). Pierre Bouguer was notable among the honorary members; Jean-Baptiste-NicolasDenis d’Après de Mannevillette and Jacques-Nicolas Bellin, both responsible for preparing most of the navigational charts edited in France at this time, were among the independent members. Certain ordinary members were also producing marine charts, among them the lieutenant de vaisseau Gabriel de Bory at Brest and the enseigne de vaisseau Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert at Toulon. Thus young officers worked side-by-side with great scholars. The Seven Years’ War (1756–63) greatly disrupted the Académie de marine, which was reorganized as the

Académie royale de marine on 24 April 1769. Among the new members who were linked to the science of navigation and marine cartography, most notable were scientists Étienne Bézout, Jean-Charles Borda, JosephJérôme Lefrançais de Lalande, Pierre-Charles Le Monnier, Alexandre-Gui Pingré, and Alexis-Marie Rochon, as well as learned officers like Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu. Besides constructing or examining numerous instruments and methods of navigation, the new academy, more focused and more active, concentrated on the question of longitude, playing a decisive role in publishing the Connoissance des temps while editing its own ephemeris (published only once, in the Mémoires de l’Académie de Marine, 1773, Brest). In subsequent years, other officers who were involved in hydrography entered the Académie, including Guillaume-Jacques Liberge de Granchain, Jean-René-Antoine Verdun de La Crenne, and François-Étienne de Rosily. As with the Académie des sciences, to which it was affiliated in 1771 and with which it shared ten members, the approval of the Académie royale de marine was sought by authors for works intended for navigators in all domains, including nautical documents by reputable hydrographers like Bellin and d’Après de Mannevillette, as well as by private cartographers who sought the map-selling power of such approbation (fig. 3) (Chapuis 1999, 205). Paradoxically, at the very moment when the question of longitude was resolved, the Académie de marine witnessed the greatest conflict with those officers who valued combat over science. This “antisavant” movement peaked around 1775–80, just before France’s entry into the American Revolutionary War. At the same time, the Académie in Brest vigorously criticized the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine for being too Parisian, too theoretical, and too far removed from maritime practices (Chapuis 1999, 155–56). However, after the Treaty of Paris (3 September 1783), the Académie enjoyed a certain renewal, manifest in the partial fruition of the assembly’s initial project. A true marine dictionary was not in fact edited by the Académie. Yet after an initial refusal (Henwood 1987, 134), the famous publisher Charles-Joseph Panckoucke

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allowed the significant involvement of the Académie in the maritime portion of his encyclopedia. Incorporating material already written for the dictionary of the Académie, Panckoucke’s Encyclopédie méthodique: Marine, published in three volumes (1783–87), was superior to the maritime articles of Bellin in the Encyclopédie of Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert. ÉtienneNicolas Blondeau, a professor of mathematics and hydrography, supervised its publication until his death and was succeeded by the ingénieur constructeur HonoréSébastien Vial du Clairbois. The Convention suppressed the Académie royale de marine, along with all other académies, on 8 August 1793; reestablished in 1921 (Taillemite 2002, 41), it still exists. Oliv ier Ch apuis See also: Academies of Science: Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France); Connoissance des temps; Marine Charting: France B i bliogra p hy Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Doneaud du Plan, Alfred. 1878–82. Series of articles in Revue maritime et coloniale. “L’Académie de marine de 1752 à 1765.” 1878–79. 58:476–509, 59:300–313, 60:389–409. “L’Académie royale de marine jusqu’à son affiliation avec l’Académie des sciences.” 1879. 62:323–57, 63:76–103. “L’Académie royale de marine de 1771 à 1774.” 1880. 64:54–90, 528–56, 65:539–60, 66:105–34. “L’Académie royale de marine de 1775 à 1777.” 1881. 68:135–62, 277–89, 573–96, esp. 135–62, 69:320–42. “L’Académie royale de marine pendant la guerre d’Amérique.” 1881. 70:338–64. “L’Académie royale de marine de 1778 à 1783.” 1881. 71:33–67, 362–402. “L’Académie royale de marine de 1784 à 1793.” 1882. 72:326–39, 73:67–84, 412–39, 74:197–218, 318–34, 75:154–78. Henwood, Philippe. 1987. “L’Académie de marine à Brest au XVIIIe siècle.” In La mer au siècle des encyclopédies, ed. Jean Balcou, 125– 34. Paris: Champion. Junges, Catherine, and Alain Niderlinder. 2002. “L’Académie royale de marine, 1752–1793.” Neptunia 226:5–9. Taillemite, Étienne. 2002. “L’Académie de marine: Une histoire tourmentée.” Chronique d’Histoire Maritime 48:37–43.

(facing page) Fig. 3. JEAN-BAPTISTE DEGAULLE, NOUVELLE CARTE REDUITE DE LA MANCHE DE BRETAGNE ([LE HAVRE: L’AUTEUR; PARIS: DEZAUCHE], 1773). Degaulle is a perfect example of a navigator who published privately, within the framework of the law, while seeking support from learned societies such as the Académie de marine. In 1772 he prepared a map of the English Channel, which he had engraved in three sheets at ca. 1:475,000 by Perier and Jean-Claude Dezauche the following year with the approbation of the Académie des sciences (sheet 1 is shown here). On the 10 January 1775 he

Academies of Science. ACAD E´MIE D ES S CIENCES (acad emy o f sciences; France) acad emies o f s cience in th e Germ an States acad emies o f s cience in Great B ri tai n acad emies o f s cience in th e Itali an States acad emies o f s cience in Po rtugal akad emiya nauk (acad emy o f s ci ence; Russia) acad emies o f s cience in S pain

Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France). The

Académie des sciences emerged as the heir to the scholarly circles that surrounded a specific patron or particular scholar at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Its origin may be found in Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s plan to create a general académie. On 22 December 1666, a small group of scholars convened for the first time in the Bibliothèque du Roi, ready to work collectively toward the construction of scientific knowledge. Although they met regularly from 1666, it was only on 20 January 1699 that the Académie des sciences acquired a formal set of rules and became an official institution, receiving the title of “Académie royale” and meeting rooms in the Louvre. Seventy members were named by Louis XIV to run this scholarly institution: ten honorary members, twenty pensioners, twenty associates, and, from 1716, twenty students designated as assistants. All were required to attend Académie meetings regularly. As patron of the body, the king financed both its experiments and the pensions of academy members. In the eighteenth century, the Académie des sciences became one of the principal protagonists of the scientific movement both through its publications and the advisory role played by its members so close to power. In August 1793, in the wake of the Revolution, the Académie des sciences was dissolved along with its sister organizations; it wasn’t until 25 October 1795 that the Institut national des sciences et des arts was created, bringing together the former scientific, literary, and artistic académies. The new organization differed from its predecessors because until 1803 geography fell within the domain of moral and political science; however, the cartographic objective was still to produce the most exact representation of the known world possible. asked the Académie de marine for their opinion on his map. On 9 March, the Académie asked him for his justificatory memoires, which he quickly provided. On 27 April, the Académie was able to bestow their praises on the cartographer from Le Havre. The edition of 1778 thus carries the approbation of both academies and the map was regularly updated until 1788. Size of the original (each sheet): 93 × 60 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge AF PF 35 [73]).

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When the Académie des sciences was created in 1666, one of its unique features was its endowment for an observatory that was intended to become a workplace for its members by providing meeting rooms and laboratories as well as storage for astronomical instruments. Construction of the Paris Observatory began in 1667 under the guidance of Claude Perrault: on 21 June, the summer solstice, mathematicians from the Académie plotted the line of the meridian and other cardinal points necessary for the accurate placement of the edifice. The observatory’s meridian continues to be the “Paris meridian” and the prime meridian of France. The observatory was largely completed in 1672, but did not become the research center envisioned by Colbert. Apart from a Cabinet des machines used by the Académie as a repository until 1740, the observatory remained devoted to astronomical activities only. As such it became a particularly important center of activity for the Académie’s cartographic contribution. At the beginning of the eighteenth century, in his memoir “Réflexions sur l’utilité dont l’Académie des sciences” (no date), René Antoine Ferchault de Réaumur emphasized the bonds uniting astronomy and cartography: “Without these [astronomic] observations, there would be no geography on which one can rely; one would not travel at all, or one would only travel aimlessly. . . . It is thanks to this work that the meridian line has been drawn across the kingdom; if these maps have attained perfection, it is due to their observations, and it is only through continued observations that one can hope to have maps of all of France, as exact as one should have” (Brian 1994, 185). Thanks to the work done at the observatory, the Académie contributed to more reliable cartographic methods; this produced maps capable of settling concrete issues related to the administration of territory. With this spirit of reform initiated by Colbert, the Académie undertook its cartographic work. On 30 May 1668, the geographer Guillaume Sanson was invited to present his working methods to the Académie des sciences in order to stimulate the use of techniques to achieve cartographic exactitude. To evaluate the feasibility of his suggestions, the Académie decided immediately to have a map drawn of the Paris region. This project, executed by David Vivier, was placed under the supervision of Gilles Personne de Roberval and abbé Jean Picard. The map of the environs of Paris was published in 1678 on a scale of one ligne for one hundred toises, ca. 1:86,400—which would be later used for the Cassini map of France. Shading gave a rough idea of the relief; no altitude measurements were indicated (fig. 4). The map’s primary objective was to ensure the accurate position of locations determined by triangulation. The Académie’s second cartographic work was carried out by Picard and Philippe de La Hire, the Carte de France

Academies of Science

corrigee (see fig. 625), presented in 1684 and published in 1693. This project required extensive measurements of France, and the resulting outline was compared to an earlier outline taken from maps by Guillaume Sanson. The difference between them was striking. In 1681, Picard, who had participated in the two projects discussed above, read a report concerning the “map of the kingdom” to the Académie des sciences, in which he pronounced his lack of faith in the rapid production of maps of the provinces executed on the same model as those of Île-de-France (Pelletier 2013, 63–64). Instead, he proposed establishing a more general framework and thus began, under his direction, the triangulation of France. This enormous undertaking was financed by the Académie and completed under the direction of CésarFrançois Cassini (III) de Thury in 1744. Using a network of triangles, the triangulation of France linked points on both sides of the observatory’s meridian and its perpendiculars. The triangulation was endorsed by Académie authorities and thus became the model and methodological reference, as had been championed by Picard during the 1680s, that allowed each province to draw maps of greater detail. In 1747, Louis XV entrusted the responsibility of this complete and detailed cartography to Cassini III. But in 1756, when the monarchy stopped financing this operation, the Cassini map left the control of the Académie des sciences and became a private enterprise managed by the Société de la carte de France. The example of the Cassini map is emblematic of the Académie’s involvement in cartography: the institution did not introduce a new cartography to the kingdom, it established a method of surveying and recommended that cartographers make use of the basic documents that it drafted regularly. At the same time, the Académie was not concerned with mapping only the monarchy’s territory. Through the use of astronomical observations, it was also able to reach a greater degree of accuracy in depicting the known world. In order to reconcile data provided by various observers, over the course of the 1670s Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) wrote his “Instruction generale pour les observations geographiques & astronomiques à faire dans les voyages” (published in his Les élémens de l’astronomie vérifiez, 1684, 52–58). In 1682, Varin, Jean Deshayes, and Guillaume de Glos were sent to the Antilles and to Cape Verde; their observations allowed Sédileau and Jean-Mathieu de Chazelles to draw a planisphere under Cassini’s supervision. Drawn on the observatory floor, a reduced version by Jacques Cassini (II) was published in 1696 by JeanBaptiste Nolin and republished numerous times (see fig. 147). However, in these undertakings, the quantity of usable measurements was much less important than those gathered on French territory, and it was the compilation of data that led to the construction of the

Fig. 4. CARTE PARTICULIERE DES ENVIRONS DE PARIS (PARIS, 1678). Map in nine sheets.

Size of the original: 41.5 × 45.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Stephen S. Clark Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (G 5834 P3 1678 A25).

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map. The scholarly methods of the géographe de cabinet were therefore employed in order to compile the results of astronomical observations and to produce the most homogeneous maps possible. Guillaume Delisle, elected to the Académie in 1702 as an astronomer, probably brought this method to its apogee, especially with the construction of his twelve-inch (32.5 cm) terrestrial globe of 1700 (see fig. 331). His son-in-law, Philippe Buache, would eventually suggest another cartographic method to the Académie. When Buache received the title of adjoint géographe (assistant geographer) of the Académie on 10 June 1730, geography seemed to increase its visibility. However, no geography section ever existed within the Académie royale des sciences, not even after the reorganization of 1785, which was supposed to embrace the universality of the sciences. At that time, only agriculture, natural history, mineralogy, and physics constituted sections of the Académie. If the appointment of Buache seemed to confer a new status on geography, it was still the only science to be represented only by an “assistant” and not by a section. The office of assistant geographer was created on 11 May 1726 and first assigned to the astronomer Giacomo Filippo Maraldi. After his death in 1729, it was conferred upon Buache, who fulfilled his functions dutifully, both by presenting reports to the Académie relating to geographical knowledge and by preparing maps to accompany the presentations of colleagues such as Nicolas Desmarest and Jean-Étienne Guettard. Yet, within his abundant body of work, his “Essai de géographie physique,” presented on 15 November 1752, suggested an entirely different approach to cartography. This report theorized methods adopted by Buache for preparing maps already presented to the members of the Académie. He proposed a general theory to explain the relief of the globe, designated by him as a “system of fluvial basins,” and presented the structure of a “framework of the globe” (Buache 1756). The framework relied on underwater mountain ranges as the fundamental feature supporting his geographical deductions and providing the starting point of his system (fig. 5). Buache did not use the map to show the current state of geographical knowledge, but rather as a tool to show areas for which observations were lacking. Buache thus gave the impression to his readers that future discoveries would confirm the general framework he proposed. And whenever he could, he would cite the discoveries of individual navigators corroborating what he had suspected or deduced. In the face of Buache’s speculative approach, the members of the Académie des sciences stuck to their own empirical geographical reasoning. Here one sees two different ways to interpret a system: Buache saw observations as a means of filling in the structure of the globe a posteriori—for him it was the hypothetical

Academies of Science

system that makes the science; for the members of the Académie, one started with the observations in order to extract certain truths and produce sound knowledge. At the time of Buache’s death, these approaches vanished and the cartographic output supported by the Académie returned to classic means of validation: resorting to field observations and compilation scholarship. Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville succeeded Buache and, like Delisle, published a map of the world in two hemispheres using twice as many astronomical positions as his predecessor. He updated this map three times, notably to integrate observations collected on several expeditions: after Louis-Antoine de Bougainville’s voyage in 1772, after James Cook’s in 1777, and in 1778 modifying the coastline representing the strait between Asia and America to resemble Russian maps. Even if it was only in vogue for a short period of time, Buache’s method fully reflects a period in which cartography was drawn by two contradictory goals, both characteristic of the Enlightenment spirit: an aspiration for universal truths and the resort, however ambiguous, to a system. Although geography enjoyed only a modest status in the Académie hierarchy, cartography played a major role in its work. Throughout the Enlightenment, numerous maps were published under the authority of its members and a greater number of maps accompanied the Académie’s published Mémoires. The institution also became a forum for ideas where cartographic behavior was often discussed, even though the published volumes do not include the entirety of these exchanges. Fuller exploration of the proceedings of the Académie meetings (now preserved in the Archives de l’Académie des sciences) will offer even more insights into the history of French cartography during the eighteenth century. Isab elle Laboulais See also: Cassini Family; Colbert, Jean-Baptiste; Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: France; Longitude and Latitude; Paris Observatory (France); Science and Cartography Bibliography Brian, Éric. 1994. La mesure de l’État: Administrateurs et géomètres au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Albin Michel. Brian, Éric, and Christiane Demeulenaere-Douyère, eds. 1996. Histoire et mémoire de l’Académie des sciences: Guide de recherches. Paris: Tec & Doc-Lavoisier. Buache, Philippe. 1756. “Essai de géographie physique, Où l’on propose des vûes générales sur l’espèce de charpente du globe, composée des chaînes de montagnes qui traversent les mers comme les terres; avec quelques considérations particulières sur les différens bassins de la mer, & sur sa configuration intérieure.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1752: 399–416. Fontenelle, Bernard Le Bouyer de. 1740. “Eloge de Monsieur Delisle.” In Eloges des académiciens avec l’histoire de l’Académie royale des sciences en M.DC.XCIX, avec un discours préliminaire sur l’utilité des mathématiques, 2 vols., by Bernard Le Bouyer de Fontenelle, 2:278–95. The Hague: Isaac vander Kloot. Grandjean de Fouchy, Jean-Paul. 1776. “Éloge de M. Buache.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1772: 135–50.

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Fig. 5. PHILIPPE BUACHE, CARTE PHYSIQUE DE L’OCEAN OÙ L’ON VOIT DES GRANDES CHAÎNES DE MONTAGNES QUI TRAVERSENT LES CONTINENTS D’EUROPE, D’AFRIQUE ET D’AMÉRIQUE, 1754. Published under privilege of the Académie royale des sciences,

4 September 1754. From Cartes et tables de la géographie physique ou naturelle, présentées au roi le 15. mai 1757 (Paris, 1770), 43. Size of the original: 30 × 36 cm. Image courtesy of the David Rumsey Map Collection.

Hahn, Roger. 1993. L’anatomie d’une institution scientifique: L’Académie des sciences de Paris, 1666–1803. Brussels: Editions des Archives contemporaines. In English, The Anatomy of a Scientific Institution: The Paris Academy of Sciences, 1666–1803. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971. Konvitz, Josef W. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Laboulais, Isabelle. 2004. “Le système de Buache, une ‘nouvelle façon de considérer notre globe’ et de combler les blancs de la carte.” In Combler les blancs de la carte: Modalités et enjeux de la construction des savoirs géographiques (XVIe–XXe siècle), ed. Isabelle Laboulais, 93–115. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg. Lagarde, Lucie. 1995. “Un cartographe face à ses sources: Guillaume Delisle (1675–1726) et l’Amérique du Nord.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours,

ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 129–45. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Pelletier, Monique. 2013. Les cartes des Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Sturdy, D. J. 1995. Science and Social Status: The Members of the Académie des Sciences, 1666–1750. Woodbridge, Eng.: Boydell Press.

Academies of Science in the German States. The academy

movement during the Enlightenment in the Holy Roman Empire envisioned universally oriented research institutions. That idea seldom competed with the universities since the latter concentrated on education. Members of the academies were to be selected regardless of their re-

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ligious, social, or national affiliations. Nonetheless, the academies were closely linked to the sovereigns, who were entrusted with promotion of the sciences. This resulted in a heavy dependence of the academies on the personal interests of princes both with regard to content and modus operandi as well as financial constraints. In principle, the academies were to focus their research on topics that could serve the sovereigns and their territories, such as projects on regional history, but also on geographic, statistical, or topographical surveys. Academy members could also be called on to advise in government affairs. The research results were typically published in a scientific journal. The Academia Naturae Curiosorum (later the Sacri Romani Imperii Academia Caesareo-Leopoldina Naturae Curiosorum or Leopoldino-Carolina), which specialized in natural science, was established in Schweinfurt in 1652, even before more influential academies involved with cartography were founded in London (Royal Society, 1660) and Paris (Académie des sciences, 1666). It is unknown whether this academy was involved in geodesy or cartography, but certainly Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr, who was active in cartography, was a member. In 1700 the Kurfürstlich Brandenburgische Societät der Wissenschaften was founded in Berlin (later known as the Königlich Preußische Akademie der Wissenschaften, and Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften, among others). From its inception, possible involvement in the mapping of central Germany was discussed, a reasonable proposition since there were no good maps of Brandenburg on the market and few manuscript maps of individual parts of the region available. At the same time, the academy expected to improve its finances by map production of its own, evidenced by the inclusion of Johann Baptist Homann in the academy as a corresponding member as of 1715 and a proposal in 1717 to bring his publishing house to Berlin. King Friedrich Wilhelm I (r. 1713–40) circumscribed the sphere of action of the academy so severely that it was not until 1746, under his successor Friedrich II (r. 1740–86), that a discussion of establishing a cartographic monopoly at the academy was resuscitated. In accordance with the decree by Friedrich II of 7 April 1748, the academy was determined to manufacture its own maps in order to prevent the import of poor maps as well as to review and stamp imported maps for a fee. While import limitations explicitly targeted Augsburg and Nuremberg products or those by Homann Heirs publishing house, negotiations were simultaneously taking place to bring Homann’s firm to the Berlin academy to acquire the capacity for creating the required maps. Implementation of the import control, however, ran up against considerable practical problems and resistance.

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In 1744 Samuel von Schmettau was appointed as the academy’s first curator. He brought copious cartographic knowledge from his time in the emperor’s employ—from, for example, his 1719–20 topographical survey and 1721 map of Sicily (see fig. 305), which he immediately put to good use in a city map of Berlin. His other project proposals—a survey of Berlin’s environs and the triangulation and topographical survey of all the territories of Brandenburg and Prussia on the French model—were rigorously opposed by Friedrich II. The king claimed a lack of funds but especially feared that reliable maps of his lands could serve his numerous enemies better than himself. Not even Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis was able to secure support in Berlin for geodetic work while he was academy president (1746–50). A further project, for which Schmettau furnished his contacts at the academy, additional source material, and funds, was the Nouvel atlas de Marine (1749) prepared by the Swiss globemaker Isaak Bruckner, géographe du roi of France, who also used material from the Dépôt de la Marine (Paris). The atlas was not a great success since it competed with more elegant French products. The most successful cartographic project of the Berlin Akademie der Wissenschaften was the school atlas Atlas geographicus omnes orbis terrarum regiones (1753), supervised by Leonhard Euler between 1748 and 1751. Its maps were on a small format and its content specifically geared to school curricula (fig. 6). After Schmettau’s death in 1751 two of his colleagues, the brothers Johann Christoph Rhode and Andreas August Rhode remained affiliated with the academy; Johann Christoph earned the title of Geograph der Akademie in 1752 but only received modest and belated (by twenty years) remuneration. In 1787 Daniel Friedrich Sotzmann assumed this position, incorporating it into his multiple commitments as a Prussian civil servant at the Oberkriegskollegium. He published at least seven multisheet maps, a school atlas, and several other maps under academy auspices. There is no indication, however, that the academy planned or coordinated these cartographic activities although it welcomed them as a source of revenue. Johann Elert Bode became director of the academy’s astronomic observatory in 1786. Yet he published his celestial maps and his celestial globe independently of the academy. The cartographic activities of the academy in Berlin, to the extent that they were not discouraged by Friedrich II, did not focus on the advancement of Enlightenment science and provided only limited benefit to Prussia. Indeed, any mapping activities were geared much more to funding the academy’s emulation of the major cartographic publishing houses in Augsburg and Nuremberg. In Nuremberg, Johann Michael Franz, head of Homann Heirs publishing house, wanted to establish a state

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Fig. 6. TABULA GEOGRAPHICA UTRIUSQUE HEMISPHÆRII TERRESTRIS EXHIBENS DECLINATIONEM ACUS MAGNETICÆ, 1744. From Atlas geographicus omnes orbis terrarum regiones (Berlin, 1760; under the title Geographischer Atlas). Copper engraving. Leonhard Euler stressed the importance of physical geography and noted global mag-

netic declination with curved isolines on the map. To the right of the title is the stamp of the academy. Size of the original: 32 × 37 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (2° Kart. B 730–2).

academy for geography and cartography. His inspiration derived from the successes of the Académie des sciences in Paris as well as his contacts with Johann Matthias Hase and Eberhard David Hauber, who as early as 1730 had proposed collaboration among active researchers in geodesy and cartography. To that end, Franz established the private Kosmographische Gesellschaft (also known as the Societas Cosmographica, Société Cosmographique, or Geographische Gesellschaft), which by documenting programs and accomplishments aimed to convince the sovereigns of the Holy Roman Empire of the

utility of the proposed Kosmographische Akademie and the necessity of financing it. The society and its goals were first publicly proposed in 1746 with the announcement of the manufacture of a pair of globes by Georg Moritz Lowitz (fig. 7). One year later the members of the society, largely consisting of the scientific collaborators of the Homann publishing house, outlined the academy structure in the Homannische Vorschläge...und einer disfals bey der Homannischen Handlung zu errichtenden neuen Akademie (1747). They planned three categories of activity: the first, to deal with mathematical geogra-

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phy, survey, and cartographic instruments; the second, to gather historical, geographic, and cartographic sources as well as manuscript maps; and the third, to encourage correspondents to submit information for which they would be remunerated. In addition to the lengthy large globe project (promoted in 1747 by a small pair of globes), two further announcements, and requests for subscriptions, the Gesellschaffts Atlas was compiled in 1747–48. It contained the twenty best maps by members of the society, published by Homann Heirs, intending to demonstrate the utility of the proposed maps by the future academy. While dedicated to Friedrich II of Prussia, the atlas was also sent to the emperor and other sovereigns in order to secure funding for the academy. This venture did not bear fruit, and the members published the first and only volume of the society’s journal, Kosmographische Nachrichten und Sammlungen auf das Jahr 1748, in 1750, with essays on astronomy, the society’s plans, and the newest maps. In further attempts to secure funding, Tobias Mayer elaborated the Germania .  .  . Mappa critica (1750), which demonstrated the insufficiency of the data available by comparing the coordinates and borders of the Holy Roman Empire using data from Homann, Guillaume Delisle, and Mayer’s own figures (see fig. 532). In 1753 Franz published Der deutsche Staatsgeographus, which stressed how future scholars could potentially advise princes. The fact that the academy had reached a point of being funded by a lottery shows the precarious financial situation of Franz, who had financed the initiatives by taking out personal loans. Although every attempt to finance the Kosmographische Akademie failed, the efforts in Nuremberg were appreciated in scientific circles, such as those in France and St. Petersburg. Taking advantage of this renown, Mayer, in 1751, and Lowitz, in 1755, left Nuremberg for the University of Göttingen, where Franz too hoped for a new beginning of the society since there was an initial willingness to invest funds in the cosmographic enterprise. Franz, however, was prevented from relocating to Göttingen by his inheritance of half of the Homann publishing house, which he was not allowed to move to Göttingen as he had planned, and the seemingly

Fig. 7. GEORG MORITZ LOWITZ, SPECIMEN TRIGESIMAE SEXTAE PARTIS EX GLOBO TERRESTRI, 1749. This broadside of one globe gore was printed to accompany Lowitz’s Description complete ou second avertissement sur les grands globes terrestres et celestes (Nuremberg, 1749), the second advertisement for the large globes (91 cm), as an example of how the globes would look. Size of the original: 86 × 17 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 1-A-1749 Lo).

Academies of Science

endless work on the large globes. In the end it was not possible to revive the society in Göttingen. It is unclear why sustainable funding of the Nuremberg academy did not eventually materialize. Princes and regional governments apparently had more urgent matters to address directly after the end of the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48). For reasons unknown, the most promising patron, Emperor Francis I, who had a personal interest in the field of work, unfortunately gave only a onetime monetary donation (Franz 1753, 14). The planned renewal of the Kosmographische Gesellschaft in Göttingen occurred simultaneously with the founding of the Göttingische Gelehrte Gesellschaft (later Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen) in 1751, of which no significant activity in the field of cartography is known. Only its academic journal, Göttingischen Zeitungen von gelehrten Sachen (from 1739), contained references to new geographic discoveries by Europeans as well as maps. After the mid-eighteenth century, a series of other German states founded academies, specifically: Kayserlich Franciscische Akademie Freier Künste in Augsburg (1755), Kurfürstlich Mainzische Akademie der nützlicher Wissenschaften in Erfurt (1754), and [Königlich] Böhmische Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften in Prague (ca. 1780). Research into the extent to which they dealt with surveying and cartography has not yet been undertaken. In Munich, however, the Churfürstlich baierische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1759), focused on the research and the historical and geographical description of Bavaria as one of its founding objectives. Under the rubric of philosophy, the study of Bavaria aimed to provide a basis for developing domestic and economic policy, with the participation of an accomplished practitioner in Castulus Riedl. Just two years after its founding, it hoped that the collaboration of César-François Cassini (III) de Thury and participation in his project of triangulating the perpendicular to the Paris meridian from Brest to the Donau estuary would lead to major advances in geodetic survey of the region. The academy was actively involved in observing the transit of Venus of 6 June 1761 and in a triangulation of the Munich area, and it appointed Cassini III as an honorary member. On his second trip to Germany in 1762, Cassini III completed the triangulation chain from Strasburg to Vienna and surveyed an additional baseline between Munich and Dachau. However, a rapid methodology and insufficiently trained staff led to worse results than expected. In the following years, several academy members were involved in trigonometrically based topographical survey projects, but they failed in their practical implemen-

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tation. There was a new attempt between 1765 and 1769 by the French military geographer Claude-Sidoine Michel (also known as St. Michel) (Schlögl 2002, 117–27), financed by the provincial governments and backed by the academy. By 1768 Michel had completed two map sheets on the scale of the Carte de France (1:86,400), which were initially well received (fig. 8), but the collaboration ended in 1769 due to high costs, slow progress, and criticism of the place-names. Under the aegis of the academy, Wunibald von Widmer and, after his death, Peter von Osterwald continued the project, with completion expected in four years. Lack of progress prompted the appointment of Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni as the new director. He proposed a tripartite plan—astronomic-trigonometric survey, recording of topographical details, and engraving the maps—to be accomplished in five years, with an estimated budget of ca. 60,000 guilders. When this amount could not be raised by subscriptions, the topographical survey also failed. The academy’s cartographic activity was then limited to printing individual copperplate maps on demand. The Kurpfälzische Akademie der Wissenschaften in Mannheim was founded in 1763. Although it was in contact with astronomer Christian Mayer, he did not become an academy member until 1773. He worked on a trigonometrically based topographical survey from approximately 1760 until his death in 1783. The academy’s active contribution consisted of its critique of the slow progress of the work. In addition, academy members Christoph Jakob Kremer and Johann Daniel Flad submitted expert opinions in 1774 for a topographical survey to be undertaken by the academy itself (Moutchnik 2006, 385–88). Besides these most prominent academies of science, a large number of economic societies as well as specialized academies played somewhat significant roles for cartography, as in the case of the art academies that trained capable copper engravers. A comprehensive study of the cartographic activities of the academies of the Holy Roman Empire does not yet exist. Even though the foremost academies (in Berlin, Nuremberg, and Munich) were chiefly focused on publishing maps, contributions to cartography as a science were rare, and geodetic or cartographic initiatives aimed at comprehensive topographical surveys failed for practical and financial reasons. Markus Heinz See also: Euler, Leonhard; Mayer, Tobias; Science and Cartography; Topographical Surveying: Topographical and Geodetic Surveying in the German States Bibliography Diefenbacher, Michael, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, eds. 2002. “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Hanke, Michael, and Hermann Degner. 1934. Die Pflege der Kartogra-

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Fig. 8. CLAUDE-SIDOINE MICHEL, MAP OF MUNICH AND ITS SURROUNDINGS, 1768. This map was one of the two printed maps that resulted from Michel’s survey of Bavaria, following the Cassini model.

Size of the original: 56 × 89 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (Kart. M 8704).

phie bei der Königlich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften unter der Regierung Friedrichs des Grossen. Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften. [Homanns Erben]. 1746. Homännischer Bericht von Verfertigung grosser Welt-Kugeln. Nuremberg: Homanns Erben. Homanns Erben, ed. 1747. Homannische Vorschläge von den nöthigen Verbesserungen der Weltbeschreibungs-Wissenschaft und einer disfals bey der Homannischen Handlung zu errichtenden neuen Academie. Nuremberg: Homanns Erben. Kosmographische Gesellschaft, ed. 1750. Kosmographische Nachrichten und Sammlungen auf das Jahr 1748. Vienna: Joh. Paul Krauß. ———, ed. 1753. Der deutsche Staatsgeographus mit allen seinen Verrichtungen Höchsten und Hohen Herren Fürsten und Ständen im deutschen Reiche. Frankfurt: Johann Paul Krauß. Moutchnik, Alexander. 2006. Forschung und Lehre in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts: Der Naturwissenschaftler und Universitätsprofessor Christian Mayer SJ (1719–1783). Augsburg: Dr. Erwin Rauner. Scharfe, Wolfgang. 1987. “Daniel Friedrich Sotzmann: Leben und Werk eines Berliner Kartographen.” In Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium Wien ’86, 29.–31. Oktober 1986: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe, Ingrid Kretschmer, and Franz Wawrik, 11–22. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Schlögl, Daniel. 2002. Der Planvolle Staat: Raumerfassung und Reformen in Bayern, 1750–1800. Munich: C. H. Beck.

Academies of Science in Great Britain. Inspired by Fran-

cis Bacon’s lofty ambition of bringing about “the relief of man’s estate” through the ordering of knowledge of nature (1891, 42–43), the Royal Society, from its foundation in 1660 (Royal Charter in 1662), was devoted to the task of mapping the natural world. This activity, however, only occasionally resulted in actual maps; more often the mapping took the form of tables of data that brought precision and system to the task of comprehending the laws of nature. Members of the early Royal Society strongly urged the collection of detailed information about localities whether at home or abroad and disseminated such findings through the Philosophical Transactions from 1665 onward. Indeed, in the first volume of this pioneering journal (1665–66) Robert Boyle outlined an agenda for such studies in his “General Heads for a Natural History of a Countrey, Great or Small.” The early Society also sought to acquire useful knowledge of the globe that would promote both science and the nation’s imperial and commercial ambitions—hence

Academies of Science

the first volume of the Philosophical Transactions also included “Directions for Sea-Men, Bound for Far Voyages,” which prescribed a formidable inventory of observations that the Royal Society wished to see carried out. The Royal Society’s finances were dependent on the dues paid by its gentlemen members rather than on funding by the state; nonetheless, one of its major functions was to advise government on scientific matters. A nation as dependent on seaborne commerce as Great Britain took particular interest in improving navigation, an area where statecraft and mapping converged significantly. In this capacity, the Royal Society assembled a committee to advise on the construction and compilation of maps for the English Atlas of Moses Pitt, who proposed the project to the Society in 1678. In spite of the Society’s support and specific advice from members Robert Hooke and John Pell, only three of the projected eleven volumes were published (Hildyard 2014). Better maps, it was hoped, would be promoted by better ways of determining latitude and longitude. In respect of latitude, the Society played an ancillary role, aiding the Royal Greenwich Observatory to produce better astral tables and maps of the sky. From 1710 it conducted formal visitations of the observatory and, after 1767, it published the observatory’s reports. Similarly, in developing effective methods of determining longitude it was supportive through its representation on the Board of Longitude, established in 1714 with the advice of Sir Isaac Newton, then president of the Royal Society. Such links between science and navigation formed the background to the Society’s role in initiating James Cook’s first Pacific voyage of 1768–71, one of the main purposes of which was to participate internationally in observing the transit of Venus of 1769. Similarly the attempt to discover the elusive Northwest Passage, which would enable navigation from either the Atlantic to the Pacific or vice versa, also led the Society to become directly involved in scientific exploration and mapping. It helped to establish both a £20,000 reward for the discovery of the passage and to launch Cook’s third Pacific voyage of 1776–80. Such exploration became a well-established tradition thanks to the longestserving of all presidents of the Society, Sir Joseph Banks (president 1778–1820). Although the resulting charts were published through the Admiralty, they represented an increasingly fruitful partnership between the Society and an ever more expansionist British state. Again this was reflected in Banks’s close involvement in the early beginnings of the Ordnance Survey. Between 1783 and 1787 Banks supervised the expenditure of a royal grant of £3,000 on the triangulation between England and France that resulted eventually in the establishment in 1791 of a branch of the Board of Ordnance concerned with mapping.

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Accurate mapping naturally meshed closely with the concerns of the landowning class, who formed the core of the Society and whose interest in local studies (or chorography) had been evident from its foundation. Many other similarly focused societies across the British Isles were established. During the eighteenth century a number of Scottish societies were founded to promote economic growth and agricultural improvement and thus more accurate mapping. Among these were the Honourable the Society of Improvers in the Knowledge of Agriculture in Scotland (founded 1723) and the Edinburgh Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Sciences, Manufactures, and Agriculture (founded 1755). Other bodies with more diverse functions such as the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (founded 1780) and the Royal Society of Edinburgh (founded 1783) also promoted the same ends. In Ireland, the Dublin Society for Improving Husbandry, Manufactures and other Useful Arts (founded 1731) and the Royal Irish Academy (1786) did likewise. Such cartographic impulses fueled the growing determination of the academies and societies to bring not only the British Isles but the globe more generally into a rigorously structured network of latitude and longitude. J o h n Gascoigne See also: Geodetic Surveying: Great Britain; Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain); Longitude and Latitude; Science and Cartography Bibliography Bacon, Francis. 1891. The Advancement of Learning. 4th ed. Ed. William Aldis Wright. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Gascoigne, John. 1998. Science in the Service of Empire: Joseph Banks, the British State and the Uses of Science in the Age of Revolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2004. “Joseph Banks, Mapping and the Geographies of Natural Knowledge.” In Georgian Geographies: Essays on Space, Place and Landscape in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Miles Ogborn and Charles W. J. Withers, 151–73. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Hildyard, Daisy. 2014. “John Pell’s Mathematical Papers and the Royal Society’s English Atlas, 1678–82.” BSHM Bulletin: Journal of the British Society for the History of Mathematics 29:18–31. Jankovic, Vladimir. 2000. “The Place of Nature and the Nature of Place: The Chorographic Challenge to the History of British Provincial Science.” History of Science 38:79–113. Widmalm, Sven. 1990. “Accuracy, Rhetoric, and Technology: The Paris-Greenwich Triangulation, 1784–88.” In The Quantifying Spirit in the 18th Century, ed. Tore Frängsmyr, J. L. Heilbron, and Robin E. Rider, 179–206. Berkeley: University of California Press. Withers, Charles W. J. 2002. “Situating Practical Reason: Geography, Geometry and Mapping in the Scottish Enlightenment.” In Science and Medicine in the Scottish Enlightenment, ed. Charles W. J. Withers and Paul Wood, 54–78. East Linton: Tuckwell Press.

Academies of Science in the Italian States. The develop-

ment of academies of science in Italy during the long eighteenth century may seem fragmented by contrast to the great national European monarchies whose public institutions were established by a centralized power.

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The scattered initiatives and the structural impossibility of developing great central institutions deeply influenced the diffuse cultural and scientific policies of the Italian states, where intermittent initiatives were mostly subsidized by the high nobility promoting the new sciences. Joseph Ben-David’s study, now accepted as a classic in the history of academies, has identified as many as 149 scientific academies, 90 of which were designated as “multipurpose” (i.e., academies that also included science among their various fields of interest), while 59 were defined as exclusively “scientific” (Ben-David 1971, 63). Many of these emerged in the large political and administrative centers (Bologna, Venice, Naples, Rome, Florence, Milan, and Turin) during the course of the seventeenth century, while similar academies developed throughout the country in the following century in even smaller centers. Because of this fragmented growth, it is difficult to draw a comprehensive picture of the role played by Italian academies in mapmaking and how their production of observations and studies affected both large-scale land surveying and the bigger questions about the size of the earth for which geodetic measurements were necessary. In the course of the seventeenth century, Italy played a leading role in the rebirth of the scientific movement in Europe. Not only because of the contributions of the school of Galileo Galilei, but also, and above all, because of the unprecedented aggregations of scientists that took place throughout the country. Among these were the Accademia dei Lincei, founded in Rome at the beginning of the century (1603) by Federico Cesi, and the Accademia del Cimento (1657–67), promoted in Florence by Ferdinando II de’ Medici and Leopoldo de’ Medici, whose aims were to develop Galileo’s experimental method in the field of natural science (Olmi 1981; Boschiero 2007). Particularly the Accademia dei Lincei, which counted Galileo among its members and purported to encourage people “to read well this great truthful and universal book of the world” (Cesi 1988, 114), asserted a certain geographical interest thanks to the works of humanists like Lucas Holstenius, peripatetic geographer and companion in the numerous excursions of the German geographer Philipp Clüver (Almagià 1942); Nicola Antonio Stigliola, author together with Mario Cartaro of an atlas of the Kingdom of Naples, which had been commissioned to him by the king’s viceroy; and Pietro Della Valle, known for his travel accounts in the Eastern countries (Baldacci 1996). Up until 1714, when the public Istituto delle Scienze in Bologna opened, all previously created scientific academies in Italy had been private. Thanks to the patronage of nobles, small groups driven by scientific interest spread and contributed to the astronomic and cartographic culture, as exemplified by the astronomical

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laboratory established in Venice by the Correr family, guided by the astronomer Geminiano Montanari. One of the most notable initiatives linked to a cultural model possibly defined as a “private Renaissance academy” (McClellan 1985) was the Accademia Cosmografica degli Argonauti, founded by Vincenzo Coronelli in Venice around 1684. Closely entwined with its founder’s vicissitudes (the academy was dissolved in 1718 after Coronelli’s death), it was a sort of geographical society rather than an organization supporting original, repeatable research. Although the academy had no statutes, its main objective was to create a network of scholars who would apply cosmography to geography and promote the results (Milanesi 1998, 35). Its goals were typical of the seventeenth century: to gather and classify geographical knowledge in order to organize and establish hierarchies that would meet the challenges of an evolving world and make sense of new discoveries. The 261 members counted in 1693 (reported in the Epitome cosmografica) would gather in the monastery of the Conventual Minorities, the religious order to which Coronelli belonged and where the mapmaker taught Venetian elites to draw maps and build globes. Members of the academy were essentially subscribers, financially supporting Coronelli’s intense editorial production in return for buying his published works at favorable prices. For Coronelli, the Accademia Cosmografica degli Argonauti was an important means of circulating his own work, far removed from new lines of astronomical and geodetic inquiry: Jean Picard’s measurements, the Cassini family’s work, the earth-sun distance determination, the obliquity of the ecliptic, as well as Isaac Newton’s and Galileo’s experiments were completely unrelated to the interests of the academy (Bònoli 1999, 150–51). They hardly bothered with a geography in which new science and tradition lived together; their didactic intentions prevailed over theoretical innovation. From the second half of the seventeenth century, scientific gatherings followed Galilean teaching while keeping an eye on the new philosophical-scientific systems of René Descartes, Francis Bacon, Robert Boyle, and the newly established scientific academies in other European countries. Bologna, whose political milieu enjoyed some autonomy from church control, was the site of an academy based on Baconian ideals of experimentation and played a significant role in Italy’s scientific environment. Heir to the Accademia del Cimento in Florence and enjoying a cultural climate similar to that of the Paris Académie des sciences and London’s Royal Society, the Accademia degli Inquieti was founded in Bologna by Eustachio Manfredi in 1691 in an environment influenced by the work of Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) and the initiatives of Montanari. Housed in the palazzo given to the Inquieti by Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, this

Academies of Science

was the first Italian group to undertake collective experimental research comparable to that of the academies in London and Paris (Cavazza 1988, 54), carried out in the observatory, the library, the botanical garden, and the private rooms of the palazzo. In 1714 this informal group received official recognition with the foundation of the Istituto delle Scienze ed Arti and the simultaneous transformation of the Accademia degli Inquieti into the Accademia delle Scienze dell’Istituto di Bologna. Financed by the Papal States, the Accademia delle Scienze focused on meeting the technical needs of the state and maintained a close relationship with the productive sectors of society. The scientific program of the Istituto, therefore, proposed astronomical research with cartographic applications. During his survey work in the Balkans as a member of the Austrian army in its struggle with the Ottoman Empire, Marsigli had determined astronomically the geographical coordinates of many sites of military campaigns and later for peace negotiations. His personal scientific interests encouraged the Accademia to move toward incorporating the natural sciences into geography in order to understand more effectively the earth’s shape and its phenomena. He proposed that the Accademia first determine the exact difference of longitude between Bologna and Paris, then prepare new equipment for geodetic surveys, and finally publish a list of new geographical coordinates based on observation of lunar eclipses in the Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences de Turin. The Istituto delle Scienze di Bologna promoted reform in geography and practical cartographic representation based on the principle of direct observation of the earth, as opposed to the compilation work of cartographers who were skilled in drawing but whose work lacked accuracy. In a letter to Marsigli dated 30 August 1711, Manfredi pointed out the importance of establishing new cartographic activity in Italy: “The main fruit coming from the astronomic observations is the reform of geography. That of Italy is greatly needed. . . . The effort of emending the geography of Italy requires the permanent presence of an astronomer in the observatory . . . and requires moreover the trip of one or two other astronomers along the beaches and the most important places, which will be achieved in a couple of years” (Manfredi 1770, 319–20). The work of the Istituto clearly contributed to a geography increasingly linked to the activity of natural philosophers, a development that became the norm from the second half of the eighteenth century (Farinelli 1992, 83–105). Its notable theoretical and cultural contributions contrasted to the lack of practical applications by the Bolognese Accademia; no new comprehensive survey of the region was made, and its cartographic image remained unchanged—according to Manfredi—since the time of Giovanni Antonio Magini (Manfredi 1770, 319).

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Nor were the academicians commissioned to make such a survey by the Papal States. Instead, the papal government employed the best mathematicians from the university to solve important hydrographic problems in the Papal lands, and the Camera Apostolica commissioned the Jesuit astronomers Christopher Maire and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich to make the geodetic survey of the meridian from Rome to Rimini in order to provide data for a better understanding of the shape of the earth and the effects of gravitation (Pedley 1993, 62). From the second half of the eighteenth century, as connections between the Italian states of the Ancien Régime and science increased, political powers intervened more directly into scientific and cultural activities. Thus, several local initiatives were conceived to carry out geodetic and trigonometric measurements, which became the basis for the geometrical representation of Italy, finally accomplished after national union (Lodovisi and Torresani 2005). In the second half of the eighteenth century, however, the academic movement—founded on creating organized research centers to look for new approaches to education and culture—became only partially relevant to the large-scale land surveying that had been carried out during the course of the century. The peculiar issue of the Italian academies was the fact that their geographical debates and proposals for mapmaking scarcely and rarely met the demands of public administration. Yet this perspective changes when one considers the role played by the academies and cultural circles in laying the foundations for theoretical principles and in preparing the cultural ground necessary to achieve the projects of geodetic surveying, which were often accomplished outside the academic purview, as the case of Rome demonstrates. In the last quarter of the seventeenth century, Rome experienced a lively interest in the works of Galileo as well as the results of Newton’s discoveries. The establishment of the Accademia Fisico-Matematica in 1677— founded on Giovanni Giustino Ciampini’s initiative and modeled on Florence’s Accademia del Cimento and the great academies beyond the Alps—combined with the diffusion of the Giornale dei Letterati, the Italian answer to the Parisian Journal des Sçavans, demonstrated the desire of Rome’s cultural elite to actively nurture the sciences in order to keep abreast of other European developments. In the course of the first decades of the eighteenth century, favorable conditions existed for such pursuits. From the time of the pontificate of Giovanni Francesco Albani, Clement XI (1700–1721), patron of scientific and artistic institutions, Rome confirmed its singular role in the precocious reception of Newtonianism backed by a long tradition of historical and antiquarian studies. This period was marked by steady support for the sciences and arts through new academies,

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institutes for art education, and technical schools linked to the colleges of the religious orders and aristocratic courts (Bevilacqua 1998, 97). When Cardinal Prospero Lambertini became Pope Benedict XIV in 1740 with Cardinal Silvio Valenti Gonzaga as his secretary of state, conditions were ripe for the development of scientific research. Although the academies established by Benedict XIV were mainly concerned with theology and classical studies, the pope also promoted the study of chemistry and experimental sciences within the university. In the papal mansion he organized conversazioni among the Roman intellectuals and had an observatory installed on the towers of the Aurelian walls, which also bounded his mansion; it was used by Maire and Boscovich during their survey of the Rome meridian (Pedley 1993, 60). This abundant scientific zeal was further enhanced by Cardinal Alessandro Albani, nephew of Clemente XI, who encouraged the diffusion of Ferdinando Galiani’s Newtonian ideas and ongoing mapmaking projects. From 1736 to 1748, the new map of Rome by Giovanni Battista Nolli, which became a new source of knowledge about the territory of the capital city, together with the geodetic work of Maire and Boscovich, expressed a new zeal for science and the connection between mapmaking and enlightened reform sought by local governments (Pedley 1993). Such concerns took root in the numerous cultural debates that began in the intellectual circles of the cardinals and various nobles in the capital during the eighteenth century. In the Duchy of Milan the debate about new developments in science and their applications took place especially in the Jesuit college of Brera. In fact, the need for new astronomical-geodetic data encouraged the construction of an observatory, which was built during the 1760s for astronomical and geographical research. After the suppression of the Jesuit order, direction of the observatory passed to the Austrian government. Between 1760 and 1765 using precise scientific equipment, the Brera astronomers determined the exact geodetic coordinates of Brera thanks to the simultaneous observations of Giuseppe Bovio, Domenico Gerra, Luigi Lagrange, and above all Boscovich. However, only in 1788, under the guidance of Barnaba Oriani, Giovanni Angelo de Cesaris, and Francesco Reggio, did the survey for a map of Lombardy begin, based on astronomical observations and geodetic calculations of the observatory as well as on updated cadastral maps (Signori 1984). The activity of the astronomers in the Brera Observatory continued under French occupation and expanded into the adjoining provinces until the creation by Napoleon Bonaparte in 1805 of a topographical mapping bureau in Milan. In the Republic of Venice, as successor to the Accademia dei Ricovrati and the Accademia di Arte Agraria, the Accademia di Scienze Lettere e Arti of Padua was directly

Academies of Science

linked to the republic’s political initiatives. Its foundation in 1779 emanated from the utilitarian desire to place scientific knowledge at the service of the economy and society. For about twenty years the academy undertook large studies and research commissioned by the Republic of Venice dealing with agriculture, hydraulics, and geography. The presence of the geographer Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni, who had returned to Padua from Paris, emphasized the geographical interests of the Paduan academy. As a member, Rizzi Zannoni read a memoir on Newtonian theories that refuted the spherical shape of the earth, and he proposed a new map of Paduan territory in twelve sheets, four sheets of which were published with collaborators as La gran carta del Padovano (1780) (see fig. 422). His previous field experience, skill in triangulation, and passion for new scientific theories defined this contribution to Paduan cartography. This phase of cooperation with local mapmakers and the Venetian publisher Antonio Zatta was short-lived, however. Differing views on local surveying priorities (whether to concentrate limited resources on the geodetic or the topographic) and on map compilation practices, as well as shortage of funds, made it easier for Rizzi Zannoni to accept the invitation to move to the Kingdom of Naples in 1781, where he ultimately led the kingdom’s Reale Officio Topografico (Valerio 1993, 109–17; Mazzi 2015). At the time of the accession of King Vittorio Amedeo III in 1773, the Kingdom of Sardinia enjoyed a period of intense political and cultural enthusiasms in which the sovereign joined forces with the aristocratic enlightened elite. Numerous scientific societies were founded in Turin, among them the Accademia di Agricoltura and the Reale Accademia delle Scienze. The latter represented the culmination of a process that had begun with a private scientific society established in 1757 by Giuseppe Angelo Saluzzo di Monesiglio along with Lagrange and Giovanni Francesco Cigna, who joined other scholars from Piedmont in the following years. The Reale Accademia soon became the center of the Piedmontese reform and a reference point for science applied to socioeconomic and military issues, with particular attention to technological experimentation in chemistry (especially metallurgy) and physical phenomena. In 1784 Spirito Benedetto Nicolis di Robilant wrote “Essai géographique suivi d’une topographie souterraine, minéralogique, et d’une docimasie” published in the Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences in 1786 in conjunction with a mineralogical map of Piedmont that was well appreciated by European geographers (Ferrone 1984, 489–91). The efforts of the academies and the sovereign also focused on geodetic surveying. In 1759, Giovanni Battista Beccaria, director of the Turin Observatory, on the request of Carlo Emanuele III, began the operations to measure the arc of meridian between Mondovì and

Academies of Science

Andrate. As described in the Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, the works “have fully achieved their goal in correcting the geography of the region, providing new elements to the investigation of the figure of the earth, and adding new proofs to the general theory of attraction” (anonymous 1790, XXVIII). The survey continued in the first years of the nineteenth century without any geographic application. In the Kingdom of Naples increased interest in economic reform, both in production and commerce, supported a better geographical understanding of the land for which preparing maps of the regions of the kingdom was a remarkable aspect. To this end, in 1778 Ferdinand IV established a public academy, the Reale Accademia delle Scienze e Belle Lettere of Naples, as well as provisions to allow for other scientific and cultural institutions: a university library open to the public, the creation of a natural history museum, a botanical garden, an astronomical observatory, and new university chairs of geography, agriculture, natural history, and architecture. The result of an extraordinary florescence of ideas and programs, the Accademia was on a par with similar European institutions and attracted the support of the court, which generously financed its members, who were considered celebrities within scientific culture. In this promising climate of reform and experimentation, the first section of the academy, comprising mathematical sciences, hosted debates on issues related to mapmaking. The protagonists were Felice Sabatelli, professor of astronomy, and Nicolò Fergola, a famous mathematician; they both espoused the need for better knowledge of the land in the kingdom. Sabatelli called for the precise determination of the geodetic coordinates of Naples, which had been measured several times over the course of the century with only approximate results (Napoli-Signorelli 1788, XXIII–XXIV). Fergola, on the other hand, insisted on improving mathematical methods to create a more precise topography of the kingdom, incorporating astronomic techniques. Notwithstanding its initial enthusiasm, the academy soon reached its limits, when several well-thought-out attempts failed to find financial and organizational support (Chiosi 1996, 548). The cartographic survey of the Kingdom of Naples, begun in 1781, was finally completed outside the Accademia’s purview: it was not “a response by the institutions to the demands of the nation manifested by Neapolitan economists”; instead, it represented the fulfillment of objectives of a single individual, the abbé Ferdinando Galiani, with scientific and technical help from Rizzi Zannoni (Valerio 1996, 554). The analysis of the Neapolitan case confirms this important aspect of the role of scientific academies in cartography in the eighteenth-century Italian states. Their direct interventions into cartographic projects

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seem heterogeneous and lacking in national coherence. But the social and intellectual bonds that were created and strengthened by academic associations created a greenhouse for mapping projects and fundamentally influenced the intellectual framework upon which many projects were designed. Marco Petrella See also: Coronelli, Vincenzo; Geodetic Surveying: Italian States; Geographical Mapping: Italian States; Topographical Surveying: Italian States; Science and Cartography Bibliography Almagià, Roberto. 1942. L’opera geografica di Luca Holstenio. Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. Anonymous. 1790. “Séance Royale.” Memoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences [Turin], années 1788–89: XV–XXIX. Baldacci, Osvaldo. 1996. “La geografia nella primigenia Accademia dei Lincei (1603–1630).” Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 9th ser., 7:473–80. Ben-David, Joseph. 1971. The Scientist’s Role in Society: A Comparative Study. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. Bevilacqua, Mario. 1998. Roma nel secolo dei Lumi: Architettura erudizione scienza nella pianta di G. B. Nolli “celebre geometra.” Naples: Electa Napoli. Bònoli, Fabrizio. 1999. “Coronelli astronomo e i globi celesti.” In Un intellettuale europeo e il suo universo: Vincenzo Coronelli (1650– 1718), ed. Maria Gioia Tavoni, 139–61. Bologna: Costa Editore. Boschiero, Luciano. 2007. Experiment and Natural Philosophy in Seventeenth-Century Tuscany: The History of the Accademia del Cimento. Dordrecht: Springer. Cavazza, Marta. 1988. “Le accademie scientifiche.” In Le sedi della cultura nell’Emilia Romagna: I secoli moderni, le scienze e le arti, 47–77. Milan: Silvana Editoriale. Cesi, Federico. 1988. “Del natural desiderio di sapere et Institutione de’ Lincei per adempimento di esso.” In Federico Cesi e la fondazione dell’Accademia dei Lincei: Montra bibliografica e documentaria, 107–42. Naples: Nella sede dell’Istituto. Chiosi, Elvira. 1996. “Lo stato e le scienze: L’esperienza napoletana nella seconda metà del Settecento.” In La politica della scienze: Toscana e stati italiani nel tardo Settecento, ed. Giulio Barsanti, Vieri Becagli, and Renato Pasta, 531–49. Florence: Leo S. Olschki. Donato, Maria Pia. 2000. Accademie romane: Una storia sociale, 1671–1824. Naples: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane. Farinelli, Franco. 1992. “Multiplex geographia Marsilii est difficillima.” In I segni del mondo: Immagine cartografica e discorso geografico in età moderna, by Franco Farinelli, 83–105. Florence: La Nuova Italia. Ferrone, Vincenzo. 1984. “Tecnocrati militari e scienziati nel Piemonte dell’Antico Regime: Alle origini della Reale accademia delle scienze di Torino.” Rivista Storica Italiana 96:414–509. Lodovisi, Achille, and Stefano Torresani. 2005. Cartografia e informazione geografica: Storia e tecniche. 2d ed. Bologna: Pàtron. Manfredi, Eustachio. 1770. “Lettera del Sig. Dott. Eustachio Manfredi al Sig. Co: Marsigli in Roma data á 30 Agosto 1711.” In Memorie della vita del Generale Co: Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, by Giovanni Fantuzzi, 319–20. Bologna: Lelio dalla Volpe. Mazzi, Giuliana. 2015. “Rizzi Zannoni e la Repubblica Veneta.” In Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni: Scienziato del Settecento veneto, ed. Giuseppe Gullino and Vladimiro Valerio, 147–65. Venice: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti. McClellan, James E. 1985. Science Reorganized: Scientific Societies in the Eighteenth Century. New York: Columbia University Press. Milanesi, Marica. 1998. “Vincenzo Coronelli cosmografo.” In Vin-

18 cenzo Coronelli e l’imago mundi, ed. Donatino Domini and Marica Milanesi, 32–45. Ravenna: Longo Editore. Napoli-Signorelli, Pietro. 1788. “Discours istorico preliminare.” Atti della Reale Accademia delle Scienze e Belle-Lettere di Napoli dalla Fondazione sino all’anno 1787: I–LXXX. Olmi, Giuseppe. 1981. “‘In essercitio universale di contemplatione, e prattica’: Federico Cesi e i Lincei.” In Università, accademie e società scientifiche in Italia e in Germania dal Cinquecento al Settecento, ed. Laetitia Boehm and Ezio Raimondi, 169–235. Bologna: Il Mulino. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1993. “‘I due valentuomini indefessi’: Christopher Maire and Roger Boscovich and the Mapping of the Papal State (1750–1755).” Imago Mundi 45:59–76. Signori, Mario. 1984. “La cartografia lombarda fra tradizione catastale ed esigenze amministrative.” In L’immagine interessata: Territorio e cartografia in Lombardia tra 500 e 800, 57–68. Milan: Archivio di Stato di Milano. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. Società uomini e istituzioni cartografiche nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. ———. 1996. “Cartografia militare e tecnologie indotte nel Regno di Napoli tra Settecento ed Ottocento.” In La politica della scienze: Toscana e stati italiani nel tardo Settecento, ed. Giulio Barsanti, Vieri Becagli, and Renato Pasta, 551–67. Florence: Leo S. Olschki.

Academies of Science in Portugal. Portugal’s enduring conflict with Spain (1641–68) after the breakdown of the Union of the Crowns (1640) and the need to preserve commercial interests in the Atlantic and Indian Oceans led the Portuguese Crown to create institutions to provide training in navigation techniques, construction of fortifications, and mapmaking. The first was the Aula de Fortificação e Arquitectura Militar, founded in Lisbon in 1647; in lieu of a formal academy of science, the Aula served the practical scientific purpose of mapping Portuguese possessions at home and abroad. Subsequently, similar academies were created in Europe and overseas: Viana do Castelo (1701), Salvador (1696), Rio de Janeiro (1698), Goa (1699), Luanda (1699, expanded in 1764), São Luís do Maranhão (1699), Recife (1701), Elvas e Almeida (1732), Belém (1758), and Porto Alegre (1792). Although they functioned only intermittently, these royal schools of military architecture became the principal vehicles for promoting cartographic culture in the Portuguese world as many became permanent centers of education and preparation for military engineers. The training and careers of military engineers in the Portuguese Empire were also controlled from the late seventeenth century until the early nineteenth century by several laws (dated 1699, 1732, 1738, 1763, 1792, and 1810) (Bueno 2011, 129–249). In 1720, the creation of the Academia Real de História Portugueza by João V gave new impetus to the study of cartography by considering history as the synthesis of chronology and geography, the “two eyes of history.” This concept led to the development of both historical and modern cartography in Portugal. In 1734–36

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the Academia published the first two volumes of the Geografia historica de todos os estados soberanos de Europa by the friar Luís Caetano de Lima, who participated in diplomatic missions to Rome, The Hague, Paris, and London and followed the negotiations of the Treaty of Utrecht (1713). The Academia Real de História Portugueza fulfilled its geographical mission by organizing a major survey of existing regional maps and encouraging the preparation of new topographic maps and chorographical descriptions. In his role as engenheiro-mor do reino, Academia member Manoel de Azevedo Fortes, proposed a carta geral do reino and regional maps be made using survey methods outlined in his Tratado do modo o mais facil, e o mais exacto de fazer as cartas geograficas (1722). Under his command, a generation of military engineers was trained and sent throughout the empire to perform topographic and hydrographic surveys on site (Garcia 2006). Under his leadership, Brigadier José da Silva Pais and José Fernandes Pinto Alpoim were charged with the military defense of the Portuguese conquests in South America, for which they produced topographic maps and constructed fortifications in Rio de Janeiro, Minas Gerais, Santos, Santa Catarina, the Colonia do Sacramento, and Rio Grande de San Pedro. After the Treaty of Madrid (1750) and during the second half of the eighteenth century, expeditions were organized to establish the boundaries between Spanish and Portuguese territories in southern, far western, and northern Brazil. This development allowed manuscript cartography to play a significant role in the diplomatic efforts to define Portuguese sovereignty overseas. During the second half of the century, many of the experienced professionals who taught in the military academies had also participated in those expeditions. José I encouraged colonial governors to establish cartographic offices in their towns. The Colégio Real dos Nobres, founded in 1761 to train the future ruling class, embodied this state policy in its curriculum, which included astronomy, mathematics, practical geometry, trigonometry, military and civil architecture, design, geography, hydrography, and navigation. The University of Coimbra, reformed by Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal in 1772, also played an important role in the renewal of cartographic studies in Portugal. In 1779, the founding of the Academia Real das Sciências de Lisboa, Portugal’s first royal scientific academy, contributed to the development of regional mapping by sponsoring scientific expeditions (so-called philosophical voyages) to explore natural resources and to acquire information about the mores of local populations. The numerous geographical and chorographic descriptions that were presented to the Academia were later used to prepare topographical maps of the kingdom. In 1788,

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Fig. 9. WORLD MAP, CA. 1801. This map comes from the untitled atlas (known as Atlas terrestre) of fifty-two maps printed by the Arco do Cego editorial house, Lisbon, with support from the Sociedade Real Marítima e Militar. Copper engraved. This proof copy, with empty title cartouche, has legends ex-

plaining how the map might be colored thematically according to religion, skin color, and facial shapes of world population. Size of the original: ca. 25.5 × 40.0 cm. Acervo da Fundação Biblioteca Nacional–Brasil, Rio de Janeiro.

Francisco António Ciera, a professor at the Academia Real da Marinha, also founded in 1779, was asked to coordinate the geodetic triangulation for the topographic map of the kingdom. Although not completed, these surveys opened up a new era of scientific cartography in Portugal. In 1798, Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho, secretary of the Ministério da Marinha e Ultramar, founded the Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica para o Desenho, Gravura e Impressão das Cartas Hidrográficas, Geográficas e Militares; one of its purposes was to correct errors on foreign maps, mainly Dutch, French, and English, and to examine and approve for sale all foreign printed maps circulating in Portugal. The Sociedade Real Marítima also received the first permission to print and sell maps within Portuguese dominions since, until that moment, there were many restrictions on printing in Portugal (Kantor 2010, 451–52) (fig. 9). The transfer of the Portuguese court to Rio de Janeiro during the Napoleonic invasion (1807) led to the transfer of the naval archives and the refounding of the military

academies in Rio de Janeiro between 1808–10 (Guedes 1972). The Academia Real dos Guardas-Marinhas and the Real Academia Militar undertook the training of officers in geography and topography, preparing them for the construction of roads, canals, bridges, fountains, and sidewalks—expertise crucial for the expansion of urban networks (Albuquerque 1979). During the eighteenth century in Portugal and its colonies, military academies rather than academies of science were the main centers for new approaches to the execution and reproduction of cartography. A substantial network of professionals established in different locations allowed for the transmission of the knowledge required to control strategic areas, their wealth, and their population. The circulation of these agents, who traveled between the field, the office, and the classroom, created unique practical knowledge for Portuguese cartography during the Enlightenment. Í ri s Kantor See also: Geodetic Surveying: Portugal; Geographical Mapping: Portugal; History and Cartography; Science and Cartography

20 Bibliograp hy Albuquerque, Antônio Luiz Porto e. 1979. “A Academia Real dos Guardas-Marinhas.” História Naval Brasileira 2, no. 2:353–67. Bueno, Beatriz Piccolotto Siqueira. 2011. Desenho e desígnio: O Brasil dos engenheiros militares (1500–1822). Esp. 129–249. São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo. Garcia, João Carlos. 2006. “Manoel de Azevedo Fortes e os mapas da Academia Real da História Portuguesa, 1720–1736.” In Manoel de Azevedo Fortes (1660–1749): Cartografia, cultura e urbanismo, ed. Mário Gonçalves Fernandes, 141–73. Porto: GEDES (Gabinete de Estudos de Desenvolvimento e Ordenamento do Território), Departamento de Geografia da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Guedes, Max Justo. 1972. “Bicentenário de nascimento do chefe-deesquadra José Maria Dantas Pereira.” Navigator 6:41–59. Kantor, Íris. 2010. “Cartes pour un nouvel empire: Culture cartographique à l’époque du transfert de la cour pour Rio de Janeiro (1779–1822).” In Rio de Janeiro, capitale de l’empire portugais (1808–1821), ed. Jorge Couto, 447–61. Paris: Chandeigne.

Akademiya nauk (Academy of Sciences; Russia). The first

exclusively scientific establishment in Russia, the Akademiya nauk was founded by decree of Peter I in 1724 in St. Petersburg. Originally called the Akademiya nauk i khudozhest’, it included two institutions of higher learning: the Akademicheskiy universitet and the Akademicheskaya gimnaziya, both of which trained students in the sciences throughout the eighteenth century. Up until the 1750s, the Akademiya nauk organized its research and teaching into three main classes: mathematics (chairs in mathematics, astronomy, geography, and navigation; two chairs of mechanics), physics (chairs in theoretical and experimental physics, anatomy, and botany), and humanities (chairs in eloquence and antiquities, ancient and modern history, politics, law, and ethics). The president of the Akademiya nauk was appointed by the emperor or empress. Full members of the Akademiya included university professors, adjuncts, and extraordinary (though unaffiliated) academicians. Many early members were outstanding European scholars whom Peter I invited to St. Petersburg from places like Switzerland (mathematicians Nicolaus Bernoulli, Daniel Bernoulli, and Leonhard Euler), the German states (mathematician Christian Goldbach, physicist Georg Bernhard Bilfinger, naturalist Johann Georg Gmelin, and historian Gerhard Friedrich Müller), and France (astronomer and geographer Joseph-Nicolas Delisle). Although the Akademiya carried on research in many fields, the exploration and mapping of Russia became one its main goals. Peter I dreamed of showing the world his emerging empire on maps made with the sophisticated techniques—cartographic projection, unified scale, and geographical coordinates—esteemed in Europe. As early as 1726, the Akademiya expressed its readiness to begin correcting existing maps and compile a general map and an atlas of Russia on the basis of new cartographic material coming to the senate (Fel’ 1960).

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Louis Delisle de La Croyère led the first academy expedition to explore Russia’s European north in from 1727 to 1730 (Gnucheva 1946). Almost from the beginning, obstacles impeded rapid progress in mapping Russia. The sheer size of the Russian Empire itself worked against quick completion. JosephNicolas Delisle, who headed the academy’s astronomical and cartographic work, insisted on gathering precise astronomical observations for new maps, an extremely slow and expensive process. In a pragmatic compromise, the Akademiya prepared preliminary reports containing the latitude and longitude of key points throughout the empire, but even this proved expensive and required more skilled labor than was available. Some expeditions only yielded meager results. For example, after three years, Delisle de La Croyère returned with latitudes for just thirteen points (Narskikh 1976, 136). The Akademiya nauk’s work was hampered by the absence of sufficient funds from the senate, even though the senate’s chief secretary, Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov, was entrusted with supervising the survey work necessary for the mapping of the Russian Empire. Kirilov was not a member of the academy, but as a state officer he oversaw the work of all the surveyors, including the small group working under Joseph-Nicolas Delisle. All materials of the field surveys were kept by the senate, while compilation of the general atlas of the empire was entrusted to the academy, first under Delisle’s supervision and then under Euler’s. This odd arrangement, compounded by the far from amiable personal relations between Kirilov and Delisle, meant that Delisle was not permitted to use the academy’s print shop (the only one at the time that could perform such a difficult job) to publish an official edition of the atlas. Instead, Kirilov assembled the data from survey work of the 1720s to produce his own atlas, the Atlas vserossiyskoy imperii, and a general map of the Russian Empire (General’naya karta Rossiyskoy imperii; see fig. 737) at his own expense in three sets (1731, 1732, and 1734). Although he planned three volumes, he only published thirty-seven maps, including his general map, in small print runs. As the first printed (though incomplete) atlas of Russia, produced for the benefit of the senate, Kirilov’s work encouraged the academy toward the production of a full atlas and more complete general map. To that end, in 1735, the senate decreed that five additional surveyors produce 173 maps for the Akademiya nauk in order to compile “a general map” that would fulfill the academy’s goal of a complete map of the empire. To better coordinate with the state, the academy began storing copies (and, in some cases, the originals) of maps from other agencies involved in surveying and mapmaking activities (the Imperatorskiy kabinet, Kollegiya inostrannykh del, Voennaya kollegiya, Admiral-

Academies of Science

teystv kollegiya, Kantselyariya dvortsovogo pravleniya, Kantselyariya ot stroyeniy, and Kantselyariya glavnoy artilerii i fortifikatsii). The production of general maps was to become a collective endeavor, not the work of one person or agency alone. This tighter relationship with the state reflected the academy’s increased responsibility to education. The generation that came of age under Peter I’s Westernizing reforms now sought to train their children to be outward looking. The Atlas, sochinennyy k pol’ze i upotrebleniyu yunoshestva, a world atlas especially for the young and compiled by the academy in 1735–37, demonstrated the Russian public’s increased interest in foreign lands and would benefit students at the academy’s gymnasium and at the naval academy, Morskaya akademiya. The Akademiya nauk’s work on the general map forged ahead when, in 1739, the senate established a geography department in the academy with Euler as director; Euler almost immediately proposed his plan for a general map of Russia. Large-scale district (local) maps would be used to create particular or regional medium-scale maps. These regional maps, in turn, would be used to produce an all-Russian general small-scale map. Euler envisioned a collection of regional maps and a general map of the Russian Empire instead of only a single all-Russian map; in effect, a geographical atlas. This method of compilation would allow the production and publication of particular maps as the basic data for them arrived, without waiting for all maps of the country to be completed. An ingenious way of publishing an atlas quickly, the plan proved prescient. Not until the nineteenth and twentieth centuries did this method become commonplace. After Kirilov died in 1737, younger scholars from the academy joined the mapping effort. In 1741 the academy assigned members Gottfried Heinsius and Christian Nicolas Winsheim to compile a general map and an atlas of Russia. Winsheim whetted appetites by publishing a brief outline and summary of the atlas’s projected contents in a pamphlet titled Atlas Rossiyskoy, sostoyashchiy iz dvadtsati i bolee spetsialnykh kart in 1742. Heinsius assuaged critics in an essay outlining the project’s methods of astronomic and geodetic control, ranging from unscaled bird’s-eye views to rigorous triangulations (Goldenberg 1976, 50). Finally, in 1745, nineteen years after the labor began, the Atlas Rossiyskoy was published in St. Petersburg with maps both in Russian and in Latin (title cartouches) with transliterated Russian (place-names). The title page and the list and description of the maps were printed in Russian, Latin and French, and German editions. This second atlas of Russia, based on observation and measurement, covered the entire territory of Russia and contained a general map of Russia (1:9,534,000; see fig. 316), thir-

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teen maps of European Russia (1:1,470,000), and six maps of Asiatic Russia (1:3,780,000). The academy’s Atlas Rossiyskoy was not without flaws. It did not make full use of the Second Kamchatka Expedition maps generated by the Morskaya akademiya and the charts, plans, and descriptions made of Orenburg and the Urals by Kirilov and Vasiliy Nikitich Tatishchev. Mikhail Vasil’yevich Lomonosov, the Russian polymath who chaired the Geograficheskiy departament at the Akademiya nauk in the 1750s, later said regretfully that “looking at the then geographic archives and this atlas it is easy to see how much more accurate and fuller it could have been” (Gnucheva 1946, 185). Nevertheless, the Atlas Rossiyskoy represented an unprecedented achievement for a single state to map such large distances with some precision. The process of improving the Atlas Rossiyskoy began almost at once. In 1746, the president of the academy, Kirill Grigor’yevich Razumovskiy, asked the Geograficheskiy departament to begin compiling a new Russian atlas immediately, benefiting from the rich but unused material already in hand at the academy. In 1748 Winsheim and Joseph-Nicolas Delisle listed maps and drawings available in the Geograficheskiy departament and included descriptions of 564 manuscript maps (Goldenberg 1976, 53). Under the leadership of Müller and Avgustin Nafanail Grishov, the academy issued a number of important works in the 1750s: Plan stolichnago goroda Sanktpeterburga (1753), an atlas of the ancient habitable world (1753); Nouvelle carte des decouvertes faites par des vaisseaux Russes (1754) (fig. 10); maps of Kamchatka and Siberia (1755), maps of continents, and a map of hemispheres (1754–57), titles that were also bound in atlas form. But despite these efforts, by the end of the period 1746–57 mapmaking activities of the Geograficheskiy departament had decreased due to lack of new materials. When Lomonosov became head of the Geograficheskiy departament in 1758, a more aggressive era began. Eager to improve the 1745 Atlas Rossiyskoy, Lomonosov used economic data collected from settlements to include demographic information on existing maps. After Lomonosov’s seven-year tenure, the academy’s guidance of nationwide cartographic projects began to decline. The academic and astronomical expeditions of 1768–74 and 1781–85 determined latitudes and longitudes of many points and produced valuable geographic and cartographic data used for the second general map of Russia (1:7,227,000), published in 1776 to commemorate the academy’s fiftieth anniversary. But increasingly the academy’s efforts were devoted to smaller, more modest projects such as new maps of Lake Baikal (1772), European Russia (1773), and the Caspian Sea (1776) and the Atlas Kaluzhskago namestnichestva (1782), though the

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Fig. 10. GERHARD FRIEDRICH MÜLLER, NOUVELLE CARTE DES DECOUVERTES FAITES PAR DES VAISSEAUX RUSSES AUX CÔTES INCONNUES DE L’AMERIQUE SEPTENTRIONALE AVEC LES PAIS ADJACENTS (ST. PETERSBURG: L’ACADEMIE IMPERIALE DES SCIENCES, 1754).

Size of the original: 46.0 × 63.9 cm. Image courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University, Providence (Cabinet Cl 754 1).

latter was compiled by Mezhevaya kantselyariya, and only printed at the academy. In 1800, the Geograficheskiy departament at the Akademiya nauk was abolished. It had lost its importance as a cartographic research center for general mapping. Nonetheless, from 1726 to 1805 the Akademiya nauk had created and published a total of 324 cartographic works, including several atlases and general maps of the entire country, and accumulated and archived a unique collection of 790 manuscript maps and plans, providing valuable resources for the development of Russian cartography (Gnucheva 1946).

Bibliography Fel’, S. Ye. 1960. Kartografiya Rossii XVIII veka. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Geodezicheskoy Literatury. Gnucheva, V. F. 1946. Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka. Ed. A. I. Andreyev. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Goldenberg, L. A. 1975. “Pervyy Akademicheskiy atlas Rossii i kartograficheskiye raboty Geograficheskogo departamenta Akademii nauk.” Izvestiya Akademii Nauk SSSR, Seriya Geograficheskaya 4:124–36. ———. 1976. “Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk i sozdaniye pervogo Akademicheskogo atlasa (1739–1799 gg.).” In Ocherki istorii geograficheskoy nauki v SSSR, 47–60. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Lebedev, D. M. 1950. Geografiya v Rossii Petrovskogo vremeni. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Narskikh, R. S. 1976. “Russkaya akademicheskaya kartografiya (1724–1917).” Izvestiya Akademii Nauk SSSR, Seriya Geograficheskaya 3:133–44.

A l e x e y V . Po s tnikov and N i ko l ay N . K o med ch ikov See also: Delisle Family; Euler, Leonhard; Geographical Mapping: Russia; Science and Cartography

Academies of Science Novlyanskaya, M. G. 1964. Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov, geograf XVIII veka. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Postnikov, Alexey V., and I. A. Fedoseyev. 1985. Razvitiye kartografii i voprosy ispol’zovaniya starykh kart. Moscow: “Nauka.” Svenske, Karl Fedorovich. 1866. “Materialy dlya istorii sostavleniya Atlasa Rossiyskoy imperii, izdannogo imperatorskoy Akademii nauk v 1745 godu.” Zapiski Imperatorskoy Akademii Nauk 9, no. 2:1–204. Shafranovskiy, K. I. 1951. “Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk v 1785 g.” Izvestiya Akademii Nauk SSSR, Seriya Geograficheskaya 4:35–41. Shibanov, F. A. 1954. “M. V. Lomonosov i otechestvennaya kartografiya.” Vestnik Leningradskogo Universiteta 4:123–34.

Academies of Science in Spain. The history of Spanish academies with an interest in geography and mapping cannot be separated from the colossal effort undertaken by the Spanish Crown since the sixteenth century to reconnoiter its territorial dominions overseas. The cosmographer Juan López de Velasco’s project to involve individuals throughout the empire in describing their local communities and regions—captured in the colorful maps of the relaciones geográficas—cast a long shadow over Spain’s subsequent attempts to capture its imperial holdings on paper. But it was individual initiative rather than organized efforts that really gave Spanish geography its push in the eighteenth century, despite the emergence of various Spanish academies in the early part of the century, including the Academia de Guardiamarinas de Cádiz (1717), the Real Academia Militar de Matemáticas de Barcelona (1720), and the Real Seminario de Nobles de Madrid (1725). Following an early and ultimately aborted effort in the late 1730s to consolidate cartographic knowledge through the production of a map of Spain at the Real Academia de la Historia, Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa worked for the Crown to elevate a broad array of sciences to an academic standing. Juan and Ulloa had joined a group of French academicians in South America carrying out measurements to determine the shape of the earth. Upon their return to Spain in 1746, they promoted projects that enhanced geographical knowledge of the nation and its empire both formally and informally. While Ulloa worked largely in the field of natural history, helping to inaugurate the Real Gabinete de Historia Natural as well as directing the Real Casa de Geografía, Juan was intimately involved with the military academies in Barcelona and Cádiz, purchasing books and mathematical instruments for these institutions and others at the midpoint of the century. In 1755, he also created an informal academy of sciences in Cádiz, the Asamblea Amistosa Literaria, which met in his house and discussed themes related to mathematics, physics, geography, and history. The Real Academia Militar de Matemáticas de Barcelona also served as a center for geographic instruc-

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tion and was principally responsible for the professionalization of military engineers and artillery specialists. In 1739 the new director, Pedro de Lucuce, established a series of ordinances and instructions setting out the criteria for each course taught at the academy, including arithmetic, geometry, trigonometry, topography, and celestial mechanics. Lucuce was later called to Madrid in 1756 to direct the Real Sociedad Militar de Matemáticas, which benefited from the instrument collection of the Real Casa de Geografía and permission from the inquisitor general to read prohibited books. Following the broader institutional reforms of Zenón de Somodevilla y Bengoechea, marqués de la Ensenada, after 1748, other mathematical institutions emerged in cities such as Santiago de Compostela and Salamanca, where a translation of Didier Robert de Vaugondy’s theoretical work was published (Uso de los globos, y la sphera, 1758). Beginning in 1766, Pedro Rodríguez Campomanes began work on the Diccionario geográfico-histórico de España at the Real Academia de la Historia, a work that would eventually be published early in the nineteenth century (1802). Another important development in Spain was the institutionalization of property mapping as a profession. Land surveyors measured, leveled, and divided lands; delimited property boundaries and municipal borders; and resolved conflicting land claims. One center of this activity was Valencia, where increased population pressed for more irrigated lands with the inevitable and concomitant lawsuits. During the first half of the century, certificates for surveying work were granted by local municipalities, in contrast to France and Italy where the state already recognized the importance of this work. But in 1753, Valencia established the Academia de Santa Bárbara, responding to the need of practitioners to perfect drawing skills in a variety of scientific fields. Heir to the city’s long tradition of baroque academies and rich cultural life in and around its universities, this academy eventually gave way to an even more important institution, the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Carlos (1768), which trained rural students, city dwellers, and military graduates in the science and arts of measurement required for the practice of land surveying and provided them with certificates for entry into the growing profession of agrimensores (Faus Prieto 2001). The Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando in Madrid, preparatory board established in 1744, founded in 1752, and reorganized in 1757, was also fundamental for the instruction of military engineers and the organization of civil projects, as well as the training of one of Spain’s most important cartographers, Tomás López. López had studied at the Academia de San Fernando when it was still known as the Junta Preparatoria before he moved to France, where he became a disciple

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Adair, John

of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville and heir to the academic tradition of the géographes de cabinet. His entrance to the Real Academia de la Historia in 1776 and the publication of his Principios geográficos, aplicados al uso de los mapas (1775–83) represent the apogee of academic science in Spain as it related to geography and cartography. In the 1780s, the Spanish navy undertook a series of coastal mapping projects under the leadership of Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel, director of the Academia de Guardiamarinas de Cádiz, as well as coastal maps of North America and interior maps of South America as part of the Luso-Hispanic boundary expeditions, under the direction of the military engineer Francisco Requena. Those same expeditions to the Americas were also responsible for the career of naval officer Felipe Bauzá, who accompanied Alejandro Malaspina around the world and later became head of the Depósito Hidrográfico in the first decades of the nineteenth century. Neil S afier See also: Administrative Cartography: Spanish America; Geographical Mapping: Spain; Property Mapping: Spain; Science and Cartography; Ulloa, Antonio de, and Jorge Juan Bibliograp hy Barber, Peter. 1986. “‘Riches for the Geography of America and Spain’: Felipe Bauzá and His Topographical Collections, 1789–1848.” British Library Journal 12:28–57. Capel, Horacio. 1988. “Geografía y cartografía.” In Carlos III y la ciencia de la Ilustración, ed. Manuel Sellés, José Luis Peset, and Antonio Lafuente, 99–126. Madrid: Alianza Editorial. Capel, Horacio, Joan Eugeni Sánchez, and José Omar Moncada Maya. 1988. De Palas a Minerva: La formación científica y la estructura institucional de los ingenieros militares en el siglo XVIII. [Barcelona]: Serbal; [Madrid]: CSIC. Faus Prieto, Alfredo. 2001. “La Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Carlos y el ejercicio de la agrimensura en la Valencia del siglo XVIII.” Asclepio 53, no. 2:117–42. Lafuente, Antonio, and José Luis Peset. 1988. “Las actividades e instituciones científicas en la España ilustrada.” In Carlos III y la ciencia de la Ilustración, ed. Manuel Sellés, José Luis Peset, and Antonio Lafuente, 29–79. Madrid: Alianza Editorial.

Adair, John. Significant principally for his coastal surveying, much of which remained in manuscript, and for his county maps, printed and manuscript, John Adair was born in South Leith in September 1660 and died in Canongate, Edinburgh, in May 1718. We have no knowledge of his early education or training. He variously bore the titles the king’s geographer, hydrographer royal, her majesty’s geographer, the queen’s geographer, and geographer for Scotland. While these honorifics, his fellowship of the Royal Society of London, and connections with leading virtuosi indicate his status, much of Adair’s work was hampered by limited funding and by personal disputes. Adair began mapmaking in May 1681 after being

granted a license by the Privy Council to survey Scotland in order to know its bounds and as a stimulus to economic growth. Adair signaled his intentions in a circulated “Advertisement anent surveying all of the Shires of Scotland and making new Mapps of it” (Withers 2000, 2). By 1682, Adair had produced several county maps and been commissioned by the geographer royal, Sir Robert Sibbald, to undertake maps for the latter’s intended two-volume description of Scotland. In later years, the two were in dispute over contractual matters, and Adair’s work before 1686 was more than once hampered by lack of funds (Withers 2000, 2, 5). By an Act of Parliament of 14 June 1686, Adair’s mapping projects were funded from an annual tonnage levy on all native and foreign ships. This levy was the idea and responsibility of the Scottish Parliament. This was an important but nonetheless insufficient source of funding. Adair visited the Netherlands in 1687 to purchase surveying instruments, returning in February 1688 with the engraver James Moxon. By August 1692, Adair had completed ten sea maps, for which he received £120 Scots from the tonnage levy, and ten county maps, for which he received less than £50. Overall, Adair certainly incurred considerable debts on behalf of his country’s mapping. Adair’s connections with the Royal Society led to his involvement from 1697 in plans to describe St. Kilda and other Hebridean islands. Adair’s The Description of the Sea-Coast and Islands of Scotland, which concentrates on Scotland’s east coast, was published in 1703. An intended second part was never published: records from 1704 show further maps in an advanced state of readiness. In 1706, he was surveying the Shetland Islands. In 1707, he wrote but did not publish a short work on Scotland’s fishing industry. From 1708–12, Adair was involved in surveying the ports of southwest Scotland. For John N. Moore, Adair’s manuscript charts of Scotland’s coasts reveal him “as a painstaking surveyor attempting to produce a realistic depiction of the Scottish seaboard.” They are “vastly superior to any others of the area prior to the surveys of Murdoch Mackenzie in the 1770s” (2000, 57, 59). We may see Adair as an agent of the state, the Enlightenment surveyor as civil servant (fig. 11). Yet failure to complete his mapmaking and his country’s failure to fund him have meant he has been unjustly overlooked. Ch arl es W . J. W ithers See also: Marine Charting: Great Britain; Sibbald, Robert Bibliography Moore, John N. 2000. “John Adair’s Contribution to the Charting of the Scottish Coasts: A Re-Assessment.” Imago Mundi 52:43–65. Withers, Charles W. J. 2000. “John Adair, 1660–1718.” Geographers: Biobibliographical Studies 20:1–8. ———. 2001. Geography, Science and National Identity: Scotland since 1520. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Fig. 11. DETAIL FROM JOHN COWLEY, “DISPLAY OF THE COASTING LINES OF SIX SEVERAL MAPS OF NORTH BRITAIN,” 1734. This image, which includes Adair’s survey work, captures the uncertainty about Scotland’s mapped outline. The map was printed but never published. Cowley was a factor (estate manager) to the Duke of Argyll on the latter’s Ardnamorchan (Ardnamurchan) estates in the west highlands:

as the rhomboidal shape extending eastward from Ardnamorchan Point and the “Explanation” text make clear, Cowley used this as his base referent against which to position the several map outlines of Scotland. Size of the entire original: 60.8 × 48.8 cm; size of detail: 20 × 39 cm. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh (EMS.b.6.5[1]).

Administrative Cartography.

maps produced for administrative purposes were accompanied by other documents, which may be found by the thousands in archives; yet many remain undiscovered or unexplored, creating a situation that impedes our complete knowledge of this vast field. For a contemporary definition of “administrative map” one turns first to the word “administration,” defined in the Encyclopédie of Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert as “the management of business of any individual or community, or the management of property” (Toussaint 1751). Similarly, Samuel Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language defined administration as “1. The . . . conducting the publick affairs; dispensing the laws” and “2. The active or executive part of government” (1755, [1:83]). Given this vague and general sense, the term “administrative cartography” may evoke the representation of territory attached to an administration or a graphic document ordered or used by an administrative authority and its representatives for the management of part of their territory. Cartographic functions were thus connected to different categories of administrations: civil, judicial, financial, ecclesiastical, or even seignorial. All levels of the administrative hierarchy expressed an

E n l i g ht e n me n t D e n m ark an d N o rway F ran ce N e w F ran ce F re n ch We s t I n d i e s G re at Bri tai n Bri t i s h Ame ri c a I tal i an Stat e s N e t h e r l an ds O t to man E mp i r e P o l an d P o rt u gal P o rt u gu e s e A me r i c a Ru s s i a S pai n S pan i s h Ame r i c a S w e d e n-F i n l a n d S w i t ze rl an d

Administrative Cartography in the Enlightenment. Ad-

ministrative cartography produced between 1650 and 1800 probably accounts for one of the most prolific areas of European cartographic production. Most of the

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interest in cartographic tools. An order for maps could come directly from the central or governmental power, such as the monarch or ministerial services, but it could also be issued from local or provincial administrations, for example, a municipality implementing an urban development program. There was a difference between the administrative processes relevant to royal or local authorities and to those of a seignorial administration. In much of Europe, many landholders, often aristocrats, successfully used their own administrative organization for the management of their lands, which distinguished them from the royal government and its agents. Nevertheless, the definitions of “administration” in the Encyclopédie and the Dictionary refer to government—demonstrating that the word was primarily associated with some form of centralized state or public entities in the eighteenth century; therefore, this concept takes precedence in our consideration here. Throughout the long eighteenth century, monarchs and their ministers could play a decisive role in administrative cartography, whether through distinct mapping initiatives, the establishment of scientific and educational institutions, or the deliberate collection of cartographic material for administrative uses. This is most obvious in the case of France, beginning with Louis XIV and his minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert, but the pattern was repeated with Peter I in Russia, João V and José I in Portugal (especially during the ministry of Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal), Felipe V, Fernando VI, and Carlos III in Spain (the ministry of Zenón de Somodevilla y Bengoechea, marquês de la Ensenada), Joseph II in Austria, and Victor Amadeus II in Savoy, to name but a few. Where the monarch did not leave a centralized imprint on the offices requiring maps, local administrations and private corporations often filled the gap with their own demands and financed mapping projects, as in the case of Great Britain, whose Parliament, reluctant to spend money on national mapping endeavors, devolved such responsibilities to local authorities and private companies. Map collecting was another critical function of an administrative unit, as its patrons developed archives and exerted more control over the cartographic record. Monarchs established and added to imperial and royal libraries, through purchase, gift, or fiat (King João V of Portugal ordered his diplomats to collect maps for the libraries of the palaces and University of Coimbra). Military units, concerned with both land and sea, founded archives and depots in which to deposit maps and plans; in France, the Ministère des Affaires étrangères created the Bureau des limites to house documents related to borders and frontiers. Scientific institutions, operating as royal foundations or with royal imprimaturs, collected maps and plans for their

Administrative Cartography

libraries. The private collections of the landed gentry and nobility as well as those of private citizens, such as the enormous collection of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, were often acquired by the state to supplement existing holdings. An administrative map was a valuable tool for governments. As an accurate representation of territory, it allowed effective management and decision making for the depicted region. The map also spared decision makers from laborious travel, thereby accelerating the decisionmaking process, while at the same time modifying the relationship the administrators had with the land. Administrators increasingly delegated to cartographers and other technicians the job of studying the territory on the spot and proposing improvements. The map became an indispensable artifact for governments whose decisions depended on the accuracy of the information presented. Finally, maps offered a range of support in the exercise of power, to the point of constituting a true working tool for government or by serving as propaganda for the state (Buisseret 1992) and for implementing proposals typical of governments during the Enlightenment. An administrative map addressed a wide variety of domains and purposes, the earliest of which was the question of national and local borders. From a very early period, administrations felt the need to mark out territory, not only for national borders, but also for financial, judicial, military, or even ecclesiastical administrative districts. The mapping of national borders was usually reserved for military engineers, as this domain was thought too critical to be entrusted to other agents. In France, the territorial reconstructions and border adjustments resulting from numerous wars led to the production and examination of many maps. In 1712, a dedicated cartographic service was established within the ministry of foreign affairs (Nordman 1998, 300). In Poland, King Stanisław August Poniatowski created a similar organization to assist in the prodigious development of cartographic production. During his reign he created “appropriate conditions for the development of cartography, organized an office of cartography at the Royal Castle in Warsaw, and assembled there a sizeable collection of maps, globes, and astronomical instruments” (Mikos´ 1989, 80). Such efforts were typical of many other rulers throughout Europe. The mapping of communication routes was another prolific area because an administration’s efficiency could be measured by its infrastructure and its network of roads, rivers, and canals. All maps of communication routes were not necessarily ordered by the state, but administrative maps represented a large part of the production. The extensive investigation launched in France in the 1730s illustrates this direct connection between maps and the state’s power. The contrôleur général des

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Fig. 12. “PARTIE DU CANADA OU NOUVELLE FRANCE ET DE LA NOUVELLE ANGLETERRE, DE L’ACADIE,” 1713. Made in 1713 after the signing of the Treaty of Utrecht, marking the end of the War of the Spanish Succession, this manuscript map was conceived by Jesuit Nicolas Aubry and designed by army assistant engineer La Guer de Marville. It

shows the new international boundaries between New France, New England, and Acadia in northeast North America. Size of the original: 51 × 102 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 pf 124 div 1 P 5).

Finances, Philibert Orry, initiated the production of an enormous map collection, the “Atlas de Trudaine,” in the 1730s, a decade before César-François Cassini (III) de Thury began his work for the Carte de France. Using a detailed inventory of royal highways, Orry sought to control highway development, a vital cog in the gears for transmitting orders and affirming an absolute monarchy (Blond 2008, 1:100–154). Administrative maps gradually expanded into so many areas that it becomes difficult to create a complete typology, as they incorporate almost every mode of cartography: maps of national, provincial, and district regions and borders; maps for revenue and fiscal policy (land registration, customs, population, taxation); maps for communication and infrastructure (road maps, post routes, rivers and canals, bridges, fortifications); maps of natural resources (forests, mines, mineral deposits); maps for urban planning and development, for disaster relief, and for judicial evidence; maps for royal and aristocratic privilege (hunting rights, property control); and maps of ecclesiastical districts ordered by church administration and religious orders for their own regulation. Finally, perhaps most symbolic for the power of cartography and the centralized state were national maps and surveys for the creation of a national atlas. All of these

map types involved the administration of a country and its dependent territories (figs. 12 and 13). A period of colonization was usually followed by cartographic operations that supported the organization and establishment of administrative authorities as well as evaluating the resource potential of these newly possessed lands. In many cases, the distinction between administrative maps and military maps is difficult to establish because the two cartographic genres were closely related. Military cartographers generally served under the jurisdiction of a central administrative authority while administrative mapping not directly related to military affairs was often concerned with raising revenue to support military operations. In addition, military engineers frequently had the technical skills and know-how to create maps that met administrative needs beyond the bounds of single military events. Numerous military maps were used for operations of an administrative nature, particularly for the representation of strategic areas, such as the plans of fortified areas, boundaries and frontiers, and military road maps. In spite of the creation of various (mostly military) institutions, which trained engineers with cartographic skills, administrative mapping was diverse and widespread enough that it could not be undertaken solely

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Administrative Cartography

Fig. 13. BERNARD-ANTOINE JAILLOT, CARTE PARTICULIÈRE DE L’ISLE DE CORSE DIVISÉE PAR SES DIX PROVINCES OU JURIDICTIONS ET SES QUATRE FIEFS, 1738. Compiled by the Paris-based cartographer Jaillot, this map was ordered by the Republic of Genoa, proprietor of the island at the time, and represents the administrative districts

of the island, emphasizing the control of territory even from a distant metropole. Size of the original: 50 × 80 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge BB 565 [A 12, 100]).

by military engineers. The skills of local land surveyors, many of whom were certified by local authorities, were called upon to survey and make maps, as were the members of certain religious orders, such as the Jesuits, who had the necessary mathematical and instrumental skills. Amateur mathematicians and academics also participated in administrative mapping efforts, as did the community of commercial geographers and the géographes de cabinet, who compiled results from the field into printed versions of maps, often at a smaller scale, suitable for wider distribution. It was not unusual for skilled personnel to move across national boundaries when called upon or hired for particular projects. Marcel Watelet points out that the use of both military and civil surveyors for public works in Wallonia provided two-way communication between people working on-site and those in administrative offices: “Engineers frequently brought cartographic material that was indispensable to the control of the operations being carried out, and when the civil engineering structures were

defective, the engineer indicated the nature of the defects on the map” (Watelet 1995, 45) (fig. 14). In addition to institutions that trained skilled cartographers and those that licensed them, some governments also institutionalized the position of the cartographer, who thereby became a servant of the state. In 1675, John Ogilby was awarded the title “His Majesty’s Cosmographer and Geographic Printer,” which signified royal support of the publication of his road atlas, Britannia, in 1675. In 1718, the French geographer Guillaume Delisle, while he taught geography to young Louis XV, was the first to receive the title of premier géographe du roi; he also functioned as a court geographer in terms of supplying maps to the royal administration when needed (Dawson 2000, 47–99). This title continued to be passed on to eminent geographers who worked in the map trade as well as in the royal household and administration in France. The title of géographe du roi and premier géographe du roi brought annual stipends, but in Great Britain the title alone had to suffice as an

Administrative Cartography

Fig. 14. DETAIL FROM THE ANONYMOUS “PLANT [SIC] DE LA CHAUSSÉE DE BRUXELLES À MONS,” 1704. This detail illustrates the two links between administration and cartography. The old route is displayed alongside the new route, shown with two straight parallel lines, proposed by an engineer on site. Such graphic display allowed administrators to weigh the benefits of such improvements. The prominent arms of the Royal House of Spain, which controlled the Southern Netherlands at the time of this map’s creation, emphasizes the authority of the state in the development of infrastructure. The arms of the city of Mons also appeared on the map. Size of the entire original: 47 × 443 cm; size of detail: ca. 47 × 25 cm. Image courtesy of the Archives de l’État, Mons (Fonds des cartes et plans no 99).

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imprimatur of royal pleasure, as it came without financial support. With the foundation and patronage of scientific institutions, such as the academies, learned societies, and engineering schools, central administrations supported the training of mapmakers who worked for the state. These institutions contributed to the development of a cartography based on technical methods, which relied on a deeper understanding of mathematics and the use of more precise measuring instruments. State-supported organizations demonstrated the desire of administrative authorities to control this sector of activity at various levels by their contributions to the advancement of astronomy, topography, field surveying instruction, and cartographic expeditions, whether national or international in scope, while simultaneously supporting reform programs, which were gaining ground in the latter half of the century. In Bavaria, for example, Elector Maximilian III Joseph established a program of reform of the absolutist regime that relied on the cartographic information provided by the new Churfürstlich baierische Akademie der Wissenschaften, founded in 1759 (Schlögl 1997). In Spain under the Bourbons the Cuerpo de Géometras (founded 1728) was responsible for training specialists to apply techniques of geodesy in many areas. In Russia, the founding of many scientific institutions over the course of the first half of the eighteenth century contributed to the launch of ambitious cartographic operations, such as the works of Semën Ul’yanovich Remezov in Siberia or the atlas of the Russian Empire supported by the geography department, which was founded in 1739 as part of the Akademiya nauk in St. Petersburg (1725). This national atlas, the Atlas Rossiyskoy (1745), produced under the supervision of Joseph-Nicolas Delisle, provided a picture of the vast empire in one volume. One of academy’s members, Mikhail Vasil’yevich Lomonosov, supervised the production of the first series of provincial maps of Estonia (Varep 1979, 88–89). Depending on the administration sponsors or the projects involved, the nature, presentation, and scale of maps varied tremendously from national, provincial, or district maps to local or urban plans. This cartographic field included various types of media, including manuscript maps in ink and watercolor, printed maps, pencil drafts and sketches, and atlases. Manuscript documents were more prevalent because in most instances the administrative maps involved a single response to a unique project. Furthermore, these documents contained sensitive information, which required keeping them confidential and not reproducing them. It is understandable that the map of a road near a border or those of military districts required limited distribution because they touched the security of the state. In a few cases, printing was used in a limited way to supply maps to a small

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Administrative Cartography

Fig. 15. JEAN-BAPTISTE BOURGUIGNON D’ANVILLE, [LA FRANCE DIVISÉE EN PROVINCES ET EN GÉNÉRALITÉS DONT LE PLAN EST CELUI DE L’ANCIENNE GAULE, 1713]. Forming part of the vast collection of historical maps created at the beginning of his career, this manuscript map represents the boundaries of the généralités or

intendances, the most important administrative districts of the Ancien Régime. The reference to the outline of ancient Gaul served to legitimize administrative power across the centuries. Size of original: 41 × 45 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 10436).

group. Nonetheless, as a literate public grew, and with it a desire for graphic information, printed maps played an increasingly larger role in the public sphere where discussion of and reaction to administrative initiatives took place. In other less problematic situations, the documents produced enjoyed a greater distribution. Sometimes they relied on earlier maps, especially those distributed commercially. The map of old France (France ancienne)

(ca. 1713) by d’Anville, later premier géographe du roi, served as a basis for multiple editions that were regularly published throughout the eighteenth century as France divisée en provinces et en généralités (fig. 15). In some instances, the manuscript maps ordered by the government could lead to a commercial venture, for example, certain routes of the “Atlas de Trudaine” were reprinted by Guillaume Coutans in his Description historique et topographique de la grande route de Paris à

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Reims (1775). Similarly, government-supported marine initiatives were available on the market, for example, in France (Le Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise), in Great Britain (Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot by Greenvile Collins, Orcades by Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder, The Atlantic Neptune of J. F. W. Des Barres), and in Spain (Atlas Marítimo de España by Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel y Vandewalle). Other examples of administrative maps that reached the public are cited in the regional entries that follow. During the same period, the appearance of technical treatises increased, contributing to a standardization of cartographic methods, signs, and colors that greatly benefited administrative operations. Several works on military engineering and surveying gained a foothold throughout Europe, building on earlier works that had focused on the design and planning of fortifications: Les regles du dessein, et du lavis (1721) by Nicolas Buchotte, O engenheiro portuguez (1728–29) of Manoel de Azevedo Fortes, and La science de l’arpenteur (1766) of Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson. These texts became standard reference works in Europe for implementing a cartographic language that was applicable to many domains, forming a partial list of fundamental titles used to teach engineers who would later meet the cartographic needs of the state. While a standard part of military training, within the civil sphere the French École des Ponts et Chaussées also provides an example in which mastering the map constituted the first step and the sine qua non condition to meeting administrative demands. This learning process emphasized methods that were useful to the administration, such as the construction of fundamental infrastructures for the development of land (roads, bridges, locks, canals, etc.). This process replicated in many ways the same command of maps and mapping skills required of military engineers from the late seventeenth century. In sum, administrative cartography experienced a growing success between 1650 and 1800 that was never reversed. At the end of that period, no state was able to govern without cartographic tools. Nonetheless, for some regions much research remains to be done as more maps and plans emerge from archives and are linked with the documents to which they were originally attached, revealing the intricate relationship between administrative bodies and the visualization of space. Stéph a n e Blo nd See also: Academies of Science; Boundary Surveying; Cities and Cartography; Customs Administration Map; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Taxation and Cartography; Transportation and Cartography: Post-Route Map; Urban Planning and Cartography B i bliogra p hy Blond, Stéphane. 2008. “L’atlas de Trudaine: Pouvoirs, administrations et savoirs techniques (vers 1730–vers 1780).” 5 vols. PhD diss., École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales.

———. 2014. L’atlas de Trudaine: Pouvoirs, cartes et savoirs techniques au siècle des Lumières. Paris: CTHS. Buisseret, David, ed. 1992. Monarchs, Ministers, and Maps: The Emergence of Cartography as a Tool of Government in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Curto, Diogo Ramada, Angelo Cattaneo, and André Ferrand de Almeida, eds. 2003. La cartografia europea tra primo Rinascimento e fine dell’Illuminismo. Florence: Leo S. Olschki. Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillery: Septentrion. Johnson, Samuel. 1755. A Dictionary of the English Language. 2 vols. London: Printed by W. Strahan. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kokkonen, Pellervo. 1992. “Map Printing in Early Eighteenth-Century Russia.” Fennia 170:1–24. Konvitz, Josef W. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mikos´, Michael J. 1989. “The Polish Kings and Cartography.” Imago Mundi 41:76–86. Milanesi, Marica, ed. 1990. L’Europa delle carte: Dal XV al XIX secolo, autoritratti di un continente. Milan: Mazzotta. Nordman, Daniel. 1998. Frontières de France: De l’espace au territoire XVIe–XIXe siècle. Paris: Gallimard. Pelletier, Monique. 1994. “Cartographie et pouvoir sous les règnes de Louis XIV et Louis XV.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 141:5–19. Petto, Christine Marie. 2007. When France Was King of Cartography: The Patronage and Production of Maps in Early Modern France. Lanham: Lexington Books. Schlögl, Daniel. 1997. “Cartography in the Service of Reform Policy in Late Absolutist Bavaria, c. 1750–1777.” Imago Mundi 49:116–28. Toussaint, François-Vincent. 1751. “Administration.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 1:140. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Varep, E. 1979. “The Maps of Estonia Published by the Academy of Sciences, St. Petersburg in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 31:88–93. Watelet, Marcel, ed. 1995. Le terrain des ingénieurs: La cartographie routière en Wallonie au XVIIIe siècle. Namur: Met; Brussels: Éditions Racine.

Administrative Cartography in Denmark and Norway.

The different administrative structures of Denmark, Norway, and the duchies of Slesvig (Schleswig) and Holstein meant that there were no coherent projects by officials to map the entire state for administrative purposes. The kings of course commissioned a number of geographical maps, as well as the topographical survey of Denmark begun in 1761 by the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab, to allow them and their ministers to comprehend the entire country. In terms of detailed mapping for specific administrative purposes, the primary effort lay in the mapping of properties as the basis for taxation in Denmark. However, a lack of funds and trained surveyors precluded a mapping component to the 1688 matrikel (land register) and brought the attempted statewide cadastral survey after 1768 to a rapid halt in 1772. The southern duchies were so complex a

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Fig. 16. ABRAHAM CHRISTIAN WILLARS, “PLAN DES TRYGEVELSCHE REGIMENTS DISTRICTS WIE SOLCHES NACH KOENIGLICHEN ALLERGNAEDIGSTEN BEFEHL,” 1720. This district was centered on the royal estate of Tryggevælde, just south of present-day Hårlev in southeastern Sjælland (Zealand). Manuscript.

Size of the original: 89 × 120 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Kortsamlingen, Copenhagen (KBK 1111,252,41-0-1720).

patchwork of jurisdictions—royal, ducal, manorial, clerical, judicial—that cadastral surveys were hindered by the difficulty of isolating who had what precise rights in each property. The core of the Danish government’s funds came from the king’s own properties, which were grouped into seven rytterdistrikter (cavalry districts). In order to enhance both income and the provision of supplies for the cavalry, Frederik IV commissioned a series of surveys of the districts in 1720–23 by Captain Abraham Christian Willars. The maps themselves varied in scale from 1:33,000 to 1:70,000 and were too general to show precise details of property ownership, but they nonetheless included much information about each district. For example, Willars’s map of Tryggevælde Rytterdistrikt

(fig.  16) indicates five royal estates, each distinguished by the depiction of their dependent territories, while the explanation on the right side lists each estate’s military contribution in men and horses, totaling twelve companies of cavalry for the whole district (Kain and Baigent 1992, 79, 357n136; Dahl 1993, 16–17, 56–57). The rytterdistrikter were the first areas to be surveyed in the abortive cadastre of 1768 (see fig. 659). Frederik V initiated a program to build new roads on the model pioneered in France by Daniel-Charles Trudaine. To that end, the French engineer Jean-RodolpheFrançois Marmillod was recruited in 1764 to work for the new authority in charge of new roads, the Direktion for de nye Vejanlæg. Marmillod and his assistants began by straightening and rebuilding the road northward

Administrative Cartography

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from Copenhagen to Fredensborg; their second road, to Roskilde, was begun in 1770. In the process Marmillod mapped the line of the existing roads, along with the proposed line of the new. As the process of new road building continued, more vejkort (road maps) were produced, constituting a distinct category of administrative mapping (Nørlund 1952–53, 236–37; Dahl 1993, 26–27, 66–68; Korsgaard 2006, 98–99, 123–24). The reconstruction of main roads through urban areas intersected after 1790 with the new form of grundtakstkort—detailed maps undertaken by individual towns for fiscal and planning reasons (Korsgaard 2006, 94–95). Seeking to develop revenues from the under exploited Norwegian timber industry, Christian VI in 1737 established a Forstkommisjon (after 1739 the Generalforstamt) headed by the German foresters Johann Georg von Langen and Franz Philipp von Langen. The brothers mapped and described extensive areas in order to assist in forest management. The surveys were terminated when the commission was abolished in 1746, after the king’s death, and the maps were never printed (Kain and Baigent 1992, 101–3). After 1762, the Danish Crown also began mapping forest resources in northern Jylland (Jutland), mostly between 1:4,000 and 1:10,000 (Korsgaard 2006, 104–5). P e ter K o rs gaard See also: Denmark and Norway B i bliogra p hy Dahl, Bjørn Westerbeek. 1993. Kortets historie i Vejle amt: Fra renaissancens byprospekter til 1800-tallets generalstabskort. Vejle: Vejle Amts Historiske Samfund. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Korsgaard, Peter. 2006. Kort som kilde—en håndbog om historiske kort og deres anvendelse. [Copenhagen]: Dansk Historisk Fællesråd, Sammenslutningen af Lokalarkiver. Nørlund, N. E. 1952–53. “Opmaalingen af Danmarks veje.” Geografisk Tidsskrift 52:232–41.

Administrative Cartography in France. France was one of the most prolific European states in its embrace of administrative cartography, as evidenced by the large number of plans and maps lying unexplored in the archives of central and local governments. From the fifteenth century, the public institutions of France used maps regularly as tools to shape their decisions, thereby introducing a new relationship between governance and space, a tendency that incorporated all areas of administration over the course of the following centuries. By the eighteenth century, the actions and map use of administrators became inseparable and “the map, both as an aid to recall locales and as an object of reflection, became a much sought-after tool that was critical to the study of projects, whether civilian or military” (Pelletier 1994, 7).

Administrative cartography experienced a remarkable development during the reigns of Louis XIV, Louis XV, and Louis XVI. It often involved mapping administrative, judicial, and fiscal boundaries, or even describing the resources of new territories, particularly the colonies. At times, maps also became the basis for reform, offering a means to evaluate the ramifications of change. The administrative impulse was always accompanied by the will to know, to master, and to control territory and its particular regions. Consider the example of Martinique, a territory returned to France after the Treaty of Paris (1763). Its reintegration into the kingdom engendered a new phase of colonization and development that produced a proliferation of cartographic projects in the 1770s (Bousquet-Bressolier and Pelletier 1998, 56–59). Corsica’s integration with France in 1769 prompted the creation of a large-scale property map of the island to inventory its geographic, economic, and human riches. The administrative value of plans and maps lies in their multiple uses and their efficacy in constructing arguments. Maps can illustrate a theory as well as demonstrate and support a process or make important points. Their objectives are multifunctional and provide layers of meaning to political projects. They are evidence of an administration that investigates, surveys, and plans, always with the intent to increase the efficiency of its actions. In Europe, France was a unique exception because the central government actively launched and administered ambitious cartographic operations that served as examples for provincial authorities. The state had specific needs and was responsible for a special discourse on the map: “the initiative in the discourse or the geographical image is in large part that of the state” (Nordman 1989, 47). This impetus was reinforced by the centralized and hierarchical nature of the French system, with each level playing a distinct role within the system (intendants, subdelegates, local authorities). In most cases, information was collected in Paris in order to be checked and approved or denied. Royal patronage supported cartographic operations considerably during the seventeenth century, owing to a desire for a uniquely French school of cartographic production that would be competitive with the English and Dutch. To this end, sovereigns supported and rewarded those cartographers who helped to improve the management of certain areas of the administration. Nicolas Sanson, one of the most productive French cartographers of the mid-seventeenth century, credited with approximately three hundred maps, was appointed géographe ordinaire du roi by Louis XIII and became a tutor of the Dauphin, the future Louis XIV, and contributed to a major shift in the history of French cartography. His cartographic work served as the basis for his son’s man-

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uscript “Atlas des gabelles,” a collection of twenty-one maps dated 1665 of different salt tax districts, the whole prepared “for the conservation of the rights of the general form of salt tax in France” (Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris [BnF], GE CC 1379). The date places it at the time of the efforts of Jean-Baptiste Colbert, minister to Louis XIV, to centralize tax farming. Over the course of the Louis XIV’s reign, royal institutions played a critical role for the development of cartography: “At the time of Louis XIV’s accession, then, French governing circles possessed a well-developed sense of the usefulness of maps, and there were cartographers capable of responding to their needs” (Buisseret 1992, 100). The founding in Paris of the Académie des sciences (1666) and the Observatory (1667) contributed to the development of cartography based on scientific methods of recorded astronomical observations and terrestrial measurements. These institutions in turn funded research that reinforced cartography as an instrument of power. Based on carefully measured triangulation, maps sponsored by the Académie and the Observatory attained a level of accuracy previously unmatched. The triangulation network served as a basis for numerous administrative maps. In his depiction of Louis XIV at the Académie des sciences in the company of Colbert, the painter Henri Testelin illustrated the king’s aspiration to establish a new basis for representing French territory. On the right side of the canvas, a large map shows the Canal des Deux Mers or the Canal du Midi, a privately funded project that served the interests of both the province of Languedoc and the central government. Scientists, various tools, globes, and maps surround the king, demonstrating his use of science to manage his kingdom. From the late seventeenth century on, the preference for perspective sketches and bird’s-eye views of territory gave way to “mathematized” orthogonal plans on which the represented distances were scaled to the actual land size, always with the aim of improving the management of the territories. Maps were surveyed and laid out geometrically, using instruments that were constantly being improved. At the same time, decorations were limited or increasingly focused in their iconography, and cartographic language grew more and more standardized, enabling its application to a series of maps and also allowing map use to become an easily learned skill. As administrators became accustomed to using maps, they drew closer to the land, at the same time reducing their need to work on site. This approach was evident at all levels of French administration, from the king’s council down to local participants. After the founding of the Académie des sciences, the state, led by Colbert, subsidized extensive and costly cartographic works. A royal pension system in France attracted renowned foreign scientists whose work improved knowledge of the realm and ensured the mon-

Administrative Cartography

arch’s role as a patron of the arts and sciences. Several projects sought to define accurately the boundaries of France, starting with the astronomical research to verify accurate longitude performed by Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) and Christiaan Huygens. With the establishment of the Paris meridian, the capital became the central geographical reference point. The astronomical observations of Philippe de La Hire helped create the revised map of the outline of the kingdom published in 1693 (see fig. 625), while the astronomical observations of Joseph-Nicolas Delisle were used by his older brother Guillaume for creating numerous engraved maps, beginning with the Carte de France dressée pour l’usage du roy (1721), followed by maps of the provinces. This map served as the base map for the representation of boundary changes from 1648 to 1713 (fig. 17). In parallel, the publication of scientific treatises increased, serving as references for geographers supplying military and civilian administrations. The Imprimerie Royale also published the results of academic research through periodic reports and works such as Mesure de la Terre (1671) by the abbé Jean Picard. Colbert regularly ordered maps to assist his decision making. For example, on 20 July 1679, he sent instructions to intendants calling for fiscal jurisdiction maps based on accurate measurements to improve the distribution of parishes with respect to their specific revenues and to accelerate the collection of taxes, resulting in submissions such as the manuscript “Atlas de la generalité de Rouen” of 1683 by François de La Motte, alderman of Honfleur (BnF, Ge DD 2030 [Res]). In the same year, his correspondence with the intendant of Grenoble referred to the use of maps that had been created for Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu, to organize improvements to the rivers Isère and Drac. This cartographic approach continued during the reign of Louis XV, a period characterized by administrators almost obsessed by maps, driven by the monarch himself, whose passion for cartography gave new impetus to this science. His geographical education was overseen by the erudite abbé Louis Dufour de Longuerue and geographers Guillaume Delisle and Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville. In 1718, Delisle was appointed premier géographe du roi (with pension), and he provided maps, sometimes on short notice, to the sovereign and his royal council for work both on internal administration as well as foreign affairs. Relations were close between the Delisle family and the royal administration. For example, during the regency of Philippe II, duc d’Orléans, while negotiating with London to widen European alliances, the foreign affairs minister Guillaume Dubois relied on the researches of Delisle for the particular distribution of Italian territories (Dawson 2000, 84–88). The appointments of géographes ordinaires du roi and the premier géographe du roi were another means of Crown support

Administrative Cartography

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Fig. 17. CARTE DE FRANCE, [17??], [GUILLAUME DELISLE?]. Initially prepared in 1721, the map was reused by Delisle, perhaps as part of the geographical education of the young Louis XV. This is indicated by the paper overlying the cartouche, which describes a color scheme representing the

various limits of the French kingdom under successive international treaties, from the Treaty of Munster (1648) (clear blue) to the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 (red). Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 14815).

and influence on cartographic production. In 1730 in his capacity as royal patron, Louis XV approved Philippe Buache for the position of adjoint géographe of the Académie royale des sciences, in recognition of his numerous works on the cartography of the kingdom. Later, Louis XV charged Buache with the geographical education of the royal princes, sons of the Dauphin Louis Ferdinand, continuing a long tradition in royal education. A lover and collector of maps, Louis XV surrounded himself with numerous geographers from whom he commissioned maps for both personal and official purposes, such as the plan of the forest of Compiègne, painted in 1738–39 by Pierre-Denis Martin and still on display in the Château, one of the king’s favorite hunting lodges. On the official level, the king’s deep interest in the to-

pography of France led to the employment in 1733 of César-François Cassini (III) de Thury and Giovanni Domenico Maraldi to embark on the cartographic inventory of the kingdom. The instructions emphasized administrative ambitions: “Without this knowledge, it would be difficult to take steps necessary for so many of the useful projects for the state and commerce, such as the construction of new roads, bridges, and roadways, new canals and river navigations, which could all facilitate the transport of goods and merchandise from one province to another and create abundance in the kingdom” (Cassini II 1735, 389). The garde des Sceaux Jean-Baptiste Machault d’Arnouville and the intendant of finances Daniel-Charles Trudaine oversaw the work, convinced of the benefits of accurate maps for the king-

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dom’s administration, for local administrative projects, and for land management by ecclesiastical authorities and local landowners. As proof of these interlocking needs, the engineers of the corps des Ponts et Chaussées were enlisted to carry out operations on the ground, but their work did not materialize. Nonetheless, in 1733 Trudaine oversaw a cartographic operation to reform the land tax, the primary direct tax, with an extensive cadastral map. Using these cadastral plans, fiscal declarations made by taxpayers could be verified, approved, even revised in the event of dispute, but ultimately the measure was not implemented. Two large-scale mapping initiatives marked the remainder of Louis XV’s reign. The first occurred in the late 1730s when the controller-general of finances Philibert Orry undertook a reform of road policy that was

formerly based on an extensive cartographic inventory of royal roads. Over the course of three decades, this survey, better known as the “Atlas de Trudaine,” resulted in three thousand maps and plans that mobilized all levels of the administrative system and contributed to the founding of the École des Ponts et Chaussées in 1747. From then on, engineers trained at this institution addressed the needs of different departments: road maps, canal projects, bridge constructions, urban development, and specialized operations (fig. 18). Several years later, the king ordered the Carte de France from Cassini  III. Based on the completion of the map of the triangulation of the kingdom (fig. 19), the Carte de France facilitated extensive knowledge of the kingdom from the administrative point of view, especially because the Cassini maps could be developed in various

Fig. 18. “PROJET D’UN CANAL DE REDRESSEMENT DE LA RIVIÈRE DE SEINE,” EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. This manuscript map by engineers of the corps de Ponts et Chaussées of the generalité of Châlons functioned as a tool to help straighten the course of the River Seine in order to

facilitate river traffic and to improve the junction with the logdriving canal, depicted on the right. Size of the original: ca. 50.0 × 65.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Archives départementales de l’Aube, Troyes (C 1135).

Fig. 19. NOUVELLE CARTE QUI COMPREND LES PRINCIPAUX TRIANGLES QUI SERVENT DE FONDEMENT À LA DESCRIPTION GÉOMÉTRIQUE DE LA FRANCE [AFTER 1755]. This map represents the boundaries of the French Kingdom and the chains of triangles created by members of the Académie des sciences, providing a geodetic framework for the accurate position of locations and the development of new maps, especially for provincial administrations. Lists on the left and right sides of the map give the results of the triangulation: for each town, its latitude, longitude, and

distance from Paris. The map was drafted in 1744 and probably first appeared in print in 1745. This is a later state that shows the entire secondary triangulation, completed in 1755, and the sheet lines and coordinates of the proposed general map. The first sheet (Paris) of the Carte générale et particulière de la France appeared in 1756 (see fig. 140). Size of the original: ca. 58 × 91 cm. Image courtesy of the David Rumsey Map Collection, David Rumsey Map Center, Stanford Libraries.

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provincial versions. From 1756 on, the Cassinis’ cartographic operations continued without the state’s financial support, but administrators continued to refer to them regularly. Louis XVI and his administrators also relied on maps to govern and to manage projects. One of the largest of his reign was the cadastre of Paris, realized under the authority of intendant Louis Bénigne François de Bertier de Sauvigny from 1776 to 1791. This careful survey allowed for an efficient and equitable collection of taxes from each part of the capital, an initiative that even the French Revolution did not halt (Touzery 1995). The upheavals of the Revolution did not challenge the cartographic momentum or the elaboration of various projects by administrators. Marie-Vic Ozouf-Marignier has shown especially that the creation of the limits of new departments was based on abundant previous cartographic production (Ozouf-Marignier 1992). In the course of the century, the map had become an indispensable tool for administrators, regardless of political structure. S téph ane Blo nd See also: Colbert, Jean-Baptiste; France Bibliograp hy Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine, and Monique Pelletier. 1998. “La Martinique des ingénieurs géographes.” In La Martinique de Moreau du Temple, 1770: La carte des ingénieurs géographes, by Danielle Bégot, Monique Pelletier, and Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 51–86. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Buisseret, David. 1992. “Monarchs, Ministers, and Maps in France before the Accession of Louis XIV.” In Monarchs, Ministers, and Maps: The Emergence of Cartography as a Tool of Government in Early Modern Europe, ed. David Buisseret, 99–123. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cassini (II), Jacques. 1735. “De la carte de la France, et de la perpendiculaire a la méridienne de Paris.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1733: 389–405. Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillery: Septentrion. Konvitz, Josef W. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mesure de l’île: Le plan terrier de la Corse, 1770–1795. 1997. Corté: Musée de la Corse. Nordman, Daniel. 1989. “Géographie, statistique et politique: Quelques remarques pour une étude comparée: Rome et la France moderne.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 121:47–51. Nordman, Daniel, et al. 1989. Le territoire (1), Réalités et représentations. Vol. 4 of Atlas de la Révolution française, ed. Serge Bonin and Claude Langlois. Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Ozouf-Marignier, Marie-Vic. 1992. La formation des départements: La représentation du territoire français à la fin du 18e siècle. 2d ed. Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Pelletier, Monique. 1994. “Cartographie et pouvoir sous les règnes de Louis XIV et Louis XV.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 141:5–19. In English, “Cartography and Power in France during the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.” Cartographica 35, nos. 3–4 (1998): 41–53. ———. 2013. Les cartes des Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Touzery, Mireille. 1995. Atlas de la généralité de Paris au XVIIIe siècle:

Un paysage retrouvé. Paris: Comité pour l’Histoire Économique et Financière de la France.

Administrative Cartography in New France. It should

not be surprising that in New France cartography was closely linked to the state and to power. The king appointed and paid the majority of cartographers (whether geographers, hydrographers, or military engineers) on the basis of recommendations from colonial authorities. The governor or the intendant of New France approved and often financed the most ambitious cartographic projects. Moreover, the majority of maps were destined for the king or the ministre de la Marine. While a number of these showed the progression of geographic discoveries on the continent, some were more specifically aimed at the goals of colonial administration. The role of cartographers was crucial in preparing for colonization. Their work consisted less in ensuring respect for established boundaries, as in Europe, than in structuring the territory by marking roads and establishing the limits of concessions, rangs, seigneuries, and districts, as well as other administrative borders. Jean Bourdon, who arrived in Quebec in 1634, initiated the first surveying efforts in Canada and prepared its first cadastral map. More than sixty surveyors continued his work under the French regime, demarcating territories that the king conceded to seigneurs (seigneuries) and those the seigneurs granted to “inhabitants” (censives) (Boudreau 1994, 54–56). Even though seigneurs needed to have measurements and surveys of the lands that they granted, cadastral maps remained unelaborate and rather rare. In 1678, on orders from the intendant Jacques Duchesneau, Jean Baptiste Louis (then known as Jean Louis) Franquelin prepared a small-scale map locating the lands of seigneurs in Canada (Franquelin 1678). Destined for the minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert, this map was designed to facilitate reading the papier terrier, an official land register that compiled detailed descriptions of seigneuries, censives, and dues owed to seigneurs. Other more precise large-scale maps indicated the limits of seigneuries and facilitated their administration. In 1702, for example, the priests of Saint-Sulpice, at that time seigneurs of the island of Montreal, prepared a plan terrier of their seigneurie, with a map still held in their Parisian archives (Vaugeois 2007, 130–31). Of undeniable fiscal utility, the document includes in the margin the names of all the censitaires and the dimensions of the censives, thus facilitating both the reading of the terrier and the collection of cens and rents. Similarly, Jean-Baptiste de Couagne and Gédéon de Catalogne depicted a large part of the colony based on its smallest territorial unit: the concession to the inhabitant (fig. 20). These maps, on which the names of heads of families appear, required much time and money to

Fig. 20. GÉDÉON DE CATALOGNE AND JEAN-BAPTISTE DE COUAGNE, “CARTE DU GOUUERNEMENT DE QUEBEC,” 1709. Pen and ink on paper. This map, like four others, was produced in 1709 by Jean-Baptiste de Couagne from surveys made by the military officer Gédéon de Catalogne, and

it shows how the territory was cut up into seigneuries and smaller concessions of habitants. Size of the original: 125 × 171 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 pf 127 div 2 P 2).

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produce; nevertheless, the royal administration encouraged their production for their great utility: by locating the population, the maps helped to control it and to plan the colony’s development. Quite often cartography also helped settle litigation involving seigneurs or censitaires. Among inventoried cases is that of the merchant Pierre Constantin, who claimed to have been swindled in the concession of a part of his territory in Labrador to two seal fishermen (Constantin 1738). In his request for justice from the minister Jean-Frédéric Phélypeaux, comte de Maurepas, he presented maps made by the naval officers Richard Testu de la Richardière and Gabriel Pellegrin as supporting evidence. In spite of the opposition of the intendant, Constantin won his case before the minister, demonstrating well how maps might be diverted from their primary function (in this case navigation) and used for civil and judicial administration. Besides the seigneuries, the domain of the king, situated to the north of the Saint Lawrence River, was also the object of sharp territorial disputes. Economically important, the territory was administered by a tax farmer who enjoyed a trade monopoly in exchange for annual rent. Unsurprisingly, the administrators of this territory wanted to establish its precise boundaries. In 1732 Joseph-Laurent Normandin was sent to explore the domain in order to prepare an exact map of it, with a double objective: to facilitate the settlement of lawsuits and to restrict illegal trade in furs (Bouchard 2002). In Louisiana the primary role of cartography was to plan the development of the colony, especially through the creation of cities (Mobile, Biloxi, and New Orleans). Bearing witness to this are the numerous plans of engineers and draftsmen recruited by the Compagnie des Indes, including those of Louis Pierre Le Blond de la Tour, Adrien de Pauger, Ignace-François Broutin, Valentin Devin, and Bernard Devergès. These examples amply demonstrate that maps used for administrative purposes were certainly present in New France, even if not very numerous in relation to the needs of the colony. They permitted improvement in the management of territory and its inhabitants, and they facilitated, in particular, better planning for the colonization of land. J e a n -F r a n ç o is Palo mino See also: Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis; New France Bibliograp hy Bouchard, Russel. 2002. L’exploration du Saguenay par J.-L. Normandin en 1732: Au coeur du Domaine du roi, journal original retranscrit, commenté et annoté. Sillery: Septentrion. Boudreau, Claude. 1994. La cartographie au Québec, 1760–1840. Sainte-Foy: Presses de l’Université Laval. Constantin, Pierre. 1738. “Réponse de Pierre Constantin à la requête des sieurs François Foucault et Nicolas-Gaspard Boucault.” Aixen-Provence, Archives nationales d’outre-mer, COL C11A 109/fol. 221–28v.

Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis. 1678. “Carte pour servir a l’eclaircissement du papier terrier de la Nouvelle France.” Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des cartes et plans, Ge SH Arch 23 B Rés. Litalien, Raymonde, Jean-François Palomino, and Denis Vaugeois. 2007. Mapping a Continent: Historical Atlas of North America, 1492–1814. Trans. Käthe Roth. Sillery: Septentrion. Vaugeois, Denis. 2007. “Occupation or Cohabitation in the St. Lawrence Valley.” In Mapping a Continent: Historical Atlas of North America, 1492–1814, by Raymonde Litalien, Jean-François Palomino, and Denis Vaugeois, trans. Käthe Roth, 129–35. Sillery: Septentrion.

Administrative Cartography in the French West Indies.

Beginning in 1624 the French began settling in the West Indies, specifically Saint-Christophe (Saint Kitts), Guadeloupe, Martinique, Grenade (Grenada), SaintBarthélemy, Saint-Martin, Sainte Croix, Île de la Tortue (Tortuga), and Saint-Domingue (the western part of Hispaniola). Their goals were to counterbalance Spanish power militarily and politically and to rival the English and Dutch economically. Small-scale geographic maps and marine charts encouraged this colonization, as exemplified by the L’Isle de Cayenne by Étienne Vouillemont (1667), which praises the attractions and resources of Cayenne and other islands through illustrations such as the view of sugar mills inset around the map. Maps at a larger scale were required to show the division between the respective possessions, as on SaintChristophe between English and French—for example, Carte de lisle de Sainct Christophle by Abraham Peyrounin (ca. 1650) showing the positions of the French at both extremities and of the British in the center or La representation de l’isle St. Christophle, capitale des Antilles, included in the Vouillemont map—or on SaintDomingue between French and Spanish. Finally, maps also served to witness or even proclaim the power, wealth, and prestige bestowed on the mother country by the possession of these islands. Nonetheless, these were not maps designed for administrative purposes but were created by Paris-based geographers using a variety of sources and aimed at a consumer market. Among their resources was the work of fortification and topographical engineers who contributed to the on-site mapping of these islands in the first half of the eighteenth century (fig. 21). After the Seven Years’ War, the West Indian colonies left to France by the terms of the Treaty of Paris (10  February 1763) were the object of an important cartographic mission designed to serve the political, administrative, and military reorganization of the islands. The economic value of the colonies made it imperative for France to develop these West Indian possessions and to better ensure their fidelity to France. Loyalty to the metropole had been dulled due to hostility toward the exclusive trade regime, which rigorously restricted colonial trade to the exclusive benefit of France. Moreover,

Fig. 21. JEAN-BAPTISTE-PIERRE LE ROMAIN, “CARTE DES ANTILLES FRANCOISES SITUÉES EN AMERIQUE ENTRE LES ISLES ANGLO[I]SES DANTIGUE ET MONSERATTE,” FIRST QUARTER OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. Drawn with a quill pen, wash, and water color painting. This manuscript was prepared by Romain, a fortification engineer in the French West Indies who worked particularly in Grenade and Martinique. His map represents a compilation

mapping from on-site observations that could provide colonial administration with an overview of the French colonies in the Caribbean. Size of the original: 57 × 77 cm. Image courtesy of the Musée d’Aquitaine: Direction des Établissements culturels de Bordeaux, copyright © Mairie de Bordeaux, photo JM Arnaud (Bordeaux, Musée d’Aquitaine, Collection Marcel Châtillon, Inv. no2003.4.67).

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the islands were militarily strategic as they provided a launch base for attacking British holdings in the region. Thus the urgent need to reorganize the administration and the defense of the islands (Guadeloupe, Martinique, and Saint-Domingue) pressed for the creation of a topographic and geometric map for each colony. Previous small-scale geographic maps or maritime charts by Paris geographers Philippe Buache, Guillaume Delisle, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, and JacquesNicolas Bellin did not precisely describe the terrain. However, more detailed maps by colonial engineers, such as Amédée-François Frézier, or by local surveyors were not based on the more refined tools of triangulation and observations and measurements on the ground, such as were used in midcentury French topographical maps (among them the map of the Alps drawn by General Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet in 1748–60), the Cassini Carte de France, or the works produced by students of the new civilian and military engineering schools such as the École du Génie de Mézières and the École des Ponts et Chaussées. In the West Indies, the legislation of 24 March 1763 reorganized the defense and the administration of the colonies and instructed the governor of each colony to have drawn “an exact map of all the parts of the colony . . . with a detailed mémoire on the nature of the coasts and of the interior of the country” (quoted in Glénisson 2004, 17). While surveys were successfully concluded in Martinique and partially completed in Guadeloupe, the map of Saint-Domingue remained unfinished, even when the large-scale map of the Franco-Spanish border was prepared in 1776. Closely linked to strategic objectives, these maps remained state secrets under the control of the directeur des fortifications, with copies to be kept under lock and key (Bousquet-Bressolier and Pelletier 1998, 53, 54). In the end, because of haphazard French politics in the West Indies, the maps were little used or totally forgotten. On several occasions from 1770 to 1792 successive ministers, preoccupied by the confusion that seemed to reign in the Dépôt de la Guerre and the Dépôt des Colonies, asked colonial governors for copies of the maps drawn by the ingénieurs géographes in the West Indies. Although the engineers encountered many difficulties in their mapping work, these repeated requests showed the French desire to assemble precise cartographic documentation to be used in the administration and the defense of the colonies (Glénisson 2004, 22–23). J e a n -Lo u is Glénis s o n See also: French West Indies Bibliograp hy Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine, and Monique Pelletier. 1998. “La Martinique des ingénieurs géographes.” In La Martinique de Moreau du Temple, 1770: La carte des ingénieurs géographes, by Danielle Bé-

got, Monique Pelletier, and Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 51–86. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Glénisson, Jean-Louis. 1992. “Les ingénieurs géographes à SaintDomingue de 1763 à 1769.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 133:8–17. ———. 2004. “La défense et la mise en valeur de Saint-Domingue au lendemain du traité de Paris (1763): Le rôle de la cartographie.” Le Monde des Cartes 180:17–35. Pelletier, Monique. 1984. “La Martinique et la Guadeloupe au lendemain du Traité de Paris (10 février 1763): L’oeuvre des ingénieurs géographes.” Chroniques d’Histoire Maritime 9:22–30.

Administrative Cartography in Great Britain. The mid to late eighteenth century was an era of transformation. The unprecedented economic growth and technological advancements brought by the Industrial Revolution shifted the largely agrarian economic base to manufacturing and trade. In 1700, approximately 60–70 percent of the English workforce was employed in primary industries (mostly farming); however, by 1801 this had fallen to only around 36 percent. This shift was closely related to the trend toward urbanization, as between 1700 and 1801 the percentage of England’s population that lived in towns with over 2,500 inhabitants increased from 18.7 percent to 30.6 percent (Brown 1991, 67, 401). Private landowners and investors drove the intense development of new infrastructure and the reform of the countryside that together characterized Britain’s so-called age of improvement (Darby 1973). Change brought with it a heightened demand for specialized maps that could be used by decision makers to guide infrastructure development, land management, and urban planning. By contrast, Britain’s civic administration became involved only when property rights were affected. In Britain, Parliament was disinclined to assume responsibility for large infrastructure expenditures, including surveying programs. Instead, legislative acts devolved administrative and financial responsibility for specific programs to corporations that were often privately and locally run. Only as needs evolved did Crown officials gain a more sophisticated appreciation of cartography and a willingness to invest in it. An example of the Crown’s devolution of responsibility occurred in 1631 when the Company of Adventurers led by Francis Russell, fourth earl of Bedford, was charged with the “great designe” of draining the southern fens of East Anglia (Darby 2011, 82). In 1639, their chief engineer, Cornelis Vermuyden, presented Charles I with a special sketch plan of the area. In the 1650s, Jonas Moore surveyed the southern fens at a scale of half a mile to an inch; the map was eventually published as the monumental A Mapp of ye Great Levell of ye Fenns (ca. 1658) (Willmoth 1993, 88–120). It became the base map by which the Fen Office as-

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Fig. 22. A MAPP OF THE GREAT LEVEL OF YE FENNS CALLED BEDFORD LEVEL, BY THOMAS BADESLADE, 1723. Copper engraving printed in Badeslade’s The History of the Port of King’s-Lyn (London: Author, 1725). It depicts reclaimed southern regions of the fenlands employing the

same orientation as Jonas Moore’s map (1658) but is updated substantially; it shows canals and enclosed properties with the names of major proprietors. Size of the original: 32 × 39 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items 578.l.8).

sessed taxation. Important small-scale maps of the area were published by William Dugdale (1662) and Thomas Badeslade (1725) (fig. 22); another large-scale general map would not be published until Charles Nalson Cole’s map of 1789. The management of forests became a growing governmental concern, as clearing for farmland and the rise of the Royal Navy’s demand for ship timber resulted in dramatic deforestation. While in 1608, James I made plans for a so-called Great Survey of the royal forests and Oliver Cromwell followed suit in the 1650s, little was achieved due to lack of financing. Consequently, in 1662, Samuel Pepys was forced to rely on the vague

outlines of the Forest of Dean on John Speed’s map of Gloucestershire. The period following the American Revolution, in the 1780s, marked the most acute shortage in the domestic supply of ship timber. A 1783 survey of oaks in the major royal woods had shown that supply was only around a quarter of its 1608 level. In response, the Crown Land Revenues Act of 1786 mandated that a systematic survey of the royal woods be conducted in an effort both to institute scientific methods of sylviculture and to find ways by which the forests could be most effectively exploited. This resulted in seventeen land revenue reports (1787–93) focusing on specific forests (Albion 1926,

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Fig. 23. “THIS GEOMETRIEAL [SIC] SURVEY OF ALICE HOLT FOREST IN THE COUNTY OF HANTS,” BY JAMES WYBURD, 1787. Colored manuscript on parchment. This map depicts the perambulated limits of the woods with notes

on tree species (e.g., types of oak). The parcels of land created by parliamentary enclosure are visible on the periphery. Size of the original: 80 × 76 cm. Image courtesy of The National Archives of the U.K. (TNA), Kew (F 17/334).

135–36, 439). They were accompanied by finely drafted maps based on careful perambulations, exemplified by the map of Alice Holt Forest (1787) (fig. 23). In contrast to many of their European counterparts, British authorities did not commission any maps relating to the assessment of taxation, though a land tax was introduced in 1692. This lack of maps was intentional, as the landed class, who dominated Parliament, did not wish to enable any mechanism that might increase taxes.

Christopher Saxton had received official patronage to publish his small-scale county maps (1574–83); the immense cost of surveying and the later lack of government sponsorship ensured that virtually no new general surveys were made after his, during the seventeenth century. A breakthrough was the publication of Joel Gascoyne’s Map of the County of Cornwall Newly Surveyed (1699) at the trend-setting large scale of one inch to one mile (1:63,360). Gascoyne received detailed informa-

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tion from the county’s lord-lieutenant, who clearly recognized the map’s potential as a device of governance. Few other large-scale maps were published until 1759 when the Society of Arts decided to award premiums for the finest county surveys. Over the next fifty years, thirteen maps were so honored, including Benjamin Donn’s Devon (1765), Peter Perez Burdett’s Derbyshire (1767), and William Yates’s Lancashire (1786). By 1800 only Cambridgeshire and Rutland had not been surveyed (Harley 1965). Land redistribution, which created what we consider today to be the typical English field, was one area where the use of maps became important. The causes and effects of the enclosure process were highly complicated and remain a topic of great academic controversy; however, it is clear that contemporary agricultural scientists maintained that enclosure would promote efficiency and produce higher crop yields. A more important motivation stemmed from the realization that enclosed estates often yielded landlords anywhere between 15 and 20  percent more net profit through higher rent than comparable common fields (Brown 1991, 65). This process took two paths: informal enclosure predicated on local, private agreements as in earlier centuries, and, from 1750, formal or parliamentary enclosure, which was authorized by private acts of Parliament. Given the landed class’s domination of Westminster, it was of little surprise that the latter recourse met with easy passage, even though thousands of long-term tenants would be dispossessed by the higher rents. Parliamentary enclosure continued well into the nineteenth century, and by the end of the process approximately eight million acres in England and Wales had been enclosed. The first phase of parliamentary enclosure occurred between 1755 and 1780 and, focusing on the East Midlands, accounted for 38 percent of all parliamentary enclosures, while the second wave, occurring during the Napoleonic Wars, accounted for 43 percent (Kain and Baigent 1992, 237). Each parliamentary enclosure was documented by a written register and from 1775 tended to be accompanied by a cadastral map specially drafted by an estate surveyor. Indicative of the normative role these maps played in legalizing enclosure (unlike many estate maps), they tended to be quite plain and utilitarian in design, depicting the parcels of each new landholder, and did not always describe land use (Kain, Chapman, and Oliver 2004). The passage of the Post Office Act in 1660, which created scheduled runs on designated mail routes, made improving the road system imperative. In 1663 a novel experiment was devised on the Great North Road, making part of its length a toll road, or turnpike. After 1695, numerous roads were converted into turnpikes and trusts were authorized to build new ones. As inter-

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nal trade expanded from 1750 to 1770, the turnpike system grew exponentially (Guldi 2012). This system of local and private management sanctioned by Parliament ensured dramatic improvements in road quality, and journey times from London to many towns nearly halved from the 1750s to the 1770s. The pace of turnpike development slackened following the credit crisis of 1772 and the American Revolution, but a new boom ensued in the 1790s, continuing into the next century. Turnpike trusts commissioned a vast quantity of carefully drafted maps, both to be used to manage existing roads and to act as official submissions to Parliament for proposed projects. Perhaps the finest example of this genre is Joseph Salway’s lithographed plan of turnpikes in west London (1811). The Industrial Revolution necessitated the transport of vast quantities of raw materials, most notably coal from the mines to the burgeoning industrial cities. While the turnpikes were more commodious for fast light passenger travel, horse-drawn barges operating on canals were far more economical for industrial transport. A steady pace of improvement after 1660 almost doubled the length of navigable rivers by the 1720s, so that most places in England lay within twenty-four kilometers of a waterway (Darby 1973, 75; Brown 1991, 130, 147). By the 1750s, private corporations petitioned Parliament for mandates to build and administer canals, and the proposals for these petitions were invariably accompanied by maps, generating a vast corpus of carefully finished engineer’s plans and system maps, some of which were later printed for public consumption. Most of the canal building activity occurred in the industrial belts that traversed the North, the Midlands, and Scotland’s Central Valley. Following on the activity in the first half of the eighteenth century, there were two intense periods of canal building. The first lasted from 1759 until the mid-1770s and set the foundation for James Brindley’s “Grand Cross,” which linked England’s four main rivers by 1790. The even more frenetic canal mania of 1791–96 initiated projects that saw England’s canal system expand to over 6,400 kilometers (Brown 1991, 150–52), as illustrated by Thomas Conder’s map, Lines of All the Navigable Canals (1795). Officials employed maps of urban areas for two main purposes: first, to serve as plans for future development and second, to act as a device to assist in the administration of the city as it already existed (Delano-Smith and Kain 1999, 200–213). One of the greatest tragedies to ever befall London also presented the greatest opportunity for its redevelopment. The Great Fire of London, 2–5 September 1666, leveled 60 percent of the city; the destruction was officially surveyed and depicted on a map printed by Wenceslaus Hollar. Charles II specified that any plans to rebuild the city had to be presented

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Fig. 24. A PLAN OF THE CITY OF BATH, IN THE COUNTY OF SOMERSET, BY JOHN WOOD THE ELDER, 1735 [1736]. Copper engraving. Wood’s plan was further advanced pursuant to the publication of his An Essay towards a Description of Bath (1742–43).

Size of the original: 33.5 × 43.0 cm. © Bath in Time Bath Preservation Trust Collection.

cartographically, the most famous map being Christopher Wren’s Londinum Redivivum (1666). Wren advocated replacing the ancient labyrinth of medieval streets with broad avenues radiating from piazzas, creating an ideal baroque city. This map and several other competitors were considered by the Privy Council; however, it was inevitably decided that London would be largely rebuilt on its old pattern, and with its established property boundaries as affirmed by John Oliver’s Certificate Survey (1667). The revived London enjoyed tremendous growth, and from 1700 to 1801 its population increased from 575,000 to 900,000 inhabitants, easily making it the largest city in Europe (Brown 1991, 419–20). Numerous maps depicted the city’s westward expansion, forming

the new neighborhoods of Soho, St. James’s, and Mayfair, which were rationally planned with straight streets and green squares. Later on, officials commissioned maps that presented options for alleviating London’s severe congestion problems, the most notable projects being the construction of Westminster and Blackfriars bridges in 1750 and 1769 and the dramatic expansion of the West End. Elaborate urban planning was not confined to London. John Wood the Elder’s plan of Bath (1736) presents the ideal Georgian city, with straight wide streets surrounding the new Queen’s Square, in sharp contrast to the adjacent medieval city (fig. 24). While often more utilitarian than idealistic, many plans were drafted anticipating the growth of industrial centers such as Birming-

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ham, Manchester, and Liverpool, whose populations all increased more than tenfold from 1700 to 1801. The appearance of privately produced large-scale plans showing the elevations of city buildings greatly abetted civil administration. The first of these to be published was John Ogilby and William Morgan’s plan of London (1676), based on William Leybourn’s surveys, at a scale of one hundred feet to an inch (1:1,200), groundbreaking in its depiction of every plot in city and the finest impression of the newly rebuilt capital. The most important map of Georgian London was John Rocque’s Plan of the Cities of London and Westminster and Borough of Southwark (1747), in which a new theodolite was employed to ensure accuracy at a scale of two hundred feet to an inch (1:2,400). This map had numerous official uses, such as setting taxation rates and hackney fares, demarcating parish boundaries, and policing, a purpose for which it was employed during the Gordon Riots of 1780. Rocque’s work was superceded by Richard Horwood’s map (Plan of the Cities of London and Westminster, the Borough of Southwark, 1792–99, often simply called “Horwood’s map” or “Horwood’s plan”), which at an even larger scale demarcated every individual property. The rather limited role of British government officials in mapping for civil administration and infrastructure extended well into the nineteenth century. Although the Board of Ordnance in 1791 began what would become a concerted effort to map England and Wales at one inch to the mile (1:63,360), it was initially primarily for military purposes. Only in the 1820s did the Board begin larger-scale surveys at 1:10,560 to assist in the administration of taxes in Ireland and in the 1850s very largescale (1:1,056) city plans. A l e x a n de r J a me s C o o k J o h ns o n See also: Great Britain; Urban Mapping: Great Britain B i bliogra p hy Albion, Robert Greenhalgh. 1926. Forests and Sea Power: The Timber Problem of the Royal Navy, 1652–1862. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Brown, Richard. 1991. Society and Economy in Modern Britain, 1700–1850. London: Routledge. Darby, H. C. 1973. “The Age of the Improver: 1600–1800.” In A New Historical Geography of England, ed. H. C. Darby, 302–88. Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press. ———. 2011. The Draining of the Fens. 2d ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Delano-Smith, Catherine, and Roger J. P. Kain. 1999. English Maps: A History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Guldi, Jo. 2012. Roads to Power: Britain Invents the Infrastructure State. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Harley, J. B. 1965. “The Re-Mapping of England, 1750–1800.” Imago Mundi 19:56–67. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kain, Roger J. P., John Chapman, and Richard Oliver. 2004. The En-

47 closure Maps of England and Wales, 1595–1918: A Cartographic Analysis and Electronic Catalogue. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Langton, John, and Graham Jones, eds. 2005. Forests and Chases of England and Wales c. 1500–c. 1850: Towards a Survey & Analysis. Oxford: Oxbow Books and St. John’s College Research Centre. Willmoth, Frances. 1993. Sir Jonas Moore: Practical Mathematics and Restoration Science. Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Woodward, David. 1978. “English Cartography, 1650–1750: A Summary.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 159–93. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Administrative Cartography in British America. The pa-

tronage and use of cartography by administrators both in Britain and its American colonies underwent a process of evolution. In the latter half of the seventeenth century, officials in London actively used maps in their deliberations, but did not normally directly commission them. Rather, they relied on the small-scale general maps, as well as town plans done at behest of colonial proprietors. It was not until the mid-eighteenth century that authorities at the colonial level began to commission general surveys, and only after the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) did the Board of Trade directly sponsor and oversee such endeavors (Edney 2008; Johnson 2017). The basic elements of administrative mapping in the seventeenth century were cadastral maps, called land plats in contemporary American vernacular, that generally reflected one of the two basic systems of land settlement in the thirteen colonies. The “New England method,” which prevailed in the northern colonies, saw that land grants were given to town corporations, with the surveying of plats done before the settlement was to occur. The “Virginia method,” which prevailed in the southern colonies, saw individual settlers claim land, which would then subsequently be surveyed. Irrespective of the system, cadastral plans were usually required to be registered with authorities (Kain and Baigent 1992, 265–76, 285–89). To give officials a broader view of their jurisdiction, land plats were often reduced in scale and aggregated to form composite general maps of broader areas, an excellent example being John Reid’s A Mapp of Rariton River (1686), commissioned for the proprietors of East Jersey (Kain and Baigent 1992, 304–5). The Great Fire of London in 1666 convinced many administrators that towns needed to be based on geometrical plans. Devised at the behest of Pennsylvania proprietor William Penn, Thomas Holme’s design of the colony’s new capital, Portraiture of the City of Philadelphia (1683) (see fig. 905), depicts a grid of wide, straight thoroughfares and several open squares. It was thought that this rational plan would make the city easier to traverse, facilitate tax assessment, and help prevent the spread of fire and infectious disease. A similar ethic is

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visible on Christian Lilly’s 1702 plan of the recently founded commercial center in Kingston, Jamaica, done by order of the island’s legislature. It is also conspicuous on all maps of Savannah, then capital of Georgia, founded in 1733. The inception of the iconic grid pattern of streets that now covers most of Manhattan is discernable on Bernard Ratzer’s Plan of the City of New York (1770), where it depicts the city’s expansion northeastward into the area around Delancey Square. How administrators collected available maps provides insights into the administrative imperatives of officials in London, as well as showcasing the promotional and developmental schemes of the various colonial proprietors. William Blathwayt, the secretary of the Lords of Trade, the British agency that administered colonial affairs from 1675 to 1696, for example, collected fortyeight maps into what is known as the “Blathwayt Atlas” (ca. 1683). It included two maps printed by John Seller— A Mapp of New Jersey, in America [1677] and A Map of Some of the South and Eastbounds of Pennsylvania in America (1681)—that Penn had commissioned to depict both of his colonies in a utopian light for prospective settlers (Black 1975, 88–98, 102–8). Also in Blathwayt’s collection were later manuscript variants of Augustine Herrman’s published map of Virginia and Maryland (1673), created at the behest of Maryland proprietor Cecil Calvert, second baron Baltimore, and Joel Gascoyne’s “Second Lord Proprietors map,” A New Map of the Country of Carolina (1682) (Black 1975, 109–18, 145–48; Cumming 1998, 164–65, 174–75). Perhaps the most sophisticated of these maps was Richard Forde’s of Barbados (ca. 1676), considered the earliest economic map of any English American colony, which employed pictorial symbols to denote the windmills and the various crops found on each plantation (fig. 25) (Black 1975, 180–85). Thomas Holme’s A Mapp of ye Improved Part of Pensilvania (ca. 1687), also commissioned by Penn as a settlement plan, depicted the orderly system of townships using the Delaware River as a baseline (Pritchard and Taliaferro 2002, 365–67). In the following decades, neither the Board of Trade nor the colonial legislatures was willing to sponsor surveying programs. Consequently, very few general maps were produced. As a rare exception, the Barbados legislature provided official support for the surveys that resulted in William Mayo’s A New & Exact Map of the Island of Barbadoes in America (1722), which depicted 986 plantations. While Barbados was geographically small, its highly profitable sugar industry ensured that by the 1680s its overall exports were greater than that of all the other British American colonies combined. The Barbados legislature’s pioneering sponsorship of general surveys was likely motivated by the extreme value of the land and the need to accurately demarcate proprietary

Administrative Cartography

rights and to facilitate agrarian management (Pritchard and Taliaferro 2002, 126–29). The impetus for state-sponsored surveys developed from the need to commission boundary surveys. The seventeenth-century royal charters that had defined provincial and proprietary patent boundaries were often predicated on an inaccurate comprehension of geography, ensuring ill-defined and overlapping claims to jurisdiction. In the 1720s, the growth of settlement along provincial frontiers and administrative changes, such as the establishment of new colonial governments under royal authority, ensured that the surveying of boundaries became an imperative. The first of these endeavors was the demarcation of the line between North Carolina and Virginia in 1728 (Cumming 1998, 223–24). This was followed by surveys of the New Hampshire–Massachusetts Bay boundaries (1733–41) (Edney 2007) and A Survey of the Northern Neck of Virginia (1737), depicting the limits of Lord Fairfax’s tract (Pritchard and Taliaferro 2002, 146–51). The success of these surveys and the emergence of a cadre of seasoned professionals encouraged some colonial legislatures to sponsor medium-scale surveys of their provinces. The various commissioned surveys of North Carolina made by Edward Moseley led to a general map of the province published in 1733 (Cumming 1998, 235–37), which is thought to have played a role in the deliberations over the disputed North Carolina–South Carolina boundary line. Mapping colonial boundaries continued to engage authorities until the Revolution. Of greatest symbolic importance was the demarcation by Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon (1763–67) of the boundary between Pennsylvania and Maryland (see fig. 112). In the 1750s, the prominence of several highly skilled professionals and military engineers, as well as heightened defense concerns (Edney 2008) and the increased affluence of the colonies, encouraged direct official patronage at the provincial level. The first of the resulting surveys was Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson’s of Virginia in 1751, later published in London in 1753 (Taliaferro 2013). While serving as surveyor general of both Georgia and South Carolina, from 1754 and 1755 respectively, William Gerard De Brahm surveyed coastal regions, resulting in A Map of South Carolina and a Part of Georgia (1757) (Cumming 1998, 280–81). In 1757, North Carolina governor William Tryon charged William Churton to survey that province, an endeavor finally brought to print in 1770 by John Abraham Collet, and presented to Wills Hill, Lord Hillsborough, the colonial secretary (Cumming 1998, 308–9; Pritchard and Taliaferro 2002, 204–7). Nicholas Scull surveyed eastern Pennsylvania at the behest of the Penn family; his map was first published in 1759 (Pritchard and Taliaferro 2002, 188–89).

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Fig. 25. RICHARD FORDE, A NEW MAP OF THE ISLAND OF BARBADOES (LONDON: PHILLIP LEA [1685]). Copper engraving; this is the second of three states, the first printed ca. 1676. This is the earliest economic map of any English American colony, depicting hundreds of plantations with proprietors’ names, and featuring pictorial symbols representing

windmills, churches, and a wide variety of crops, but omitting fortifications. As a Quaker, Forde was thought to be a pacifist and was opposed to the hegemony of the Church of England. Size of the original: 48 × 56 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps 185.m.1[17]).

Following Britain’s conquest of all of North America east of the Mississippi River at the conclusion of the Seven Years’ War, the Board of Trade devised a mapping program that took advantage of the skills of military surveyors trained in techniques of large-scale topographical mapping. A prelude to this effort was the Board’s decision to finance Thomas Craskell and James Simpson’s survey of Jamaica, published in 1763. Also in 1763, Samuel Holland proposed that the Board of Trade sponsor a General Survey of North America, which aimed to systematically create an accurate general map of all of British North America, as captured by a series of medium-scale regional maps. The Board

expressly mandated that the surveyors accompany their maps with detailed reports identifying the most promising locations for future development, analyzing their potential with regards to trade, navigation, and natural resources. These factors helped the Board to devise proposals for land settlement. Holland led endeavors in the northern colonies, focusing on both the Gulf of St. Lawrence and New England, and coordinating his efforts with J. F. W. Des Barres, who compiled the coastal surveys for the charts of The Atlantic Neptune. De Brahm was in charge of the southern regions, beginning with the survey of the peninsula of Florida (Hornsby 2011; Johnson 2017).

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Fig. 26. SAMUEL HOLLAND, “A MAP OF THE ISLAND ST. JOHN IN THE GULPH OF ST. LAURENCE IN NORTH AMERICA,” 1767, MANUSCRIPT. During his 1765 survey, Holland divided the island—now Prince Edward Island—into sixty-seven townships of approximately twenty thousand acres

each; this plan bears a list of the names of the 103 proprietors granted lands by ballot on 23 July 1767. Size of the original: 62 × 94 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps K.Top.119.96.2 TAB).

A huge number of manuscript maps were dispatched to London by Holland and De Brahm. Many influenced the decisions of the Board of Trade. Holland’s map of St.  John (renamed Prince Edward Island in 1798) divided the island into sixty-seven townships. The Board of Trade declared it to be the authoritative settlement blueprint, overruling a bid for possession of the entire island by the politically powerful consortium of speculators led by John Perceval, second earl of Egmont. In 1767 the Board of Trade distributed the lots to individual proprietors by ballot (fig. 26). Likewise, De Brahm’s detailed map and report of Mosquito Inlet was responsible the foundation of New Smyrna in 1768, which quickly became the second-largest settlement in East Florida (Johnson 2017, 106–9, 159–60). The General Survey was not completed as intended because De Brahm was recalled to London in 1770, and Holland had to cease operations due to the commencement of hostilities in 1775 between Britain and its colonists. Nonetheless, thousands of miles of coastline and

territory had been accurately charted, more than was accomplished by any other mapping program. In the northern colonies, the area mapped extended from the northern reaches of the Gulf of St. Lawrence southward to Rhode Island, and in the southern colonies, the entire Floridian peninsula was charted (Hornsby 2011). The 1760s saw increased mapping efforts, which focused on specific purposes such as defining Indian boundaries,  infrastructure development, and forestry management. In 1763, the British government decreed the Proclamation Line, which divided the thirteen colonies from the interior lands reserved for the Indians. The Board of Trade sponsored a systematic survey of this boundary. Largely conducted in the south between 1768 and 1779, the venture was led by John Stuart, who employed skilled surveyors such as Bernard Romans, David Taitt, and Samuel Savery. Stuart and his draftsman Joseph Purcell eventually created “A Map of the Southern Indian District of North America” (1775), which not only demarcated the boundary, but was an up-to-date

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accurate general map of the southern colonies (Cumming 1998, 302–3, 323–24; Edelson 2017, 141–73). Colonial administration and commerce relied on an efficient communication infrastructure, and from 1693 a formal postal system operating on a designated series of routes was progressively devised. Herman Moll’s A Map of New England, New York, New Jersey and Pensilvania (1730) was the first map to depict and describe the post roads in the critical corridor between Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and Philadelphia. In 1764 the British government requested the governor of Connecticut to commission a survey that specifically delineated the post roads, which resulted in Moses Park’s Plan of the Colony of Connecticut in North-America (ca. 1766) (see fig. 304), the only general map of the province printed during the colonial era. Several important road maps were drafted in America, including “A Map of the Road from Trenton to Amboy” (1762), for New Jersey, by Gerard Bancker based on John Dalley’s 1745 surveys. In the same province, in 1766, Azariah Dunham mapped the road along the Middlesex-Somerset line (both maps held by Princeton University). Massachusetts governor Sir Francis Bernard commissioned Francis Miller to draft “A Plan of the Road between Boston and Penobscot Bay” (1765) as well as a set of plans depicting the road from Boston to Albany, representing the most extensive road surveys of the period (sold by Bonhams, London, June 2011). Hugh Finley, the surveyor general of post roads, drafted a “Plan of a Road from New Hampshire to Canada” (1774), mapping the proposed route between the Connecticut and St. Lawrence valleys. In 1778, Purcell drafted “A Map of the Road from Pensacola in W. Florida to St. Augustine in East Florida,” based on Stuart’s detailed surveys of this newly completed artery (The National Archives of the U.K. [TNA], Kew, MPG 1/1012–13 and CO 700/Florida 54). The white pine stands of northern New England were long recognized as the ideal source of mast timber for the Royal Navy and therefore had significant economic value. Legislation, passed from 1691 to 1729, gradually developed the Broad Arrow policy whereby any white pines above a certain size growing on unenclosed land were the exclusive property of the Crown. It is estimated that between 1695 and 1775, approximately 4,500 masts were shipped to the Royal Navy (Johnson 2017, 143). Thomas Scammell’s “A Map of a Portion of the Province of Maine showing Pine Forests” (1772) is an example of economic mapping, based on the work of inspectors dispatched in the early 1770s to survey important timber stands (TNA, CO 700/Maine 20). In 1772, Miller surveyed the upper Connecticut valley, drafting two forestry maps, accompanied by an ingenious plan for the construction of a canal to aid the transport of logs down the river (fig. 27). The General Survey’s maps

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of Maine produced by Holland’s associates also depicted the locations of related infrastructure such as grist and saw mills (see fig. 839). Economic mapping was also used to aid the highly lucrative fur trade. In 1770, authorities in London dispatched Elias Durnford to map the river passage between the Mississippi River and Lake Maurepas, West Florida (in modern-day Louisiana), to discern the viability of the proposed Iberville Canal, which would allow the British to bypass Spanish-held New Orleans and to better access the fur trade in the interior. At the conclusion of the American Revolution (1775– 83), Britain lost possession of the thirteen colonies but continued civil mapping programs in Canada and the West Indies. Some of the preexisting administrative maps of the lost colonies were adapted to support Loyalist restitution claims, most exquisitely exemplified by “Eighteen Plans of American Loyalists’ estates” (1782), a cadastral atlas in manuscript form of areas of Georgia, based, in part, on De Brahm’s surveys (TNA, MPI 1/61). In Canada in the 1780s and 1790s, Holland oversaw an impressive series of mapping programs done to facilitate the resettlement of the Loyalists. This was a prelude to a new era when official British agencies would sponsor mapping programs extending all the way to the Pacific and Arctic frontiers. Alexand er J ames Co o k Johnson See also: British America; De Brahm, William Gerard; Holland, Samuel (Johannes) Bibliography Black, Jeannette Dora. 1975. Commentary. Volume 2 of The Blathwayt Atlas, by William Blathwayt, 2 vols., ed. Jeannette Dora Black. Providence: Brown University Press. Cumming, William Patterson. 1998. The Southeast in Early Maps. 3d ed., rev. and enl. Ed. Louis De Vorsey. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Edelson, S. Max. 2017. The New Map of Empire: How Britain Imagined America before Independence. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Edney, Matthew H. 2007. “Printed but Not Published: LimitedCirculation Maps of Territorial Disputes in Eighteenth-Century New England.” In Mappæ Antiquæ: Liber Amicorum Günter Schilder, ed. Paula van Gestel-van het Schip and Peter van der Krogt, 147–58. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. ———. 2008. “John Mitchell’s Map of North America (1755): A Study of the Use and Publication of Official Maps in EighteenthCentury Britain.” Imago Mundi 60:63–85. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J.  F.  W. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Johnson, Alexander James Cook. 2017. The First Mapping of America:  The General Survey of British North America. London: I.  B. Tauris. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mapp, Paul W. 2011. The Elusive West and the Contest for Empire, 1713–1763. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early

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Fig. 27. CAPT. FRANCIS MILLER, DEPUTY INSPECTOR OF HIS MAJESTY’S WOODS, “A PLAN OF THAT PART OF THE CONNECTICUT RIVER WHICH INCLUDES THE GREAT FALLS AT WALPOLE,” [1772]. This manuscript plan of a proposed canal bypassing Walpole [Bellows] Falls on the Connecticut River in order to transport timber downriver was commissioned by Timothy Ruggles, inspector of His Majesty’s

Woods in North America, and was drawn using formal civil engineering conventions, complete with quantitative specifications and an orthographic perspective. The canal was never built because of its high estimated cost (£2,252 17s 8d) and the advent of the American Revolution. Size of the original: 53.3 × 74.7 cm. Image courtesy of The National Archives of the U.K. (TNA), Kew (MPD 1/56/3).

American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Pritchard, Margaret Beck, and Henry G. Taliaferro. 2002. Degrees of Latitude: Mapping Colonial America. New York: By the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation in association with Harry N. Abrams. Taliaferro, Henry G. 2013. “Fry and Jefferson Revisited.” Journal of Early Southern Decorative Arts 34. Online publication.

drawn up along with maps of frontier boundaries, fortifications, and theaters of war. [These works] form one of the two main genres of cartography produced within the Duchy of Savoy (the other being that produced by land surveyors)” (Sereno 2002a, 179). This observation about Savoy could apply to all the Italian states. Administrative maps delineating civil and religious settlements were particularly important within the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. From 1750, the ruling House of Lorraine implemented various reforms in the territorial network of the state, generating substantial cartographic work by Ferdinando Morozzi (Rombai 2005, 67–70), who produced collections of watercolored manuscripts comprising forty to forty-five maps of the region’s vicariates from 1771 to 1773 (Prague, Národní Archiv, Rodinný Archiv Toskánsckých Habsburk [NA, RAT

Administrative Cartography in the Italian States. Ad-

ministrative cartography in the Italian states during the Enlightenment relied heavily on the work of military engineers, primarily in Savoy, whose work was inspired by considerations of war and government. To exercise control over an administrative network of provinces, towns, and cities, military surveys functioned as instruments “for the management of resources and infrastructures. Maps of roads, of mines, and of woodlands were thus

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Map]; Siena, Archivio di Stato [AS], Comune di Colle di Val d’Elsa, Carte topografiche Morozzi; see Guarducci 2008, 21–24) (fig. 28). Combining on-site surveying with compilation at the drawing board, these maps—homogeneous in scale and content—were joined together in 1784 to form the large manuscript “Carta geografica del Granducato di Toscana” (ca. 1:78,550) (Prague, NA, RAT Map, 146 cc. and 155; Rombai 1993, 149–55). Morozzi’s contemporaries included Luigi Giachi and his brothers Antonio and Francesco, three draftsmen and land surveyors to the grand duke who, from the 1750s

to the 1790s, produced dozens of manuscript atlases covering the vicariates and dioceses of Tuscany, usually basing their work on Morozzi’s depictions of individual provinces. Luigi Giachi alone produced the 1769 atlas, “Il Granducato di Toscana” (Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale [BNC], Carte mss. A.I.13), the collections of large-format maps of vicariates and dioceses (1793 and 1799) (Prague, NA, RAT Map, 133–143 and 196– 211), the large “Pianta del Granducato di Toscana divisa nelle Diocesi” (1795) (Prague, NA, RAT Map, 147), and the “Pianta della Provincia Inferiore dello Stato Senese

Fig. 28. “VICARIATO DI CERTALDO,” BY FERDINANDO MOROZZI, 1780. The map forms part of a collection of administrative cartography prepared in the 1770s and 1780s for the reform of the provincial and communal districts in the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. Manuscript in ink and watercolor on paper, hand colored. Scale ca. 1:33,000.

Size of the original: 114 × 104 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Siena (Colle di Val d’Elsa archivi, Carte topografiche Morozzi, 4).

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divisa in cancellerie” (1797) (Prague, NA, RAT Map, 209) (Rombai 1993, 115–18, 123). Like other states, the Grand Duchy of Tuscany also generated numerous maps of individual fiefs and domains, such as the collection commissioned by the sovereign in 1771–72 (Florence, AS, Miscellanea di Piante, 80, 246, 249/b, 260, 551, 660, etc.). The best example is the large “Pianta del marchesato di Castiglioni della Pescaia” (Florence, AS, Piante dello Scrittoio delle R.  Possessioni, n. 109) in Maremma, comprising portraits of the towns of Castiglioni and Tirli, prepared in 1780 by the engineer Alessandro Nini, who collaborated with the mathematician Leonardo Ximenes. Similarly, in the Kingdom of Naples, several examples depict fiefs and domains. The “Pianta geometrica delli feudi di Carovigno, Serranova e del Colombo” (1726) (Naples, AS, Allodiali, I serie, fs. 158, pianta n. 1) exhibits on-site measurements in its geometrical structure; Nicola Schioppa’s “Mappa dello Stato di Ajello in Calabria Citra” (1771) (Naples, AS, Archivio di Tocco di Montemiletto, b. 131, inc. 24) shows a more advanced approach; the “Topografia de Feudi” (1787) (Naples, AS, Biblioteca-Manoscritti, vol. 127), helped to resolve a dispute regarding the fief of Monte di Mezzo (Martullo Arpago et al. 1987, 90, 58–59, 29 respectively). Six large watercolored ground plans of the fiefs of the Moncada family in eastern Sicily were prepared by local land surveyors at the turn of the eighteenth to

nineteenth century, including Pietro La Piana’s “Pianta topografica generale della contea di Aderno Centorbi e Biancavilla” (Palermo, AS, Fondo Moncada, Carte dei feudi; La Piana, n. 9), noteworthy for its accurate relief and detailed rendering of topography (Laudani 2002, 52–55, fig. 26). The use of maps to exert local control may be seen in the atlas of nine topographical maps (now in a private collection in Florence) produced by the engineer Tommaso Rajola in 1771–73, who performed on-site surveying with a plane table. Commissioned by the Roccella prince Vincenzo Maria Carafa, the maps served to control and administer the fiefdom of Roccella Jonica in Calabria. A fine copy of these working maps was prepared in Naples between 1774 and 1789 (Fuda 1995, 32–37). Throughout the peninsula, innumerable manuscript or printed maps on a large topographical scale were created to manage rivers or reclaim marshy areas. Produced by technical experts and scientists working for various states, the maps helped analyze the layout and composition of terrain and determine the best interventions. The Venetian Magistratura alle Acque dedicated great attention to such questions. Depictions of the plains of the Veneto and Friuli predominate throughout the Enlightenment period, with hundreds of maps dedicated to the hydrography of the lagoon and lowland areas. As examples, a map of ca. 1670 covers the region’s hydro-

Fig. 29. REPRESENTATION OF THE FLUVIAL NETWORK IN THE VENETO BETWEEN ADIGE AND CANALBIANCO, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. The map represents the topography of the river network along the coast of the territory of the Veneto, combining the hydrographic and road

networks, soil use, settlements, and the boundaries between the communities. Manuscript in ink and watercolor on paper, hand colored. Size of the original: 134.5 × 272.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Museo Correr, Venice (Cartografia, Mappe Giustinian, 15).

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Fig. 30. “TOPOGRAFIA DEL CORSO DELLE ACQUE DEL BASSO TREVIGIANO CON PORZIONE DELLA LAGUNA,” BY DOMENICO MARCHETTI (ENGINEER), 1788. This map, concerned with the flow and problems of water and including the remains of archaeological sites, was compiled by the Magistrate of Adige to focus in great detail on

the complex realities of Venetian-Friulian hydrography. Manuscript in ink and watercolor on paper, hand colored. Scale ca. 1:14,500. Size of the original: 95 × 154 cm. Image courtesy of the Museo Correr, Venice (Biblioteca, Ms. Provenienze diverse C, 840/4).

graphical basin and the Venetian lagoon (Venice, Civico Museo Correr [CMC], Biblioteca, Archivio Lazara Pisani Zusto, Cartografia, 17/60); an eighteenth-century map depicts the river network between the Adige and Canalbianco, providing a detailed topographical account of coastal terrain where marshlands still predominated (fig.  29); Domenico Marchetti’s “Topografia del corso delle acque del Basso Trevigiano” (1788) (fig. 30) focuses more sharply on the complex situation of the Venetian and Veneto-Friuli lagoons (Cavazzana Romanelli 2004, 78; Cantile 2004, 96). Innovative analytic cartography was also produced in Piedmont. Examples include Giovanni Giacomo Cantù’s “Corso del Fiume Sesia” (1755), which identifies places and buildings damaged by the river flood of 1755 and shows recent restoration work, and Gioseffo Depauli’s “Typo regolare del corso del Fiume Pò” (1758), which helped to plan the canalization of the river (Turin, AS, Corte, Carte topografiche, series III, Sesia; Finanze, Tipi della sez. II, 92) (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:138–40, pls. 88, 89). Within Tuscany in the second half of the eighteenth

century, the grand duke’s mathematicians, Ximenes and Pietro Ferroni and their collaborators, produced topographical depictions of terrain using innovative surveying methods to achieve accurate content. Ximenes prepared the “Carta topografica generale del Lago di Castiglioni” (1758–59) as part of a project for improving the plain around Grosseto (Florence, AS, Segreteria di Finanze ante 1788, f. 749). Ferroni’s “Carta corografica del Valdarno di Pisa” (1774) anticipated his later work on problems posed by the reorganization of other water courses, for which he produced the “Mappa topografica che dimostra lo stato delle acque di Valdinievole” (draftsman: Stefano Diletti) and the “Pianta speciale dei Torrenti, Fossi e Canali frapposti al Lago di Bientina o di Sesto e al Fiume Arno.” Both maps accompanied a report (8 June 1780) regarding land reclamation in the wetlands (Florence, AS, Piante Ponti e Strade, n. 21). Together with his pupils Salvatore Piccioli and Cosimo Zocchi, Ferroni also worked on projects in the southern Val di Chiana, most notably the “Pianta della Pianura di Valdichiana posta tra il Callone Pontificio e il Lago di Chiusi,” and created maps of Lake Trasimeno and the

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Val di Chiana (draftsmen: Luigi Sgrilli and Antonio Capretti) to explore a possible navigable canal linking the two areas (Prague, NA, RAT Map, 245, 247–248, and 250). Other Ferroni waterway maps include the “Pianta che dimostra l’andamento dei principali fiumi, fossi e strade di tutta la Val di Chiana” (Florence, AS, Camera delle Comunità e Luoghi Pii, f. 1548) and the “Pianta del Valdarno e dell’Usciana” (1780) concerning the Val di Nievole (Florence, AS, Segreteria di Finanze ante 1788, f. 936, ins. 1780). In addition to hydrographical problems, Ferroni mapped more extensive areas topographically, such as the Maremma di Grosseto, the Casentino, and eastern Tuscany. By the 1780s he turned to road systems with strikingly innovative plans, for example, the “Pianta dimostrativa di una parte del Casentino, la Pianta dimostrativa dei progetti delle due linee di strada che dalla Consuma andrebbero sino al fiume Arno” and the “Pianta dimostrativa delle strade presenti che da Stia e Pratovecchio vanno alla cima dell’Appennino” (Florence, BNC, Cappugi, n. 308). Major road building operations active around the middle of the eighteenth century within the Grand Duchy generated innumerable maps. After the administrative reforms of 1773 a great number of locally focused atlases provided a census of public highways, such as Carlo Maria Mazzoni’s “Campione delle Strade situate dentro il circondario di Pietrasanta” (1783) (Pietrasanta, Archivio Storico Comunale, Stradario Mazzoni) (Boncompagni and Ulivieri 2000). The administration of road and travel was central to the collection titled “Viaggi d’Italia” gathered by the Florentine land surveyor Antonio Giachi (Florence, BNC, Ms., II.XI.4). Around 1760 Giachi produced a similar though more detailed version of this manuscript travel atlas titled “Guida per viaggiar la Toscana” (Florence, Biblioteca di Geografia dell’Università degli Studi, and Biblioteca dell’Istituto Geografico Militare) (Cantile 2003). From late medieval times central authorities in all the Italian states had paid particular attention to communication networks with cartography dedicated to this theme. In the Venetian Republic, Valentino Bartoli provided a road map in his 1650 account of the Terraglio Vecchio (Treviso, Biblioteca Comunale, Fondo cartografico, 141). More than seven meters long, this map follows the course of the road from Mestre to Treviso, with different colors identifying different road surfaces (Cantile 2004, 90–91). In Savoy, the route from Turin via Cuneo to Nice, an important link with the Ligurian Sea, was represented on the “Carta corografica dove dimostrativamente son segnate le strade e calle” (Turin, AS, Corte, Carte topografiche per A and B, Nice n. 8). Dating from ca. 1679, it shows the territory of Piedmont and a projected overall road network that was of great strategic and—above

Administrative Cartography

all—military significance (Sereno 1984; Carassi 1984, 94). Francesco Antonio Bruna’s “Dimostrazione delle strade tendenti da Carignano a Cuneo” (1759) (Turin, AS, Corte, Materie economiche, Ponti e Strade, m.  6, fasc. 1), constructed from on-site surveying, displays features of a twentieth-century thematic map. From the 1660s onward the Republic of Genoa promoted “ambitious road schemes to improve communications with Lombardy and the East [i.e., Parma and Tuscany]” (Quaini 1984, 225). This effort produced maps like Stefano Scaniglia’s “Descrittione della strada da ristorarsi da Sestri sino alla terra di Riccò” (1688) (Genoa, AS, busta 17, n. 1083) (Quaini 1994, fig. 24) and Giovanni Batta Costanzo’s “Piano della strada nuova dalla Spetia sino a Parma” (1660) (Genoa, AS, Raccolta cartografica, busta 17, n. 1101). Later, Matteo Vinzoni’s “Descrizione delle strade che vengono nel territorio di Savona” (1743) detailed the area’s road network (Genoa, AS, Raccolta cartografica, busta 28 bis, Miscellanea, n. 105) (Quaini 1983, 39). The maintenance and preservation of woodlands also encouraged administrative cartography. Again, the Venetian Republic took the lead from the beginning of the seventeenth century and especially during the eighteenth by producing thematic maps, which concentrated on state- and community-owned woodlands of tall timber, traditionally used in shipbuilding and in civil and military construction work (Casti and Zolli 1988; Casti 1994). Archival examples display a variety of cartographic approaches to handling different types of woodlands. Geometrically based maps of publicly owned woodlands of Friuli contrast with a more pictorial approach of the woods in the Sauris basin (1752). Pictorial maps show the lots of woods in the Carnic Alps at the time of harvest and the aftereffects of the harvest on Monte Pal (Bianco 2001, figs. 8, 10, 19). Further examples exist for the woods in Carnia, whether held in common or owned by the municipality, and for timber harvests (before and after) in the But Valley and the area of Lumiei (Bianco and Lazzarini 2003, 68, 69, 76, 77, 130). Forest cartography in the Veneto reached its peak at the turn of the eighteenth to nineteenth century with the work of the Republic’s inspector of forests, Candido Morassi. Wide-ranging and systematic cartographic descriptions were prepared to halt the decline and erosion of the woodland stocks in the Belluno and Carnia areas. Giovanni Ongaro’s drawing of the local wood of Chiarascatis di Moggio in 1794 (Bianco and Lazzarini 2003, 129) was produced to create an atlas of all the publicly owned woodland in the Carnia area (ultimately prepared by Antonio Pilizzari) (Bianco 2001, 89). In Piedmont, Cantù and other state-employed technicians produced a map of the woods of the Valle d’Exilles in the upper Susa Valley (1739–40) (Vienna, Kriegsarchiv; see Sereno 1991). From 1752 to 1764, the Ufficio To-

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pografico Reale commissioned systematic surveys of the woods of Savoy “in relation to the exploitation of the mines in certain alpine valleys and the associated need to know the nature and extent of forestry resources” (Sereno 2002a, 179; 2002b, 100n113). In the Grand Duchy of Tuscany the manuscript “Relazione e piante delle boscaglie di S.A.S.” (1654–55) by Zorzi de Negri, head of the Arsenale at Pisa (Pisa, Biblioteca Universitaria) includes an atlas of woodland maps of Maremma in perspective view. A manuscript collection from the mid-eighteenth century (Florence, AS, Magona) shows the coppice woods existing within an eight-mile radius of the grand duke’s metal foundries in the Montagna Pistoiese, Pietrasantino, and Maremma areas. Each of these woods was reserved exclusively as a source of fuel supplies for such facilities and supervised by the iron foundry authority, Magona del Ferro (Valentini 1993, 298). Other eighteenth-century manuscript maps in Florence (AS) treat forests or wooded game reserves—for example, Pigelleto dell’Amiata, Teso in the Montagna Pistoiese area (by Giovanni Caluri, 1797), the Cascine di Firenze farm (by Antonio Bicchi, 1796), and the Massa Marittima game reserve (second half of the eighteenth century). The Republic of Genoa produced maps of public woodlands, particularly for border areas, such as Vinzoni’s map of the woods of Pertigara (“Selva della Pertegara,” 1711, Genoa, AS, Archivio Segreto, Confinium, 190), the large Savona woodlands (1724), and the Consevola woodlands (1757) (Moreno 1990, 41–48; Quaini 1994, fig. 22). The forestry assets of Savona were mapped anew by Gerolamo Gustavo 1759–60 as “Tipi di tutte le Masserie ed altri ripartimenti” (forty-two manuscript maps, ca. 1:4,850; Savona, Biblioteca Civica, scaffale nuovo, I/1, ms. 19), a collection intended to assess the quantity and quality of local assets. Working with the Piedmont engineer Antoine Durieu, Gustavo later surveyed the boundaries of the Consevola woods in 1770–71, 1790, and 1796. In 1782 he prepared the “Tipo geometrico del Bosco Camerale Ronco di Maglio,” and in 1780, with another Piedmont engineer, Vincenzo Denisio (Denis), compiled the “Carta topografica fatta sopra il luogo . . . che comprende l’intiera Regione de’ Selvatici” (Levi 1986, 211–14). Timber was vital for the mining industry: for constructing tunnels and galleries and as fuel for smelting. Maps aided not only the administration of forests but also the location and exploitation of mineral resources. In the Duchy of Savoy in the 1750s, military engineers took part in surveys intended to give new impetus to the mining industry. Both the “Carta dimostrativa delle vicinanze d’Allagna colla posizione delle Miniere” (1754, by Alessandro Tesauro) and the “Pianta e profilo delle due cave del Rame di St. Giacomo e St. Gioanni esistenti nel territorio d’Alagna” (1754, by Giovanni Domenico

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Ravichio) (Turin, AS, Corte, Carte topografiche, serie III, Alagna) show topographical features, mineral seams, and mining shafts (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:134–35, pl. 85). The “Carta topografica in misura della Valle d’Anzasca, parte della giurisdizione dell’Ossola superiore e parte Inferiore nell’Alto Novarese” (1758, by Giambattista Sottis, engineer) reveals lead, gold, and iron mines (fig. 31) (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:135–36, pl. 86). In the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, the imperial land surveyor, Francesco Antonio Eegat, prepared a series of maps reflecting exploration of the Colline Metallifere from the 1760s onward. The “Carta topografica del territorio compreso tra Montieri, Boccheggiano, Prata e Massa Marittima” and the “Pianta e veduta della miniera e dell’opificio dell’allume situato nel territorio di Monterotondo” located all mines, even those in use in ancient times (Florence, AS, Miscellanea di Piante, 29a, and 29b). The grand ducal engineer Mazzoni produced other maps in the 1760s covering the mines of the Valtiberina and the Apuan Alps: the “Pianta corografica del Capitanato di Pietrasanta” (1762–64) and “Mappa topografica di Val di Tevere” (1767) (Florence, AS, Miscellanea di Piante, 192 and 248); both display remarkable pictorial representations and content not strictly related to mining (Valentini 1993, 299, 301). In 1766, Mazzoni also prepared other thematic depictions of the mining areas in the Apuan Alps (Florence, AS, Miscellanea di Piante, 2/a and 2/b, 86/a and 86/b, 188). In Habsburg-ruled Lombardy, a reference for patenting mining was provided by the “Carta mineralogica della Valsassina e della Valcavargna” (Milan, AS, Atti di governo, Commercio, p.a., m. 203) prepared in 1779 by the naturalist Ermenegildo Pini, who had been commissioned by the authorities to investigate the extent of mineral resources and the damage caused by mining to woodlands and forests. He used color coding to identify different categories of minerals. Minerology merged with early geology in the Carta compendiata dello Stato di Milano (Milan, 1790, engraved by Domenico Cagnoni), a thematic work hand colored by the Olivetan monk Mauro Fornari that identified different rock formations in the territory (Milanesi 1990, 166). Two related categories of administrative cartography were inspired by the state’s need to exercise military and commercial control over its territory: maps of fortifications and customs boundaries. In Tuscany from 1739 to 1749, Odoardo Warren, a colonel in the engineering corps joined fellow military engineers Andrea Dolcini, Giuliano Anastasi, Gaetano Benvenuti, and Niccola Lotti in compiling the “Raccolta di piante delle principali città e fortezze del Gran Ducato di Toscana” (Florence, AS, Segreteria di Gabinetto, n. 695), around sixty cartographic depictions accounting for the local setting, armaments, and function of specific towers, forts, and fortified urban centers.

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Fig. 31. “CARTA TOPOGRAFICA IN MISURA DELLA VALLE D’ANZASCA, PARTE DELLA GIURISDIZIONE DELL’OSSOLA SUPERIORE E PARTE INFERIORE NELL’ALTO NOVARESE, COL DELINEAMENTO DELLE MINIERE ESISTENTI NEI TERRITORI D’ESSA VALLE,” BY GIAMBATTISTA SOTTIS, ENGINEER OF THE UFFICIO DI TOPOGRAFIA REALE, 1758. The map forms part of the administrative sources concerning the use of woodlands in

support of industrial mining. Its topographic detail shows the Valley Anzasca and part of the Val d’Ossola in the northeast Piedmont. Manuscript in ink and watercolor on paper, hand colored. Scale ca. 1:24,000. Size of the original: 94.5 × 139.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Turin (Corte, Carte topografiche per A e B, Anzasca).

Around the same time a series of maps and perspective views titled “Città e fortezze del granducato and città murate, ville granducali e fortezze di Toscana” (Florence, AS, Segreteria di Gabinetto, n. 696, and Rome, Istituto di Storia e Cultura dell’Arma del Genio, cartella XXII, nn. 1563–1656) covered similar themes, as did the hand-colored atlas “Collezione delle piante e prospetti delle fortificazioni situate lungo il littorale toscano” by the grand duke’s architect Pietro Conti (1793) (Florence, Osservatorio Ximeniano). A series of maps produced in the 1780s and 90s by a group of state architects concerned customs houses and surrounding areas within the grand duchy (Florence, AS, Miscellanea di Piante, 292 bis). The sovereign of different regions enjoyed exclusive hunting rights, often depicted on maps used for the preservation of royal game reserves. In Piedmont, these included the “Carta topografica della parte della Provincia di Torino serviente al grande distretto delle Regie Caccie,” three manuscript sheets drawn in 1766 by Pietro Denisio (Turin, AS, Corte, Archivio topografico segreto, 15A VI rosso) (Massabò Ricci and Carassi 1987, 306n71). In Tuscany numerous maps of the grand duke’s hunting reserves included the large “Pianta della R. Bandita del Poggio Imperiale” (1793) (Prague, NA,

RAT Map, 269), rendered with almost geometrical precision and topographical detail. In the Bourbon south of Italy, Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni headed a team to produce the “Carta topografica delle Regie Cacce” (1784) (Naples, BNC, b. 29B/62, 1–2). In Puglia and Tuscany, transhumance practices were documented in maps showing primarily the areas of winter grazing used by the livestock breeders of the Appenines. The maps are rather similar in character to cadastres, indicating tratturi—the grassed routes that shepherds and flocks were required to take when moving from the mountains—and the various areas of restricted grazing (that is, those that were subject to state duties). In Puglia, such maps are exemplified by the topographical map of the territory of Corato in the Bari region, produced in 1753 by the compassatori (surveyors) Giuseppe Cuoci, Francesco Antonio Zizzi, and Ignazio Romito (Bari, AS, Atti demaniali, b. 36) (Angelini 1987, 126; Angelini and Carlone 1981, 85); the “Atlante dei tratturi Capecelatro” (1649–52) drawn using visual perspective by Giuseppe de Falco and containing 102 maps of tratturi and the buildings located along their route; the “Atlante dei tratturi Crivelli” (1712) by Michele Sarracca and Giacomo di Giacomo, with 110 maps; the “Atlante Michele” (1693–97) by Antonio Michele and

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Nunzio Michele, with 28 maps; and the “Atlante delle locazioni della Croce” (1735–60) by Agatangelo della Croce, a collection of 23 maps (Iazzetti 1987, 596–611; Valerio 1993, 61–62). In Tuscany, the atlas titled “Pianta delle dogane dell’Uffizio dei Paschi di Siena” (1745) (Florence, AS, Miscellenea di Piante, 748), drawn and hand colored by the engineer Innocenzio Fazzi, covers the territories subject to state duties with 25 maps indicating various different kinds of grazing (Barsanti, Bonelli Conenna, and Rombai 2001, 76). Finally, administrations then as now responded to natural events, whether lowland river floods caused by extreme weather conditions, mountain landslides, or earthquakes. Although the cartography dedicated to floods and landslides is rather modest in character, referring to specific areas, the maps dealing with far more catastrophic tectonic events fall into the thematic mapping category. A series of on-site inspections by the Carmelite Father Eliseo della Concezione and other technicians immediately after the disastrous Calabrian earthquake of 1783 led to the production of a large atlas with sixty-seven engravings, as part of the Istoria de’ fenomeni del tremoto avvenuto nelle Calabrie e nel Valdemone nell’anno 1783 (1784) (Bonica 2006, 204). The range of administrative cartographies throughout the Italian states reflects the increasing sophistication of the state apparatus in responding to the needs of its citizens and government at all levels. L e o n a r d o Ro mbai See also: Italian States B i bliogra p hy Angelini, Gregorio. 1987. “Agrimensura e produzione cartografica nel Regno di Napoli in età moderna.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 1:117–32. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. Angelini, Gregorio, and Giuseppe Carlone, eds. 1981. La cartografia storica nelle fonti documentarie: Terra di Bari nel 18. e 19. secolo. Molfetta: Mezzina. Barsanti, Danilo, Lucia Bonelli Conenna, and Leonardo Rombai, eds. 2001. Le carte del Granduca: La Maremma dei Lorena attraverso la cartografia. Grosseto: Biblioteca Chelliana. Bianco, Furio. 2001. Nel bosco: Comunità alpine e risorse forestali nel Friuli in età moderna (secoli XV–XX). Udine: Forum. Bianco, Furio, and Antonio Lazzarini. 2003. Forestali, mercanti di legname e boschi pubblici: Candido Morassi e i progetti di riforma boschiva nelle Alpi Carniche tra Settecento e Ottocento. Udine: Forum. Boncompagni, Ilaria, and Denise Ulivieri. 2000. La Versilia dei cartografi: Stradari del periodo leopoldino. Pisa: Pacini. Bonica, Maria Luisa. 2006. “La Calabria e il terremoto del 1783 nella cartografia ufficiale dell’epoca.” In Atti del convegno di studi “La cartografia come strumento di conoscenza e di gestione del territorio,” Messina, 29–30 marzo 2006, ed. Corradina Polto, 193–204. Messina: Edizioni Dr. Antonio Sfameni. Cantile, Andrea. 2003. Sulla “Guida per viaggiare la Toscana” del XVIII secolo, custodita nelle conservatorie dell’IGM. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. ———, ed. 2004. Il territorio nella società dell’informazione: Dalla cartografia ai sistemi digitali. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Carassi, Marco. 1984. “Studi di topografia militare nel Regno Sardo.”

In La scoperta delle Marittime: Momenti di storia e di alpinismo, ed. Rinaldo Comba, Mario Cordero, and Paola Sereno, 93–104. Cuneo: L’Arciere. Casti, Emanuela. 1994. “Cartografia e politica territoriale: I boschi della Repubblica Veneta.” Storia Urbana 69:105–32. Casti, Emanuela, and Elena Zolli. 1988. Boschi della Serenissima: Storia di un rapporto uomo-ambiente. Venice: Arsenale. Cavazzana Romanelli, Francesca. 2004. “La gestione delle acque: Bonifiche, irrigazioni, opifici.” In Il territorio nella società dell’informazione: Dalla cartografia ai sistemi digitali, ed. Andrea Cantile, 75–80. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Comba, Rinaldo, and Paola Sereno, eds. 2002. Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo. 2 vols. Turin: Allemandi. Fuda, Roberto. 1995. Formazione e immagine di uno stato feudale: Le carte topografiche dei feudi di Vincenzo Maria Carafa VIII principe di Roccella. Gioiosa Jonica: Corab. Guarducci, Anna. 2008. Cartografie e riforme: Ferdinando Morozzi e i documenti dell’Archivio di Stato di Siena. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Iazzetti, Viviano. 1987. “La documentazione cartografica doganale dell’Archivio di Stato di Foggia.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 2:581–611. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. Laudani, Simona. 2002. “Le carte del principe.” In Le mappe della storia: Proposte per una cartografia del Mezzogiorno e della Sicilia in età moderna, ed. Giuseppe Giarrizzo and Enrico Iachello, 51–60. Milan: FrancoAngeli. Levi, Daniele. 1986. “L’orizzonte di un grande cartografo savonese del Settecento: Gerolamo Gustavo.” In Carte e cartografi in Liguria, ed. Massimo Quaini, 208–18. Genoa: Sagep Editrice. Martullo Arpago, M. A., et al., eds. 1987. Fonti cartografiche nell’Archivio di Stato di Napoli. Naples: Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali, Ufficio Centrale per i Beni Archivistici, Archivio di Stato di Napoli. Massabò Ricci, Isabella, and Marco Carassi. 1987. “Amministrazione dello spazio statale e cartografia nello Stato sabaudo.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 1:271–314. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. Milanesi, Marica, ed. 1990. L’Europa delle carte: Dal XV al XIX secolo, autoritratti di un continente. Milan: Mazzotta. Moreno, Diego. 1990. Dal documento al terreno: Storia e archeologia dei sistemi agro-silvo-pastorali. Bologna: Il Mulino. Quaini, Massimo. 1983. “Introduzione.” In Pianta delle due riviere della Serenissima Repubblica di Genova divise ne’ Commissariati di Sanità, by Matteo Vinzoni, ed. Massimo Quaini, 9–54. Genoa: Sagep. ———. 1984. “Per la storia della cartografia a Genova e in Liguria: Formazione e ruolo degli ingegneri-geografi nella vita della Repubblica (1656–1717).” Atti della Società Ligure di Storia Patria, n.s. 24:217–66. ———. 1986. “Matteo Vinzoni: La formazione dello sguardo e del linguaggio di un cartografo (1707–1715).” In Studi in memoria di Teofilo Ossian De Negri, 3 vols., 3:85–106. Genoa: Cassa di Risparmio di Genova e Imperia. ———. 1994. “La Liguria invisibile.” In La Liguria, ed. Antonio Gibelli and Paride Rugafiori, 41–102. Turin: Einaudi. Rombai, Leonardo. 1993. “La nascita e lo sviluppo della cartografia a Firenze e nella Toscana granducale.” In Imago et descriptio Tusciae: La Toscana nella geocartografia dal XV al XIX secolo, ed. Leonardo Rombai, 83–160. Venice: Marsilio. ———. 2005. “I matematici territorialisti toscani del Settecento: Alcuni esempi.” In Viaggi e scienza: Le istruzioni scientifiche per i viaggiatori nei secoli XVII–XIX, ed. Maurizio Bossi and Claudio Greppi, 55–70. Florence: Leo S. Olschki.

60 Sereno, Paola. 1984. “Per una storia della ‘Corografia delle Alpi Marittime’ di Pietro Gioffredo.” In La scoperta delle Marittime: Momenti di storia e di alpinismo, ed. Rinaldo Comba, Mario Cordero, and Paola Sereno, 37–55. Cuneo: L’Arciere. ———. 1991. “Una carta inedita settecentesca dei boschi d’Exilles (Alta Valle di Susa).” In L’agricoltura nel Piemonte dell ‘800: Atti del seminario in memoria di Alfonso Bogge, ed. Paola Caroli, Paola Corti, and Carlo Pischedda, 85–111. Turin: Centro Studi Piemontesi. ———. 2002a. “La carta, il governo, la guerra: Materiali per una ricerca.” In Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo, 2 vols., ed. Rinaldo Comba and Paola Sereno, 1:179–80. Turin: Allemandi. ———. 2002b. “‘Li Ingegneri Topograffici di Sua Maestà’: La formazione del cartografo militare negli stati sabaudi e l’istituzione dell’Ufficio di Topografia Reale.” In Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo, 2 vols., ed. Rinaldo Comba and Paola Sereno, 1:61–102. Turin: Allemandi. Signori, Mario. 1987. “L’attività cartografica del Deposito della Guerra e del Corpo degli ingegneri topografi nella Repubblica e nel Regno d’Italia.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 2:493–525. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. Valentini, Rossella. 1993. “Lo spazio extramoenia e la cartografia tematica.” In Imago et descriptio Tusciae: La Toscana nella geocartografia dal XV al XIX secolo, ed. Leonardo Rombai, 245–303. Venice: Marsilio. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. Società uomini e istituzioni cartografiche nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare.

Administrative Cartography in the Netherlands. Al-

though completely eclipsed by the better-known Dutch commercial map trade, institutional cartography in the Netherlands offered the main mechanism for visualizing the Dutch landscape from the sixteenth century (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007). Large-scale property maps produced by local land surveyors and ordered by various institutions (ecclesiastical, academic, and civic) addressed administrative needs of local authorities for taxation, landownership, urban expansion, and judicial resolutions; these mapping efforts are treated elsewhere in this volume. Within the wide-ranging scope of administrative cartography, two main endeavors stand out: polder mapping and river mapping (polders are lands reclaimed for cultivation). Their common focus on managing water means that the results are known generically as waterstaatskaarten (waterstaat maps), or maps that explain the state of the water in polders and rivers and of the land along the banks of both (Donkerslootde Vrij 1995; Hameleers 1991). Polder maps were produced by local and regional waterschappen (water management boards) charged with managing water barriers, waterways, water levels, water quality, and sewage treatment in their respective regions. In the western parts of the Seven Provinces, and especially in Holland, powerful waterschappen, heemraadschappen, and hoogheemraadschappen and smaller polder boards undertook surveys to map their territories in detail (fig. 32). The very early history and

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importance of the waterschappen and the creation of their mostly manuscript maps are described by Cornelis Koeman and Marco van Egmond, who also list twentysix polder maps printed in the Netherlands before 1650 (2007, 1263–68, 1292–94; Hameleers 1991). This practice continued and improved in the second half of the seventeenth and first half of the eighteenth centuries and expanded from Holland to the other provinces in the Dutch Republic, especially to the area of the RhineMeuse-Scheldt delta in Zeeland, Utrecht, Gelderland, and Overijssel, where accurate maps for water management were needed the most. With this expansion, new surveys were carried out and multisheet maps on larger scales were published. Koeman (1985, 143–48) provides a list of sixty-eight printed polder maps made between 1575 and 1850. Of the twenty-four published before 1650, four were still being printed in the eighteenth century, one as late as 1767. Of the sixteen maps published between 1651 and 1700, seven were reprinted later in the eighteenth century, and one as late as 1818. For instance, the twelve-sheet wall map (ca. 1:30,000) of the hoogheemraadschap of Rijnland of 1647 by Jan Jansz. Dou and Steven van Broeckhuysen was printed for the last time in 1746 (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1267n102). Although a century had passed, the topography had hardly changed, but the coats of arms of the board members had to be updated (Hart 1969; Koeman 1985, 138). The unquestioned peak in this map genre is the T Hooge Heemraed-Schap van Delflant (1712, 1:10,000), a wall map by the brothers Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius and Jacob Cruquius. Because of its large scale, metrical accuracy, and stunning visual impact, the Cruquius map surpasses all other waterschap maps of the period under consideration (Koeman 1985, 139–42), and only its lack of index numbers for the plots of land prevents it from being considered as a cadastral map. That a great number of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century polder maps were treated as commercial products is evident in their inclusion, for example, in the nine-volume Atlas der Neederlanden, an atlas factice kept in the Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam (Werner 2013). Waterschappen also created river maps because rivers might run through their territories or affect the state of water management within the polder. Although each province had its own water management plan and was responsible for its own flood protection, some provinces lacked the technical staff and hired surveyors from the waterschappen. This decentralization meant a fragmented river management program in the republic, especially problematic given that the major rivers of the Netherlands were in a deplorable condition, mainly as the result of continuous silting. During the eighteenth century, all the rivers that formed part of the dense

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Fig. 32. DETAIL FROM MATTHEUS VAN NISPEN, ABEL DE VRIES, AND B. VAN DEN HEUVEL, “NIEUWE CAERTE VAN DE VERDRONCKEN WAERT VAN ZUYTHOLLANDT,” 11 JUNE 1686. Ink and watercolor on paper; ca. 1:9,250. The parcels shown are polders. Compare the turbulent part of the Merwede, called den ouden Wiel (the old

wheel), with the same area on the Cruquius map made almost fifty years later (fig. 33). Size of the entire original: 104 × 130 cm; size of detail: ca. 24 × 38 cm. Licentie CC-BY, Kaartcollectie Binnenland Hingman, Nationaal Archief, The Hague (4.VTH, inv. nr. 1926).

Rhine-Meuse delta started to have trouble discharging their waters into the North Sea, with far-reaching consequences for military defense and for shipping and commercial interests. Both intellectual and political discussions on how to deal with these issues began in the vulnerable province of Holland, the southern part of which was not only the political, economic, and cultural center of the Dutch Republic, but also mostly below sea level. In the early 1730s a provincial public works department was set up to coordinate the various efforts, and a network of observation posts was established in the field. The goal was not only to devise solutions for the short term, but also to anticipate developments that might occur in the future, such as the predicted rise in sea level. In the long term this would require all the Dutch provinces, cities, and water authorities to work together in a national approach, something that did not happen until the nineteenth century. From 1731 onward the provincial public works de-

partment was led by the former Rijnland surveyor Cornelis Velsen, who, together with Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius, was the principal advocate of this centralized approach. On the basis of an extensive theoretical study of the Dutch waterstaat, they designed an elaborate cartographic scheme that substantiated such an approach. They proposed both a general “water map” (topographical map with emphasis on the relationship between landscape and water) of the province of Holland, as well as a detailed series of large-scale maps of the river network to be used in modeling the dynamic interplay between humans and the physical environment and to provide the department with the means to monitor, supervise, and manage this complex interaction. To this end and to provide examples of the proposed mapping routine, Cruquius designed two separate maps representing extreme situations in the waterway network of Holland. These spectacular and uniquely dynamic printed maps were a one-sheet “water map” of the delta island of Goeree in the southern part of Hol-

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Fig. 33. DETAIL FROM NICOLAAS SAMUELSZ. CRUQUIUS, DE RIVIER DE MERWEDE, VAN (ONTRENT) DE STEENEN-HOEK (THE HAGUE, 1729–30). Copper engraving on two sheets; 1:10,000. Detail from sheet one showing the use of isobaths; these, and other data (see fig. 801) revealed that the Merwede had a very irregular depth and rate of flow, and that as much as two-thirds of the river’s

volume drained off through the kills to the south, resulting in flooding there and unreliable depths for shipping to ports downstream. Size of the entire original: 54 × 128 cm; size of detail: ca. 18.5 × 27.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Utrecht (Moll 155-I a [Dk41-13]).

land (1733) (see fig. 190) and a map of the Merwede (a lower branch of the Meuse) in two sheets (fig. 33); Cruquius also produced an overview map of the latter (see fig. 801). The dynamic nature of the maps resulted from Cruquius’s incorporation of all types of hydrographic, astronomic, and meteorological data into the maps by way of diagrams depicting, among other phenomena, the fluctuation of water levels, the variation of the tides, and the velocity of the water. This conceptualization of the waterscape, however, was expressed at its best through the system of isobaths that he used to visualize the otherwise imperceptible river beds. It was the first time that the delineation of depths was introduced on a printed map, though the method had been used occasionally on manuscript maps of Dutch rivers dating back to the early sixteenth century (Van den Brink 1998, 2000). Although the realization of the projected “water map” of Holland proved to be too expensive, mainly

due to the costs of the accompanying scientific research, the public works department did construct a manuscript map of the main rivers in the province of Holland on a uniform scale of 1:10,000 and along the guidelines set out by Cruquius and Velsen. Between 1731 and 1754, printed river maps based on this master map were produced of the Meuse (fig. 34); the Lek, a branch of the Rhine (1751–54); and the Linge, which connects the Meuse and Rhine (1753–54). All three maps were surveyed and mapped by Melchior Bolstra, who had succeeded Velsen as surveyor of the Hoogheemraadschap van Rijnland in 1731. Because of their dense topographic detail, an embargo restricted their distribution. All maps were therefore published in very small issues (40–50 copies), while the engravers involved (among them the Amsterdam-based map publisher Isaak Tirion) were enjoined to strict secrecy (Van den Brink 1998, 134; 2000, 72–75). In 1754, the year that Cruquius died and Velsen had to

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withdraw from his post due to illness, another Rijnland surveyor, Dirk Klinkenberg, took charge of the public works department. He was assisted by Bolstra, who directed a group of surveyors, as well as the Leiden professor Johan Lulofs. Together with his successor Christiaan Brunings, Lulofs functioned as inspecteur-generaal of the rivers. As part of an ongoing discussion with authorities in Gelderland, Utrecht, and Overijssel, the public works department of Holland eventually did some river mapping and data collection in those provinces in

an attempt to balance the distribution of the Rhine and Meuse Rivers. They began to prepare a large number of maps on different scales to support these laborious negotiations. Financial and legal obstacles seriously limited the time available for surveying, and the department was forced to abandon the preferred map scale of 1:10,000. In most other respects, however, the department stuck to all procedures and protocols defined by Cruquius and Velsen until the end of the eighteenth century. Besides producing a coherent series of more than

Fig. 34. MELCHIOR BOLSTRA, KAART VAN DE BENEEDEN RIVIER DE MAAS EN DE MERWEDE, VAN DE NOORD ZEE TOT HARDINKSVELD (THE HAGUE, CA. 1741). Copper engraving on six sheets; ca. 1:20,000. The first sheet of the map, showing the mouth of the Maas (Meuse) and Hoek van Holland. Isobaths in the river indicate depths,

while at the top a profile and a graph show the high and low watermarks in September 1738. Size of the entire original: 74 × 292 cm; size of sheet one: 56.2 × 62.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Utrecht (Moll 150-I a [Dk41-12]).

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one hundred printed river maps showing the principal anomalies in the Dutch river system, the department managed to assemble a huge database with all kinds of methodical information on many physical phenomena. Thus, when the Republic of the Netherlands formed a national department of public works (Rijkswaterstaat) in 1798, they were able to draw on the work done in Holland. By the early 1830s, Cruquius’s dream of a map of the Dutch rivers uniform in regard to scale and design was finally realized with the publication of the Algemeene rivierkaart van Nederland (1:10,000) (Koeman 1985, 177–82). P au l va n d e n B r i n k a n d Ma rtij n S to rms See also: Cruquius, Nicolaas Samuelsz.; Netherlands, Republic of the United; Transportation and Cartography: Canal Map; Wiebeking, Carl Friedrich von Bibliograp hy Brink, Paul van den. 1987. “Maria de Haan en Isaac Tirion: Een bladzijde uit de geschiedenis van de waterstaatskartografie.” CaertThresoor 6:39–42. ———. 1998. “In een opslag van het oog”: De Hollandse rivierkartografie en waterstaatszorg in opkomst, 1725–1754. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto/Repro-Holland. ———. 2000. “River Landscapes: The Origin and Development of the Printed River Map in the Netherlands, 1725–1795.” Imago Mundi 52:66–78. Donkersloot-de Vrij, Marijke. 1995. Topografische kaarten van Nederland uit de 16de tot en met de 19de eeuw: Een typologische toelichting ten behoeve van het gebruik van oude kaarten bij landschapsonderzoek. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Hameleers, Marc. 1991. “Repräsentativität und Funktionalität von holländischen Polder-, Deichgenossenschafts- und DeichgrafschaftsKarten.” In 5. Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium Oldenburg 1990, 22–24 March 1990: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe and Hans Harms, 59–70. Berlin: Reimer. Hart, G. ’t. 1969. Kaartboek van Rijnland, 1746. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Koeman, Cornelis. 1978. Handleiding voor de studie van de topografische kaarten van Nederland, 1750–1850. 2d ed. Culemborg: Educaboek. ———. 1985. Geschiedenis van de kartografie van Nederland: Zes eeuwen land- en zeekaarten en stadsplattegronden. 2d ed. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Koeman, Cornelis, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Surveying and Official Mapping in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1670.” In HC 3:1246–95. Ven, G. P. van de. 1976. Aan de wieg van Rijkswaterstaat: Wordingsgeschiedenis van het Pannerdens Kanaal. Zutphen: De Walburg Pers. Werner, Jan. 2013. Atlas der Neederlanden: Kaarten van de Republiek en het prille koninkrijk, met Belgiën en Coloniën. Voorburg: Asia Maior/Atlas Maior.

Administrative Cartography in the Ottoman Empire. In

the first half of the seventeenth century, after an impressive period of expansion over the Black Sea, Mediterranean Sea, Indian Ocean, and Red Sea, the Ottomans began to lag behind their Western contemporaries in marine charting and general geographical knowledge. This deficiency in geographical matters led to the first true Ottoman acquaintance with Western science. The maps presented as gifts by European merchants func-

tioned as persuasive tools to arrange meetings with the members of the Ottoman government. The Ottoman state remained mired in its usual administrative practice (as described in “Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the” in this volume). Although some individual attempts were made to buy maps that covered the empire, the government never created a permanent agency for employing cartographers until the establishment of the engineering colleges in the first half of the eighteenth century with the help of European experts. Instead, state officials periodically relied on and supported the private production of maps and other geographical material to meet administrative needs. This entry considers those efforts launched or sponsored by the central government or carried out under its watchful eye. However, the use of maps in administration remains a subject for further research. Evliyaˉ Çelebi mentions fifteen artisans working at eight shops in Istanbul who had multilanguage skills, with particularly excellent command of Latin, and who supplied mariners with marine charts (Seyaˉh.atnaˉme, vol. 1, Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi [TSMK], B. 304, f. 163a). The principal sources for their map production were the works of Western cartographers such as Gerardus Mercator and Jodocus Hondius, whose Atlas minor was translated into Turkish by Mus.t.afaˉ ibn ʿAbdullaˉh Kaˉtib Çelebi, the scribe of the imperial council in 1655 (although the maps and other drawings might have been completed at a later date, based on the verbal statement of the renegade Meh.med . Ihlaˉsıˉ). Although the autograph copy of this translated ˘ work, titled “Levaˉmiʿü’n-nuˉr fıˉ z.ulmeti at.las minur” (Istanbul, Nuruosmaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, 2998), included only 13 maps, other copies exist with as many as 148 maps (Istanbul, Köprülü Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Türkçe Yazmalar II 178). Kaˉtib Çelebi principally based his universal geography, the authoritative “Cihaˉnnümaˉ,” according to division of continents in the “Levaˉmiʿü’n-nuˉr.” The maps in Kaˉtib Çelebi’s original copy (TSMK,. R. 1624/1) were later improved and supplemented by Ibraˉhıˉm Müteferrik.a, who also printed the book (1145/1732). Müteferrik.a also published Kaˉtib Çelebi’s Tuh.fetü’l-kibaˉr fıˉ esfaˉri’l-bih.aˉr (TSMK R. 1192), correcting the four manuscript maps before printing them. “Müntehab-ı Bah.riyye” (completed in ˘ 1646) (Istanbul, Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphaˉ nesi, As¸ir Efendi 227) included almost 100 geographical maps and sketches, all drawn by Kaˉtib Çelebi himself, although he did not pay much attention to mathematical accuracy in his drafts. He drew the maps without regard to scale, by initially drawing the framework and preliminary outlines instead of the system of coordinate lines. While translating a map, he conveyed geometrical values by copying and illustration, prioritizing di-

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rection and place-names rather than scale and location (Sarıcaog˘lu 2004). The geographer Ebuˉbekir ibn Behraˉm ed-Dımas¸k.ˉı translated the Atlas maior of Joan Blaeu (1662) in 1086– 96/1675–85 for an official project in which all the necessary materials were provided to him by the central government. The translated work, “Nus.retü’l. Islaˉm ve’s-süruˉr fıˉ tah.rıˉri At.las mayur” (TSMK B. 325 and 333), emerged as a shorter version of the former, reducing eleven volumes to nine, which contained only 242 of the original 593 maps. This translation appeared in an even more abbreviated version of two volumes . titled “Ihtis.aˉr-ı tercüme-i At.las mayur,” whose delicate ˘ copies contained 62 maps (TSMK R. 1634). It is easy to presume that more than one artist/mapmaker was employed during the reproduction process, which used traditional Ottoman illustration techniques, enhancing the translated maps in accordance with an Islamic/ Ottoman heritage and even creating some new maps. Although perfection was not expected for the placement of toponyms, geographical coordinates, and positioning,

a relative certainty for the mathematical values is apparent. Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli referred to an Abu Bekr Efendi as one of the sources for his Ottoman Empire map of 1687; this person might have been the same as Cog.raˉfyaˉcı Ebuˉbekir Efendi, whom Marsigli was very likely to have met during his stay in Istanbul. To this group of maps should be added the regional maps contained in manuscripts written under direct influence of the. translations of the Atlas minor and Atlas maior. Ibraˉhıˉm Efendi, a Hungarian former slave and translator commonly known as “Müteferrik.a,” founded the first state-sponsored printing house and press with Arabic characters in the Ottoman Empire, having obtained formal permission in 1727. However, it was nine years before he secured a licence to print maps. Before his printing house commenced operation, he printed a test map of the Marmara Sea (1132/1720), which he had translated and adapted from a foreign work; it survives only in the form of the woodcut block from which it was printed. In 1137/1724–25 he printed a map of the Black Sea (Bah.riyye-i Bah.r-i Siyaˉh) (fig. 35), which included

. . . Fig. 35. . RIYYE-I BAH . R-I SIYAˉH, PRINTED BY MÜTE. BAH FERRIK . A PRINTING HOUSE, 1137/1724–25. The map of the Black Sea, the first printed Ottoman map.

Size of the original: 69 × 99 cm. By permission of Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cambridge (51-2587).

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latitude and longitude and was drafted on three different types of mile .scales. He later printed two more maps: . Iran (Memaˉlik-i Iraˉn) and Egypt (Ik.lıˉm-i Mıs.r), both prepared as additions to books he published (Sarıcaog˘lu and Yılmaz 2008, 155–77). Besides these maps, Müteferrik.a personally drafted a wall map of. Ottoman lands and Asia (“Memaˉlik-i ʿOsmaˉniyye ve Ik.lıˉm-i Asya”), which remained unprinted (TSMK H 447; see fig. 617) and exists in two more manuscript copies. Two of the six machines of the Müteferrik.a press were designed for map printing, examples of which include a terrestrial map, a chart of the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, a map of the Ottoman islands in the Mediterranean, and a map of the gulf of Venice and the Adriatic Sea. All were contained in Kaˉtib Çelebi’s Tuh.fetü’l-kibaˉr

fıˉ esfaˉri’l-bih.aˉr, published in 1141/1729. Müteferrik.a . also printed the Taˉrıˉh-i Hind-i garbıˉ (1142/1730), which ˘ included three terrestrial and celestial maps. But none of the books from Müteferrik.a press could replace the work of Kaˉtib Çelebi’s Cihaˉnnümaˉ (1145/1732) with twentyseven maps and thirteen plates. In addition to the largescale regional maps of Europe, Africa, Asia, North and South America, the Poles, Japan, the Indian subcontinent, Iran, the Caucasus, the Arabian peninsula, Asia Minor, and the city of Istanbul, there are celestial maps that represent traditional astronomical bodies and celestial regions, stars, tropics, and images of a terrestrial globe and the universe. Müteferrik.a personally produced some additional maps to be printed in the Cihaˉnnümaˉ that eliminated the errors of Kaˉtib Çelebi’s drawings (fig. 36). In

. . . . ˉ ˉ Fig. 36. ULUNOG AˉY ÇERAˉKISE AˉBA NIN . . . ZA T.A’IFELERI . ˉ ˉ ˉ YERLERI, KUH-I .ELBRUZ DAGISTAN, .S¸IRVAN VE TAMAˉMEN GÜRCISTAˉN MEMLEKETLERI VE GENCE ˉ N VE VE . REVAˉN VE K.AˉRS. VE. ÇILDIR VE . RABZO . . .T ERZURUˉM EYAˉLETLERININ S¸EKLIDIR, ENGRAVED BY AH . MED EL-K.IRIˉMIˉ, 1145/1732. The map of the Cauca-

sus region from Dagestan to Erzurum in Kaˉtib Çelebi, Cihaˉnnümaˉ, printed by Müteferrik.a printing house. Size of the original: ca. 27.0 × 35.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Istanbul (Hamidiye 931, between 407–8).

Administrative Cartography

preparing his maps, Müteferrik.a always provided latitude and longitude values and most have scale and compass direction. Although he referred to multiple distance units such as Islamic, Italian, and French miles in the distance table, he generally set the scale to the French mile. Among the other units of measurement used by Müteferrik.a were the league and various time and stopping-points along the main routes. Features peculiar to Müteferrik.a were his use of symbols employing pictorial representation and his application of hand color and compasses to his maps. Müteferrik.a’s rich collection of maps and atlases included those brought from Paris by Yirmisekizçelebizaˉde Meh.med Saʿıˉd Efendi, the son of the Ottoman diplomat sent to France. These diverse sources undoubtedly included the works of Johannes Janssonius (Nouvel/ Novus atlas), the Blaeu family (Atlas maior), Nicolas  Sanson (Atlas nouveau), Andreas Cellarius (Atlas coelestis seu Harmonia macrocosmica), and the Homann family (Neuer Atlas). Two signatures appear on . . raˉfıˉ” the maps drafted by Müteferrik a—“I bra ˉ hı ˉ m el-Cog . . and “Ibraˉhıˉm-i T.ophaˉnevıˉ”—but unfortunately the great ˘ are unsigned. From inscriptions majority of his works one can assume that he was assisted by two draftsmen, . Ah.med el-K.ırıˉmıˉ and Mıg.ırdıc Galat.avıˉ. The arrival of Claude-Alexandre, comte de Bonneval, in Istanbul marked a significant moment in the process of Ottoman adoption of European cartographic practices. A former French army officer who submitted his service to the Ottoman Empire in 1729 and became known as Humbaracı Ah.med Pas¸a after converting to Islam, Bon˘ neval played a key role in the foundation of ʿUluˉfeli Humbaracı ocag˘ı (corps of bombardiers) in 1734–35, an ˘ institution that raised Ottoman awareness of contemporary European surveying techniques. There, students heard lectures on geometry, trigonometry, ballistics, and mechanical drawing. During the period of grand vizier Raˉg.ıb Pas¸a, the curriculum was extended to cover practical courses aimed at training students in cartographic surveying and mechanical drawing. The importance of ʿUluˉfeli Humbaracı ocag˘ı in Ottoman cartography was enhanced˘ by the engineering lectures of Saʿıˉd Efendi, who published four books on surveying. The imperial naval engineering school, Hendesehaˉne ˘ (later Mühendishaˉne), established in the imperial arse˘ nal at Kasımpas¸a in 1189/1775, lay at the heart of institutionalized cartographic training within the Ottoman Empire. At the college, French military experts such as André-Joseph Lafitte-Clavé and Joseph Gabriel Monnier de Courtois gave practical courses in the field using plane table and compass. In addition, at this time the same French engineers and their Ottoman pupils produced several maps, chiefly fortress plans (Lafitte-Clavé 2004). Seyyid ʿOsmaˉn, one of the cartography teachers at the college, later became the first instructor of the

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newly established mapmaking branch of the school; and the French engineer Parale was appointed his deputy. In 1210/1795, Mühendishaˉne-i Berrıˉ-i hümaˉyuˉn (imperial ˘ military [land] engineering school) was opened, where training focused primarily on drafting maps and plans of fortresses and fortifications. In the meantime, French officers such as François Kauffer and Achille Tondu continued to give cartography lessons, prepare military sketches, and supervise Ottoman cartographic draftsmen. Maps produced by these qualified cartographers were used by the sultans, since some administrative maps survive among the personal papers of Abdülh.amıˉd  I, drafted in response to his request. Similarly, Selıˉm III rewarded those who drafted fortress maps and plans. The following maps represent a period of transition for Ottoman cartography, by shifting the division of earth based on the climes to a view based on continents. One particular map of the northern regions up to latitude 40°, Memaˉlik-i ʿOsmaˉniyye’nin akt.aˉr-ı s¸imaˉliyyesi harıˉ.tası (Süleymaniye, Esad Efendi 2049) was printed ˘in 1790 by Yenaki I.spitar Boyar, a distinguished Ottoman-Greek voivod, but most likely not in the Ottoman capital. The manuscript annotations highly resemble the calligraphy of Ottoman-Greek bureaucrats. The map indicates political borders in eight colors, and from the seal on the edge of the map, it can be assumed that it belonged to Kauffer. A regional block-printed map of Europe, Asia, and Africa, with hand coloring and manuscript annotations (Istanbul, Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi, Haritalar Katalog˘u 18) was drafted by the Ottoman chargé d’affaires in Vienna, Konstantin Tipaldo; its scale and color date it to 1802; it was a translation of a map he obtained in Vienna. A manuscript map of Europe and Asia (Süleymaniye, Pertev Pas¸a 374) was translated by K.ule K.apılı Seyyid H . asan, an engineer in ʿUluˉfeli Humbaracı ocag˘ı. Drawn in color in the ˘ probably taken from a French map early 1800s, it was printed in St. Petersburg. His personal notes make clear that Seyyid H . asan copied the map using the very same scales of 150 miles and 50  hours. In addition to their elegant frames and delicate ornaments, these three maps share the characteristic of outlining in color the internal boundries between the Ottoman provinces. The Mühendishaˉne-i Berrıˉ-i hümaˉyuˉn press was ˘ founded in 1797 under the direction of Müderris ʿAbdurrah.maˉn Efendi. It housed a special printing press for the publication of maps. Four regional maps, of Asia, Europe, Africa, and the Americas, copied from the Atlas général (ca. 1740) of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, were duplicated there in 1797, after they had been translated and adapted by Mah.muˉd Raˉʾif Efendi. Portolan charts of the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, and the Sea of Marmara were also printed in 1801; but the printed versions of neither the first

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nor the third have yet been detected. When the press moved to Üsküdar, Müderris ʿAbdurrah.maˉn published the first atlas in Turkish, titled Cedıˉd at. las tercümesi (1218/1804–5). It was based on and largely copied from the General Atlas of William Faden, translated by Resmıˉ Mus.t.afaˉ Ag˘a, although one map was omitted. It was printed only in fifty copies and included twentyfour map plates in color that were adapted into Turkish by Ah.med Vaˉs.ıf Efendi and Yakovaki Efendi. The copperplates were engraved in Vienna and the maps were printed on a special Istanbul paper made from silk (fig. 37). Zimmıˉ Masis, Molla . asıˉb Dede, . ˉ Abdullaˉh, H Mollaˉ Ah.med, Mollaˉ Selıˉm, Ibraˉhıˉm, Mesʿuˉd, and the French draftsman Likar all worked on the preparation of these maps; Likar was officially appointed to draft maps at the Mühendish.aˉne-i Berrıˉ-i hümaˉyuˉn in 1800.

. . . Fig. 37. DEVLET-I . . ʿALI YYE’NI N ASYA T.ARAFINDA ˉ OLAN MEMALIKI (ASIAN TERRITORIES OF THE OTTOMAN STATE), ÜSKÜDAR MÜHENDISH AˉNE PRESS, 1218/ ˘ from the General 1803–4. From Cedıˉd at.las tercümesi, copied Atlas of William Faden, translated by Resmıˉ Mus.t.afaˉ Ag˘a, and published in Istanbul; the first atlas published in Turkish.

Administrative Cartography

As a supplement to the Cedıˉd at. las tercümesi, Mah.muˉd Raˉʾif Efendi prepared an Ottoman translation of Atlas . général of d’Anville titled ʿUcaˉletü’l-cograˉfya that was printed without maps. Following his death, the map collection of the reʾıˉsülküttaˉb (secretary of state) Ebuˉbekir Raˉtib Efendi, containing 630 items, bound and unbound, was taken to the Mühendishaˉne together with his full set of wooden ˘ plane tables (Beydilli 1995, 284–87). The engineering colleges with their presses remained the sole institutions capable of meeting the cartographic demands of the Ottoman administration as well as serving as training grounds for Ottoman cartographers until the early nineteenth century. The products of these Ottoman draftsmen, who were trained in contemporary surveying practices, is still being inventoried. Their full contribu-

Size of the original: ca. 54.0 × 71.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

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tion to Ottoman administration remains to be analyzed. Indeed, within the sphere of bureaucratic efforts, apart from the military endeavours launched by the central government, administrative maps for provinces and cities with indications of administrative boundaries barely existed. . F i k r et S a r icao g˘ lu

See also: Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the B i bliogra p hy Beydilli, Kemal. 1995. Türk bilim ve matbaacılık tarihinde Mühendishâne, Mühendishâne Matbaası ve Kütüphânesi (1776–1826). Esp. 59, 122, 146, 153–54, 170, 255, 284, 298, 303, 325, 358, 425, 427, 430, 457. Istanbul: Eren. Brentjes, Sonja. 2005. “Mapmaking in Ottoman Istanbul between 1650 and 1750: A Domain of Painters, Calligraphers, or Cartographers?” In Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West, 2 vols., ed. Colin Imber, Keiko Kiyotaki, and Rhoads Murphey, 2:125–56. London: I. B. Tauris. Ehrensvärd, Ulla, with contributions by Zygmunt Abrahamowitz. 1990. “Two Maps Printed by Ibrahim Müteferrika in 1724/25 and 1729/30.” Svenska Forskningsinstitutet i Istanbul Meddelanden 15:46–66. Hagen, Gottfried. 2015. Bir Osmanlı cog˘rafyacısı is¸bas¸ında Kâtib Çelebi’nin Cihânnümâ’sı ve düs¸ünce dünyası. Trans. Hilal Görgün. Esp. 297–309, 374–86. Istanbul: Küre. Halasi-Kun, G. J. 1986. “The Map of S¸ekl-i yeni felemenk maa ingiliz in Ebubekir Dımıs¸kî’s Tercüme-i Atlas mayor.” Archivum Ottomanicum 11:51–70. Kaçar, Mustafa. 1995–98. “Osmanlı imparatorlug˘u’nda askerî teknik eg˘itimde modernles¸me çalıs¸maları ve mühendishanelerin kurulus¸u (1808’e kadar).” In Osmanlı bilimi .aras¸tırmaları, ed. Feza Günergun, 2 vols., 2:69–137. Istanbul: Istanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi. Kut, Turgut, and Fatma Türe. 1996. Yazmadan basmaya: Müteferrika, Mühendishane, Üsküdar. Esp. 22–29, 79–87, 116–18. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Kültür Merkezi. Lafitte-Clavé, André-Joseph. 2004. Journal d’un officier français à Constantinople en 1784–1788. Ed. Dimitris Anoyatis-Pelé. Thessaloníki: University Studio Press. Özdemir, Kemal. 2008. Osmanlı Haritaları. Ed. Alpay Kabacalı. Esp. 185–215. Istanbul:. Avea-Creative Yayıncılık. Sabev, Orlin. 2006. Ibrahim Müteferrika ya da ilk Osmanlı matbaa serüveni (1726–1746): Yeniden deg˘erlendirme. Esp. 152–53, 160, 166, 188–89, 195, 218–21. Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayınevi. Sarıcaog˘lu, Fikret. 2004. “Pîrî Reîs’in Kitâb-i Bahriyye’sinin izinde Kâtib Çelebi’nin yeni bulunan eseri: Müntehab-ı Bahriyye.” Türklük Aras¸tırmaları Dergisi 15:7–57. ———. 2013. Kitâb-ı Cihânnümâ li-Kâtib Çelebi, vol. 2, Giris¸, Kâtib Çelebi ve Cihânnümâ—Dizin. Esp. 27–38, 46–56. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu. Sarıcaog ˘lu, Fikret, and Cos¸kun Yılmaz. 2008. Müteferrika: Basmacı . . Ibrahim Efendi ve Müteferrika Matbaası=Basmacı Ibrahim Efendi and the Müteferrika Press. Trans. Jane Louise Kandur. Esp. 155–77, 192–205, 209–33, 252–317. Istanbul: Esen Ofset. Soucek, Svat. 1992. “Islamic Charting in the Mediterranean.” In HC 2.1:263–92.

Administrative Cartography in Poland. The Polish-

Lithuanian Commonwealth lacked a strong central government, although it was one of the largest and most populous countries of Europe in the seventeenth and

early eighteenth centuries. Its kings were elected by the nobility and their power was always limited by the Sejm (parliament), which was dominated by the nobles. The highest-level administrative subdivisions, the voivodeships, enjoyed considerable autonomy, each with its own legislature. Consequently, many of the factors that encouraged comprehensive small- and medium-scale mapping for administrative purposes elsewhere in Europe were lacking in Poland, and such efforts were scattered and relatively ineffective. Within this rather diffuse situation, the Roman Catholic Church and its orders emerged as perhaps the most effective mapping agency within the Commonwealth. Individual Catholic orders were involved in cartography. The Franciscan Observants (Ordo Fratrum Minorum de Observatia, known in Poland as the Bernardines) prepared two maps of their provinces (Flaga 1991, 48–65). Both titled Alma provincia reformata SS. Antonij Padvani Maioris Poloniæ/Provincia reformata S. Mariæ Angelorvm Minoris Poloniæ, one was prepared in Biała Podlaska and printed in 1718 in Leipzig (copy in Warsaw, Biblioteka Narodowa, BN ZZK 7194); the other contained similar geographical content but was engraved on three copperplates by Samuel Donnet in Gdan´sk in 1720 (ca. 1:3,000,000). Another map of the same order was prepared in Augsburg by the engraver and publisher Tobias Conrad Lotter and published as Polonia seraphico-observans, juxta domicilia propriae & alienæ jurisdictionis geographicè delineata (not before 1753) (Alexandrowicz 2005, fig. 16). Other Polish orders that are known to have produced maps of their provinces are the Augustinian Friars, Friars Minor Capuchin, Carmelites, Trinitarians, and Jesuits (Rastawiecki 1846, 134–39). The most ambitious mapping project undertaken by the Latin Church in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was initiated in 1784 by the king’s brother, primate archbishop Michał Jerzy Poniatowski. The goal was no less than to collect materials usable for preparing a relatively large-scale map of the entire state. The parishes, being the smallest units of territory for Latin Church administration, made a logical starting point for gathering detailed topographic data. The core materials were manuscript descriptions of parishes written by parish priests in response to detailed questionnaires. Information was sought under nine headings: (1) names of villages and towns in the parish in alphabetic order, each described by distance and direction to the parish church; (2) distances and directions to all neighboring churches; (3) distances to neighboring market towns; (4) description of roads—their state (stony road, sandy road, etc.) and areas that they cross (forests, marshes, etc.); (5) hydrographic elements—rivers, marshes, ponds, bridges, dikes, dams, etc.; (6) mountains, ravines, etc.; (7) mills,

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sawmills, steelworks, glassworks, monuments, etc.; (8) public and private roads, road distances in miles between villages and other objects; and (9) Latin Church administration borders (Wernerowa 2003, 167–68; Buczek 1982, 104–5). From 1784 to 1788 the completed questionnaires were compiled into a dozen manuscript volumes comprising some 2,500 leaves and 2,278 sketch maps (Kiev, Vernadsky National Library of Ukraine; Wernerowa 2003, 165–92). Largely thanks to the work of Father Franciszek Salezy Czajkowski, a number of manuscript maps were produced using this data, although few survive (fig. 38) (Olszewicz 1932, nos. 187, 211, 213, 222, 223, 241; Buczek 1938). On the basis of all these materials, the royal geographer Charles (Herman Karol) de Perthées prepared detailed maps of several voivodeships at ca. 1:225,000: Poznan´, Kalisz, Brzes´c´ Kujawski

and Inowrocław, Płock and Dobrzyn´ land, Masovian, Podlachian, Łe˛czyca, Rawa, Kraków and the Duchy of Siewierz, Sandomierz, and Lublin (Olszewicz 1932, nos. 203, 215, 217, 224, 226, 252, 258, 261–63, 266). In the period 1792–1806, six of Perthées’s voivodeship maps were published in Paris or St. Petersburg. At the local level, plans of cities were generated by Komisje Brukowe (paving commissions, from 1659) and Boni Ordinis commissions (from 1765), bodies that were responsible for improvements to urban infrastructure and city planning. Together these commissions produced a number of urban maps for administrative purposes, but following the partitions at the end of the eighteenth century, city government passed into the hands of foreign powers.

Fig. 38. DETAIL FROM A MANUSCRIPT MAP OF THE SIERADZ VOIVODESHIP, CA. 1789, BY FRANCISZEK SALEZY CZAJKOWSKI. Scale ca. 1:185,000. Colors designate the boundaries of deaneries, dotted lines show diocesan boundaries. Numerous roads are shown, relief is indicated by

mole-hill symbols, and in some areas symbols indicate woods or swamps. Size of the entire original 58.5 × 83.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 30 × 42 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteka Narodowa, Warsaw (BN ZZK 12 993).

Lucyna Szaniaw ska See also: Poland

Administrative Cartography B i bliogra p hy Alexandrowicz, Stanisław, et al. 2005. Polonia: Atlas map z XVI– XVIII wieku. Map descriptions by Lucyna Szaniawska. Warsaw: Główny Urza˛d Geodezji i Kartografii. Buczek, Karol. 1938. “Czajkowski (Czaykowski) Franciszek Salezy (1742–1820).” In Polski słownik biograficzny, 4:152–53. Kraków: Nakładem Polskiej Akademii Umieje˛tnos´ci. ———. 1982. The History of Polish Cartography from the 15th to the 18th Century. Trans. Andrzej Potocki. Reprint with new intro., notes, and bibl. Amsterdam: Meridian Publishing. Flaga, Jerzy. 1991. Zakony me˛skie w Polsce w 1772 roku, vol. 2, pt. 1: Duszpasterstwo. Lublin: Towarzystwo Naukowe Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego. Olszewicz, Bolesław. 1932. Kartografja polska XVIII wieku (przegla˛d . chronologiczno-bibljograficzny). Lwów: Ksia˛znica-Atlas. Rastawiecki, Edward. 1846. Mappografia dawnej Polski. Warsaw: W Drukarni S. Orgelbranda. Wernerowa, Wiesława. 2003. “Ocena ‘ankiet parafialnych’ jako z´ródła wiedzy Karola Perthéesa o fizjografii Rzeczypospolitej przedrozbiorowej.” In Karol Perthées (1739–1815): Fizjograf pierwszej Rzeczy. pospolitej: Zycie oraz działalnos´c´ kartograficzna i entomologiczna, ed. Jerzy Pawłowski, 165–92. Warsaw: Retro-Art.

Administrative Cartography in Portugal. By the first half

of the eighteenth century, cartographic knowledge in Portugal had already helped model a territorial vision for the exercise of power. Up to 1662 there existed two printed maps of the whole territory (1561, 1662) that facilitated a unified vision of Portugal (Alegria et al. 2007, 109–41, 1044–45). Beginning in the seventeenth century, many military maps favored the idea that a linear border should delimit the territory of the kingdom. In addition, there existed regional maps showing settlements, relief, vegetation, hydrographic features, drainage systems, and coastal areas (Daveau and Galego 1995, 92–98). However, no maps precisely described the administrative divisions, nor was it customary to represent geographic information on maps for administrative purposes. Finally, no institutions centralized cartographic production, nor was it possible to engrave and print maps in Portugal. For these reasons, not surprisingly, the reformist governments of the eighteenth century had to invest significantly in the cartography of the territory, demanding resources very different from those that had served the passive central administration of the Antigo Regime. José I’s famous minister, Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal, transformed cartography into a technical instrument in the service of the state for the first time in Portugal. Under his direction, many maps were created to demarcate agricultural regions, plan communication routes, improve river navigation, and reform economic activities (Mendes 1982). Pombal’s ministry also supported the teaching of mathematics and astronomy, as well as welcoming foreign professors. These efforts explain, in part, the Enlightenment desire to produce cartographic, statistical, and demographic knowledge that characterized the subse-

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quent governments. Moved by this desire and by the example of the Cassinis’ work in France, Luís Pinto de Sousa Coutinho, minister of foreign affairs and war, ordered the execution of the general triangulation of the kingdom in 1788. He intended that this work would not only achieve scientific and military goals but also serve as a base for a “Carta geral do reino,” a general map of the kingdom. To that end a geodetic committee was established, presided over by Francisco António Ciera, professor at the Academia Real da Marinha. In 1798, the first Portuguese institution oriented toward cartographic production with administrative goals was founded, the Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica para o Desenho, Gravura e Impressão das Cartas Hidrográficas, Geográficas e Militares, a scientific and military agency charged with publishing the “Carta geral do reino” as well as printing and publishing military and hydrographic maps and elaborating Portugal’s geometric cadastre. This was the first state institution to direct geodetic work in Portugal, work precociously suspended in 1804 due to the shortage of financial and human resources and the political and military situation (wars with Spain, French invasions, and the transfer of the court to Brazil). The Sociedade was therefore limited to publishing the Carta dos principaes triangulos das operaçoens geodezicas de Portugal by Ciera (1803), and the completion of the “Carta geral do reino” was postponed until the following century (1856). However, the early triangulation work facilitated the appearance of very detailed terrestrial maps, such as the Carta topográfica militar do terreno da península de Setúbal by José Maria das Neves Costa (ca. 1813–15). In 1790, when the geodetic survey began, the reform of the administrative division of the kingdom was also ordered, inspired by the division of territory discussed in revolutionary France the year before, based on the geometric map of Mathias Robert de Hesseln, with new demarcations following an almost Cartesian geography (Nouvelle topographie ou Description détaillée de la France divisée par carrés uniformes, 1780). The aim of the reform was to rationalize the whole administrative grid, previously characterized by irregularity and geographical discontinuity. To accomplish this reform, juízes demarcantes (demarcation judges) were nominated in 1793 to produce both exhaustive statistics and elaborate exact maps for the final demarcation of each of the kingdom’s provinces. But this reform remained incomplete because the “Carta geral do reino” continued to be obstructed by political events. Without the general map, the juízes demarcantes could neither finalize their projects nor present scientific criteria as arguments against the vested interests of local power and ordinary Crown judges. These latter groups, acutely aware of impending reform, drew their own maps and plans to

Fig. 39. “MAPPA DA PROVINCIA D’ENTRE DOURO E MINHO,” BY VILAS BOAS, AFTER 1805. The colored lines indicate boundaries of local districts and the larger comarca to which they belong; the table at upper right provides data by each comarca, from the number of cities and parishes to

the number of clergy and adult men, and total populations of each. Manuscript. Size of the original: 131 × 98 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, Lisbon (D.94.R).

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support their demarcation proposals, turning their maps into true “rhetorical devices of persuasion” (Livingstone 1992, 29). Out of this process came one detailed and rigorous regional map, drawn by the commissioner of the province of Minho, Custódio José Gomes de Vilas Boas, a military graduate in mathematics: “Mappa da provincia d’Entre Douro e Minho levantado em 1794 e 1795, de par com as indagações economico-politicas; tudo para servir à regulação das comarcas da mesma provincia, e outros objectos de utillidade publica” (Map of the province of Entre Douro e Minho, completed in 1794 and 1795, informed by economic and political research; all to facilitate the regulation of the counties of the same province, and other objects of public use) (fig. 39). The title illustrates the relationship between administration and cartography engendered by Portuguese reformism in the late eighteenth century. A n a C r i st i n a N o g ueir a da S ilva See also: Geodetic Surveying: Portugal; Portugal B i bliogra p hy Alegria, Maria Fernanda, and João Carlos Garcia. 1991. “Etapas de evolução da cartografia portuguesa (séculos XV a XIX).” In La cartografia de la Península Ibèrica i la seva extensió al continent Americà, 225–79. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. Alegria, Maria Fernanda, et al. 2007. “Portuguese Cartography in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:975–1068. Branco, Rui Miguel C. 2003. O mapa de Portugal: Estado, território e poder no Portugal de oitocentos. Lisbon: Livros Horizonte. Daveau, Suzanne, and Júlia Galego. 1995. “Difusão e ensino da cartografia em Portugal.” In Os mapas em Portugal: Da tradição aos novos rumos da cartografia, ed. Maria Helena Dias, 85–123. Lisbon: Edições Cosmos. Livingstone, David N. 1992. The Geographical Tradition: Episodes in the History of a Contested Enterprise. Oxford: Blackwell. Mendes, H. Gabriel. 1982. “Introdução.” In Cartografia portuguesa do Marquês de Pombal a Filipe Folque, 1750–1900: O património histórico cartográfico do Instituto Geográfico e Cadastral, ed. H. Gabriel Mendes, unpaginated. Lisbon: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian. Moreira, Luís Miguel. 2011. O Alto Minho na obra do engenheiro militar Custódio José Gomes de Villasboas: Cartografia, geografia e história das populações em finais do século XVIII. Lisbon: Centro de Estudos Geográficos, Universidade de Lisboa. Silva, Ana Cristina Nogueira da. 1998. O modelo espacial do estado moderno: Reorganização territorial em Portugal nos finais do Antigo Regime. Lisbon: Editorial Estampa.

Administrative Cartography in Portuguese America. Ad-

ministrative cartography in Portugal’s American colonies was mostly performed and supervised from Portugal by the Portuguese Crown or the Conselho Ultramarino, which handled all Portuguese colonial policy. Two features characterized this activity: the impact of Portuguese colonization as it moved toward the central regions of the continent and technical changes to cartographic practice that began in the late seventeenth century.

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The discovery of gold in the southeastern and centralwest regions of Brazil, the Portuguese exploration of the Amazon basin, and the incessant disputes between the Spanish and the Portuguese over Colonia del Sacramento in the south all demanded better definition of both internal and external frontiers. Internal frontiers included divisions between captaincies, comarcas (a subdivision of captaincies originally of an ecclesiastical nature), bishoprics, and various other administrative divisions. External frontiers, by contrast, usually represented borders with Spanish American colonies. Up until this period, the border between the two Iberian monarchies had been based on the Treaty of Tordesillas, which had proposed a more or less imaginary dividing line 370 leagues to the west of an unspecified island in the Cape Verde archipelago. However, in 1720 the French geographer Guillaume Delisle read a treatise on the measurement of longitude before the Académie des sciences in which he offered a revised interpretation of the true position of the Tordesillas line, proposing new configurations of Portuguese and Spanish possessions in the Americas. Portuguese administrative authorities feared this argument would give Spain a scientific basis for its claims in America. Acting for King João V, Luís da Cunha, the Portuguese ambassador to France, even tried to stop Delisle from publishing his treatise by offering money, but to no avail (Furtado 2012, 307–8). Treaties following the War of the Spanish Succession—Utrecht (1713), Madrid (1721), and Cambrai (1720)—also had important repercussions for South America, including Colonia del Sacramento, which had until then been considered Portuguese territory. In the context of these major European diplomatic negotiations, in 1719 the Conselho Ultramarino began to encourage the production of maps of Brazil, initiatives that included sending the Jesuits Domenico Capassi and Diogo Soares, also known as the padres matemáticos, to Brazil in 1729 to undertake a major cartographic survey whose maps would be collected in the “Novo atlas da América portuguesa.” This period coincided with the reign of King João V, which saw a major change in the instructional methods for military engineers who surveyed the empire’s holdings. A more practical orientation, emphasizing technical uniformity and implementing a more schematic and universal language, was reflected in new technical manuals such as Manoel de Azevedo Fortes’s O engenheiro portuguez (1728–29). Jesuits were important surveyors of Brazil, like Jacobo Cocleo who drew the “Mapa da maior parte da costa, e sertão, do Brazil” (1699/1700)—the first to represent surveyed geographical information of the interior of Brazil (fig. 40). Many other surveyors were Portuguese military engineers, such as Tomás Robi de Barros Barreto, who mapped the southern and southeast coast of

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Fig. 40. JACOBO COCLEO, “MAPA DA MAIOR PARTE DA COSTA, E SERTÃO, DO BRAZIL,” 1699/1700.

Size of the original: 224 × 1205 cm. Photograph by Paulo Schettino. Permission courtesy of the Arquivo Histórico do Exército, Rio de Janeiro (n. 23–24.2798; CEH 1530).

Brazil. A third group contributed to the cartographic effort: intrepid expeditionaries known as bandeirantes, who traveled from São Paulo through the captaincies of Minas Gerais, Mato Grosso, and Goiás and produced maps recording routes and interior spaces throughout the colony. The Biblioteca Nacional in Rio de Janeiro holds an important collection of these so-called mapas de sertanistas. While Jesuits played an important role in this cartographic project, their objective focused on areas central to their missionary activities, such as the missions in the extreme south of Brazil and those in the Amazon basin, exemplified by Paraquariæ provinciæ Soc. Iesu (different versions of 1647, 1726, 1732 [see fig. 757]) and Father Samuel Fritz’s El gran Rio Marañon, o Amazonas con la mission de la Compañia de Iesvs (1707), respectively. In 1746, Alexandre de Gusmão, secretary to João V, ordered the “Descripçam do continente da America Meridional,” a consolidation of geographic knowledge of Brazil created under the supervision of the governor António Gomes Freire de Andrade in Brazil. This manuscript map was one of the sources for the so-called Mapa das Cortes (“Mapa dos confins do Brazil”), a manuscript produced from textual and cartographic sources under Gusmão’s direction in Portugal (see fig.  447). In 1749, two manuscript copies were made in Lisbon, called mapas primitivos (primitive maps); in 1751 six

more copies were made—three in Lisbon and three in Madrid—to be distributed to Luso-Hispanic boundary expeditions. The Mapa das Cortes was employed in the negotiations for the 1750 Treaty of Madrid, terms of which were based on the principle of uti possidetis, which posited that disputed land belonged to the power that had populated and colonized the territory and was in possession at the time of the treaty. Despite the renegotiation of these boundaries in the treaties of Pardo (1761) and Santo Ildefonso (1777), from 1750 onward Portuguese America began to acquire a form that very much resembles Brazil’s territorial configuration in the twenty-first century. The Luso-Hispanic boundary expeditions marked with previously unmatched precision the territorial divisions between the two Crowns and produced many cartographic documents, including those of the Portuguese cartographer António Pires da Silva Pontes Leme, who became a member of the demarcation commission, Comissão de Demarcação das Divisas entre os domínios Portugueses e Espanhóis in 1780. Under orders from the overseas secretary, Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho, Pontes Leme and Miguel António Ciera produced the “Carta geografica de projecção espherica da Nova Lusitania ou America portugueza e estado do Brazil” (1797) (Costa et al. 2004, 151; and see fig. 633). Administrative cartography was not limited to ques-

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tions involving external boundaries of Portuguese America. The colonization of Brazil also demanded the precise demarcation of administrative divisions between captaincies, comarcas, bishoprics, and towns, as well as the accurate representation of rivers and routes that penetrated into the interior. For example, between 1778 and 1800, the military engineer José Joaquim da Rocha produced various maps that portrayed the captaincy of Minas Gerais either in part or whole. Rivers attracted cartographic attention, since they represented routes of territorial penetration as well as natural dividing lines for internal frontiers, the most prominent being the Maranhão, Amazon, and Tocantins in the north; the São Francisco, Doce, and Tietê in the southeast; and the Plata, Grande, Uruguay, and Iguaçu in the south. Guarding the coast against intruders also required mapping Brazil’s ports, islands, inlets, and fortifications. Jacinto José Paganino’s vast mapping project of 1784, the Roteiro occidental para a navegação da costa, e portos do Brasil, fits within this context and presents an overview of Brazilian coastal features. J ú n i a F e r r eir a Furtad o See also: Portuguese America B i bliogra p hy Almeida, André Ferrand de. 1999. “Os jesuítas matemáticos e os mapas da América portuguesa (1720–1748).” Oceanos 40:79–92. ———. 2001. A formação do espaço brasileiro e o projecto do Novo atlas da América portuguesa (1713–1748). Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemoraçãos dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Bueno, Beatriz Piccolotto Siqueira. 2011. Desenho e desígnio: O Brasil dos engenheiros militares (1500–1822). São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo. Cortesão, Jaime. 1965–71. História do Brasil nos velhos mapas. 2 vols. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério das Relações Exteriores, Instituto Rio Branco. ———. 1984. Alexandre de Gusmão e o Tratado de Madrid. 4 vols. Lisbon: Livros Horizonte. Costa, Antônio Gilberto, et al. 2004. Cartografia da conquista do território das Minas. Ed. Antônio Gilberto Costa. Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG; Lisbon: Kapa Editorial. Ferreira, Mário Olímpio Clemente. 2001. O Tratado de Madrid e o Brasil meridional: Os trabalhos demarcadores das partidas do Sul e a sua produção cartográfica (1749–1761). Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Furtado, Júnia Ferreira. 2012. Oráculos da geografia iluminista: Dom Luís da Cunha e Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville na construção da cartografia do Brasil. Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG. ———. 2013. The Map that Invented Brazil. Trans. Flora ThomsonDeVeaux. São Paulo: Odebrecht; Rio de Janeiro: Versal. Garcia, João Carlos, ed. 2001. A Nova Lusitânia: Imagens cartográficas do Brasil nas colecções da Biblioteca Nacional (1700–1822): Catálogo. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses.

Administrative Cartography in Russia. The high point in Russian administrative cartography before the reforms of Peter I in the early 1700s centered on the work of the talented scholar Seme¨n Ul’yanovich Remezov, whose general and regional maps provided the first de-

tailed geographical, historical, and cartographic descriptions of Siberia. Remezov compiled three collections of maps and chertëzhi (geographical drawings): the “Cherte¨zhnaya kniga sibiri” (1699–1701), the “Khorograficheskaya cherte¨zhnaya kniga” (1697–1711), and the “Sluzhebnaya cherte¨zhnaya kniga” (1702–30), the latter completed posthumously. All three atlases were compiled in manuscript. Under the Boyar Resolution of 1696, one of the earliest government directives for Russian mapmaking (I Polnyy suod zakonov [PSZ] Rossiyskoy imperii, tom 3, no. 1532; Polnoye sobraniye 1830, 3:217), Remezov was assigned to produce the most celebrated of the three, the “Cherte¨zhnaya kniga sibiri.” A systematic program of government-led geographical exploration and mapping began after Peter I proclaimed the Russian Empire in 1721. Peter I’s General’nyy reglament (1720) included a chapter on land maps and national drawings, in which he asked every government department to have on hand general and particular land maps or chertëzhi of boundaries, rivers, cities, towns, villages, churches, forests, and so forth (PSZ, tom 6, no.  3534; Polnoye sobraniye 1830, 6:157). From this point forward, many maps were linked to specific national initiatives. The rapid development of commerce and industry under Peter I put Russian cartography to new uses. Everywhere the old techniques were inadequate to accomplish the new tasks. Maps had the potential to become engineering documents with precisely defined metric properties. Traditional Russian mapmakers lacked not only survey and cartographic expertise, but knowledge of mathematics as well. The need for organized scientific training was apparent. In line with European reforms, Peter I created new institutions for specialized training. After the short-lived Shkola tsifiri i zemlemeriya, a school of arithmetic and land measuring that burned down in 1699, the first systematic training for surveyors (geodesists) began at the school of mathematics and navigation, Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola, founded by Peter I in Moscow in 1701. After 1715, this training relocated to St. Petersburg’s Morskaya akademiya, the naval academy founded the same year. Before it closed in 1752, the Morskaya akademiya trained most of the Russians skilled in surveying, cartography, and geodesy during the first half of the eighteenth century. Among its varied course offerings, the Moscow school offered classes in trigonometry (linear and spherical), navigation (planar and Mercator or chart navigation, circle navigation, and great-circle arc navigation), keeping a ship’s log, practical astronomy, elementary surveying, and geography (Sergeyev 1954). The chief instructors were Henry Farquharson and Stephen Gwyn, who were recruited by Peter I from Britain. Leontiy Filip-

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povich Magnitskiy, a prominent Russian mathematician, taught geometry and trigonometry and assisted Yakov Vilimovich Bryus in astronomy and geodesy. Not all graduates sought employment in cartography; the Moscow school was the first specialized institution of higher education in Russia producing for all economic sectors of the rapidly developing nation. The Russian navy, whose officers performed many topographical tasks, was one of the main employers of surveyors. Maps were required for countless other administrative purposes: building dams and canals, locating mineral deposits and timber forests, and expanding fortifications and lines of communication. In these diverse undertakings, the majority of skilled labor had received the same training under the same instructors at the same two schools—the Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola and the Morskaya akademiya. Consequently, early modern Russian mapmakers often held similar opinions concerning the purpose of cartographic activities and how to conduct them. At the beginning of Peter I’s reign, administrative surveys often synthesized older reconnaissance methods with scientific methods then current in Western Europe. One early set of official instructions in manuscript, “Punkty kakim obrazom sochinyat’ landkarty,” called for surveyors to plot one instrument course per district. An iron “measuring chain 10 or 30 sazhens long” (one sazhen = 2.134 m) was to be used to measure lines, while astrolabes with diopter sights measured the compass points of course lines. The instructions also called on surveyors to determine the distances between villages by making inquiries “according to descriptions by the inhabitants,” along the instrument course (Moscow, Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy arkhiv drevnikh aktov, f. 248, stol. 14, stlb. 1201, stolpik 53; O geodezistakh). Distances determined in this way, when compared with those measured by the chains, yielded a corrective factor to the distances measured off of by description alone. The instructions called for the extensive use of intersections to determine positions. Latitudes on the intersections of roads with district boundaries served as an additional control. In practice, however, latitude measurements were usually taken only in provincial capitals. By the 1730s and 1740s Russian surveyors were operating under more scientific guidelines. They were determining their latitude from observations of meridian solar elevation and their longitude from calculations of the distances and differences in the latitudes of individual points. These control procedures made it possible to combine maps of different territories (special maps) to generate maps of the major regions of the country (particular maps) and the empire as a whole (general maps). The emergence of this scientific and technical orienta-

Administrative Cartography

tion, already prized in Europe, allowed Russian cartographic works to enter the atlases and compilations of major European scholars of the period. By the 1750s, all aspects of Russian field cartography (organizational, technical, and personnel) had become integrated into state service. From Peter I’s reign onward, the senate was largely responsible for the organizational and technical supervision of mapmaking; prominent Russian officials Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov and Vasiliy Nikitich Tatishchev played a major role in drafting the instructions and programs for surveys. At the Akademiya nauk in St. Petersburg, Joseph-Nicolas Delisle, Leonhard Euler, and Andrey Dmitriyevich Krasil’nikov developed mathematical frameworks for determining geographical coordinates and devising cartographic projections. Surviving handwritten maps from the first half of the eighteenth century show us how much of Russia was surveyed during the period. In 1727, Russia consisted of 285 uyezds (administrative districts); by the 1740s the number had increased to 298. Geodesists mapped at least 241 uyezds, or about 81 percent of the total. Such surveys, maps, and geographical descriptions provided abundant material for making atlases and general maps of Russia in the 1730s and 1740s. Yet a completely new astronomic and geodetic foundation was needed before those maps could be united into a single national picture (Goldenberg and Postnikov 1996, 36). The key figure in this transition was Joseph-Nicolas Delisle. The gifted French astronomer arrived in St.  Petersburg in 1726 to oversee astronomic, geographic, and cartographic work at the Akademiya nauk. His role in Russian cartography has been much debated. Some attribute to him a new era in Russian mapmaking. Others accuse him of two decades of excuses and delays in compiling the Akademiya nauk’s Atlas Rossiyskoy. Delisle spent fifteen years drafting numerous training and management proposals and a cumbersome program attempting to combine astronomic, geodetic, and cartographic work. These proposals undoubtedly had important theoretical and methodological value, but they bore little relation to the actual situation on the ground. An enormous, almost entirely unmapped country lay waiting. Delisle wanted to implement a triangulation network like the one developed by the Cassinis in France as the basis for putting together individual field surveys. But triangulation was impractical, requiring too much time and effort. As Delisle’s colleague at the Akademiya nauk, Euler, expressed it: “Surely it would be possible to draw perfect maps if the whole of the Russian Empire was triangulated. But any rational man, realizing that such an undertaking could not be carried out in fifty years, would agree that the published maps are better than none at all” (Materialy dlya istorii 1895, 8:501). Delisle’s and other European classic notions of

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Fig. 41. SEMËN LUKIN, METHODS OF RELIEF DEPICTION, [179–]. From Lukin’s basic study in mapmaking, Nachal’noye osnovaniye situatsii, zaklyuchayushcheye v sebe vse, chto izobrazhaetsya na topograficheskikh, chastnykh kartakh i voennykh planakh v pol’zu uprazhnyayushchikhsya v sey nauke (Moscow), table  V, showing the different methods of

relief depiction practiced by the Russian military at the end of the eighteenth century, as maps were prepared for the war ministry. Size of the original: 16 × 23 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Cartographical Department, Code No. Ko 108/IX-40).

geodesy and cartography were accepted in theory and education, but most would not be used in Russian surveying until the late eighteenth century and mainly by military topographers. As in other European countries, triangulation would become the main method of geodetic control in Russia in the nineteenth century. The most impressive results of Petrine surveying were Kirilov’s maps and the Atlas Rossiyskoy, which finally appeared in 1745. Kirilov began his grand project to publish an atlas and a general map of the Russian Empire at the height of senate surveying and just as Delisle appeared on the scene. Originally intended to comprise three volumes, each with 120 printed maps, the Atlas vserossiyskoy imperii was overambitious in scope. Only thirty-seven maps were published, twenty-eight of which have survived. Kirilov published them in sets in 1731, 1732, and 1734, but no others appeared, and the grand atlas was never completed. Four copies of these

sets of maps, known as the Kirilov atlases, along with eleven separate sheets, have survived. The Atlas Rossiyskoy, published by the Akademiya nauk, was Delisle’s crowning achievement before returning to Paris in 1747. Certainly it provided a more complete picture of the whole country than Kirilov’s maps had, but it had flaws. Many of its shortcomings resulted from the Russian government’s policy of secrecy regarding geographical discoveries such as those of the Kamchatka Expeditions. Moreover, there was not at that time in Russia any central general map storage institution comparable to the Dépôt des cartes in France. Not until the next large-scale survey and cartographic effort, the General’noye mezhevaniye, which began under Catherine II in 1765, did the coordination the Russians had long sought come into being. Further cartographic efforts manifest in the Petrine reforms were the changes to the military hierarchy and

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training institutions. An army charter of 1716 established a special officer, the quartermaster general, who was responsible for compiling maps of battles and for planning military campaigns. The Shlyakhetnyy kadetskiy korpus, an aristocratic cadet corps founded in 1731, became a center of cartographic education with a curriculum that emphasized topographical map training for infantry officers. The needs of the state were met in 1763 with the creation of a general staff that compiled maps for the war department, Voennaya kollegiya. By the 1760s and 1770s, the general staff was producing teaching materials for training staff members (fig. 41), including a text on practical geometry by Stepan Ivanovich Nazarov (1761) and standardized keys for symbols (Postnikov 1996, 46–48). Administrative cartography in Russia, at least during the first half of the century, had as its main goal the compilation of a general map (or atlas) based on reconnaissance surveys with inadequate geodetic controls, consisting mainly of astronomically determined coordinates of latitude. As a result of these surveys, a mass of cartographic and descriptive materials were collected, which survived mainly in manuscripts and are reflected in a number of printed maps and two main atlases of the country by Kirilov and the Akademiya nauk. This was a transitional period between the traditional Russian practice of chertëzhi and surveys and mapmaking according to the European scientific practices of mathematical geography. A l e x ey V . Po s tnikov See also: Delisle Family; Euler, Leonhard; Kirilov, Ivan Kirilovich; Russia; Tatishchev, Vasiliy Nikitich Bibliograp hy Fel’, S. Ye. 1960. Kartografiya Rossii XVIII veka. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Geodezicheskoy Literatury. Gnucheva, V. F. 1946. Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka. Ed. A. I. Andreyev. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Goldenberg, L. A., and Alexey V. Postnikov. 1990. Petrovskiye geodezisty i pervyy pechatnyy plan Moskvy. Moscow: “Nedra.” Kokkonen, Pellervo. 1992. “Map Printing in Early Eighteenth-Century Russia.” Fennia 170:1–24. Materialy dlya istorii Akademii nauk, 1746–47. 1895. Vol. 8. St. Petersburg: Tipografiya Imperatorskoy Akademii Nauk. Nazarov, Stepan. 1761. “Prakticheskaya geometriya, sochinennaya pri Sukhoputnom Shlyakhetnom kadetskom korpuse.” Moscow, Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy voenno-istoricheskiy arkhiv, Fond Voennouchenogo arkhiva No 17862, Kartograficheskiy otdel 108/IX-40. Novlyanskaya, M. G. 1964. Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov, geograf XVIII veka. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Polnoye sobraniye zakonov’ Rossiyskoy Imperii, C 1649 goda. 1830. Vols. 3 and 6. N.p.: Tipografii II Otdeleniya Sobstvennoy ego Imperatorskago Velichestva Kantselyarii. Postnikov, Alexey V. 1989. Razvitiye krupnomasshtabnoy kartografii v Rossii. Moscow: “Nauka.” ———. 1996. Russia in Maps: A History of the Geographical Study and Cartography of the Country. Moscow: Nash Dom–L’Age d’Homme.

———. 2000a. “Outline of the History of Russian Cartography.” In Regions: A Prism to View the Slavic-Eurasian World: Towards a Discipline of “Regionology,” ed. Kimitaka Matsuzato, 1–49. Sapporo: Slavic Research Center, Hokkaido University. ———. 2000b. “The Russian Navy as Chartmaker in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 52:79–95. Potter, Simon R. 1988. “Essence of Eighteenth-Century Russian Cartography.” Osaka Gakuin Daikagu Tsushin 19, no. 3:35–68. Sergeyev, V. K. 1954. “Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola.” Voprosy Geografii 34:150–60.

Administrative Cartography in Spain. Throughout the

eighteenth century, administrative cartography developed in Spain in three distinct areas: large-scale local cartography of parcels, plots, and fields (cadastres, hydraulic works, and irrigation canals); maps of administrative boundaries (bishoprics, provinces, judicial counties, and municipal districts); and maps of frontiers. From 1714, the reform-minded Bourbon monarchy created diverse cadastres that evolved into large-scale local cartography. The Spanish Crown initially obtained cadastral information for the territories of the old Crown of Aragon, precisely those political forces that had opposed the installation of the Bourbon dynasty. The cadastre of Catalonia began in 1715 under the supervision of the intendente José Patiño (Catastro de Patiño). Although most preserved documentation on Catalonia lacks plans of parcels, some municipalities, such as Solsona, were the subject of large-scale mapping. In order to expedite mapping, in 1728 the Spanish Crown created a Cuerpo de Geómetras, which combined two kinds of specialists: the geómetras (geometrists) and the expertos (experts) (Burgueño 2009). Although cadastres were created for the remaining territories of the old Crown of Aragon, current historical research has not revealed whether they included plans of parcels. In 1749, Zenón de Somodevilla y Bengoechea, marqués de la Ensenada, began production of two cadastres for the Crown of Castile: the Única Contribución and the Planimetría General de Madrid. The former, also known as the Catastro de Ensenada, affected all the territories of the old Crown of Castile, with the exception of the forales (counties with their own distinct fiscal and administrative rights) of Navarre and Basque Country. Work was interrupted in 1754 following Ensenada’s fall from power. Nonetheless, between 1749 and 1754 information on nearly 15,000 municipalities of the Crown of Castile had been compiled for fiscal purposes, although reform of the tax code was not completely achieved. The quality of the resulting cadastral plans varied substantially among provinces, from carefully measured municipal boundaries to schematic drafts (Camarero Bullón 2007). Ensenada’s second cadastral effort beginning in 1749 had greater success. Having decided to reform the local tax (the regalía de aposento, or right of lodging, imple-

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mented by Felipe II for Madrid, 1561), Ensenada commissioned a group of architects, including Nicolás de Churriguera and Ventura Padierne, to inspect all houses in Madrid between 1750 and 1751. The visita general resulted in 567 parcel plans at ca. 1:300. The same architects created the official Planimetría General de Madrid between 1757 and 1762, including a new group of parcel plans at different scales, in six volumes, accompanied by the manuscript “Libro registro de las casas de Madrid” (also in six volumes). Its accuracy ensured that the Planimetría General de Madrid was the best collection of parcel plans of eighteenth-century Spain. The organization of this survey was based on the Topographia de la villa de Madrid (1656) by Pedro Teixeira Albernaz at ca. 1:1,840. The blocks of buildings drawn in this old plan were used to organize the Planimetría General such that each block of buildings (manzana) corresponded to one parcel plan (557 manzanas total) (Camarero Bullón 1989). During the second half of the eighteenth century, many state-sponsored hydraulic works required largescale cartography. The “Plano topográfico de la Albufera de Valencia” (ca. 1:36,304), initially attributed to Joan Baptista Romero, but which was made by an unknown cartographer after 1780, exemplifies such a land-measuring project by Valencian land surveyors (Faus Prieto 1995, 90–96; Sanchis Ibor 2001, 24). The “Plano ignographico: Que figura el ambíto del Estanque de Castellón según su actual estado” (1763) by Josep Ribas demonstrates similar hydraulic activity in Catalonia. The preparation of this map was ordered by the cathedral chapter of Girona Cathedral to resolve a land dispute with the Benedictine monastery of Sant Pere de Rodes (Ribas i Torres 2001, 64–72); the maps are now stored in the archive of Girona Cathedral. In fact, the Catholic Church was another administrative body reliant on maps, using them to reinforce ecclesiastical boundaries, to resolve disputes over those boundaries, and to show the territorial power of the bishop. Between 1662 and 1797 at least thirty-two different maps of twenty-six bishoprics were produced by private surveyors. A series of six maps corresponding to the bishoprics of Barbastro, Huesca, Jaca, Tarazona, Teruel, and Zaragoza were published for the first time in the 1662–65 Latin edition of the Atlas maior of Joan Blaeu, who used rich geographical information from the Descripcion del Reino de Aragon (ca. 1:276,000) published in 1619 by the Portuguese cartographer João Baptista Lavanha. The publication of these maps was exceptional in the panorama of Spanish cartography at that time, drawing their basic content from Lavanha’s Aragon map (Hernando 1996, 69–70). The Toletvm hispanici orbis vrbs, augusta, a map of the archbishopric of Toledo (ca. 1:592,000), was published in 1681 by order

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of the cardinal Luis Manuel Fernández de Portocarrero, head of the Spanish Catholic Church and chief of the Castilian party that established the dynasty of the Bourbons in Spain in 1700. After a long lull in production of ecclesiastical cartography, historian and Augustine friar Enrique Flórez de Setién published his magnum opus, España sagrada: Theatro geographico-historico de la Iglesia de España (27  vols., 1747–72). Tomás López engraved maps of several bishoprics for this work from the designs of various cartographers, including royal archivist Francisco Xavier de Garma y Durán (Mapa del Obispado de Barcelona, ca. 1:290,000) and geographer José Cornide de Folgueira y Saavedra, who supplied maps of the bishoprics of Orense (1763) and Mondoñedo (1764). López prepared and engraved a map of Toledo (fig. 42) produced from the information gleaned from geographical questionnaires (Jiménez de Gregorio 1966). Another sort of ecclesiastical map was the parish plan. In the archive of the Barcelona bishopric are plans of the parish of Sant Genís de Vilassar (1777), Santa Maria de Foix, and Santa Maria de Lavit, made during the eighteenth century. The plans were prepared chiefly by order of Barcelona’s bishop to resolve disputes within one parish over moving or preserving the location of the parochial church or to maintain the independence of the parish (Puigvert i Solà 2001, 40–41). A diverse and complex state territorial administration required specific cartography of regional territories. Tomás López prepared most of the maps of the provinces derived from the old kingdoms of Castile and Aragon and the Basque fiefdoms. Between 1765 and 1786, López engraved and printed maps of the eighteen provinces at several scales, and he authored sixteen maps of partidos judiciales (judicial boundaries) between 1784 and 1794. In contrast to Castile and Aragon, the corregimientos (counties) of 1716 in Catalonia were the basis of territorial organization in the later eighteenth century. Oleguer Taverner i d’Ardena, comte de Darnius, compiled maps of several corregimientos between 1716 and 1726 (fig. 43) (Montaner 2007) as did Josep Agustoni (“Mapa del corregimiento de Cervera, principado de Cataluña,” ca. 1:458,000, 1793). Agustoni used the maps of Catalonia of Josep Aparici and Tomás López as sources for his map, which was ordered by the chief of the corregimiento, Jaime Doile y Gueran, to enhance political control of the territory and for use by the court of justice and for fiscal purposes (Burgueño 2001, 402–3). In general, municipal lawsuits or jurisdictional disputes of the landed gentry generated the plans of municipal boundaries, for example, the anonymous “Plano en que consiste el término de Almacellas con sus confrontasiones” (1690) and, most notably, the Huerta, y contribución particular de la ciudad de Valencia (1695,

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Fig. 42. MAPA GEOGRÁFICO DEL ARZOBISPADO DE TOLEDO, TOMÁS LÓPEZ, MADRID, 1792. One map in four sheets engraved by López, ca. 1:530,000. An example of administrative cartography employed by the church, this map was produced with information gleaned from the geographical questionnaires that went to all parishes of the diocese of

Toledo in 1782 on the order of cardinal Francisco Antonio de Lorenzana, archbishop of Toledo. Size of the entire original: 77 × 80 cm; size of each sheet: 38.5 × 40.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid (GM. Mr/2).

ca. 1:23,800) by the Jesuit Francisco Antonio Cassaus, engraved by Ascensio Duarte, which is one of the first Spanish maps to show municipal boundaries of one borough resulting from the organized marking of boundaries. In the eighteenth century, the mathematician Antonio Bordázar de Artazu surveyed the municipal boundaries of the city of Valencia, known from the

Middle Ages as the Particular Contribución, between 1735 and 1743; the land surveyor José Rispo continued the work in 1765 (Faus Prieto 2009). This early survey was made by order of the municipal council of Valencia as consequence of the equivalente, or Valencian cadastre, established in 1714 by the Bourbon monarchy. It aimed to resolve the territorial disputes arising among

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the municipal council of Valence, the royal authorities, and individuals, which resulted from the new fiscal duties imposed by the Bourbon regime (Faus Prieto 1995, 72–81). On the other hand, a court battle between the municipality of Vilanova i la Geltrú and the municipality of Cubelles for grazing rights and municipal boundaries, resulted in the “Plano del término de Villanueva y

Cubellas exactamente levantado en que se hallan en su devida situación los pueblos,” prepared before 1767 by an anonymous cartographer (Burgueño and Mercè Gras 2014, 53–55). Toward the end of the eighteenth century, the Spanish state focused on mapping the national frontiers. Created in 1784, the Comisión Hispano-Francesa de Límites, also

Fig. 43. “CORREGIMIENTO DE BARCELONA” [1716–20], MANUSCRIPT BY OLEGUER TAVERNER I D’ARDENA, COMTE DE DARNIUS. The corregimientos of 1716 in Catalonia were the basis of territorial organization in the later eighteenth century.

Size of the original: 19 × 19 cm. Image courtesy of the Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya, Barcelona (RM.250106).

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known as the Caro-d’Ornano Commission, was charged with mapping the border with France along the Pyrenees, among other tasks. Mariscal de campo Ventura Caro presided over the Spanish commission, which collaborated with the French commission to produce the multisheet “Mapa topografico de los Montes Pirineos” (ca. 1:14,000) between 1786 and 1791 (see fig. 123) (García Álvarez and Puyo 2015, 9–11). Boundary surveying also took place along the long frontier between Spain and Portugal, with whom Spain maintained very tense relations throughout the eighteenth century. The “Mapa o carta geografica de la línea de demarcación que divide los Reynos de España y Portugal,” ca. 1:428,000, by military engineer Antonio de Gaver, illustrated his general reconnaissance of the Hispano-Portuguese boundary in 1750, known from the copy made by Cayetano Zappino in 1797. Throughout the eighteenth century the new Spanish Bourbons undertook several projects to improve and modernize the administrative cartography of Spain. This policy of modernization began with the establishment in 1715 of the cadastre in the lands of the old Crown of Aragon, producing a few interesting cadastral plans of Catalonia. When Ensenada became head of the Spanish government, he ordered the general cadastre for the old Crown lands of Castille in 1749, as well as the completion of a cadastre of wealthy Madrid, the Planimetría General de Madrid. Despite these beginnings, the effort to create a general map of Spain similar to the Cassini map of France failed. The prolific cartographical contributions of the mapmaker Tomás López filled, in part, the cartographic lacunae resulting from this failure. Fr a n ces c Nadal See also: López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás; Spain Bibliograp hy Arroyo Berrones, Enrique R. 2003. “La actuación en Ayamonte de D.  Antonio de Gaver, ingeniero en jefe destinado por S.M. para levantar el mapa de España por la frontera entre Andalucía y Portugal.” In Milicia y sociedad ilustrada en España y América (1750– 1800), 2 vols. 2:299–312. Madrid: Editorial Deimos. Barella i Miró, Albert. 1997. “Un mapa singular: El del Bisbat de Barcelona de Francisco Xavier de Garma (1762).” Treballs de la Societat Catalana de Geografia 44:13–33. Burgueño, Jesús, ed. 2001. Atles de les viles, ciutats i territoris de Lleida. [Lleida]: Diputació de Lleida, Col·legi d’Arquitectes de Catalunya. ———. 2009. “Els geòmetres del cadastre de Catalunya (1720–1815).” Cuadernos de Geografía 86:261–88. Burgueño, Jesús, and M. Mercè Gras. 2014. Atles de la Catalunya Senyorial: Els ens locals en el canvi de règim (1800–1860). Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic i Geològic de Catalunya. Camarero Bullón, Concepción. 1989. “La Planimetría General de Madrid en el contexto de las políticas de conocimiento del espacio y de reforma fiscal.” In Estudios en torno a la Planimetría General de Madrid, 1749/1770, by Antonio López Gómez, Concepción Camarero Bullón, and Francisco J. Marín Perellón, 41–80. Madrid: Ediciones Tabapress. ———. 2007. “La cartografía de los catastros españoles del siglo XVIII.” In La cartografia cadastral a Espanya (segles XVIII–XX),

ed. Carme Montaner, Francesc Nadal, and Luis Urteaga, 21–37. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. Faus Prieto, Alfredo. 1995. Mapistes: Cartografia i agrimensura a la València del segle XVIII. Valencia: Edicions Alfons el Magnànim. ———. 2009. “El plano de la Particular Contribución de Valencia de Francisco Antonio Cassaus (1695) y sus corolarios del siglo XVIII.” Cuadernos de Geografía 86:219–40. García Álvarez, Jacobo, and Jean-Yves Puyo. 2015. “La aportación geográfica y cartográfica de las Comisiones de Límites luso-francoespañolas (siglos XVIII y XIX).” Terra Brasilis, n.s. 6:1–20. Online publication. Hernando, Agustín. 1996. La imagen de un país: Juan Bautista Labaña y su mapa de Aragón (1610–1620). Zaragoza: Institución “Fernando el Católico.” Jiménez de Gregorio, Fernando. 1966. “Fuente para el conocimiento histórico-geográfico de algunos pueblos de la provincia de Madrid en el último cuarto del siglo XVIII.” Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños 1:263–77. Montaner, Carme. 2007. “Els mapes setcentistes de Catalunya del comte de Darnius.” Mètode: Revista de Difusió de la Investigatió de la Universitat de Valencia 53:105–13. Puigvert i Solà, Joaquim M. 2001. Església, territori i sociabilitat als segles XVI–XIX. Vic: Eumo. Ribas i Torres, Pasqual. 2001. Atles de Castelló d’Empúries: Segles XVII al XIX. [Castelló d’Empúries]: Ajuntament de Castelló d’Empúries. Sanchis Ibor, Carles. 2001. Regadiu i canvi ambiental a l’albufera de València. Valencia: Universitat de València.

Administrative Cartography in Spanish America. During

the last decades of Habsburg rule (1650–1700) and under the Bourbon dynasty (1700–), the Spanish Crown sought to rationalize and render uniform its institutions and methods of government, to improve defenses against encroaching European empires, and to raise revenues. This agenda increased demand for, creation of, and reliance on maps as tools to represent and communicate knowledge about Spanish America by and to royal officials on both sides of the Atlantic. Administrators relied increasingly on maps to divide secular and religious jurisdictions, represent major crops, resolve territorial disputes, and implement fiscal policies. To acquire information presented in maps, Crown agents relied on traditional administrative practices—in particular officials’ mandated visitas of their military, civil, and ecclesiastic jurisdictions and production of relaciones geográficas, reports detailing geographic, demographic, economic, political, ecclesiastic, and other information. However, they increasingly demanded maps by mapmakers trained in mathematics and surveying. European-born scientists, military engineers, ship pilots, and Jesuit missionaries were the most prolific of Spanish America’s cartographers, while a growing number of Spanish American (Creole) savants could and did execute maps of private land and protonational spaces. Topographic maps highlighting disputed public and private estates, internal city districts, fortifications, roads, postal routes, coastal profiles, and hydrographic soundings constitute most of this cartographic repertoire.

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Until the late eighteenth century, most administrative maps were created and distributed in manuscript form, often as part of extensive court cases or reports that relied as much on oral testimony and descriptions of site visits (visitas de ojos) as on graphic representation. Reflecting Spanish categories, these were topographic or iconographic maps depicting a single jurisdiction (such as a city, parish, province, or kingdom) or relating to defense (plans of coasts, roads, waterways, or fortresses) or settlement (new missions, frontier areas); they differed from chorographic maps showing a país or region or general maps of more extensive terrain (López 1775–83, 1:5–6). Maps meant for daily use or imperial decision making ranged from building plans and schematic diagrams to painted drawings to technically sophisticated

topographic maps. Increased mapping by state agents helped the Spanish Bourbons plan reforms and “enabled the imagination of a different reality, more orderly than that existing, and that sometimes the viceregal administration succeeded in modifying” (León García 2009, 445–46) (fig. 44).

Fig. 44. FRANCISCO JACOT, “PLANO QVE MANIFIESTA EL PROYECTO DEL CAMINO DE LA GVAYRA,” 1795. Manuscript, scale of 5,000 varas castellanas = 13.7 cm (ca. 1:30,732). The plan to open a road into Venezuela was sub-

mitted with a letter from the Consulado de Caracas, 12 May 1795. Image courtesy of España, Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de Indias, Seville (MP, Venezuela, 235).

In the sixteenth century, the Crown learned about its American territories by sending royal officials on visitas, or inspection tours. The eighteenth-century increase in administrative cartography began with scientific expeditions under Felipe V (r. 1700–1746) and expanded with more practical bureaucratic, military, and ecclesiastic visitas dispatched by Carlos III (r. 1759–88) and his successors to reorganize and improve colonial

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administration. Most scientific expeditions—whether focused on astronomy, botany, or hydrography—included military or naval engineers trained as cartographers, as did military visitas. The engineers mapped from the Caribbean to the Amazon, helping to develop defense strategies and to keep central authorities informed. Agustín Crame, visitador general de las fortificaciones de América in the 1770s, prepared detailed plans of fortified cities and isolated forts to improve defenses in the West Indies and Central America (Sanz Camañes 2004, 384). Often working with missionaries who participated in expeditions that sought greater religious and secular control, military engineers like Nicolás de Lafora and José de Urrutia promoted Spanish administration of frontier and borderland areas by creating extensive maps based on astronomic observations and territorial measurements that facilitated communication between military officers and local governors to report on progress in efforts to limit indigenous threats. Lafora and Urrutia’s maps and documents from the 1766–68 expedition of Cayetano Pignatelli, third marqués de Rubí, influenced the subsequent policy of establishing settlements and a defense strategy that relied on forts (presidios) as well as missions in New Spain’s northern borderlands (Reinhartz 2005, 66–68), but served as a general tool of governance in which church and civil officials collected information by traveling and writing reports that increasingly included maps. Franciscan and Jesuit mathematicians and surveyors conducted separate religious visitas, mapping mission areas from Alta California to Paraguay. They contributed to administrative mapping by creating maps that helped religious and secular authorities govern and conquer and by training colonial residents in surveying techniques. The Jesuit order emphasized the natural sciences in their courses that trained colonial students such as José Antonio de Alzate y Ramírez. Jesuit topographic maps respected conventional symbols, incorporated latitude and longitude often determined through astronomical observations, and informed their audience about South American interiors and New Spain’s peripheral areas. Their maps of modern California, Argentina, and Paraguay depicted not only rivers and settlements, but abandoned missions, autonomous Indian communities, and select natural and economic features, such as salt pans. As the Puebla-born Jesuit Miguel Venegas wrote in his natural history, Noticia de la California (1757), “such maps, when accurate, are the principal advantage of these enterprizes” (Venegas 1759, 2:71). Venegas’s text highlights the important role of the religious orders as Crown agents, the possible limits they had on influencing policy, and the collaboration between religious and military cartographers. The expulsion of the Jesuits from Spanish America in 1767 left the task of creating

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historical-geographical descriptions to other monastic orders and secular clergy, who lived uncloistered among principally nonindigenous parishioners. Throughout the century, the church produced or used cartography for evangelization and administration, improving knowledge of terrain and inhabitants of Spanish America’s inland areas as the military focused on coasts and frontiers. Bishops and secular authorities used or created maps to administer or change parish and bishopric jurisdictions. In 1768–70, the visita of Archbishop Pedro Cortés y Larraz to the parishes of presentday Guatemala and El Salvador produced an extensive “Descripción geográfico-moral” (Cortés y Larraz 2001) of the diocese illustrated with several painted parish maps (fig. 45). As part of the project of the archbishop of New Spain to redistrict indigenous parishes in Mexico City, Alzate y Ramírez produced a map as a proposal (Mundy 2012, 51–52). Similarly, in 1779, New Spain’s audiencia (high court) had a military engineer create a geographic map of the archbishopric to identify parishes to assign to the new bishopric of Nuevo León (Seville, Archivo General de Indias [AGI], MP-Mexico, 352). Starting in the 1760s, the Crown dispatched civilian visitadores, responding in part to news of corruption and abuses contained in military reports, such as Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa’s Noticias secretas. The visitas by José de Gálvez to New Spain (1765–72), José Antonio de Areche to Peru (1777–87), and Juan Francisco Gutiérrez de Piñeres to Nueva Granada (1778–83) not only led to improved tax collection (and some serious revolts) and recommendations for military reform, but accelerated evaluation and overhaul of territorial jurisdictions with the information acquired through relaciones geográficas in the 1780s. The resulting new orders for governors made mapping integral to their responsibilities. RELACIONES GEOGRÁFICAS While military engineers and religious administrators introduced and applied new cartographic methods, the traditional sixteenthcentury relación geográfica, or “mapping by questionnaire,” continued, evolving to reflect Enlightenment preference for firsthand accounts based on proven, reliable knowledge and transitioning from the work of untrained cartographers to demanding that of trained mapmakers. The consistent inclusion in reports of maps as a form of knowledge for governance was concomitant with an understanding that maps were incomplete without corresponding political, demographic, and economic information. On 19 July 1741, the Council of the Indies dispatched a royal cédula (decree) to all overseas territories instructing viceroys to ask governors to assemble information about the numbers and names of settlements, their residents, and the progress of missions in conquest and con-

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Fig. 45. “MAPA DEL CURATO DE ZACATECOLUCA,” 1768. This manuscript watercolor map was one of dozens to accompany the visita of Archbishop Pedro Cortés y Larraz in Guatemala in 1768. The impressionistic map of the parish of Zacatecoluca, in today’s El Salvador, emphasizes natural features as well as settlements.

Size of the original: 20 × 33 cm. Image courtesy of España, Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de Indias, Seville (MP, Guatemala, 92).

version, presumably to create intendancies as the standard civil jurisdiction and also to extend control over unconquered territory. While the cédula emphasized the need for “certain knowledge” to govern effectively, it did not specify the inclusion of maps nor a preference for trained cartographers (Solano 1988, 141–42). Maps were nonetheless included in some responses (fig. 46). However, responses to the decrees were uneven, with most maps and reports coming from New Spain and Guatemala. New Spain’s viceroy commissioned José Antonio de Villaseñor y Sánchez to compile informants’ answers to his extensive questionnaire as well as their maps into the two-volume Theatro Americano (1746–48) (Carrera 2011, 50–56). This work prompted a second royal cédula (2 September 1751) instructing the viceroy and audiencia judges in Peru to create a similar resource. Instructions issued in 1754 and 1755 by Chile’s captain general and audiencia suggest a changing culture by asking governors to identify the limits of individual ju-

risdictions and to state distances from the sea or mountains and between settlements (Solano 1988, 144–54). In Carlos III’s reign, the requests for information came both in specific cédulas and more general regulations (ordenanzas), demanding increasingly precise data, maps, and eventually trained mapmakers. The questionnaire sent by Ulloa in 1777 for the viceroy of New Spain, directed to trained secular and religious literate persons, sought latitude and longitude of principal cities and topographic maps of the provinces, and it provided directions for measuring distances from capital cities and even determining temperatures (Solano 1988, 177–83). Crown projects to redistrict Spanish America were largely complete by 1786. The Viceroyalty of Peru was divided into three (Peru, New Granada, and Río de la Plata) and consolidated multiple internal districts into intendancies. Further questionnaires asked about results. In 1786, the Crown’s Ordenanza de intendentes for New Spain and Guatemala instructed intendants (for “proper administration”) to acquire “exact and local

Fig. 46. JOSÉ VALIENTE, “MAPA DEL TERRITORIO Y PUEBLOS CORRESPONDIENTES A LA JURISDICCIÓN DE CUAUTLA AMILPAS, LIMÍTROFE CON EL MARQUESADO DEL VALLE,” 5 APRIL 1743. Manuscript, scale of 20 [leguas] = 37 cm (1:301,227). The bird’s-eye view, which shows a village jurisdiction excised from surrounding country-

side, accompanied a report fulfilling the request of the 19 July 1741 royal cédula seeking a relación geográfica of all Spanish American settlements. Libro 4, fol. 266. Size of the original: 43 × 59 cm. Image courtesy of España, Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de Indias, Seville (MP, Mexico, 144).

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knowledge” of each district and to assign engineers “of entire satisfaction and intelligence” to form topographic maps of each province to identify and mark its boundaries, mountains, woods, rivers, and lakes. The Crown ordered the engineers to provide information on climate, minerals, animals, vegetables, industry and commerce, rivers useful for transport, the state of bridges and roads, and the location of woods useful for boat building or European commerce. It also asked for an annual report with the engineers’ reports and results of the intendants’ visitas with “all the news conducive of conservation, growth, and happiness” ([Spain] 1786, 65– 68 [articles 57–58]). With the ordenanzas, the Crown emphasized that good administrators would have and use maps in their routine work, a dictum followed by Cuzco’s intendant, Benito de la Mata Linares, in 1786, who compiled a notebook with manuscript maps of the jurisdiction’s newly established partidos (AGI, MP Peru, Chile 89–98). Local Administration Locally, city officials, merchants’ guilds, and residents throughout Spanish America increasingly demanded maps for property and jurisdictional mapping as well as for reform and public works projects. While military engineers continued this work, the agrimensor, or civilian land surveyor, also contributed to a proliferation of printed maps meant for public as well as official consumption. Eighteenth-century military engineers and marine pilots collaborated closely with local authorities. Military cartographers produced dozens of maps contributing to major public works such as road building, city planning, public edifices, relocation after natural disasters, and drainage, including the two-century-old project to prevent regular flooding in Mexico City (Candiani 2014). The maps also helped government officials learn to include graphic representation as an administrative tool, for instance by contributing cartography in civic disputes over land distribution. In Buenos Aires an extensive judicial case centered on the city council’s right to assign community lands (ejidos) to residents and discovered that no maps had been used to make initial assignments. In 1742, the Crown reprimanded the council’s actions and asked the governor for a city plan, resulting in the creation of two maps that used scale and conventional graphic codes (Madrid, Servicio Histórico Militar, 6357, E-18-2, and 6267, E-18-2). The example demonstrates that local authorities could administer without graphic support, but that the Crown increasingly demanded topographic plans or similar documents for use by royal administration agents. By 1768, Buenos Aires passed from a “notarial” form of record keeping to a “graphic” one, and produced the first of several plans (Favelukes 2009, 70–71). For city fathers, maps also became symbols of

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authority. The city council of Asunción (Paraguay) in March 1793 asked military engineer Félix de Azara to create a map to hang on the wall in their meeting room “to serve as instruction for current events” (Azara 1904, XXXVII–XXXVIII). Civilian surveyors also became important producers of maps for the administration of public and private property and to adjudicate land claims, although it is not clear that maps in judicial cases—usually inserted in the middle of other forms of textual testimony— actually influenced decisions. The role of property surveyor expanded from ad hoc measurer to public servant working for the city council, examined and certified by a competent authority. Techniques changed from mapping perimeters to detailed measurements of property limits. The surveyor’s roles included testimony in land cases when issues such as subdivision of the city’s lands and conflict over limits of hacienda perimeters and municipal jurisdictions proliferated, as in Havana starting in the 1720s (Venegas Fornías 2002, 34–35). Map holdings in Spanish archives suggest that professional surveyors were most active in Cuba, Mexico, Florida, and Louisiana. In Mexico alone, however, the archives attest to a growing number of eighteenth-century judicial cases that relied on surveyors’ reports and maps for decision making. Surveys accompanied disputes between individual landowners or villages competing for public lands, the demands of Indian communities for rights to transit private lands, and property value evaluation to permit adjudication of an inheritance or debt. Surveyors were supposed to do a visto de ojos (eyewitness account) to identify boundaries and landmarks, to learn and listen to names, to identify where cattle grazed, and to undertake land surveys that could represent the land in measured geometric shapes to facilitate the calculation of surface area (Hernández Franyutti 2006). Spain’s Archivo General de Indias and Mexico’s national archives house maps ranging from the relatively straightforward Ignacio Castera map of the Mazapa hacienda (fig. 47) (Trabulse 1983, 88–89, 90–93) to more elaborate plans, like José Martín Ortiz’s map of a disputed hacienda that located fields growing sugar, corn, and wheat as well as the buildings used to process them (see fig. 696). The increasing demand for graphic representations, not only to accompany other forms of testimony but to document spatial practices, indicates the map’s growing authority as a tool in private and public venues. Additionally, it suggests increased cartographic literacy both among royal administrators and agents and also among Spanish America’s diverse residents. Local authorities also included maps with recommendations for reforms and redistricting to avoid certain perils. When Guatemala City was destroyed by an earthquake in 1773, the captain general saw an opportunity

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Administrative Cartography

Fig. 47. IGNACIO CASTERA, “PLAN IGNOGRAFICO DE LA HACIENDA DE MAZAPA,” 30 JANUARY 1787. This plan of a hacienda in Texcoco, near Mexico City, shows increased sophistication in mapping private property by emphasizing the accuracy of geometric calculations with the surveyor’s table and tools laid out lower right.

Size of the original: 27.0 × 40.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivo General de la Nación, Fondo Hermanos Mayo, Mexico City (Tierras, vol. 2455, cuaderno 10, exp. 1 F. 80).

to relocate the city and end a century-long stalemate with Creole elites on the city council over the city’s territorial jurisdiction. He hired military engineer Luis Díez Navarro to plan the new capital city in a modified grid that laid out which civil, religious, and military institutions and individuals would get choice blocks around the city’s principal and auxiliary squares (Hardoy 1991, 232–33). He also wanted Díez Navarro to measure and map the valley in mapillos and planillos (little maps and plans) depicting the new, reduced city jurisdictions. The earthquake and new cartography essentially handed the captain general a victory that the city’s arguments based on practices from time immemorial could not overcome (Madrid, Archivo Histórico Nacional, legajo 20953, pieza 63). More commonly, late eighteenth-century city officials mapped to expand policing or sanitation projects. From Mexico City (1750, 1782, 1793) and Lima (1768) to Guatemala (1791) and Buenos Aires (1795), cities seeking to improve policing delimited districts

(quarteles; cuarteles) with alcaldes de barrio (neighborhood watches) to patrol streets and track residents for taxation and other purposes; some cities also named streets and numbered houses for ease of administration (Venegas Fornías 2002, 42; Favelukes 2009, 80). Some manuscript maps were engraved for alcaldes to use on patrol or in courtrooms and to inform the king of these innovations. Military engineer Diego García Conde’s 1793 Mexico City plan became an obligatory reference for nineteenth-century tracings and was reproduced not only in Spain but England (León García 2009, 449). Most administrative maps were manuscripts, although as the century progressed they were increasingly printed for regular use. In Spain, Juan de la Cruz Cano y Olmedilla’s ten-year project to map South America produced Mapa geográfico de America meridional (1775) (see fig. 765) in time for the Council of the Indies to consult when establishing new viceroyalties and intendancies. Twenty years later, governors heading to South

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American posts still wanted the map; infantry lieutenant colonel Andrés Buggiero, leaving for Chiquitos (Buenos Aires) in 1798, requested a copy of the Cruz Cano y Olmedilla map, which he knew had been given a year earlier to the new governor of Cordova de Tucumán (AGI, Fondo Estado, 76, N. 68). By century’s end, maps were becoming decision-making tools, not just graphic representations of knowledge. In the Americas, printed maps were both decorative and functional. Two elaborate engraved examples from New Spain are Mapa y tabla geografica de Leguas comunes (1755) by José Nava of Puebla de Los Angeles, with tables of distances between cities, and Alzate y Ramírez’s large (five by six feet) Nuevo mapa geográfico de la América septentrional española (1767). Where the former gave pride of place to tabular representation that dovetailed with Bourbon interest in “re-spatializing” the Americas for administrative purposes, the latter was a graphic representation that, while repeating errors in previous cartography and mathematical miscalculations, reflected growing localist sentiment about New Spain as a distinct place (Carrera 2011, 59–60). Local institutions increasingly published works for general audiences, such as newspapers and the Manual y guía de forasteros issued by local consulados de comercio (merchants’ guilds). The Calendario manual y guía de foresteros en México by Felipe de Zúñiga y Ontiveros (1791) included a Mexico City plan by Manuel Agustín

Mascaró. Hipólito Unánue’s 1793 Guía included a 1792 viceroyalty map by a Creole, Andrés Baleato (fig. 48). Resident Spanish surveyor Antonio López Gómez prepared the first map of Cuba published in the colony; it appeared in a 1793 Guía (Venegas Fornias 2002, 55). By the 1790s, most regional capitals published a weekly semiofficial newspaper including information on local political and natural history, geography, and demography. Occasionally, these publications included a map such as the plan by an alcalde mayor (governor) of a newly finished road facilitating commerce with Mexico in the Gazeta de Guatemala (1800). The Sociedad Academica de Amantes de Lima paid to print Friar Manuel Sobreviela’s map of the Pampas de Sacramento area in the Mercurio Peruano “at great expense,” in part because a resident merchant was promoting fuller Spanish control and exploitation of quinine found there (Mercurio Peruano 104, 1 January 1792, 6). Such maps served administrative functions and increased Creole identification with the new intendancies and viceroyalties as patrias chicas (local homelands), a distinction that influenced the autonomist movements, which from 1808 started many on the road to political independence.

Fig. 48. ANDRÉS BALEATO, PLANO DEL VIRREYNATO DEL PERÙ. Published in Guia política, eclesiástica y militar del Virreynato del Perú, vol. 1 (1793), opposite p. 1. José Vázquez, engraver, Lima. This printed “plan” of the Viceroyalty of Peru shows a transition to a broader public audience for

maps, helping late colonial residents and officials see the Viceroyalty of Peru as a series of political districts and as a whole. Size of the original: 14.0 × 31.5 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (C2 1795 Un).

Jo rdana Dym See also: Spanish America Bibliography Antochiw, Michel. 2000. “La visión total de la Nueva España: Los mapas generales del siglo XVIII.” In México a través de los mapas,

90 ed. Héctor Mendoza Vargas, 71–88. Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, UNAM; Plaza y Valdés. Azara, Félix de. 1904. Geografía física y esférica de las provincias del Paraguay, y Misiones Guaraníes. Bibliography, foreword, and notes by Rodolfo R. Schuller. Montevideo: A. Barreiro y Ramos. Candiani, Vera S. 2014. Dreaming of Dry Land: Environmental Transformation in Colonial Mexico City. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Carrera, Magali M. 2011. Traveling from New Spain to Mexico: Mapping Practices of Nineteenth-Century Mexico. Durham: Duke University Press. Cortés y Larraz, Pedro. 2001. Descripción geográfico-moral de la Diócesis de Goathemala. Ed. Julio Martín Blasco and Jesús María García Añoveros. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Dym, Jordana, and Karl Offen, eds. 2011. Mapping Latin America: A Cartographic Reader. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Favelukes, Graciela. 2009. “Orden simbólico y orden práctico: Operaciones gráficas sobre la ciudad (Buenos Aires, 1740–1820).” In Historias de la cartografía de Iberoamérica: Nuevos caminos, viejos problemas, ed. Héctor Mendoza Vargas and Carla Lois, 57–91. Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, UNAM. Hardoy, Jorge E. 1991. Cartografía urbana colonial de América Latina y el Caribe. Buenos Aires: Instituto Internacional de Medio Ambiente y Desarrollo—IIED—América Latina. Hernández Franyutti, Regina. 2006. “El discurso ilustrado en la cartografía de Ignacio de Castera.” Scripta Nova 10, no. 218 (79). Online publication. León García, María del Carmen. 2009. “Cartografía de los ingenieros militares en Nueva España, segunda mitad del siglo XVIII.” In Historias de la cartografía de Iberoamérica: Nuevos caminos, viejos problemas, ed. Héctor Mendoza Vargas and Carla Lois, 441–66. Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, UNAM. López, Tomás. 1775–83. Principios geográficas, aplicados al uso de los mapas. 2 vols. Madrid: Joachin Ibarra. Mundy, Barbara E. 2012. “The Images of Eighteenth-Century Urban Reform in Mexico City and the Plan of José Antonio Alzate.” Colonial Latin American Review 21:45–75. Reinhartz, Dennis. 2005. “Spanish Military Mapping of the Northern Borderlands after 1750.” In Mapping and Empire: Soldier-Engineers on the Southwestern Frontier, ed. Dennis Reinhartz and Gerald D. Saxon, 57–79. Austin: University of Texas Press. Sanz Camañes, Porfirio. 2004. Las ciudades en la América hispana: Siglos XV al XVIII. Madrid: Sílex Ediciones. Solano, Francisco de, ed. 1988. Cuestionarios para la formación de las Relaciones Geográficas de Indias, siglos XVI/XIX. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Centro de Estudios Históricos, Departamento de Historia de América. [Spain]. 1786. Real ordenanza para el establecimiento é instruccion de intendentes de exército y provincia en el reino de la Nueva-España. Madrid. Trabulse, Elías. 1983. Cartografía mexicana: Tesoros de la Nación, siglos XVI a XIX. Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. Venegas, Miguel. 1759. A Natural and Civil History of California. 2 vols. London: Printed for James Rivington and James Fletcher. Venegas Fornias, Carlos. 2002. Cuba y sus pueblos: Censos y mapas de los siglos XVIII y XIX. Havana: Centro de Investigación y Desarrollo de la Cultura Cubana Juan Marinello.

Administrative Cartography in Sweden-Finland. The

rapid growth of Sweden-Finland in the seventeenth century, both within the Scandinavian peninsula and around the Baltic, significantly stressed the burgeoning state. After 1680, two institutional changes had lasting effects

Administrative Cartography

on the management of the countryside: the reduktion (a resolution passed by the Diet that all former Crown lands were to be restored to the Crown), prompted by considerations of revenue, and the indelningsverk (allotment system), prompted by manpower. In the Baltic, the Estonian and Livonian nobility lived on their estates, encompassed by an enserfed peasantry. They performed the important function of furnishing commanders for the Swedish armies. In this way, they acquired naturalization as Swedish nobles. During the seventeenth century the transference of lands from the Crown to the nobility had proceeded at an everaccelerating rate. Around 1650 about two-fifths of the land of Livonia was in the hands of the Swedish nobility. As a consequence of this alienation of land, the Crown became short of money. It had become evident that Sweden was unable to maintain a military strength commensurate with the country’s ambitions as a great power. In 1680 the reduktion was enacted. Eventually three-quarters of the farms alienated to the nobility were returned to the Crown. This generally decreed confiscation of enfeoffed Crown property made the geometrical mapping of the entire Swedish realm a matter of urgency. The Baltic provinces were systematically mapped during the period from 1681 to 1710, known as the Great Cadastre (arklu revıˉzijas), from a base in Riga. A similar mapping project was later carried out in Pomerania. Special geographical maps were drawn in connection with the reduktion, the fredsmilskartor (literally “maps showing a mile of rights and privileges”). These maps described the areas around castles or royal estates that royal prerogative held to be Crown property but that had been sold off illegally starting in 1655 in an early attempt of reduktion. A new system for the financial support of the army was introduced in 1682. Under indelningsverket, lands that the Crown had reclaimed from the nobility or had otherwise acquired were granted to military officers and their families. In 1688, a further requirement was added to the legal process necessary for establishing such allotments; specifically, an official surveyor had to measure, map, and describe each homestead before taxes and other rights were assessed. As a result, the number of official surveyors working in Sweden proper rose significantly in just ten years, from about thirty in 1688 to about seventy in 1697 (Örback 1990, 128). Eventually, three thousand residences for officers were surveyed and established in Sweden and five hundred in Finland. A fixed number of regular soldiers was also required from each province, and they were supported by local groups of men of military age (i.e., up to age forty) in return for freedom from conscription. Ordinary soldiers and their families were provided with a cottage and a small holding (soldattorp, soldier’s croft), and they were expected to work the land of the peasants or landown-

Fig. 49. CARL GIDEON WADMAN, “CHARTA ÖFVER FRÄLSEHEMMANEN SKURUP, HYLTEBERGA, SANDÅCKRA, SARITSLÖF OCH ÄNGAMÖLLAN, UNDER SVANHOLMS SÄTESGÅRD,” 1785. Manuscript; ca. 1:20,000. Map of redistribution of land on Rutger Macklean’s

Svaneholm estate in the parish of Skurup in Skåne, the progenitor of the enskifte system that eventually was used over large parts of Sweden. Size of original: 45 × 39 cm. Image courtesy of Kungliga biblioteket, Stockholm (KoB 2 / Svanholm, Ex. A).

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ers when not needed for military duties. Around the coast, the seamen for the navy were supported in a corresponding way by a båtmanstorp (seamen’s croft). The appointment in 1683 of Carl Gripenhielm as director general of the national land survey effectively turned it into an independent department, Lantmäterikontoret, although it would remain formally under the Kammarkollegium (Crown lands judiciary board) until 1827. Gripenhielm made several structural reforms. Starting in 1696, regional offices of Lantmäterikontoret were established in provincial capitals. Before that, in 1687, Gripenhielm distributed a standardized list of about ninety different symbols and terms for use on survey maps, and in 1688 he issued further instructions to standardize and regulate the process of surveying. Further reforms in 1725 fixed the scale of new field work at 1:4,000; all of these standards were enshrined within a comprehensive law reform of 1734 (Örback 1990, 128–29). Surveyors would play an important role in the substantial town planning that took place throughout the Swedish realm. In the seventeenth century, however, the fortification engineers made the large majority of plans, even in nonfortified towns, and some were also produced by architects. These included Erik Dahlbergh, chief of Fortifikationen (fortification administration) and quartermaster general after 1676, who in addition to his fortification works drew many buildings, and Carl Hårleman, who would become director general of Överintendentsämbetet (national board of public building) in 1739 (Ahlberg 2012, 81–85). Pursuit of industrializing policies during what in Swedish history is called Frihetstiden, the Age of Liberty (1718–72), required new maps, so in 1735 Lantmäteriet was granted the right to print regional maps. One of the earliest results was the publication in 1747 of the first printed map of all of Sweden since 1626 (see fig. 324). The drive for economic improvements included agriculture, prompted by foreign reforms in land tenures and farm organization. As early as the 1730s certain surveyors and many landowners were working actively for a change. Jacob Faggot, head of Lantmäteriet, proposed that his surveyors should, when surveying each community, reorganize the fields fragmented into many narrow strips into as few large fields as possible, thereby giving fewer holdings to each farm, increasing agricultural production, and supporting an increasing population. The preliminary order in 1749 was ratified in the Storskifte Act of 1757 and again in 1762 and 1766. (Also in 1749, Sweden set in motion the world’s first modern population census, Tabellverket, completed nationally around 1755; the census eventually revealed a slow growth of population and its lists served as a residence record.) In 1783 new regulations for land surveying in the kingdom (Kongl. Maj:ts nådiga förordning, om lantmateriet

Administrative Cartography

i riket) collected all orders and laws concerning land surveying, and the previous Survey Acts were cancelled. Henceforth, the central office in Stockholm was called Generallantmäterikontoret. Another redistribution form, the enskifte (single holding), in which the holdings of every part owner and all infields were collected into one continuous area, existed alongside the storskifte (large holding). The impulse for the enskifte was the early and radical redistribution scheme known as mackleanskifte after its creator, Rutger Macklean (fig. 49). The first Enskifte Act, of 1803, was initially restricted to Skåne (Scania) and extended to the rest of the kingdom in 1807, with the exception of Dalarna (Dalecarlia) and Norrland. Ulla Eh rensvärd See also: Sveriges Lantmäteriet (Swedish Land Survey); SwedenFinland Bibliography Ahlberg, Nils. 2012. Svensk stadsplanering: Arvet från stormaktstiden resurs i dagens stadsutveckling. Stockholm: Forskningsrådet Formas. Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 1986. “Fortifikationsofficeren som kartograf.” In Fortifikationen 350 år, 1635–1985, ed. Bertil Runnberg and Sten Carlsson, 109–24. Stockholm: Fortifikationskåren. Ekstrand, Viktor. 1896–1903. Svenska landtmätare, 1628–1900: Biografisk förteckning. Stockholm: Sveriges Lantmätarefören. Haapala, Pertii, and Raisa Maria Toivo, eds. 2007. Suomen historian kartasto. Helsinki: Karttakeskus. Lönborg, Sven. 1903. Sveriges karta, tiden till omkring 1850. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell. Mead, William R. 1981. An Historical Geography of Scandinavia. London: Academic Press. Örback, Alfred. 1990. “The Land Survey and Its Early Mapping Work.” In Maps and Mapping, ed. Ulf Sporrong and Hans-Fredrik Wennström, 126–35. Vol. 1 of National Atlas of Sweden, Stockholm: SNA. Richter, Herman. 1959. Geografiens historia i Sverige intill år 1800. Uppsala: Lärdomshistoriska Samfundet. Sporrong, Ulf, and Hans-Fredrik Wennström, eds. 1990. Maps and Mapping. Vol. 1 of National Atlas of Sweden. Stockholm: SNA. Svenska lantmäteriet, 1628–1928: Historisk skildring. 1928. 3 vols. Stockholm: Sällskapet för Utgivande av Lantmäteriets Historia. Widmalm, Sven. 1990. Mellan kartan och verkligheten: Geodesi och kartläggning, 1695–1860. Uppsala: Institutionen för Idé- och Lärdomshistoria.

Administrative Cartography in Switzerland. No compre-

hensive compendium of administrative maps produced in Switzerland exists. Such maps are usually in manuscript, and many are still slumbering away unexplored in archives. Only the maps of the cantons of Bern and Jura have comprehensive published catalogs. Printed registers of tithe plans exist for Thurgau and Zurich. Switzerland was a confederation of states comprising thirteen cantons as well as allied and subject territories, and administrative operations rested with the individual canton or territory. Administrative maps were primarily created by the urban cantons, of which Bern was the most important. It was the biggest urban republic north

Administrative Cartography

of the Alps and also encompassed Vaud and the larger part of Aargau until 1798. In the alpine regions, maps were rarely produced. Only a few cantons commissioned maps of their entire territory for administrative purposes. Zurich ordered Hans Conrad Gyger to produce ten military quarter maps (Militärquartierkarten) in 1644–60, and Georg Friedrich Meyer created maps of the administrative units for Basel in 1678–81. But the state of Bern did not generate its own map, although it did commission Samuel Bodmer to conduct a survey of its boundaries between 1705 and 1717. The administrative need for maps centered on the sources of tithes and ground rents, which constituted a considerable part of state revenue before 1798 and were recorded in rent rolls. Because of increasingly confusing circumstances of ownership and the desire for greater legal security concerning the more accurate measurement of land and its value, graphic plans were added to these records from the mid-seventeenth century onward. Some civic institutions developed, such as the Chambre des Fiefs in Geneva, that required graphic plans and insisted on their utility as long-lasting documents (Zumkeller 1992, 83–85). Thus tithe and property plans constitute the largest portion of administrative maps. The plans differ by region and their design changed over time. The scale of most of the plans ranges from 1:1,000 to 1:4,000. In French-speaking Switzerland, the maps were often cadastral plans, in distinct styles, bound into atlases. The individual plans specified the name of the landowner, agricultural use, and acreage; later, reference to property registers, the liege lord, and property revenues also were included. The parcels were drawn by sight (à vue) as ground plans, but individual buildings were also depicted three-dimensionally. By the end of the seventeenth century, geometrically surveyed plans using angle-measuring instruments, compass, plane table, and chain began to supersede the plans by sight, reflecting the changed circumstances of surveyors’ training and the increasing need for greater accuracy in determining land value. In French-speaking Switzerland, the plans’ creators were initially sworn state officials who were in charge of determining responsibility for payment of tithes and who were often notaries, such as Pierre Rebeur in Vaud and Jacques Deharsu in Geneva. Pierre Rebeur’s son Jean-Philippe made plans of Lausanne at a very young age before leaving the city and becoming a tutor, assessor, and Hofmeister (fig. 50). In the eighteenth century, the commissioners worked on the preparation of the plans with well-educated geometricians such as Georges Christophe Mayer and his son Pierre Mayer in Geneva in the eighteenth century (Zumkeller 1992, 88, 91–92). In German-speaking Switzerland, the surveyed tithe

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plans show the division of farmland and its use. The earliest known tithe plan (1639) originated with Hans Conrad Gyger (only preserved as a copy; Zurich, Zentralbibliothek, MK 235). In Thurgau the first plan dates back to 1687 (Frömelt 1984, 219, gives 1640, plan of Diessenhofer by Mentzinger) and in Bern to 1688 (Wälchi 1995, 18). In addition, estate plans also were drawn up early on. Later, cadastral plans were created as well (e.g., 1689–92 for Sissach by Georg Friedrich Meyer [see fig. 698]), and from the mid-eighteenth century cadastral atlases exist comparable to those for the Frenchspeaking region, especially for Bern (e.g., two atlases of plans by Johann Rudolf Küpfer, 1769–70, Bern, Staatsarchiv, Landshut, Landvogtei: Zehnt- und Bodenzinspläne des Schlosses Landshut), and sporadically appear in eastern Switzerland too (e.g., the work of Father Josephus Wech, from 1743; Frömelt 1984, 30, 272–75). Initially, the creators of the plans came from different professions. In the eighteenth century, as the production of tithe plans increased sharply, they were prepared by civilian geometricians, who in Bern were especially active in conjunction with the administrative expansion of the patrician state. Important authors of eighteenth-century tithe plans were Albrecht Knecht, Johann Ludwig Reinhardt, and Johann Adam Riediger in Bern (Wälchi 1995, 17–20), Johannes Nötzli in the Thurgau (Frömelt 1984, 29), and Johannes Müller, whose work in Zurich included fortification plans, topographic maps, and civil engineering work (Nüesch 1969, 38–39). Due to fears of an impending shortage of wood, Bern promulgated forest legislation in the eighteenth century to establish sustainable forest cultivation practices. The forest plans that initially only measured circumference developed into forest cultivation plans that emphasized long-term utilization of the forests. Rivers and lakes were cartographically recorded in connection with their use. The diversion of the Kander River into Lake Thun, a massive improvement project (1711–14), was undertaken by the state of Bern, and maps were made by Bodmer and Johann Adam Riediger (Schneiter 2013). A modern road network emerged after 1742 in the Bernese canton and is reflected in extensive mapping. H ans -Pe ter H öhener See also: Switzerland Bibliography Frömelt, Hubert. 1984. Die thurgauischen Kataster- und Herrschaftspläne des 18. Jahrhunderts. Zurich: Zentralstelle der Studentenschaft. Nüesch, Peter. 1969. Zürcher Zehntenpläne: Die Zehntenpläne im Staatsarchiv Zürich als Quellen geographischer Forschung. Zurich: Juris Druck + Verlag. Radeff, Anne. 1980. Lausanne et ses campagnes au 17e siècle. Lausanne: Bibliothèque Historique Vaudoise. Schneiter, Rudolf. 2013. “Die Umleitung der Kander im historischen Kartenbild—Die Pläne von Samuel Bodmer und Johann Adam

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Allegorical and Satirical Maps

Fig. 50. CADASTRAL PLAN BY JEAN-PHILIPPE REBEUR OF LAUSANNE, 1679. Manuscript plans à la vue, 87 folios (without title and precise date). This plan shows the district of Lausanne between the Château Saint-Maire (right) and the “Grand Temple” (left). Under each red roof the name of the proprietor and the size of property is written. The folios shown

are in one of three large terriers (estate registers) that were made between 1665 and 1680. Size of the original: 49.5 × 72.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Archives de la ville de Lausanne (plan cadastral Rebeur, inventaire Chavannes C 351, fols. 44–45).

Riediger.” Jahrbuch/Uferschutzverband Thuner- und Brienzersee, 37–48. Wälchli, Karl F., et al. 1995. “Berne à la carte: Kostbarkeiten aus der Karten- und Plansammlung des Staatsarchivs.” Berner Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Heimatkunde 57:3–50. Zumkeller, Dominique. 1992. Le paysan et la terre: Agriculture et structure agraire à Genève au XVIIIe siècle. Geneva: Editions Passé Présent.

are qualities that make them figurative, a term that in the present context must not be limited to its strictly etymological sense of “giving form or shape to” (from the Latin, figura), according to which any map might be understood to be a form-giving figure. We must here understand figurative in the sense given to it by rhetorical and literary tradition, wherein language, whether verbal or visual, signifies by diverging from—indeed, by eluding—a meaning more conventionally understood to be literal, ordinary, or natural. When a poet speaks of “love” by referring metaphorically to a “rose,” as in Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun’s thirteenthcentury “Roman de la Rose,” we are led away from our concrete notion of the pleasantly scented flower and toward the more abstract concept of the sensual passion. The distinction is an important one because as a form of figurative expression, the allegorical maps that appeared in Europe during the early modern period, along with their closely related cousins, satirical maps, point us beyond the images figured on their surface to a conceptual place that often has little to do with what they show us.

Admiralty Hydrographical Office. See Hydrographical Office, Admiralty (Great Britain)

Allegorical and Satirical Maps. Allegorical and satirical maps are, by their very nature, elusive. They neither portray real geographic landscapes nor seem to clarify and define the physical world around us. Instead, they elude our gaze, toy with our expectations, and slip just out of our critical grasp. They look like maps, to our knowing eye, and they seem to tell us things. And yet they are not quite like the maps we are accustomed to, and what they seem to tell us is not entirely clear. These

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But these figurative maps are also not, strictly speaking, “imaginary maps,” conceived and printed to accompany books such as Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, or J. R. R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. In works like these, maps are brought in to help us make sense of things, to establish a connection between what we see and the fictional world where the story unfolds, and to create and sustain wonder and desire, like a Renaissance map showing the European observer the coastlines of the New World. The maps of Milne’s Hundred-Acre Wood or Tolkien’s Middle-earth may be figures of explicitly imaginary places, but we nonetheless do consider them—and are meant to consider them—as deriving from a familiar correspondence between what they show us and what we understand the landscapes they portray to be like,

just as we expect a map of Uummannaq, Greenland, to tell us something about the boundaries, geographic shape, and topographic features of the town of Uummannaq, whether we have been there or not. Imaginary maps map imaginary places, but they rely still on a fundamental sameness, a basic unity of meaning between the graphic design of the map itself and the world to which we imagine it to refer. A work like A New Map of the Land of Matrimony (fig. 51), for example, takes its visual and conceptual authority from allegory, an ancient rhetorical figure that explicitly emphasizes difference and otherness, that makes elusiveness a basic unit of its formal design. The Land of Matrimony map presents coastlines, islands, capes, rivers, and other recognizable cartographic features, but it cannot imitate love or matrimony visually

Fig. 51. A NEW MAP OF THE LAND OF MATRIMONY (LONDON: JOSEPH JOHNSON, 1772). Engraved by Joseph Ellis. An exemplary eighteenth-century “marriage map.”

Size of the original: ca. 28 × 35 cm. Image courtesy of the Map Collection, Yale University Library, New Haven (1an 1772).

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Fig. 52. JOHN BUNYAN, A PLAN OF THE ROAD FROM THE CITY OF DESTRUCTION TO THE CŒLESTIAL CITY (LONDON, 1778). An allegorical map printed in Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress from This World to That which Is to Come, new ed. (London: H. Trapp and A. Hogg, 1778), pt. 1, facing 1.

Size of the original: ca. 19.5 × 25.0 cm. Courtesy of Special Collections, Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas Libraries, Lawrence.

because these are of course abstract concepts. Similarly, John Bunyan’s A Plan of the Road from the City of Destruction to the Cœlestial City (fig. 52) shows hills, meadows, and valleys but does not immediately tell us anything about the nature of salvation. Instead, we are required to discover indirect associations between the map—with its “straight and narrow” road leading from the City of Destruction to the Cœlestial City and its tempting detours into Vanity Fair, a Plain called Ease, and Hill Lucre—and Bunyan’s Protestant allegory of Christian perseverance and faith. On this map, mountains signify difficulty, villages connote temptation, and castles convey doubt. Like all allegories, the Bunyan allegorical map gestures toward another field of abstract meaning, which emerges indirectly through procedures

of deciphering or reading. Bunyan’s allegory and its accompanying map had enormous influence during the eighteenth century and inspired any number of related spiritual itineraries. The map printed with George Wright’s 1775 Walking Amusements for Chearful Christians, The Journey of Life, or an Accurate Map of the Roads, Counties, Towns &c. in the Ways to Happiness & Misery, directly imitates the Bunyan example in nearly every formal and thematic respect. Derived from the Greek allos (other) and agoreuein (to speak), allegory is a form of narrative, dramatic, or pictorial representation of events that refer to a secondary set of usually abstract meanings and ideas. In many of its complex forms, the secondary meaning is direct and presumably intended by its author, as in the Ae-

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sopic tradition of fable wherein the actions of animals convey specifically human moral lessons. At other moments, allegory is thought to be the indirect product of an act of critical interpretation. The heroes of Homer’s epic poems, for example, were often read during the Renaissance as the allegorical portrayal of human qualities such as valor or anger. In its basic simplified terms, allegory is a manner of “other-speaking,” a form of representation that takes its poetic force from the difference established between what is directly portrayed and what is indirectly conveyed (Whitman 1987, 1–13). Allegory can, in this respect, seem paradoxical: it relies on a correspondence between what is said and what is meant, while simultaneously creating a disjunction between words and their object of reference. Aesop’s grasshopper is a grasshopper on the one hand, but a figure of improvidence on the other. Such, too, is the allegorical map. The three small landforms of Danglers Island and its separation from the coast of Matrimony on the Land of Matrimony map refer us directly to a problem of geographic distance in cartographic terms, but, at the same time, it turns us aside toward the abstract notions of delay and procrastination associated with lovers slow to enter into marriage (Cape Shilly Shally, the map also calls it). The Land of Matrimony map demonstrates as well how allegory naturally slides over into satire. The didactic style of allegory in The Pilgrim’s Progress becomes satirical critique in the marriage map. And like the other-speaking mode of allegory, satire involves a conceptual mechanics of distancing whereby the reading or viewing self is distinguished from another, in this case the object of satirical ridicule. As the English satirist Jonathan Swift put it in 1704, “Satyr is a sort of Glass, wherein Beholders do generally discover every body’s Face but their Own; which is the chief Reason for that kind of Reception it meets in the World, and that so very few are offended with it” (Swift 2010, 142). Satire is a deforming mirror in which we watch others engage in deviations from the public norms that we—disapproving observers—uphold. The characters of satire, Swift suggests, are always someone else. And yet the wit and irony so often associated with satire, which protect the satirist against the charge of gratuitous aggression, derive from the same doubling impulse provoked by allegory. The satirist says one thing and means another but, at the same time, goes farther than the allegorist to anchor meaning in a critical, even caustic act of demarcation (Bogel 2001, 41–83). The coastlines of the Map of the Land of Matrimony do not really refer to coastlines, of course, and yet the cartographic shapes they depict carry decisive meaning: the Ocean of Love is filled with the rocky shoals of Jealousy; Matrimony itself is a vast, empty plain. It makes good historical and epistemological sense,

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then, that a vogue for figurative mapmaking in the form of allegorical and satirical maps should emerge during the early modernity of cartographic practice, between roughly 1500 and 1800 (Conley et al. 2007; Reitinger 1999b; Senter 1977; Van Delft 1985). Prior to the sixteenth century in Europe, the very notion of an allegorical map would have had very little meaning. All medieval mappaemundi were, to an important degree, allegorical in the sense that they conveyed something other than the landscapes they represented. Isidore of Seville’s well-known mappamundi, the first map printed in Europe in a 1472 edition of Isidore’s Etymologiæ, is far more an emblematic portrayal of a spiritual kingdom than it is a cartographic representation of the physical world. The familiar T-O design of Isidore’s world map associates the topography of the orbis terrarum with a specifically Christian iconography. The Mediterranean Sea, the Tanais River, and the Nile River—the three bodies of water that form the T in this east-oriented map—describe the holy cross. The inhabited world and the body of Christ are joined; cartographic representation and Christian theology are one. As in Isidore’s map, medieval mappaemundi often had little practical function. Abstract concepts of distance and scale, as well as principles of graphic standardization, were to become important features of later cartography but remained little practiced during the Middle Ages (Edson 1997, 1–17). With the rediscovery of Ptolemy’s Geography in the early sixteenth century, a renewed emphasis on systematic observation and measurement created expectations of geometric accuracy in the printed maps that soon circulated throughout Europe. Allegorical maps were thereafter those maps with visual characteristics that, in contrast to the maps of the new cartography, pointed beyond the topography they represented to a wholly other realm of meaning. Despite their figurative design, these maps were not mere curiosities. As they maintained rhetorical affiliations with an older medieval style of symbolic mapping that contrasted strongly with the newly mathematical design of more conventional maps, allegorical and satirical maps nearly always engaged contemporaneous social polemics. They drew simultaneously on a cartographic vocabulary of limits and borders to bring conceptual focus to the debates they confronted and an allegorical procedure of other-speaking that imagined how those debates might be differently cast (Peters 2004, 17–44). An example of this tradition is François de Callières’s 1688 map, known as the Carte de la guerre poétique (fig. 53), printed with his allegorical history of the scholarly debate about the nature of early modern European aesthetics known as the “Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns” (Callières 1971). Callières, a royal ambassador to Louis XIV and best known for his 1716 treatise De la manière de négocier avec les souverains,

Fig. 53. FRANÇOIS DE CALLIÈRES, CARTE DE LA GUERRE POÉTIQUE NOUVELLEMENT DÉCLARÉE ENTRE LES ANCIENS ET LES MODERNES (PARIS, 1688). A French cartographic satire of a scholarly debate. The

map follows the title page of Callières’s Histoire poëtique de la guerre (1688). Size of the original: ca. 33 × 46 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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uses the combined languages of military cartography, allegory, and satire to portray a theoretical battle between partisans of what was known during the period as the “Ancients”—those seventeenth-century writers who promoted the authoritative imitation of ancient knowledge—and the “Moderns”—those who understood Renaissance humanism to have opened the way for a new form of innovative thought. The map depicts the land of Parnassus, the mythological home of the Muses and Apollo, god of poetry and the arts, as a vast plain bisected by a river flowing horizontally across the map and surrounded by several chains of mountains. It is from the elevated site of one of these mountains that the viewer of the map observes the spatial deployment of the two armies opposed to each other across the river. The army of the Ancients is led by General Homer and is made up of battalions of comic verse, lyric poetry, and tragic drama, each commanded by the appropriate captains: Aristophanes, Pindar, Euripides, and so on. The Moderns, by contrast, choose Pierre Corneille, the prominent seventeenth-century French dramatist, as their general; their troops are composed of eclogues, commanded by the poet Honorat de Bueil Racan, novels by Gautier de Coste La Calprenède, oratory by Jean-Louis Guez de Balzac, and so on. Using the language of military and boundary mapping to show how borders bring together and unify as much as they separate and distinguish, Callières the negotiator argues that battles pitting opposing groups against one another are always doomed, and that vehement debate may be resolved when each side acknowledges its common ground with the other (Peters 2004, 180–97, 209–11). Callières’s map itself draws upon a number of visual traditions, including, in addition to cartography proper, the vocabulary of landscape painting, the city view, and depictions of military campaigns. Moreover, it stands at the intersection of several influential currents of European satire. Most immediately, the Callières map gave rise to Swift’s Battle of the Books (1704), which it directly influenced. Swift’s allegory does not include a map like that of Callières, though the story itself gives cartographic form to the comic debate about the nature of poetic language by turning the King’s Library at St. James into an Apollonian battlefield: “The Guardian of the Regal Library . . . had been a fierce Champion for the Moderns, and in an Engagement upon Parnassus, had vowed, with his own Hands, to knock down two of the Antient Chiefs, who guarded a small Pass on the superior Rock” (Swift 2010, 147). But the association of cartography and satirical language found in Swift and Callières also refers us backward in time to Bernard Le Bouyer de Fontenelle’s “Description de l’Empire de la poësie” (first published in Mercure Galant, January 1678, 147–68), also known to have influenced Swift, and to an earlier allegorical map of the Ancients and

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Moderns controversy in the 1658 Novvelle allégoriqve ov histoire des derniers trovbles arrivez av Royavme d’Eloqvence by French writer and lexicographer Antoine Furetière. The connection also points back to what was certainly the most well-known and influential allegorical map of the seventeenth century, Madeleine de Scudéry’s so-called Carte de Tendre, published in 1654 in the first volume of her ten-volume heroic novel Clelie, histoire romaine (1654–60). Scudéry’s Carte de Tendre (fig. 54) invents the most popular theme of the allegorical and satirical maps produced during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: the peripeties of love and marriage. The novel in which the map was first printed recasts familiar events of Roman history in the coded and precious idiom of seventeenth-century literary salons. An obvious roman à clef whose characters were easily recognizable to contemporary readers, Scudéry’s novel portrays historical figures engaged not in the great events of ancient Rome, but in a series of lengthy, often fussy conversations on topics ranging from political ambition, national identity, and kingship to the nature of secrets, jealousy, and, indeed, love and marriage. Despite their undeniable popularity in the seventeenth century, Scudéry’s novels were criticized by some for engaging in, on the one hand, mind-numbing frivolity (what were Roman heroes doing chatting with women about love?) and, on the other, an effeminization of the Roman and the French seventeenth-century man (what were these men doing merely talking in the first place when they ought to have been engaging in heroic actions?). Moreover, like Scudéry herself—a woman author who took the highly unusual step of choosing not to marry—the novel advocates a decidedly subversive concept of marriage. The eponymous Clélie receives encouragement from her mother to disregard her father’s wishes and marry the man whom she loves and whom she has chosen for herself, rather than the man who is the politically logical choice but whom she does not love. As on the Carte de Tendre, much is made in the novel of inclination, a notion suggesting both a kind of love at first sight and a woman’s self-determined affection for the object of her love. On the Carte de Tendre, inclination is transformed into a river—the Inclination Fleuue—that runs through the center of the map from the bottom, where it flows through the town of New Friendship (Nouuelle Amitié), to the top, where it empties into the rock-strewn Dangerous Sea (La Mer Dangerevse). The map is an allegory of love and desire, and the paths it describes, each originating in the town of New Friendship, enact cartographically the stages of courtship. Suitors may move from New Friendship through towns representing a lover’s favors—Love Letters (Billet Doux) and Pretty Verse (Iolis Vers)—or states of being on the course of the lover’s po-

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Fig. 54. MADELEINE DE SCUDÉRY, CARTE DE TENDRE (PARIS, 1654). Engraved by François Chauveau. Probably the most influential allegorical map made during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

Size of the original: 17 × 23 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

tential progress—Negligence and Tepidness (Tiédeur). Should their behavior not impress, they might end up in the Lake of Indifference (Lac d’Indiference), recognizable by its placid surface, rather than in the desired Tenderness on Inclination (Tendre sur Inclination). Throughout the novel, it becomes clear that women control men’s movement in the land of Tendre, movement that is never inevitably linear. Suitors might never make progress at all; they might turn in circles or become lost entirely. In this respect, cartography and allegory are put in the service of Scudéry’s thinking about courtship and marriage. Like the map itself, which as an allegory points to another meaning beyond its physical topography, women in the novel are encouraged to reimagine and to think “otherwise” about their social roles. Cartography affords women a language of delineation and emplacement—the means to locate the terms of an authority in courtship—while allegory, as a reimagining of the language of cartography itself, provides a model of reading that allows the women in the novel

to define what those terms mean. Allegorical cartography is thus here fully implicated in evolving notions concerning women in art and society in seventeenth-century France (Peters 2004, 83–116). The influence of Scudéry’s allegory of love and desire may be detected in European allegorical and satirical maps throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The German publisher Matthäus Seutter included a map showing the attaques de l’amour in his Atlas novus (fig. 55). This bilingual map in German and French describes, as the legend says, a “method of defending and preserving one’s heart against Love’s attacks.” It combines both the battle plan of Callières’s allegory—a military fort surrounded by a Glacial Sea (La Mer Glacee) and assaulted by the cannon blasts of pleasure and desire—with Scudéry’s cartographic language of negotiated seduction. Maps like the French Carte de l’isle du mariage (1732), modeled on Eustache Le Noble’s narrative Carte de l’isle de mariage (1705), derive from the many European satirical treatises on the subject of mar-

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riage, which date at least to 1663 and the “La carte dv mariage” (in Oevvres diverses, 1663) by Charles Sorel, a French writer and critic who knew Scudéry’s Carte de Tendre well. Sorel’s satire of love and marriage set the stage for a debate on whether happiness in marriage was possible, a question that was often answered with a resounding no. The 1732 map of the Island of Marriage gives us I. du Mariage figuring the institution of matrimony, surrounded gloomily by a Sea of Melancholy (Ocean Melancolique) and smaller islands of Madness (I.  de la Folie), Lawsuit (I. des Proces), and Divorce (I. du Divorce).

In eighteenth-century England, however, a newly optimistic attitude characterized the debate, and the 1748 allegorical A Map or Chart of the Road of Love (fig. 56) exemplified the attempt to reconcile love and marriage. This map, like the others, draws on the principles of cartographic and allegorical depiction to chronicle visually shifting concepts of marriage in eighteenth-century England. The map represents a clear shift in emphasis from earlier maps of marriage, which had argued that love and marriage would forever be mutually exclusive. Road of Love refashions the social parameters of marriage by imagining a linear path from the starting point

Fig. 55. MATTHÄUS SEUTTER, REPRESENTATION SŸMBOLIQUE ET INGENIEUSE PROJETTÉE EN SIEGE ET EN BOMBARDEMENT COMME IL FAUT EMPECHER PRUDEMMENT LES ATTAQUES DE L’AMOUR = SŸMBOLISCHE SINNREICHE IN EINER BELAGERUNG

U. BOMBARDIRUNG ENTWORFFENE VORSTELLUNG WIE MAN DEN ANFÄLLEN UND VERSUCHUNGEN DER LIEBE. From his Atlas novus, 1745. Size of the original: ca. 49 × 56 cm. Image courtesy of the Map Collection, Yale University Library, New Haven (1an 1730).

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Fig. 56. “T.P.,” A MAP OR CHART OF THE ROAD OF LOVE, AND HARBOUR OF MARRIAGE (LONDON, 1748). Later imprint published by Robert Sayer.

Size of the original: 18 × 30 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps CC.2.a.16).

of the Sea of Common Life, along the Road of Love, through the Fruition Straits, between Cape Ceremony and Cape Extasy, through the Harbour of Marriage, around the Rocks of Jealousy, Whirlpool of Adultery, and Cuckold’s Point, and at last into Felicity Harbour. In the author’s conception, marriage is not an island, as it had been in Le Noble’s work or the 1732 map, surrounded by open water where lovers could drift through an archipelago of marriage-threatening obstacles. Instead, it is a narrow sea linking love to marriage and marriage to happiness (Reitinger 1999a; 1999b, 114–25). Even as they look back to an older process of mapping concepts imagined in spatial contexts, allegorical maps such as Bunyan’s, Scudéry’s, and Sayer’s remind us that all maps, no matter how ostensibly scientific, refer to an often ideologically framed set of ideas about the world. Moreover, as an important moment in the early modernity of cartographic practice, the vogue for allegorical cartography in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries also reminds us that many of the expectations we impose on early modern maps are products of our own modernity rather than properties of early maps themselves. In important ways, every map points be-

yond the objects it represents; in important ways, every map is an allegory. J e ffrey N. Peters See also: Consumption of Maps; Map Trade; Metaphor, Map as; Public Sphere, Cartography and the Bibliography Bogel, Fredric V. 2001. The Difference Satire Makes: Rhetoric and Reading from Jonson to Byron. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Callières, François de. 1971. Histoire poétique de la guerre nouvellement declarée entre les Anciens et les Modernes. Reprint of 1688 ed. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints. Conley, Tom, et al. 2007. “Literature and Maps.” In HC 3:401–76 (chaps. 12–18). Edson, Evelyn. 1997. Mapping Time and Space: How Medieval Mapmakers Viewed Their World. London: British Library. Peters, Jeffrey N. 2004. Mapping Discord: Allegorical Cartography in Early Modern French Writing. Newark: University of Delaware Press. Reitinger, Franz. 1999a. “Discovering the Moral World: Early Forms of Map Allegory.” Mercator’s World 4, no. 4:24–31. ———. 1999b. “Mapping Relationships: Allegory, Gender and the Cartographical Image in Eighteenth-Century France and England.” Imago Mundi 51:106–30. Scudéry, Madeleine de. 1973. Clélie: Histoire romaine. 10 vols. Reprint of 1654–60 ed. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints. Senter, E. P. Mayberry. 1977. “Les cartes allégoriques romanesques du XVIIe siècle: Aperçu des gravures créées autour de l’apparition de

Anich, Peter la ‘Carte de Tendre’ de la ‘Clélie’ en 1654.” Gazette des Beaux-Arts 89:133–44. Swift, Jonathan. 2010. A Tale of a Tub and Other Works. Ed. Marcus Walsh. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Van Delft, Louis. 1985. “La cartographie morale au XVIIe siècle.” Études françaises 21, no. 2:91–115. Whitman, Jon. 1987. Allegory: The Dynamics of an Ancient and Medieval Technique. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

Altimetry. See Height Measurement: Altimetry Anich, Peter. Born in 1723 in Oberperfuss near Innsbruck, Peter Anich managed the paternal farm all his life, explaining his nickname, the Tyrolean Bauernkartograph (peasant cartographer). His first works were vertical sundials on churches and residential houses (eight have been preserved, dating from 1745 to 1759) and pocket sundials. In 1751 on Sundays and on holidays he began to receive private lessons in mathematics, surveying, and astronomy from Ignaz von Weinhart, a Jesuit and professor of mathematics at the University of Innsbruck. On von Weinhart’s commission, Anich created two large manuscript globes: a celestial in 1755–56, a terrestrial in 1757–59 (both in the Tiroler Landesmuseum Ferdinandeum, Innsbruck). Each ca. one hundred centimeters in diameter, they were derived from the work of Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr and Johann Matthias Hase. Working from these “big” globes, Anich drew and engraved gores for a smaller pair of globes, ca. twenty centimeters in diameter, in 1758–59, the first printed globes produced and published in the territory of contemporary Austria. Decisive for Anich’s cartographic work was the transfer to Vienna of Joseph von Spergs, who dealt with regulating the Tyrol-Venetian border. In 1759 Anich surveyed the still unmapped region of southern Tyrol for Spergs’s Tyrolis pars meridionalis episcopatum tridentinum (ca. l:121,000; copper engraved, 1762). In 1760 Anich was commissioned by the Repräsentations- und Hofkammer of Innsbruck to produce a map of northern Tyrol based on direct survey. His method of inserting existing detailed surveys into a new triangulation network and his use of instruments of his own invention and construction resulted in unprecedented precision and led to a commission for him to extend his survey to southern Tyrol. Anich acquired a competent colleague in Blasius Hueber, another peasant from Oberperfuss. When Anich died in September 1766 in Oberperfuss at age forty-three, Hueber completed the surveys on his own within three years. The publication of the map, along with a summary reference map, was completed by the Viennese engraver Johann Ernst Mansfeld toward the end of 1774, delayed by unresolved border issues, among other things.

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Known as the Atlas Tyrolensis, the title on the reference sheet, the map title is Tyrolis sub felici regimine Mariæ Theresiæ Rom. Imper. Avg. chorographice delineata. Also known as the “Anich-Hueber map,” it is regarded as the most important and well-known map from the eighteenth century produced and published in Austria, prestige derived from its amazingly exact depiction of the high mountain area with more than five hundred mountains mentioned by name, more than a thousand alps marked, and about fifty glaciers charted (fig.  57). More than fifty different symbols mark a

Fig. 57. DETAIL FROM PETER ANICH AND BLASIUS HUEBER, TYROLIS SUB FELICI REGIMINE MARIÆ THERESIÆ ROM. IMPER. AVG. CHOROGRAPHICE DELINEATA (VIENNA, 1774). Detail from sheet 17 showing glacier, relief shading, highest point of mountain (with a star), and alps signified by a circle with a caret atop. Copper engraving on twenty sheets; 1:104,000. Size of each sheet: 65.0 × 49.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 16 × 10  cm. Image courtesy of the Woldan Collection, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna (Sammlung Wolden, K-III: OE/Tyr 159).

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wealth of topographic and thematic detail (see fig. 84). A facsimile edition was published in the late twentieth century (Kinzl 1974). The map was both so reliable and so reputable that the Austrian quartermaster general’s staff was able to forgo the survey of the Tyrol when executing the Josephinische Landesaufnahme. Members of the Commission topographique of 1802 called it “one of the most beautiful topographical works of the century” ([Soulavie] 1802–3, 114). France’s Dépôt de la Guerre had it reengraved in Paris in 1800–1801 on a scale of ca. 1: 140,000 and sold it publicly as its first printed map. René Tebel See also: Austrian Monarchy Bibliograp hy Dörflinger, Johannes. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Kinzl, Hans, ed. 1974. Atlas Tyrolensis, 1774. Innsbruck: Universitätsverlag Wagner. ———. 1976. Peter Anich, 1723–1766: Der erste “Bauernkartograph” von Tirol, Beiträge zur Kenntnis seines Lebenswerkes. Innsbruck: Universitätsverlag Wagner. Pizzinini, Meinrad. 1986. “Anich, Peter.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 1:17–18. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. [Soulavie, Jean-Louis]. 1802–3. “Notice sur la topographie considérée chez les diverses nations de l’Europe avant et après la carte de France par Cassini; suivie d’un catalogue des meilleures cartes.” Mémorial Topographique et Militaire, rédigé au Dépôt Général de la Guerre, no. 3:57–201.

Antiquarianism and Cartography. The antiquarian was a “lover, collector and student of ancient traditions and remains” (Momigliano 1950, 290; on Momigliano’s fundamental essay, see Miller 2007; Crawford and Ligota 1995). These were the men, Arnaldo Momigliano argued, who fashioned the tools that resulted in the revolution of historical method in the 1700s. Although members of a discipline who had been working with nonliterary evidence for at least 150 years, they proclaimed a new status for objects and images as the raw materials for reconstructing the past. Creating representations of landscapes, individual buildings, and ancient objects was a critical component of the antiquarian’s work. A simple definition of this spirited discipline does violence to its complexities and contradictions. There is no history of the early modern antiquarian and his practices (Haskell 1995; Schnapp 1997, 2013; Miller 2012). The antiquarian was an increasingly difficult character to pin down. Even antiquarians’ definitions of the past

varied. British antiquaries pursued their Druid, Roman, Saxon, and Goth ancestors via topographical regional studies and medieval texts; Frenchmen worked in libraries and the field searching for their Gaulish forebears; in search of Neolithic ancestors, German clergymen took the leading role in examining texts and tombs. Although antiquarians often belonged to the great borderless scholarly state that was the Europe-wide Republic of Letters, their work served local political needs. The great Greco-Roman controversy, a debate that erupted in the 1700s as to the relative superiority of Greek and Roman culture and art, developed along the lines of national languages and cultures. In all corners of Europe, antiquarians sometimes worked in solitude, tucked away in libraries. But in the 1700s, the discipline favored the learned sociability offered by salons, academies, and museums. Academies like the Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres (1663) in Paris, the Society of Dilletanti (1734) and the Society of Antiquaries (reestablished 1717) in London, and the Accademia Ercolanese (1755) in Italy flourished (Redford 2008; Kelly 2010). Travel became an increasingly important way of studying ancient remains and places. A relatively new institution, the Grand Tour, brought visitors to Rome as well as to other ancient sites. The rediscovery of Herculaneum (1738) and Pompeii (1748) excited many. The geographical boundaries of antiquity also expanded considerably over the course of the century. Intrepid scholarly teams explored Greece, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt. The practices on which antiquarians relied are complex. Important debates began in the 1600s about the nature of evidence. A number of antiquarians began to question the reliability of texts. (The Pyrrhonists, for example, were suspicious of classical texts and questioned whether it was even possible to know the past.) Objects became increasingly important as instruments of analysis. Particular emphasis was placed on “comparison, which is for the antiquarian that which observations and experiments are for the physicist,” in the words of one eighteenth-century practitioner (Caylus 1752–67, 1:iii). However, despite the distrust that many antiquarians espoused, they still turned to texts as vital tools. In the 1700s, the importance of direct observation and gathering quantifiable data was often combined with new tools for measurement. Alongside erudition, the other key component of the antiquarian exercise—imagination—survived as it had for centuries. Making the broken bits of the past whole was at the core of antiquarianism. As scientific disciplines increased their reliance on quantifiable data, this means for understanding phenomena slowly drifted into the antiquarian’s sphere. The marriage between sci-

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ence and antiquarianism proved complex and hard to consummate. Giovanni Battista Piranesi moved between measurement and fantasy, fusing antiquarian imagination and modern mapmaking in especially imaginative ways. His 1762 Ichnographiam campi martii antiqvae vrbis plan is unusual in that it relies almost solely on planimetric cartography for a full reconstruction of imperial Rome (Piranesi 1762, pls. 5–10; Connors 2011). Measured surveys and imaginative conjecture, along with ancient and modern texts and archaeological exploration, served as the basis for this 1.350 × 1.170 meter image. The map appears as if it is engraved on stone, which casts a shadow, rather than printed on paper. Sturdy metal clamps appear to hold the “stone” map in place. This fictive tablet is composed of two sections, one large and one tiny, revealing the fragmentary and ruined nature of this image. Such trompe l’oeil effects like these appear regularly in antiquarian maps. The Campus Martius plan was part of a volume that included other images and a learned text (Minor 2015). There, plans, aerial views, architectural fragments, and maps coexist, sometimes on a single page. Visual compilations of this kind appear in a variety of antiquarian publications in the 1700s (e.g., Adam 1764; Stuart and Revett 1762–1816; Wheler 1682; Wood 1753, 1757; and Le Roy 1758). In his plan of the Emperor Hadrian’s villa, Pianta delle fabriche esistenti nella Villa Adriana (1781), Piranesi combined a range of imaging techniques to record archaeological data collected on site. Built between 118 and 134 a.d. on a hilly site just east of Rome, the villa, with its trove of sculpture, rich mosaics, and unusual architecture, fascinated antiquarians from the Renaissance onward. In Giovanni Battista Nolli’s studio, Piranesi was introduced to modern surveying techniques, as well as to the possibilities of using cartography to record ancient and modern sites. Surveying and sketching the 120-hectare site was a giant undertaking, requiring Piranesi to make repeated visits throughout his career (Pinto 1993). Piranesi carefully measured individual nodes of the villa and then used triangulation to create the map. The plan was published by his son after Piranesi’s death. When the first modern plan of the villa was drawn in 1905, it took forty engineering students six months to survey less than half of the area shown in Piranesi’s plan. Assembled, Piranesi’s six folio sheets are 3.114 × 0.705 meters and represent the villa at ca. 1:1,000. The plan covers an area that extends more than three kilometers from north to south. It includes a key with 434 separate entries that record the functions of the ruined architecture, descriptions of each feature, and the location of find-spots for works of art unearthed at the villa. Solid lines depict extant features, while lighter ones denote features that are conjecturally

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reconstructed. Dotted lines represent the elaborate subterranean system of passages, roads, and chambers that served the ground-level structures. The topography of the rugged site is also recorded, with shading to indicate ridges, hills, and valleys (light comes from several different directions in the map). Using an array of imaging techniques, Piranesi records extant features, reconstructs the parts of the villa that did not survive, and stratifies the layered terrain from the deepest subterranean chamber to the highest point on a hill. The layout and design of the map is no less complex. The compass rose inscribed on a Doric column drum and base along with the brick stamps that accompany the dedicatory inscription highlight the contrast between regular borders of the map sheets and the illusion of the map as fragment. It is presented as a chipped and worn segment, with metal clamps gripping it to a wall. For contemporary learned viewers, this certainly would have conjured up the ancient marble plan of Rome, the Forma Urbis Romae. Pieces of this enormous map carved in the third century a.d. were rediscovered in the sixteenth century (Bellori 1673). Hundreds of fragments were reconstituted in the Capitoline Museum in Rome by Nolli and Diego de Revillas, with assistance from Piranesi (Bevilacqua 2006, 25–26). Piranesi’s orthogonal visions were unusual. Maps were not the preferred means for depicting the sites of antiquarian interest in the early modern period. The veduta was. Part of the preference for vedute was practical; they did not require surveying or even extensive site visits. The veduta also allowed the antiquarian to engage in a key part of their discipline: to make the shattered fragments of the past whole again. The possibilities for describing structures like buildings and tombs, and making them distinguishable from modern constructions, required the creative use of ichnographic representations. Restoration, one of the hallmarks of the antiquarian exercise, could be established by recording a plan of any structure. But elevations, sections, and aerial views made it easier to present local people, architectural elements, vegetation, and other evocative details. Because of this peculiarity of the antiquarian exercise, maps did not replace vertical projection and aerial views but rather complemented them. Mapmaking would seem a natural fit for a discipline obsessed with measuring architectural remains from the past. Architects, who provided visual records of measured space, played a critical role in creating images of ancient structures and cities. But even those who emphasized accuracy and measurement used the veduta as a tool to communicate their findings. In order to complete The Antiquities of Athens, the Englishmen James Stuart and Nicholas Revett stayed in Athens for more than three years excavating, measuring, and drawing.

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According to their preface, each Athenian “antiquity” would be treated in a view “finished on the spot,” followed by relevant plans and elevations recording “the measure of every Moulding,” and images of sculpture (Stuart and Revett 1762–1816, vol. 1, preface, v, note a; Weber [Soros] 2006). Their Greece, Archipelago and Part of Anadoli map, which appeared “much more accurate than any yet published of that country” (vol. 3, preface, iv), was created using Stuart’s surveys of the places he visited, a manuscript map of the Morea by a German engineer in the service of the Venetian state, and other travelers’ accounts. The Antiquities also included measured site plans and vedute, as well as hybrid images like a panoramic view of Athens accompanied by a grid in which numbered and lettered coordinates along the border of the image allowed the reader to locate topographical features. While Stuart and Revett stressed empirical observation, their practices belie a reliance on both ancient and modern authors. While surveying techniques along with improved instruments, such as the sextant and the octant, were available to assess ancient sites, even antiquarians interested in precise measurements did not always rely on them. The Irishman Robert Wood and the Englishmen James Dawkins and John Bouverie set out in 1750 to explore the East to see the “countries where architecture had its origin” (Wood 1753, publisher to the reader [2]) and “to read the Iliad and the Odyssey in the countries where Achilles fought, where Ulysses traveled, and where Homer sung” (Wood 1775, to the reader, v). Giovanni Battista Borra accompanied them and served as the expedition’s draftsman. While examining the ancient city of Palmyra in central Syria, they created a map of the site. Wood used measuring tools, although how much of the site he was able to measure is unclear. He spent only five full days in Palmyra, but estimated the circuit of the ancient wall to be three miles. His hesitancy to identify structures accounts for the “confused ruins” and “Indistinct ruins of large buildings” that appear in the map’s legend (Wood 1753, 41, pl. II). Because of the length and the danger of his journey, Wood elected not to bring the expedition’s heavy quadrant with him (Wood 1753, 38 and note c). He instead relied on Ptolemy’s calculation of the latitude, just as he relied on ancient texts like Procopius to ascertain the history of the town. Earlier in their travels, Borra created a map of Sardis, the ancient city in western Turkey, in his notebook, using an instrument to measure angles on the site (Borra notebook, 27 May–2 June 1750, Joint Library of the Hellenic and Roman Societies, London) (Greenewalt 2003, 27, 30–31). Wood also produced plans of smaller areas of the site. Although he stressed his “principal care to produce things as we found them” (Wood 1757, 1), the descriptions that accompany the

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maps make clear that this was not the case. The description of the map of the Valley of Salt reports: “Nothing less entire than a column standing, with at least its capital, is marked. Almost the whole ground within the walls is covered with heaps of marble; but to have distinguished such imperfect ruins would have introduced confusion to no purpose” (Wood 1753, 41). This example reveals the working procedure used at a number of sites. Many of the places that fascinated antiquarians in the 1700s were remote and difficult to visit, hindering the transport of heavy surveying tools, which only very well-financed groups could afford. The sites that interested antiquarians seemed to be growing larger in size and scale in the 1700s. Athens, Balbec, Pompeii, Palmyra, Split (Spalato, Spalatro), and Sardis were all cities, not single buildings. The urban scale of these places demanded images capable of expressing a wide variety of information. As literacy moved down the social ladder and across the gender gap in the eighteenth century, the antiquarian’s reader was no longer classifiable as a learned man. Observations were often presented to readers in a new form, the lavishly illustrated folios that cascaded out of printers’ presses from London to Naples. The varied ways of discovering the past and illustrating results visually gave rise to diverse publications. Maps of ancient sites often combined measured plans, aerial views, vertical projections, and representations of ancient objects found on the site. The large folios produced by Piranesi, Stuart and Revett, and Wood were collected as luxury objects. Used by sophisticated consumers of images, the expectations of the scholars, architects, and patrons who pored over these volumes conditioned what they looked like. The process of creating images for the printing press also affected these illustrations. Two groups at work at the same site can shed some light on the variety of approaches and outcomes. Both used maps as a means of recording some of their findings. Jacob Spon, an antiquarian and physician with a successful practice in Lyon, set out in 1674 to visit Greece. Spon approached antiquarian study by creating categories for arranging material. Topography came first, followed by architecture, inscriptions, coins, medals, cameos, statues, and painting. He began his visit to the East in Split (Spalato), the site of the Emperor Diocletian’s great palace. Spon and Englishman George Wheler spent eleven days surveying “the place with more than ordinary diligence,” according to Wheler (1682, 16). They measured parts of the palace, took notes in their journals, and made drawings. Both Spon’s and Wheler’s published accounts of their visit to the site include images. The first small engraving of Spalato in Wheler’s A Journey into Greece (1682, 15) presents a view of the peninsula and the surrounding area, giving

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Fig. 58. GEORGE WHELER, VIEW OF DIOCLETIAN’S PALACE, SPLIT (SPALATO). While most of the structures on the sheet are shown in bird’s-eye view, the “Octagone temple” is shown ichnographically, in a plan hanging from the portico of the palace. The north gate is shown in elevation. The temple sits just to the east of the portico, which would have blocked it in this image. From Wheler 1682, 17. Size of the original: 9.0 × 12.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

the viewer a sense of the location of the sites the author describes in his text. The next image is a bird’s-eye view of the remains of the ancient palace (fig. 58). Packed with detail, this small view labels the four main compass directions but does not include a scale. Wheler did not attempt to give a precise name to any structure for which they found no evidence on site. For example, the “square temple” is not ascribed a dedication. Eighty-three years later, Robert Adam visited Split (Spalatro), and subsequently published his Rvins of the Palace of the Emperor Diocletian (1764). A Scottish architect, Adam completed two tours of Italy to study ancient architecture, believing that ancient buildings should “serve as models which we should imitate, and as standards by which we ought to judge” contemporary architecture; direct observation was the only way to “catch from them those ideas of grandeur and beauty” necessary for inspiration (Adam 1764, 1). The first plate in the book, engraved by Edward Rooker in London, presents a large map fused with a veduta of the peninsula (fig. 59). This map depicts what was then modern-day Spalatro, with the surrounding mountains, fortifications, and settlements outside the walls. Modern structures are all shaded with hatched lines, while within the imperial precinct, dark lines show what remained of the palace. Planimetric cartography, vertical projection, and an aerial view are all combined in this map. The veduta above depicts ancient structures on the

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left and right, with the center occupied by the modern city. At the top of the map, three metal clamps appear, as if suggesting that it was inscribed on a marble tablet rather than printed on paper. This illusion of the map as a marble fragment is problematic given that the three shorn clamps hold nothing. Although a figure on the right “leans” on the edge of the map, peering down to examine it, and architectural fragments sit precariously on the uneven border, the outline of the map is neatly finished and does not resemble rough stone. While Wheler’s small volume and Adam’s mammoth elephant folio both could have appealed to an antiquarian audience, they compiled their works for different kinds of readers. English nobles gobbled up Adam’s costly volume, their names recorded in a seven-page subscription list at the front of the book. Because Wheler’s and Spon and Wheler’s small volumes recounted their voyage to Italy, Dalmatia, Greece, and the Levant, they appealed to a wider range of readers. (Wheler’s work was translated into French and Dutch, Spon and Wheler into German, Dutch, and Italian.) While both Wheler and Adam professed a devotion to direct observation, the images they created are quite different from one another. Wheler’s illustrations, which may seem simple, are made to appear as having come directly from a notebook used during his travels. Adam’s map, by contrast, resulted from an elaborate but typical image-making process for illustrated folios. After returning to Venice from Dalmatia, Adam collected the drawings created by the team of draftsmen who accompanied him (Fleming 1958). Two sets of the sheets were made, and one was sent to London to be engraved while the other remained in Venice for the same purpose. This cumbersome process meant that the final images that illustrate the text, including the map, were undoubtedly elaborated and edited far from the luminous white limestone walls of Diocletian’s residence. Wheler’s views, on the other hand, while surely undergoing alterations, appear as if they are rough sketches made on site. Because accuracy, measurement, and reconstruction were things that antiquarians loved to fight about, it is not surprising that maps could also be sharply polemical. Bertrand Capmartin de Chaupy offers insight into both antiquarian practices and the use of maps (1767– 69). Antiquarians like Capmartin de Chaupy tried for centuries to match with modern places the names of geographical features mentioned by ancient authors. Around 1760, he located the site of Horace’s villa in the Sabine Hills in Lazio, a place familiar to any learned reader of the poet’s Odes. Although Horace described his villa often in his poems, none of the place-names he mentioned survived the centuries. Capmartin de Chaupy entered into an ugly dispute with another antiquarian over who discovered the villa first. Then, he prepared

Fig. 59. ROBERT ADAM, MAP AND VEDUTA OF SPLIT (SPALATRO) AND DIOCLETIAN’S PALACE, GENERAL PLAN OF THE TOWN AND FORTIFICATIONS OF SPALATRO. The remains of three metal clamps appear between the map and the veduta. From Adam 1764, pl. II.

Size of the original: 67.0 × 50.8 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

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Fig. 60. BERTRAND CAPMARTIN DE CHAUPY, MAP OF HORACE’S VILLA, CARTE TOPOGRAPHIQUE DE LA PARTIE DE LA SABINE ANTIQUE OU FUT LA MAISON DE CAMPAGNE D’HORACE. From Capmartin de Chaupy 1767–69, vol. 3, at end.

Size of the original: 40 × 38 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

his material and wrote a book, managing to stretch his “discoveries” at the villa to a three-volume set. Making a discovery in the field, squabbling with another member of the antiquarian community, and then publishing a book was a familiar pattern in the eighteenth century.

Capmartin de Chaupy’s work included only one illustration, a map of the site of the villa and the surrounding area (fig. 60). Rather than rely on modern surveys of the region or precise measurements taken by the author, the map shifts geographical features in order to

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meet Horace’s descriptions of his villa and the surrounding terrain. In addition to a key and a scale in Roman miles, Capmartin de Chaupy presents two inscriptions, settled among the underbrush and broken columns that appear in the lower-right corner. He used these inscriptions and the ancient place-names they record to locate the villa. Presenting ancient objects found onsite around the edges of maps was a common practice in the 1700s. This map would have a role to play in another dispute. In Capmartin de Chaupy’s introduction, he attacks an engraver in Rome “who makes the principal books on antiquity but he should limit himself to executing the plates [that accompany them], which would be wellintended and faithful if they were guided by true erudition” (1767, 1:xliii). There can be no doubt about the identity of this engraver: he was Piranesi. To respond, Piranesi picked up his favorite weapon, the burin. The colophon to the text in his Diverse maniere is his response (fig. 61). It takes the form of a scatological map (Minor 2015). The print

depicts three volumes stacked on top of each other. Representing Capmartin de Chaupy’s work, one spine includes the author’s name. On the back cover of the top book, a map appears. A piece of excrement with dung beetles scurrying about appears on the site of the villa. Piranesi uses his map to attack Capmartin de Chaupy’s sloppy placement of geographical features. One example is Piranesi’s location of Licenza, a hill town near the site of the villa, which he places in the same position that Capmartin de Chaupy does. Piranesi labels the town “Con Licenza” (with license) drawing the viewer’s attention to the license Capmartin de Chaupy took in mistaking the location of the town. In the 1700s, antiquarians combined observation and measurement, visual and literary evidence, and imagination to reconstruct lost sites. This medley of sources and procedures coexisted happily in the maps they created.

Fig. 61. GIOVANNI BATTISTA PIRANESI, MAP OF THE RUINE DELLA VILLA D’ORAZIO. From Piranesi 1769, 35.

Size of the original: ca. 15 × 21 cm. © The British Library Board, London.

H eather H yde M inor

Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’ See also: History and Cartography; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Thematic Mapping; Travel and Cartography; Urban Mapping B i bliogra p hy Adam, Robert. 1764. Rvins of the Palace of the Emperor Diocletian at Spalatro in Dalmatia. [London]: Printed for the Author. Bellori, Giovanni Pietro. 1673. Fragmenta vestigii veteris Romae ex lapidibvs Farnesianis nvnc primvm in lvcem edita cvm notis. Rome: Typis Iosephi Corvi; Sumptibus Ioannis Iacobi de Rubeis. Bevilacqua, Mario. 2006. “The Young Piranesi: The Itineraries of His Formation.” In The Serpent and the Stylus: Essays on G. B. Piranesi, ed. Mario Bevilacqua, Heather Hyde Minor, and Fabio Barry, 14–53. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Capmartin de Chaupy, Bertrand. 1767–69. Découverte de la maison de campagne d’Horace: Ouvrage utile pour l’intelligence de cet auteur, & qui donne occasion de traiter d’une suite considérable de lieux antiques. 3 vols. Rome: De l’Imprimerie de Zempel, Chez Jean Ughetti Marchand Libraire. Caylus, Anne Claude Philippe, comte de. 1752–67. Recueil d’antiquités égyptiennes, étrusques, greques et romaines. 7 vols. Paris: Desaint & Saillant. Connors, Joseph. 2011. Piranesi and the Campus Martius: The Missing Corso, Topography and Archaeology in Eighteenth-Century Rome. Milan: Jaca Book. Crawford, Michael H., and C. R. Ligota, eds. 1995. Ancient History and the Antiquarian: Essays in Memory of Arnaldo Momigliano. London: Warburg Institute, University of London. Fleming, John. 1958. “The Journey to Spalatro.” Architectural Review 123:102–7. Greenewalt, Crawford H., et al. 2003. The City of Sardis: Approaches in Graphic Recording. Cambridge: Harvard University Art Museums. Haskell, Francis. 1995. History and Its Images: Art and the Interpretation of the Past. 3d printing with corrections. New Haven: Yale University Press. Kelly, Jason M. 2010. The Society of Dilettanti: Archaeology and Identity in the British Enlightenment. New Haven: Yale University Press. Le Roy, Julien-David. 1758. Les ruines des plus beaux monuments de la Grèce. Paris: H. L. Guérin & L. F. Delatour. Miller, Peter N., ed. 2007. Momigliano and Antiquarianism: Foundations of the Modern Cultural Sciences. Toronto: University of Toronto Press in association with the UCLA Center for Seventeenthand Eighteenth-Century Studies and the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library. ———. 2012. “Writing Antiquarianism: Prolegomenon to a History.” In Antiquarianism and Intellectual Life in Europe and China, 1500–1800, ed. Peter N. Miller and François Louis, 27–57. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Minor, Heather Hyde. 2015. Piranesi’s Lost Words. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Momigliano, Arnaldo. 1950. “Ancient History and the Antiquarian.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 13:285–315. Pinto, John A. 1993. “Piranesi at Hadrian’s Villa.” In Eius virtutis studiosi: Classical and Postclassical Studies in Memory of Frank Edward Brown (1908–1988), ed. Russell T. Scott and Ann Reynolds Scott, 465–77. Washington, D.C.: National Gallery of Art. Piranesi, Giovanni Battista. 1762. Campvs Martivs antiqvae vrbis. Rome. ———. 1769. Diverse maniere d’adornare i cammini ed ogni altra parte degli edifizj, desunte dall’architettura Egizia, Etrusca, e Greca con un Ragionamento apologetico in difesa dell’architettura Egizia, e Toscana. Rome: Generoso Salomoni. Redford, Bruce. 2008. Dilettanti: The Antic and the Antique in Eighteenth-Century England. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum.

111 Schnapp, Alain. 1997. The Discovery of the Past. Trans. Ian Kinnes and Gillian Varndell. New York: Henry N. Abrams. ———, ed. 2013. World Antiquarianism: Comparative Perspectives. Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute. Spon, Jacob, and George Wheler. 1679. Voyage d’Italie, de Dalmatie, de Grece, et du Levant, fait aux années 1675 & 1676. 2 vols. Amsterdam: Henry & Theodore Boom. Stuart, James, and Nicholas Revett. 1762–1816. The Antiqvities of Athens. 4 vols. London: Printed by John Haberkorn. Weber [Soros], Susan, ed. 2006. James “Athenian” Stuart, 1713–1788: The Rediscovery of Antiquity. New Haven: Yale University Press. Wheler, George. 1682. A Journey into Greece, by George Wheler Esq.; In Company of Dr Spon of Lyons. London: Printed for William Cademan, Robert Kettlewell, and Awnsham Churchill. Wood, Robert. 1753. The Ruins of Palmyra, Otherwise Tedmor, in the Desart. London. ———. 1757. The Ruins of Balbec, Otherwise Heliopolis in Coelosyria. London. ———. 1775. An Essay on the Original Genius and Writings of Homer: With A Comparative View of the Ancient and Present State of the Troade. London: Printed by H. Hughs.

Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’.

JeanBaptiste Bourguignon d’Anville (Paris, 11 July 1697– Paris, 28 January 1782), the son of Hubert Bourguignon, a master-tailor, and Charlotte Vaugon, was baptized Charles Bourguignon. His predilection for geography may have been piqued at the Collège des QuatreNations (Collège Mazarin), where mapmaking was included in the lessons on mathematics. D’Anville’s first map, of ancient Greece, created sometime around age fifteen, demonstrated his interest in the classical world (fig. 62). This precocity may have introduced him to the circle of abbé Louis Dufour de Longuerue, a specialist in classics and oriental languages, who invited the young d’Anville to create a series of historical maps for his Description historique et géographique de la France ancienne et moderne (1719). D’Anville’s connection with the abbé doubtless led to his appointment as one of the geography tutors (along with Guillaume Delisle) to the young Louis XV. His map, La France ancienne brought him the title of géographe du roi in 1719, and in the same year, the Regent, Philippe II, duc d’Orléans, invited him to create the Carte du Royaume d’Aragon, which considered the recent theater of war with Spain and was based on survey work in the Pyrenees by Roussel. While a nearly contemporary catalog of d’Anville’s maps and writings (de Manne and Barbié Du Bocage 1802) shows no cartographic production between 1720 and 1727, he was employed by various authors to supply maps as illustrations for their books. In addition, Júnia Ferreira Furtado (2012) has revealed that d’Anville worked for the Portuguese government during this period. Guillaume Delisle’s map of South America (many editions, earliest probably 1700), unfavorable to Portuguese interests, had stimulated the Portuguese am-

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Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’

Fig. 62. GRÆCIA VETVS, 1712. Printed after d’Anville’s death, the map was copied from the first map made by the geographer when he was about fifteen years old, as witness by the signature, “J. Babtiste Bourguignon” (having not yet taken

the name d’Anville). Scale: ca. 1:91,500. From de Manne 1834, vol. 1, before i. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

bassador to France to try to hire Delisle, who refused. They turned to d’Anville, who accepted. The role of d’Anville’s patron, the duc d’Orléans, may be seen in his acceptance of the Portuguese proposal; the duke’s failure to succeed to the throne of Spain caused him to look to Portugal for a new if fragile alliance, given Portugal’s ongoing friendship with England, France’s historical enemy. In fact, it was the English who remunerated d’Anville for his work for the Portuguese. Nonetheless, d’Anville’s financial security derived from the pension awarded to him by Louis, duc d’Orléans, the son of the Regent, whom he served as personal secretary. He also enjoyed lodging in the Galeries du Louvre, where his presence is attested from 1746. The work of d’Anville was firmly within the tradition of French géographes de cabinet, such as the Sanson family or Guillaume Delisle, during a period when

field cartography was undergoing important advances. He never traveled through the territories that he represented nor did he use astronomical procedures for the determination of locations. Nevertheless, as compilations from a wide variety of sources, his maps possessed a remarkable level of precision. D’Anville maintained a vast correspondence and accumulated a very large archive of documentary material. His map collection comprised about 10,500 sheet maps (de Manne 1834), which he offered to Louis XVI in 1779 in return for a pension and with the right to use it until d’Anville’s death in 1782. Since 1924, this enormous collection has been housed in Paris at the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF) (Département des cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987). D’Anville’s working archive is spread among several places: 380 manuscript maps are kept in the BnF Cartes et plans (Ge  D 10329–10708), some geo-

Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’

graphical notes are kept in the BnF Département des manuscrits (primarily NAF 6502–6503, 11715, 17381– 17383), while the remainder is found in public and private archives around the world. Because of the size and scope of d’Anville’s working archive, it is possible to understand his working methods, the contexts of his cartographic production, and his independence from the commercial pressures of the map trade (Projet d’Anville website). D’Anville’s Considérations générales sur l’étude et les connoissances que demande la composition des ouvrages de géographie (1777) laid out his working methods, reflected on the cartographic process, and admitted “the impossibility of producing a faithful image of regional topography, even while insisting on the necessity of enriching knowledge of a locale with pertinent information” (Safier 2008, 138). Published toward the end of his long career, this work summarized d’Anville’s geographical ambitions of working towards perfection: “A focused dedication and sixty years of application to this study have allowed me to make several steps toward this perfection. The bringing together of nine to ten thousand map sheets, of which more than five hundred are manuscript, was able to contribute greater precision to geographic works, whether written or cartographic, and to spread greater wealth [of knowledge] if I may express myself thus, than has been known before” (de Manne 1834, 1:2). Bon-Joseph Dacier’s eulogy of d’Anville emphasized his rigorous scientific spirit and his constant concern for perfection (Dacier 1793, 68). D’Anville constantly updated his work; for example his Carte d’Asie was first published in 1751 and corrected in 1753, 1755, 1758, and 1763. In addition to precision and exhaustive research, d’Anville eschewed the representation of uncertain regions or the use of decorative elements to fill in blank areas without connection to reality. The resulting maps displayed a very sober aesthetic, presenting information in the simplest way possible: “vast blank spaces marked what was not yet known, but they were a proof of the exactitude of all that was filled in” (Condorcet 1785, 71). To prepare his maps, d’Anville first determined the position of places by studying ancient and medieval texts along with contemporary accounts in a variety of languages as well as interviewing travelers for their direct observations. From his collection of maps and books he made notes and sketches, drawing portions of maps and annotating them carefully before compiling a manuscript draft of the final map. He carefully checked the engraved proofs before publication and wrote long mémoires, many of which were published, to justify his cartographic choices. He also composed several theoretical treatises, such as Considérations générales (mentioned above) and Traité des mesures iti-

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néraires anciennes et modernes (1769), which laid out his method for establishing the correspondence among measurements through the ages. D’Anville was consistently productive throughout his career, though by comparison with contemporary commercial geographers in Paris, his total output was rather small. Louis-Charles-Joseph de Manne, the son of d’Anville’s secretary Nicolas-Joseph de Manne, prepared the catalog of his published maps and written works (de Manne and Barbié Du Bocage 1802), which comprised 209 maps and plans and 78 written works including analyses of individual maps and theoretical memoirs. In his early career (1719–50), d’Anville mostly prepared maps for others on commission, but in his mature period (1750–80), his maps satisfied his own scholarly interests. He was supported by his patron and by the academies, which provided him with pensions and publication outlets. His most productive period was between 1730 and 1759, and his entire opus could be divided into two categories: ancient geography (107 maps) and modern geography (102 maps). D’Anville’s concentration on ancient geography brought him great renown from the beginning of his career. His early commissions included fifty-five maps for historical works. He produced seven general maps of the antique world, forty-four maps of ancient Europe, seven maps of ancient Africa (fig. 63), nineteen maps of Asia, six maps related to medieval geography, and five to sacred geography. In addition to illustrating the works of abbé de Longuerue, d’Anville’s maps of Egypt and ancient Greece were found in the Histoire ancienne of Charles Rollin (1730–38), and his maps of the Roman Empire in the Histoire romaine (1738–48) of Rollin and Jean-Baptiste-Louis Crévier. He provided maps for the Histoire des empereurs romains, depuis Auguste jusqu’à Constantin (1750–56) by Crévier and illustrated the itineraries of the expeditions of the sainted King Louis IX for the reedition of the Vie de saint Louis (1757) by Jean de Joinville. In modern geography he created two general world maps, twenty-seven maps related to Europe, thirty-three maps of Asia, seventeen maps of Africa, and twenty-three focused on the Americas. For each continent, d’Anville produced small-scale general maps and medium-scale regional maps, which could be assembled in a general atlas, but as an atlas factice rather than an atlas prepared by d’Anville himself. His world map in two hemispheres was first published in 1761 and reedited on numerous occasions (see fig. 290). His maps of Asia included those prepared for the Description géographique, historique, chronologique, politique, et physique de l’empire de la Chine et de la Tartarie chinoise (1735) by Jean-Baptiste Du Halde and reassembled and published as the Nouvel atlas de la Chine, de la Tartarie Chinois et du Thibet (1737).

Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’

D’Anville’s oeuvre included private work for his patrons, the ducs d’Orléans (father and son) (fig. 64), and for public administration, such as the Carte topographique du diocèse de Lizieux (ca. 1730), the map of France for the Almanach royal (1755), or La France divisée en provinces et en généralités (1773–74) for LouisPaul Abeille, secretary for the council-general of trade (de Manne and Barbié Du Bocage 1802, 73–74). Foreign commissions included his work for the Portuguese and the Spanish Crown, with the Carta de la provincia de Quito y de sus adyacentes (1750), compiled from data provided by Charles-Marie de La Condamine’s mission to Peru (Safier 2008; de Manne and Barbié Du Bocage 1802, 100–101). D’Anville’s maps enjoyed great authority throughout Europe and were used by numerous explorers and travelers. During his voyage to the Moluccan archipelago, the navigator Louis-Antoine de Bougainville praised the quality of d’Anville’s maps, especially that of Asia (1752) and its portrayal of the island of Alambai (de Manne and Barbié Du Bocage 1802, 9–10). Similarly, French officers on Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt were astonished at the accuracy of his maps (Broc 1975, 34). During his career, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville gained the esteem of other scholars, receiving titles and honors. He belonged to the Society of Antiquaries of London and the Akademiya nauk of Saint Petersburg. In 1754, he was received as a member by the Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres. In 1773, after the death of Philippe Buache, he became adjoint géographe of the Académie des sciences and received the title of premier géographe du roi. Despite his fame, his succession was problematic. With his wife, Charlotte Testard, he had two daughters, one of whom became a nun (Order of the Visitation); the other married Jacques Augustin Hébert de Hauteclair, trésorier de France, directeur des ponts et chaussées, et du pavé de Paris. Without a son to succeed him, d’Anville tried to find students, but none satisfied him, as he recounted ruefully in his Considérations générales, deploring the fact that he was unable to find anyone as committed to the necessary and selfless research as he was (d’Anville 1777, 110). But in 1777 he took on Jean-Denis Barbié Du Bocage, who became a specialist in the maps of the ancient world, like his master. Unfortunately, only a few years remained for d’Anville to train the young man, for his eyesight had (facing page) Fig. 63. ÆGYPTUS ANTIQUA MANDATO SERENISSIMI DELPHINI PUBLICI JURIS FACTA, PARIS, 1765 (REPRINTED 1769). D’Anville included multiple scales, based on ancient measure: Roman, Greek, and Egyptian, reflecting his interests and analysis of historical sources for the re-creation of ancient geography (de Manne and Barbié Du Bocage 1802, xi–xii). D’Anville drew upon the Carte de l’Egypte ancienne,

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been deteriorating since 1772, and he succumbed to dementia in 1781. When the geographer died in 1782, de Manne inherited the geographical papers and manuscript maps. As a tribute to d’Anville, de Manne published an annotated list of d’Anville’s complete works in 1802 with the help of Barbié Du Bocage. The considerable archive of d’Anville’s correspondence points to his close connections with engravers, publishers, scholars, travelers, diplomats, academicians, and of course his patron, Louis d’Orléans, further suggesting that he did not completely fulfill the lonely scholar image he presented to the public. For more than a century after his death, d’Anville remained a reference point in cartography, as scholars and travelers referred to his works throughout the nineteenth century. His was a familiar name to a large public, both in France and abroad. Eighty-two years after his death a street was named after him in the fourteenth arrondissement of Paris, and in 1881 his statue was placed on the city’s Hotel de Ville. S téph ane Blo nd and Luci le Haguet See also: Art and Design of Maps; Geographical Mapping: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; History and Cartography; Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography; Map Trade: France; Memoirs, Cartographic; Society of Jesus (Rome) Bibliography Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1777. Considérations générales sur l’étude et les connoissances que demande la composition des ouvrages de géographie. Paris: Imprimerie de Lambert. Broc, Numa. 1975. La géographie des philosophes: Géographes et voyageurs français au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Éditions Ophrys. Condorcet, Jean-Antoine-Nicolas de Caritat de. 1785. “Éloge de M. d’Anville.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, Année 1782: 69–77. Dacier, Bon-Joseph. 1793. “Éloge de M. d’Anville.” Histoire de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 45:160–74. Furtado, Júnia Ferreira. 2012. Oráculos da geografia iluminista: Dom Luís da Cunha e Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville na construção da cartografia do Brasil. Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG. Haguet, Lucile. 2011. “J.-B. d’Anville as Armchair Mapmaker: The Impact of Production Contexts on His Work.” Imago Mundi 63:88–105. Haguet, Lucile, and Catherine Hofmann, eds. 2018. Une carrière de géographe au siècle des Lumières: Jean-Baptiste d’Anville. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation/Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Manne, Louis-Charles-Joseph de. 1834. Œuvres de d’Anville. 2 vols. Vol. 1, Connoissances géographiques générales, traité et mémoires sur les mesures anciennes et modernes. Vol. 2, Mémoire et abrégé de géographie ancienne et générale. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Manne, Louis-Charles-Joseph de, and Jean-Denis Barbié Du Bocage.

divisée en ses 58. nomes ou gouvernemens (1722) prepared on site by Claude Sicard, a Jesuit from Cairo, a copy of which is in the Bibliothèque nationale, Collection Anville (Ge DD 2987 [7804, 1-2 B]). Size of the original: 58 × 42 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [10186]).

Fig. 64. L’ITALIE PUBLIÉE SOUS LES AUSPICES DE MONSEIGNEUR LE DUC D’ORLEANS PRÉMIER PRINCE DU SANG, PARIS, 1743. One printed map in two sheets with outline color, cartouche design by Charles-Antoine Coypel, engraved by Antoine Aveline. This map is particularly mentioned in Dacier’s Eloge of d’Anville as one of the maps that made his reputation (Dacier 1793, 160–74). D’Anville provides measurements to recreate the image of the peninsula

well in advance of the measures taken by the Jesuits Christopher Maire and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich along the meridian in midcentury. D’Anville explained the construction of the map in his Analyse géographique de l’Italie (1744). Size of the original: 83 × 69 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [4966 B]).

Art and Design of Maps 1802. Notice des ouvrages de M. d’Anville. Paris: Chez Fuchs et Demanne, Imprimerie de Delance. Pelletier, Monique. 2001. “Science et cartographie au siècle des Lumières.” In Cartographie de la France et du monde de la Renaissance au siècle des Lumières, by Monique Pelletier, 81–105. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Projet d’Anville website. “Jean-Baptiste d’Anville: Un cabinet savant à l’époque des Lumières.” Website places d’Anville in the intellectual context of the Enlightenment; assembles monographs both about and by d’Anville; and provides links to his maps, his archives, and his manuscripts as they become digitized by the Bibliothèque nationale de France and other institutions. Safier, Neil. 2008. “Ébauches et empires: Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, Pedro Vicente Maldonado et la cartographie de l’Amérique du Sud.” In Les usages des cartes (XVIIe–XIXe siècle): Pour une approche pragmatique des productions cartographiques, ed. Isabelle Laboulais, 137–47. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg.

Apocryphal Voyages. See Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages

Art and Design of Maps. In June 1738 the Mercure de France published a critique by Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville of the Dutch edition published in The Hague of Description . . . de la Chine by Jean-Baptiste Du Halde (1736). D’Anville had prepared the large maps for the original French edition of 1735, which were copied for The Hague edition of the Nouvel atlas de la Chine (1737). The foreword to Du Halde’s 1736 revised Dutch edition asserted that “without exaggeration, those [maps] in our edition offer as much as the maps engraved in France” (1:lxvi). Although the foreword claimed to have followed d’Anville’s maps in detail, the original author expressed his reservations: The overall general map is drawn with a relatively good hand, and is the best presented of all: however, the rows of mountains are interrupted almost everywhere. The general map of China falls far short: the mountains on the Dutch map are in very bad taste: they are small hills, completely detached and placed haphazardly, and without any connection to convey the natural [setting]: the writing is thin, and of equally bad taste. . . . The general map of the Chinese Tartary [Mongolia] is in the same [style of] engraving as that of China, and in many places, where it is not clear that there are very high mountains that form long chains between them, such as at Mont Chanyen or Chanpé, which is almost always covered in snow: we do not see, or scarcely, the expression of these mountains in the Dutch copy. . . . Throughout, the taste of engraving is more akin to woodcut than copperplate engraving. Yet we must acknowledge that cartouches were added to all the individual sheets in the Dutch copies; but does the beauty

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of these cartouches justify the liberty taken to place them where they are; because it is absurd to place a cartouche on each separate sheet of a map composed of many sheets, like the [twelve] maps of Tartary and [the nine of] Tibet: so if you join the sheets together to make a general map, this map will be littered with cartouches and separate titles. (d’Anville 1738, 1091–93; see Cams 2014, 58, 63, 64, for illustrations)

D’Anville’s reflections focus on the Dutch publisher’s competence with regard to the engraving and layout of the maps, not his “Dutch” style. In other words, maps produced in different places in the eighteenth century were not described in terms of national styles but in terms of taste and effect. Similar ideas suggested that there were no differences between types of maps. John Green (pseudonym of Bradock Mead) refused to differentiate between land maps and marine charts, criticizing those who imagined that “a MAP is to be drawn only by [copying from] a MAP, and a Chart from a Chart” (Green 1717, 137). Le Nouveau Mercure de France (March 1721, 178) translated this as “qu’une Carte terrestre doit être dessignée autrement qu’une Carte marine” using the word “design” (dessigner) and thus placing map composition as a graphic art (as done earlier by Cousin 1685). In fact, d’Anville’s comparison of his own maps with the Dutch copies used a criterion that was as much aesthetic as technical, and his vocabulary indicated the practical and aesthetic challenges involved in the creation and reading of maps: the mountains on the Dutch map were “in very bad taste” (sont d’un fort mauvais goût); the writing was “thin, and of equally bad taste” (d’un goût également mauvais); while due to crude and unskilled engraving the entire work was more like woodcut than copper engraving; and finally the cartouches, though attractive, had been placed without any logic on the individual map sheets so that the assembled general map would be “littered with cartouches and separate titles.” Thus d’Anville’s harsh criticism that the Dutch copies lacked taste and the composition lacked simplicity highlighted two underlying principles in the design of maps in the eighteenth century that reflected judgments of both producers and users: taste and composition. D’Anville was not alone in using the word goût (taste) in his critique of the Dutch maps. Edme de La Poix de Fréminville employed similar instructions regarding the production of property maps: “As to property maps fitted onto geometric maps, there will be a difference in that the seigneur, who has a geometric survey made of his land, does so only to keep these maps [for himself]; thus it will be necessary that the property maps be related to each other and arranged in the same taste” (1746, 1:119). Nicolas Buchotte made a similar assess-

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ment concerning relief representation: “With regards to the accompaniment of the entire map—I am referring to the landscape around it—there are few people who make tasteful maps showing plowed land and mountains and hills, these things not being as easy as they seem; because there is big difference between the landscape shown in plan and that shown in perspective. In the latter, if the objects are shown in profile as they are seen in nature, they continue to make an impression. It is not the same as the landscape on a map: if the mountains and hills are represented in bird’s-eye view (meaning in a flattened manner) because of the frequent need to know the physical extent of their base, if they are not rendered with good taste, they have no effect, or are only disagreeable to view” (Buchotte 1754, viii–ix). Thus taste appeared both as a criterion for evaluating  the quality of maps but also as a general rule in their production, applicable to every cartographic mode. Therefore, the question of taste within the larger framework of the visual arts bears consideration. The concept of taste was not restricted to fine art and poetry. In the eighteenth century, it took on a familiar connotation in the development of aesthetics, such as the science of sensibility (Baumgarten 1735). Taste was defined as a feeling of pleasure bound to the experience of all kinds of objects surrounding humans. As such, this feeling applied equally to things in nature, works of art, and scientific creations. Aesthetics comprised the set of rules to assess, by both intellect and appreciation, these various types of objects. In this way, maps, which are images presented as visual works, also provide an opportunity for an aesthetic experience. But the aesthetic assessment of cartographic images did not conflict with their cognitive significance. On the contrary, aesthetic assessment was carried out from a perspective of knowledge or geographic science, and on this basis the discernment of taste was implemented. Art and science were not in opposition but linked in a common purpose of the readability and efficacy (or “truth”) of geographic images. Map producers joined in a broader visual culture that connected them with painters, architects, engravers, and anyone involved in the design and production of images, whether artistic, scientific, or religious. Certain key elements defined a work as being tasteful or tasteless. Essai sur le goût (1757) by Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de Montesquieu, as well as the Livre d’architecture (1745) by Germain Boffrand provided some specifics: taste was a feeling of pleasure or displeasure experienced by the soul when presented with something; the pleasantness or unpleasantness is the determinant. Buchotte’s text asserted that anything drawn on the map was designed to have an effect on the viewer, and this effect could be considered pleasant or unpleasant, in other words, tasteful or tasteless, depending

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upon the choice of representation. According to Montesquieu, a map might be judged as tasteful, and thus pleasant to view when it brings together the following qualities: it conveys something to the soul; it shows it with order (avoiding confusion); it incorporates variety (avoiding uniformity); and this variety embodies symmetry, that is, an overall balance of the parts (Baxandall 1988, 135–37). Montesquieu’s instructions have a clear goal: the creator of the image must assemble a complete visual whole that is rich, varied, and ordered, easy to grasp visually, and easy to read (Montesquieu 1993, 44). As Buchotte wrote: “If one is not born with a talent to draw, one should at least know how to draw tastefully in order to be understood by the connoisseurs and to recognize drawings [of others] that follow the rules” (Buchotte 1754, viii). Indeed, Montesquieu and the encyclopédistes, along with d’Anville, confirmed the prerogatives of classical taste against the excessive ornamentation characteristic of earlier periods. This broad discussion revolved around the legitimacy and form of ornament in the art of design. Charles-Nicolas Cochin, who himself designed cartographic ornaments, agreed with Montesquieu: “The primary shape of something is produced for this purpose [i.e., use and convenience], and the rest is only added to enrich and embellish it: thus ornament is subject to laws of decorum. The general rules of taste, established in all the other areas of art, are no less important: variety, symmetry, calm next to business, irregularity in masses and their components; proportional relationships of large to small, which are discernible to the eye and which are recognized as one of the main causes of the pleasure created by beautiful things” (Cochin 1757, xiv). A standard of taste applied in all the arts, whether mechanical or decorative. The goldsmith, engraver, cabinetmaker, and others such as painters, sculptors, and scientists tended to comply with this rule. Over the course of the century, such thinking led to the creation of schools for artisans, where geometry played an important role, and also technical schools like the École des Ponts et Chaussées, where cartographic production and geometric knowledge were equally valued (Picon and Yvon 1989). The curriculum of the art schools determined that geometry would allow the ornament to be standardized and subjected to rules of good taste by curtailing the whimsical and bizarre (Courajod 1874, 201). “A well composed picture,” wrote Denis Diderot, “is a whole, enclosed by a single point of view wherein the parts contribute to a common goal, and form a complete whole through their mutual correspondence, which is as real as that of the limbs of an animal’s body; in such a way that a fragment of a painting has a large number of shapes cast randomly, without proportion, or understanding, or unity, no longer deserving to be called an

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actual composition, any more than scattered studies of legs, a nose, eyes on the same bit of paper are worthy of being called a portrait or even a human figure” (1753b, 3:772). In other words, a painting, and moreover a map, were well put together when they demonstrated unity of viewpoint, symmetry, and proportion in the arrangement of their whole and thus reflected their creator’s good taste. However, the issue of the unified point of view was debatable where maps were concerned. In 1722, Buchotte still considered it acceptable to see certain elements drawn in elevation, whether man-made constructions (cities, houses, castles) or landmarks (mills, posts, crosses, prominent trees) (104). Yet by 1801, Louis-Nicolas de Lespinasse rejected this style of graphic representation, criticizing maps that “allow and accept trees, boulders and other objects in elevation. . . . One wonders about these inconsistencies between convention and execution and why one [mapmaker] accepts the geometrical, while another discredits it, thus creating the impossible” (47). In his Cosmographie (1551), Peter Apian had long since defined chorography and geography based on Ptolemy’s Geography; Apian had illustrated their differences with diagrams of the ear (chorography) as opposed to the entire head (geography). Diderot’s text on painting employed this same logic to the art of composition. Cartography, like painting, should be considered as an art that developed images that followed the general laws of visual composition established in contemporary visual culture. This hypothesis seems to be supported by Augustin Lubin’s definition of the word tabula: “The word Tabula in Greek is πίναξ from which is derived the word Pinacographia, the composition of maps; geographers, who make their reputation from geographic tables, should not dismiss the quality of Pinacographs, which is Tavola in Italian, Carta or Mapa in Spanish, ein Tafel in German, and a chart in English” (Lubin 1678, 347– 48). Diderot wrote that composing “is to put together several parts to make a body,” and the act of composing, he added, applied “to the creation of the arts that suggest invention and genius, such as fine art, painting, sculpture, engineering, etc.” (1753a, 3:768). Geography in the eighteenth century was a graphic art, an art of the image. Geography created maps and tables, that is, complex images intended for the visual communication of comprehensive information relative to a territory (its shape, history, contents, and qualities) and the different interests, intentions, and interpretations for which it was the object. When d’Anville criticized the useless proliferation of cartouches on the separate map sheets of the Dutch map of China, he was considering the complete composition of the set of plates as a general map, and more specifically, the visual coherence of this composition. Visual simplicity was the rule that he applied.

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Maps have long been studied from the perspective of the history of discoveries and the development of measurements; however, they should also be considered as part of the history of graphic arts, as images to be read and deciphered. Maps generate questions about the demands placed on eighteenth-century mapmakers regarding the readability of maps as well as their accuracy. As a whole, the graphic resources employed in map production (legends, colors, fonts, drawing and engraving techniques, and layout), responded to the requirement of readability, which was expressed through composition and good taste. Any research that studies maps within the context of graphic arts, an area that remains to be thoroughly developed, should consider the many issues that eighteenth-century cartographers resolved before organizing information on the map. Among these are four under-studied topics concerning the graphic organization of the cartographic page: (1) the relationship between image and text (map and memory); (2) the representation of cartographic practices and phenomena in different cartographic modes; (3) the relationship between the map and the frame (the edge of the map); and (4) the collaboration among the different agents in graphic production. (1) Image and text. An example of the question of balance between image and text was considered by d’Anville in another critical letter in the Mercure de France (1751) leveled at Solomon Bolton, who had published a copy of d’Anville’s map of North America (1745) in London in 1750 to accompany Malachy Postlethwayt’s Universal Dictionary of Trade and Commerce (a translation of Jacques Savary des Brûlons’s Dictionnaire universel de commerce, 1726–32). While d’Anville’s overall critique explored whether Bolton’s copy of the French original was “greatly improved,” as the title claimed, and discussed the geopolitical nature of the two maps, d’Anville turned to the appearance of the Bolton copy in questioning the acceptable amount of text on the map. “The first of M. Bolton’s legends does not say anything other than that according to the Treaty of Utrecht, the French have the right to frequent the northern coast of Newfoundland. This is certainly a fact about which I would agree with him; but I would have omitted it from my map on the grounds that I would have discussed it elsewhere, in notes of some kind” (d’Anville 1751, 153–54). Bolton’s copy had added too many words for d’Anville, who distinguished good and bad relationships between the map and text. The larger subject of the relationship of the map to the accompanying memoir is only fleetingly touched upon here; it is the visual effect of legend and text on the map itself that concerned the French geographer. The question of where text should be located had also elicited comment from Green, who

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confirmed the ineluctable connection between the map and its accompanying memoir, without which the map could not be understood. D’Anville considered Bolton’s map overloaded, specifically because the author had not correctly allocated the necessary information between the map and an accompanying memoir, which in this case did not exist. Maps created through different cartographic practices at different scales demanded different approaches to the text and map question. Geographical maps compiled at a medium to small scale called for explanatory memoirs because their production was based on multiple sources—graphic, textual, and oral—and their justification and value resided in the explanation of how these sources were evaluated and employed. For such maps, the memoir served as the extension of the map image, which allocated space for text in the form of title, dedication, scale, and explanatory legend. At large scales, property, topographic, or geodetic maps such as the Cassinis’ Carte de France, based entirely on trigonometric ground survey, were not always intended to be accompanied by published texts, even though they were based on the compilation of on-site observations and texts and tables of information. The Carte de France was designed to stand alone as a graphic image without text, and any accompanying legends or memoirs were prepared by commercial publishers, not by the Cassinis. (2) Representation of cartographic practices and phenomena. Most modes of cartography are concerned at a basic level with the naming of things or places and their location within a determined spatial framework. The distribution of people, places, objects, or institutions in space had long been considered the primary function of cartography. In the eighteenth century the concern for determining location with greater accuracy than ever before was accompanied by an increasing desire to identify and quantify physical phenomena and human practices. While not new in the eighteenth century, thematic maps of various sorts were made increasingly possible by the development of communication networks, by the increased gathering of statistical data, and by the observation and representation of natural phenomena. Among the thematic maps that employed unusual graphic techniques in the representation of information were road maps, such as found in the strip maps of John Ogilby’s Britannia (see figs. 614 and 866) or the route maps as found in the “Atlas de Trudaine” (see fig. 867). These maps employed line and scale, and, in the case of Ogilby, trompe l’oeil techniques to devalue the nature of the terrain in order to emphasize the route or road as a straight line. Similar methods were used in battle maps, which integrated lines representing the trajectories of cannon balls, and later, the movement

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of troops, culminating in very complex maps showing several movements of the same units (see fig. 579). Thematic maps that showed the distribution of natural or man-made phenomena required specialized symbols for the phenomena and explanatory legends to make them comprehensible, such as those for the mineralogical maps of Jean-Étienne Guettard (see fig. 345) or Belsazar Hacquet (see fig. 786). Graphic techniques using color and symbol were employed to show temporal events, such as the map of the 13 July 1788 storm drawn by Jean-Nicolas Buache for the Mémoires de Académie des Sciences, année 1790 (1797, 308, pl. 2), and the eclipse map of 1762 by Nicole-Reine Étable de la Brière Lepaute, Marie-Françoise Lattré, and Elisabeth Claire Tardieu, discussed below. (3) The relationship between the map and the edge of the composition. An aspect of map design rarely touched on in eighteenth-century or modern literature is the question of the edge (the border or the frame) of the map. Leaving a map without an edge might imply incompletion: the map was a draft, a sketch, an early attempt to render the image. The choice of frame or edge allowed the cartographer to create a visual marker for the whole of the composition and, in addition, to make a visual statement about the nature of the composition (its audience, its display, its intention). Most commonly, a map or plan, whether in manuscript or print, was finished with a neat line, a single line that encompassed the cartographic content of the map. Sometimes the line was doubled and the intervening place filled with important information marking the grid of longitude and latitude. For example, d’Anville’s 1740 map of the ancient world (fig. 65) employs two distinctly different cartouches, one for the title and another for the scales, with text integrated into the latitude and longitude grid. The whole composition is surrounded by a double line frame that encloses the longitude and latitude numbers, yet by necessity the geography of the map breaks the frame in order to provide a complete composition. In some maps, outside the double line, there is a border of scenes, views, portraits, and peoples creating an encyclopedic effect of a catalog of information in addition to the map content (fig. 66). Similar pictorial elements might form the frame on maps the purpose of which was display and historical grandeur, such as that of Giovanni Battista Nolli’s Nuova pianta di Roma (1748) (see fig. 609). It should also be considered whether styles found in the decorative arts encouraged authors to create compositions resulting in different combinations of texts, cartouches, and maps on the same plate. For example, the map of Rome published around 1740 by Covens & Mortier employs different styles of cartouches and uses

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Fig. 65. JEAN-BAPTISTE BOURGUIGNON D’ANVILLE, LE MONDE CONNU DES ANCIENS (PARIS, 1740).

Size of the original: 40 × 49 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [9709]).

various frames and graphic insertions (fig. 67). Part of the complexity of eighteenth-century map design could be summed up by what appears to be a tension between the seemingly overloaded style of this map of Rome and the apparent simplicity of a plate of the Carte de France (see fig. 140). While the two maps represent different modes of cartography at different scales, they also represent the tension between the baroque style, or at least rococo, and the classical. Sometimes, the map or plan was surrounded by a trompe l’oeil frame, emulating the wood or plaster frame that a map might be housed in on an owner’s wall, as in A Plan of the City of Bath (1735) by the architect John Wood the Elder. Wood used a distinctive oval frame to set off the city plan, surrounding the oval frame with

explanatory text set within the corners of the outer rectangular frame (see fig. 24) (Michel 1987). A cartographer might also frame several separate maps, each with its own neat line or edge, within a larger whole (fig. 68). Encompassed by the neat line that ties them together, they acquire completeness. The outer frame indicates both the edge of composition and the unity of the whole. Clearly there were many design choices open to the cartographer, and the varieties of frames used deserve a larger, more nuanced study within the context of the map’s content, its perceived audience, and the meaning it adds to the image (Foucart 1987). (4) The collaboration between different agents in the process of map production influenced the graphic choices and resulting compositions. Scholars have

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Art and Design of Maps

Fig. 66. JEAN-BAPTISTE NOLIN THE YOUNGER, L’AFRIQUE DRESSÉE SUR LES RELATIONS LES PLUS RECENTES ET RECTIFIÉES SUR LES DERNIERES OBSERVATIONS, DEDIÉE ET PRESENTÉE A SA MAJESTÉ TRES CHRESTIENNE LOUIS XVI (PARIS: CREPY, 1775). Scale: ca. 1:10,787,000.

Size of the original: 129 × 143 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge AA 3111).

shown the importance of the relationship between cartographers and engravers and its effect on different elements of maps and cartouches in France (Pastoureau 1982; Pedley 2005), yet no study has thoroughly explored the nature and consequences of this collaboration. Little archival evidence has emerged to elucidate this process. D’Anville relied on his brother, engraver Hubert-François Gravelot, for the design of many of his cartouches, and their close relationship must have been

mutually beneficial. However, little is known of their collaboration, and the small number of d’Anville’s maps (compared with growing production throughout Europe in the eighteenth century) means that there is not a clear picture of the role each of them played in the design process. That the cartographer-engraver relationship could be one of equals is supported by a map produced entirely by women. The Passage de l’ombre de la lune au travers de l’Europe dans l’eclipse de soleil centrale et

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annulaire qui s’observera le 1er avril 1764 (1762) “is the work of three women, the astronomer [calculatrice] who calculated and compiled its contents [Lepaute], Mad. Lattré, who engraved it, & Mad. Tardieu, who was responsible for the ornamental details” (Affiches annonces et avis divers 1762, 99) (see fig. 950). Lepaute was a gifted mathematician who calculated pendulum oscillation tables for her husband Jean-André Lepaute, clockmaker to the king, and calculated the return of Halley’s comet with Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande. Tardieu was the wife of Jacques-Nicolas Tardieu; both were reputable engravers, often of maps. Lattré was the wife of Jean Lattré, map and atlas publisher and engraver, and actively involved in her husband’s workshop (Petto 2009, 71–72). The fact that the work is attributed to all

three women without any ranking of one as the author and the others as employees or workers is to be noted. According to the Encyclopédie, a work (ouvrage) is “the creation of a man of letters,” but the word is also an architectural fortification term referring to a construction resulting from the involvement of various specialists (Jaucourt 1765, 11:722, 724). The Journal général de France (1762, 99) attributed authorship of the map to all three women, showing the strength of relationships built at the junction of cartographic techniques: the map’s projection and geographic design, its engraving, its ornamentation, and its printing in two colors (a striking example of this printing technique). The Mercure de France, which mirrored the tastes of eighteenth-century salons, revealed the concern for bal-

Fig. 67. RECENTIS ROMÆ ICHNOGRAPHIA ET HYPSOGRAPHIA (AMSTERDAM: COVENS & MORTIER, CA. 1740). The Dutch plan of Rome, based on Giovanni Battista Falda’s large Nuova pianta et alzata della città di Roma

(1676), employs different styles of cartouches and works with frames and graphic insertions. Size of the original: 67 × 86 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge C 1194).

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Art and Design of Maps

Fig. 68. PORTS OF THE ANTILLES (PARIS, 1740) BY HENRY POPPLE. The composition of multiple maps is brought into a single frame to create a whole of the seven maps of the Antilles.

Size of the original: 27 × 36 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 pf 145 div 12 P 5 D).

ance between accuracy and quality of engraving that occupied many commentaries of the period. In 1702, Nicolas de Fer was hailed for the “exactitude and design” of a recently revised celestial planisphere (Mercure Galant, April 1702, 291). Two years later, de Fer’s L’Espagne triomphante sous le regne de Philippe V em was described as “more accurate and more detailed than what has been published before, a beautiful engraving that is pleasing to view” (Mercure Galant, March 1704, 297). Twentytwo years later, the Carte de la France divisée par généralites (1726) by d’Anville was recognized: “The accuracy of this edition, and the beauty of the paper and the style, will be no small advantage for such a useful work for the public” (Mercure de France, November 1726, 2527). In 1751, the Carte generale de la Monarchie des Gots tant dans les Gaules qu’en Espagne by Gilles Rob-

ert Vaugondy was described as “accurate and very elegant” (Mercure de France, July 1751, 116). Both neat drawing and neat engraving that was considered elegant were the fundamentals for rendering maps useful to the public and for acquisition by libraries belonging to men of taste. In a period in which libraries and the building of libraries constituted a step on the social ladder, the acquisition of maps and atlases that were both useful and beautiful created a demand for these commodities that geographers were eager to satisfy. The definition of the word “art” in the Encyclopédie rendered its meanings, if not synonymous, at least similar to those of “science” and “discipline” by emphasizing “a system of rules or instruments, and guidelines aimed at the same goal” (Diderot 1751, 1:713). In the encyclopedic spirit of the eighteenth century, it was ap-

Artaria Family

propriate to consider the design and composition of maps not only by studying mapping techniques, now a standard approach, but also by studying maps in the context of the transformation of visual knowledge. The “rules and instructions” that defined visual knowledge were expressed in the design of maps, a meeting point of increasing exactitude, careful engraving, and the skills of ornamentation. N i col as V e r di e r a n d J e a n -Ma rc Bes s e See also: Cartouche; Color and Cartography; Constellations, Representation of; Iconography, Ornamentation, and Cartography; Landscape, Maps, and Aesthetics; Reproduction of Maps; Signs, Cartographic; Urban Map B i bliogra p hy Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1738. “Réponse de M. d’Anville, Géographe ordinaire du Roy, à M.***.” Mercure de France, 1089–1193. ———. 1751. “Lettre de M. d’Anville, à M. Folkes, Président de la Societé Royale de Londres, sur une copie faite à Londres de la Carte de l’Amérique Septentrionale.” Mercure de France, 150–67. Baumgarten, Alexander Gottlieb. 1735. Meditationes philosophicae de nonnvllis ad poema pertinentibvs. Magdeburg. Baxandall, Michael. 1988. Painting and Experience in FifteenthCentury Italy: A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style. 2d ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Buchotte, Nicolas. 1722. Les regles du dessein et du lavis. Paris: Claude Jombert. New ed., 1754. Cams, Mario. 2014. “The China Maps of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville: Origins and Supporting Networks.” Imago Mundi 66:51–69. Cochin, Charles-Nicolas. 1757. Recueil de quelques pieces concernant les arts. Paris: Ch. Ant. Jombert. Courajod, Louis. 1874. Histoire de l’enseignement des arts du dessin au XVIIIe siècle: L’École royale des élèves protégés. Paris: J.-B. Dumoulin. Cousin, Jean. 1685. L’Art de desseigner, de maistre Jean Cousin. Rev., corr., and aug. François Jollain. Paris: Jollain. Diderot, Denis. 1751. “Art.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 1:713– 17. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. ———. 1753a. “Composer.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 3:768– 69. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. ———. 1753b. “Composition.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 3:772– 74. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Du Halde, Jean-Baptiste. 1736. Description géographique, historique, chronologique, politique, et physique de l’empire de la Chine et de la Tartarie chinoise. 4 vols. The Hague: Henn Scheurleer. Foucart, Jacques. 1987. “Étude critique de l’encadrement.” Revue de l’Art 76:7–14. Fréminville, Edme de La Poix de. 1746–75. La pratique universelle, pour la rénovation des terriers et des droits seigneuriaux. 5 vols. Paris: Morel et Gissey. Green, John [Bradock Mead]. 1717. The Construction of Maps and Globes. London: T. Horne et al. Jaucourt, Louis. 1765. “Ouvrage.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and

125 Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 11:722– 24. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Lespinasse, Louis-Nicolas de. 1801. Traité du lavis des plans, appliqué principalement aux reconnaissances militaires. Paris: Magimel. Lubin, Augustin. 1678. Mercure geographique, ou le guide du curieux des cartes geographiques. Paris: Christophle Remy. Michel, Christian. 1987. “Les cadres ovales en France au XVIIIe siècle.” Revue de l’Art 76:51–52. Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de. 1993. Essai sur le goût [1757], précédé de Éloge de la sincérité. Paris: Armand Colin. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1982. “Les Sanson: Cent ans de cartographie française (1630–1730).” Thèse de Doctorat, Paris IV. Pedley, Mary Sponberg, 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pelletier, Monique. 2013. Les cartes des Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Petto, Christine M. 2009. “Playing the Feminine Card: Women of the Early Modern Map Trade.” Cartographica 44:67–81. Picon, Antoine, and Michel Yvon. 1989. L’ingénieur artiste: Dessins anciens de l’École des Ponts et Chaussées. Paris: Presses de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées.

Artaria Family. The Artaria family originated in the Duchy of Milan (Italy), which became part of Austria after the end of the War of the Spanish Succession (1701– 14). In 1768, cousins Carlo Artaria and Francesco Artaria moved to Vienna, where in 1770 they were granted the privilege of selling copperplate engravings. By 1775, their substantial profits enabled them to set up shop in the most elegant business quarter of Vienna, the Kohlmarkt. In 1789, the enterprise transferred to a bigger house in the same street, where the headquarters of the company Freytag-Berndt & Artaria KG are located to this day (Dörflinger 1983, 58; 1984, 271–72). In early 1782, the Artaria firm was granted an imperial printing privilege by Joseph II, which protected its publications against reengraving for a period of ten years. Over time, a number of employees and other people, such as Pasquale Artaria, Ignazio Artaria, Tranquillo Mollo, and Giovanni Cappi, acquired shares in the company. When several of these shareholders attempted to withdraw their stake around 1796, a spate of litigations concerning the division, donation, and sale of shares ensured. These legal problems negatively affected publishing activities, since new contracts with artists and engravers could not be implemented while the ownership of the firm remained unclear (Dörflinger 1984, 274–77). From its very beginnings, the firm focused on buying and selling copperplate engravings. By 1778, the company had extended its stock to sheet music, soon publishing works by leading composers, such as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Joseph Haydn, and Ludwig van Beethoven. The sale of maps was likewise initiated in the 1770s. At first this was limited to reengraving maps and

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atlases that had most often been issued by publishing houses in Paris and southern Germany, e.g., Homann. But by 1786 the company began to publish maps to which it held the rights. The most important copperplate engravers working for Artaria included Johann Ernst Mansfeld, Franz Müller, Carl Schütz, and Jakob Adam (Dörflinger 1984, 272–74, 283). Artaria won its greatest renown for maps covering military events made for public consumption (not for military purposes). Among the roughly thirty-nine maps issued by the company between 1786 and 1802, about half depict theaters of war or territorial changes. Thus a high point of the company’s map publishing activities came in 1788, when Austria began publishing maps covering the war between Russia and the Ottoman Empire, begun in 1787. In that year alone, no fewer than six maps recording troop movements and military engagements were created (Dörflinger 1984, 279, 312). Map production likewise increased notably during the first two Coalition Wars against France between 1791 and 1802. Artaria also produced a map of Galicia, Lodomeria, and Poland, Neueste Karte von Galizien und Lodomerien nebst dem oesterreichischen neuen Antheil von Polen (1796), in connection with the Third Partition of Poland-Lithuania and Austria’s related territorial gain (Dörflinger 1984, 288–96, 301–2). Most of the Artaria maps created in the eighteenth century could be criticized from a cartographic viewpoint. Sometimes compiled using faulty information, their factual accuracy was not always on a par with other maps. However, exceptions to this included Müller’s map of Hungary (Mappa novissima Regnorum Hungariae, Croatiae, Sclavoniae, nec non Magni Principatus Transylvaniae, 1792) and the two maps of the environs of Vienna engraved by Maximilian Grimm and Stephan Jakubicska. Grimm’s work, Grundriss der kk. Residenzstadt Wien mit allen Vorstädten und der umligenden Gegend (1786), was probably the first original map published by Artaria (Dörflinger 1984, 277–78, 283, 294, 299–300). According to Johannes Dörflinger (1984, 284–86), Jakubicska’s map represents a high point of cartographic production by Artaria in the eighteenth century (fig. 69). Emperor Joseph II had commissioned Jakubicska, a captain serving in the quartermaster general’s staff, to produce a map of Vienna and its environs based on the hitherto-secret Josephinische Landesaufnahme in order to provide a more accurate map of this area and create a counterpoint to the Carte de France, a work of exceptional cartographic quality. Like most Artaria maps, Jakubicska’s work, which was first published in 1789, was reissued several times (Dörflinger 2004, 121). In addition to the maps of the city and environs of Vienna and maps compiled in connection with wars and

Artaria Family

Fig. 69. DETAIL FROM STEPHAN JAKUBICSKA, NEUESTER GRUNDRISS DER HAUPT UND RESIDENZSTADT WIEN UND DER UMLIEGENDEN GEGENDEN IM UMKREIS VON ZWEI DEUTSCHEN MEILEN (VIENNA, 1791). Size of the entire original: 62 × 97 cm; size of detail: ca. 25 × 16 cm. Image courtesy of the Woldan Collection, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna (Sammlung Woldan, K-III: OE/Vie 237).

other political events, the publication list of the company included outline maps (partly post-route maps) of Germany and Central Europe. Analogous to other works of Enlightenment cartography, Artaria maps often feature decorative cartouches or allegorical scenes (for example, Grimm’s map of Vienna). Petra Svatek See also: Austrian Monarchy Bibliography Dörflinger, Johannes. 1983. “Time and Cost of Copperplate Engraving—Illustrated by Early Nineteenth Century Maps from the Viennese Firm Artaria & Co.” Imago Mundi 35:58–66. ———. 1984. Österreichische Karten des 18. Jahrhunderts. Vol. 1 of

Astronomical Models Die österreichische Kartographie im 18. und zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Privatkartographie zwischen 1780 und 1820. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. ———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Frank, Christoph. 2007. “Zu den Anfängen des etablierten europäischen Graphikhandels: Das Wiener Unternehmen Artaria & Comp. (gegr. 1768/70).” In Interkulturelle Kommunikation in der europäischen Druckgraphik im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Philippe Kaenel and Rolf Reichardt, 609–45. Hildesheim: Georg Olms.

Astronomical Instruments. See Instruments, Astronomical

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to be made during the Enlightenment as instructional devices to explain both the main celestial circles, as seen from earth, and the phenomena caused by the apparent diurnal motion of the celestial sphere. Armillary spheres consist of an open sphere built from the main celestial circles: the equator, the tropics, the polar circles, the colures, and the zodiacal band (fig. 70). At the center of the sphere there usually is a small sphere representing earth. Armillary spheres in the Enlightenment were generally twenty to thirty centimeters in diameter, with a small terrestrial globe of about six centimeters diameter, although smaller and larger spheres were made. The celestial sphere is mounted on an axis fixed at its north and south poles to a meridian ring that in turn is placed in a stand supporting a horizon ring. There is often an hour circle at the north pole and the sphere can be ad-

Astronomical Models. The shift in perspective, so central to the seventeenth-century Scientific Revolution, from the geocentric (Ptolemaic) to the heliocentric (Copernican) world model induced many novelties in the design of astronomical models. During the Enlightenment numerous models served to popularize the new astronomy based on the laws of gravity and of mechanics described in Isaac Newton’s Philosophiæ naturalis principia mathematica (1687). Generally, astronomical models were used for the simple demonstration of the new ideas as well as to illuminate arguments in religious disputes and to dispel superstition. The construction of such models attracted astronomers, globemakers, and mathematical instrumentmakers and also inspired many new inventions in clockmaking. Artful clockwork universes were produced to please kings and princes and other wealthy patrons. Beyond the universities and scientific societies, simpler systems turned many public lectures on astronomy and geography into sophisticated entertainment, as popularized by J. T. Desaguliers in Britain and Jean Antoine Nollet in France, among many others (Sutton 1995, 208–11, 238–39; Walters 1997). In England, the triumph of experimental philosophy created a boom in instrumentmaking. Mathematical instrumentmakers started to develop their own train of astronomical devices. The more widespread types of astronomical model are outlined here—armillary sphere, Copernican sphere, tellurian, orrery, grand orrery, and planetarium—together with some unique creations of the Enlightenment. Henry C. King (1978) remains the best source for the study of these astronomical models; John R. Millburn (1992) proposed a more consistent nomenclature that is followed here. Armillary spheres were made to display the structure of the geocentric cosmos and became the most common astronomical model in the Renaissance. They continued

Fig. 70. DIAGRAM OF AN ARMILLARY SPHERE. From Benjamin Martin, The Description and Use of Both the Globes, the Armillary Sphere, and Orrery (London, 1758), pl. 1. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh.

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justed for the latitude of a place. Some geocentric armillary spheres also have planets attached to arcs fixed at the north or south ecliptic pole. Most armillary spheres are made of brass. Exceptions are devices made in the eighteenth century and later by French firms; these were made of wood with strips of paper printed with the details that were otherwise engraved on brass circles (Dekker 1999; 2004, 72–94). In the eighteenth century a variant type of armillary sphere was developed to demonstrate the change from the Ptolemaic to the Copernican perspective. A geared device was added to the mounting such that in one mode the celestial sphere could be turned from east to west while keeping the terrestrial sphere fixed, in line with the Ptolemaic world system, and in another mode the celestial sphere was fixed and the earth could be turned from west to east, in agreement with the Copernican world system. This device seems first to have been applied to the glass celestial globe, invented in 1742 by Roger Long, first Lowndean professor of astronomy and geometry at Cambridge (Morton and Wess 1993, 222– 23), and was probably first applied to armillary spheres by James Ferguson (Millburn 1988, 81, 119). An important development of the conventional armillary sphere was its adaptation to the heliocentric worldview, thereby producing the Copernican sphere (fig. 71). The central axis of a Copernican sphere connects the north and south ecliptic poles instead of the equatorial poles, the horizontal band represents the zodiacal band instead of the horizon, and the planets are attached to circles that can move around the central axis. An early description of a Copernican sphere is found in the second part of Willem Jansz. Blaeu’s globe manual, Tweevovdigh onderwiis van de hemelsche en aerdsche globen (1634). Blaeu’s Copernican sphere was an elementary device of which only one copy (diameter 69 cm) seems to have survived (Mackensen 1991, 68–69). In England, the globemaker Joseph Moxon advertised at the end of the seventeenth century a Copernican sphere and a tellurian, both by Blaeu. Richard Glynne, a mathematical instrumentmaker who sold all kinds of spheres and globes, made a Copernican sphere that combined the characteristics of both the Blaeu-Moxon tellurian and the Copernican sphere (King 1978, 157–58). The French tradition of making Copernican spheres started with Nicolas Bion, who described a simple Copernican sphere in the various editions of his book L’usage des globes celestes et terrestres, et des spheres (1699). This design was taken over by several eighteenth-century French globemakers. Most of these simple Copernican spheres were made of wood, but copies made in brass are also known (Dekker 1999, 166–67, 173; 2004, 94–98). A number of geared and clockwork-driven Coper-

Astronomical Models

Fig. 71. DIAGRAM OF A COPERNICAN SPHERE. From Nicolas Bion, L’usage des globes celestes et terrestres, et des spheres (Paris: M. Brunet, E. Ganeau, C. Robustel, 1728), opp. 338. Size of the original: ca. 21 × 13 cm. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (Ayer 7 .B58 1728).

nican spheres were made, starting in the middle of the seventeenth century. These were all expensive models ordered by rich patrons as special, one-off items. The earliest extant clockwork-driven example is that at Gottorf (Gottorp) (diameter 134 cm) built in 1654–57 in conjunction with the joint celestial and terrestrial globe (diameter 311 cm; see fig. 163) to express in principle the twofold way of presenting the cosmos, as Blaeu had discussed; globe and Copernican sphere were part of a grand design conceived by Duke Frederik III of Holstein-Gottorp that included a Kunstkammer where the Copernican sphere was kept and, in the garden, a building to house the globe (Lühning 1997). Another interesting early example is the clockwork-driven Leiden sphere

Astronomical Models

(diameter 155 cm). This 1672 sphere was designed with the help of the mathematician Nicolaas Stampioen as a showpiece in honor of, and at the expense of, the wealthy Rotterdam burgomaster Adriaen Vroesen. Donated at the turn of the seventeenth century to the Leiden University Library, hence its name, it is now in the Museum Boerhaave, Leiden (Dekker 1986). A third example is the geared Nuremberg sphere (diameter 60 cm) made after a design by Georg Christoph Eimmart, an astronomer who founded an observatory in Nuremberg and who also produced some globes there. In 1713 the Nuremberg sphere was acquired by the merchants Ingolstetter and Grassel for the University of Altdorf, where it served for the education of students (Focus Behaim Globus 1992, 2:540–41). Finally, a clockworkdriven copy of Bion’s Copernican sphere was designed in 1706 for Louis XIV by Jean Pigeon in cooperation with Jean-Baptiste Delure. A description of this design was published in Paris in 1714 (Kugel 2002, 172–83; King 1978, 282). Pigeon stood at the start of an impressive French tradition in horology that saw the production of a variety of clockwork-driven spheres and astronomical clocks. Their construction reached its apex at the turn of the eighteenth century with the work of Antide Janvier (below). Less complex models were made especially for the demonstration of the earth’s threefold motion: its annual motion around the sun, its daily rotation around its own axis, and the constant orientation in space of its inclined axis of rotation. Such a heliocentric mode is called a “tellurian” (also “tellurium,” sometimes “tellurion”). Blaeu gave an early description of a tellurian in his 1634 treatise, and an early example is illustrated in figure 72. In it the earth is presented by a small terrestrial globe of 10 centimeters diameter, mounted on a polar axis inclined 66.5° to the (horizontal) ecliptic plane. Around the earth itself is a set of rings that differ in structure from those of the common armillary sphere: the horizontal ring around the earth represents the ecliptic plane instead of the horizon; the horizon is attached to the earth and shifts its position when the earth rotates around its own axis. The name tellurian has also been used for a device made in 1651 to show “the motions of the Earth/Moon system around the Sun in three dimensions, incorporating the inclination of the Moon’s orbit” (Millburn 1992, 7; see also King 1978, 101–2); Millburn, however, noted that this model should more properly be called an “orrery.” This term derives from the similar device—similar in that it also displayed the earth-moon system—made about 1713 by the London instrumentmaker John Rowley for Charles Boyle, fourth earl of Orrery. Rowley’s “orrery” was in fact an imitation of a model made in 1704–9 by George Graham. To add to the confusion,

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“orrery” is also used for devices having additional components to show planets and satellites in addition to the earth-moon system. An example is the Venus orrery designed by Ferguson in 1746, which consists of a system of gears driving the motions of the sun, the inner planets Mercury and Venus, as well as the earth-moon system (Millburn 1988, 39–47). A complete model of the solar system, intended to demonstrate the motions of all the planets and all their satellites, was in eighteenth-century England called a “grand orrery” (fig. 73). Such models were usually driven by complicated wheelwork set in motion by a handle or by a clock. Typically, the grand orrery also preserved half of an armillary sphere with the main celestial circles on top of the ecliptic plane. It is generally surmised that Thomas Wright was the first to build a grand orrery. Although expensive, the grand orrery was a very successful model and imitations were made throughout the eighteenth century by Wright’s successors Benjamin Cole, Thomas Heath, Benjamin Martin, and George Adams Sr. An impressive early example is preserved in the George III Collection in the Science Museum in London (Morton and Wess 1993, 402–5), and a grand orrery is the centerpiece in the famous painting by Joseph Wright of Derby: A Philosopher Giving a Lecture on the Orrery (1766), with a lamp in place of the sun (see fig. 188). Alongside Copernican spheres and orreries, other models of the solar system were developed, such as the planetarium. By this name we refer to devices representing the relative motions of the planets around the sun without details of, say, their axial inclination. Typical early examples are the models by the astronomers Ole Rømer and Christiaan Huygens. They were both especially interested in reproducing reliably the Keplerian orbital characteristics of planetary motion. Rømer’s planetarium of 1680 was paid for by Jean-Baptiste Colbert and is now in the Bibliothèque nationale de France. Another copy, in the Rosenborg Castle in Copenhagen, was made for Christian V of Denmark. The planetarium designed by Huygens also had the approval of Colbert. The wheelwork driving the planets in this machine is kept in motion by a spring-driven clock movement and the ratios between the wheels, derived by the method of continued fractions, differ completely from those used by Rømer. Colbert’s death prevented Huygens from showing his planetary machine to Louis XIV. It therefore remained in his family until 1809, when it was donated to the Leiden University Library; it was later moved to the Museum Boerhaave, Leiden. Desaguliers, the pioneer in adult education in England, is known to have designed a planetarium and separate devices for demonstrating satellite systems of the earth, Jupiter, and Saturn. Similar groups of instruments were developed in the middle of the eighteenth century

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Fig. 72. A TELLURIAN BY WILLEM JANSZ. BLAEU, CA. 1634.

Image courtesy of the Nederlands Scheepvaartmuseum, Amsterdam (B.0054[01]).

by Martin. His models, simple in structure and easy to produce, comprised a planetarium and various subsystems for the demonstration of the motion of satellites around their mother planet. After Martin’s death other makers, such as George Adams Jr., Dudley Adams, and William and Samuel Jones continued to produce them. The collection of the Teylers Museum in Haarlem has five models made by George Adams Jr.: a planetarium that shows all the planets, a tellurian, and three models of the satellite systems of the earth (Lunarium), Jupiter

(Jovilabe), and Saturn (Saturnilabe) (Turner 1973, 202– 5). Models showing the motion of the satellites of Jupiter and Saturn had already been developed by Rømer in 1677 and 1687, respectively. At that time, interest in the satellites of Jupiter was inspired by the problem of finding the longitude at sea, but in the eighteenth century the interest was solely to show the structure of the solar system. That motivation also was behind the Jovilabe and Saturnilabe designed by Janvier around 1790. During the Enlightenment a number of outstanding

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years to finish his machine. After his death, the Weltmachine was exhibited in London and acquired by George III. From London, the machine went to China in 1793, where it remained until it was returned to Europe in 1806. In 1878 it, or rather what was left of it, was added to the collection of the Germanisches Nationalmuseum in Nuremberg. Finally, the geared Copernican spheres made by Janvier were among the most sophisticated devices made in the late eighteenth century. The great talents of the young Janvier were recognized when, at the age of fifteen, he constructed a clockwork-driven geocentric sphere that was presented to the Académie des sciences, belles-lettres et arts de Besançon and is now (with modifications) preserved in the Museum of the History of Science in Oxford. He started on his finest work, his “Chef-d’œuvre,” after 1789 and finished it in 1801: it displays the moon and all the known planets, including that discovered in 1781 by William Herschel (Uranus), driven by complex wheelwork (Kugel 2002, 202–25). It is without exaggeration the ultimate presentation of a clockwork universe. Elly Dekker

Fig. 73. BENJAMIN COLE’S TRADE CARD, CA. 1745, DEPICTING A GRAND ORRERY. © Science Museum/SSPL/The Image Works.

astronomical models were made that do not fit into the main stream of modelmaking. Three deserve to be singled out. In 1780 a well-to-do Dutch wool comber of Franeker, Eise Eisinga, who in his free time studied astronomy, finished the construction of the largest planetarium of the eighteenth century in the living room of his house. His motive for building it was to fight the superstition among the Frisian population triggered by the special conjunction in May 1774 of Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and the moon in Aries. The planetarium had to be accurate enough to show that such planetary conjunctions had no supernatural significance but followed from the structure of the solar system. This planetarium can still be seen today in Franeker in full working order. In Germany, the most prestigious planetary model, the Weltmachine, was designed by Philipp Matthäus Hahn, a theologian by profession, who next to his pastoral duties had required a reputation in making clocks and other instruments. Together with his brothers Georg David and Gottfried, he worked for twenty

See also: Celestial Mapping; Cosmographical Map; Globe: (1) Celestial Globe, (2) Pocket Globe, (3) Lunar Globe Bibliography Dekker, Elly. 1986. The Leiden Sphere: An Exceptional SeventeenthCentury Planetarium. Leiden: Museum Boerhaave. ———. 1999. “Armillary Spheres.” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 143–76. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. ———. 2004. Catalogue of Orbs, Spheres and Globes. Florence: Giunti. Focus Behaim Globus. 1992. 2 vols. Nuremberg: Germanisches Nationalmuseum. King, Henry C., in collaboration with John R. Millburn. 1978. Geared to the Stars: The Evolution of Planetariums, Orreries, and Astronomical Clocks. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Kugel, Alexis. 2002. Spheres: The Art of the Celestial Mechanic. Paris: J. Kugel. Lühning, Felix. 1997. Der Gottorfer Globus und das Globushaus im “Newen Werck.” Vol. 4 of Gottorf im Glanz des Barock: Kunst und Kultur am Schleswiger Hof, 1544–1713. Schleswig: SchleswigHolsteinisches Landesmuseum. Mackensen, Ludolf von. 1991. Die naturwissenschaftlich-technische Sammlung: Geschichte, Bedeutung und Ausstellung in der Kasseler Orangerie. Kassel: Georg Wenderoth Verlag. Millburn, John R., in collaboration with Henry C. King. 1988. Wheelwright of the Heavens: The Life & Work of James Ferguson, FRS. London: Vade-Mecum Press. Millburn, John R. 1992. “Nomenclature of Astronomical Models.” Bulletin of the Scientific Instrument Society 34:7–9. Morton, Alan Q., and Jane A. Wess. 1993. Public & Private Science: The King George III Collection. Oxford: Oxford University Press in association with the Science Museum. Sutton, Geoffrey V. 1995. Science for a Polite Society: Gender, Culture, and the Demonstration of Enlightenment. Boulder: Westview Press. Turner, Gerard L’Estrange. 1973. “Descriptive Catalogue of Van Marum’s Scientific Instruments in Teyler’s Museum.” In vol. 4 of

132 Martinus van Marum: Life and Work, ed. E. Lefebvre and J. G. de Bruijn, 127–401. Leiden: Noordhoff International Publishing. Walters, Alice N. 1997. “Conversation Pieces: Science and Politeness in Eighteenth-Century England.” History of Science 35:121–54.

Atlantic Neptune, The. The Atlantic Neptune was a major maritime atlas published in London between 1774 and 1782. The four volumes contained more than a hundred charts at different scales as well as many views and profiles of the coasts of eastern North America. It was considered “one of the most remarkable products of human industry which has been given to the world through the arts of printing and engraving” (Webster 1933, 27) and “the most splendid collection of charts, plans, and views, ever published” (Rich 1835–44, 249). The Atlantic Neptune emerged in the wake of Britain’s victory over France and Spain in the Seven Years’ War (1756–63). To make sense of Britain’s newly enlarged empire, the government and the East India Company embarked on an extensive gathering of geographic, economic, and demographic information. In North America, the army, navy, and Board of Trade focused on surveying and mapping areas captured from the French and the Spanish. The army surveyed the Saint Lawrence, Ohio, and Mississippi Rivers; the navy concentrated on the coasts of Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and the Gulf of Mexico; and the Board of Trade instituted surveys of the remaining coast from the Gulf of Saint Lawrence to Cape Florida. With no central mapping agency, the surveys served different departments of government and were frequently organized on an ad hoc basis. Nevertheless, by 1770, some order was being imposed on this enormous effort. Army officer Samuel Holland, who was responsible for the Board of Trade’s General Survey of the Northern District (from the Gulf of Saint Lawrence to the Potomac River), and J. F. W. Des Barres, another army officer, who had been hired by the Admiralty to survey the coast of mainland Nova Scotia and Sable Island, met in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, and agreed to share their manuscript charts with a view to having them engraved and published. Des Barres took the lead in the project, hoping to make considerable profit. After finishing the survey of Nova Scotia, Des Barres arrived in London in late 1773 and began lobbying the Admiralty for funds to publish the charts. With British authority breaking down in Massachusetts and other colonies in spring 1774 and the navy desperate for charts of the American eastern seaboard, Des Barres quickly won support. Between 1775 and 1780, the government funded publication of the Neptune. The charts themselves continued to be printed until 1802. The charts were based on the most accurate surveys carried out in North America up to that time. Des Barres

Atlantic Neptune, The

drew on his own survey (fig. 74) as well as those of James Cook, Michael Lane, William Gerard De Brahm, George Gauld, and navy captains. The bulk of the charts, however, were based on surveys undertaken by Holland and his deputies. These encompassed the intricate coast from Quebec to eastern Long Island and were based on trigonometrical surveying and astronomical observation. To the envy of Des Barres, Holland and his men were equipped with the latest telescopes, pendulum clocks, and quadrants and had a dedicated survey vessel at their disposal. Des Barres may have drawn on the skills of James Newton, a renowned map- and globemaker, to engrave the charts. Certainly, the published charts were magnificently designed and far superior to those of Cook and Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder. At least some credit for the designs must go to Holland, whose manuscript charts closely match the engraved copies. As the charts accumulated, Des Barres organized them into four volumes: 1 and 2 covering Nova Scotia, 3 New England, and 4 the Gulf and River Saint Lawrence and New York south to the Gulf of Mexico. Sets of The Atlantic Neptune were quickly distributed to the Admiralty and naval vessels on the North American station. The charts were soon copied by commercial chart publishing houses and remained in use until a new round of coastal surveying by the British and U.S. governments in the mid-nineteenth century. Although The Atlantic Neptune charts were of little assistance to the British military effort on land during the American Revolution, they were a great help to the navy patrolling the coast. Moreover, the original surveys developed a cadre of skilled men who later served as provincial surveyors in Quebec, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island, and also as marine surveyors for the navy. Overshadowed by Cook’s explorations and mapping of the Pacific in the 1770s, The Atlantic Neptune nevertheless remains one of the great monuments of British imperial endeavor and Enlightenment science in the late eighteenth century. S teph en J. Hornsby See also: Atlas: Marine Atlas; De Brahm, William Gerard; Holland, Samuel (Johannes); Marine Charting: Great Britain; Topographical Surveying: British America Bibliography Evans, G. N. D. 1969. Uncommon Obdurate: The Several Public Careers of J. F. W. DesBarres. Salem: Peabody Museum; Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J.  F.  W. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill–Queen’s University Press. Johnson, Alexander James Cook. 2017. The First Mapping of America: The General Survey of British North America. London: I. B. Tauris. Rich, O. 1835–44. Bibliotheca Americana Nova; Or, A Catalogue of Books in Various Languages, Relating to America, Printed since the Year 1700. London: O. Rich.

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Fig. 74. J. F. W. DES BARRES, SPRY HARBOUR TO FLEMING RIVER CHART (LONDON, 1776). First state; copper engraving on two sheets. This large-scale chart shows the detailed surveys, soundings, and coastal views along southern Nova Scotia undertaken by Des Barres himself in 1764–65,

and the fine layout, typography, and engraving characteristic of charts in The Atlantic Neptune. Size of the original: 63 × 90 cm. Map reproduction courtesy of the Norman B. Leventhal Map Center at the Boston Public Library (G1106.P5 D47 1777).

Webster, John Clarence. 1933. The Life of Joseph Frederick Wallet Des Barres. Shediac: Privately printed.

is a book either composed entirely of maps or conceived primarily to present cartographic content; shaped by the guiding hand of an editor or editors; generally conforming to a standard size, design, and format; and arranged according to a consistent and meaningful plan (Akerman 1995a; Wolter and Grim 1997, ix–xi; Koeman et al. 2007; Carhart 2016). The term has been applied as well to compilations of manuscript maps and, mainly after 1800, to scientific reference books of spatial information presented in graphic formats, notably anatomical atlases. Until the nineteenth century, the uncertainties of the marketplace and the expense of copper engraving worked against the publication of truly uniform editions. Composite atlases assembled informally by mapsellers or consumers accounted for a significant portion of atlas production from the 1670s to the early 1800s.

Atlas. At l as i n t he E n l i g h t e n me n t G e o g ra p hi cal A t l as M ari n e At l as Co m p os i t e At l as S ch o o l At l as H i s to r i cal At l as

Atlas in the Enlightenment. Although books of maps

were produced by many cultures before 1500, the modern atlas dates from the last decades of the sixteenth century. Since then the core idea has been stable: an atlas

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The ideal of an edited, meaningfully designed and organized atlas—first articulated by Gerardus Mercator, Abraham Ortelius, and their contemporaries—was nevertheless also applied with increasing rigor across the spectrum of atlas production and to a diversity of atlas concepts far exceeding that of previous centuries. Many seventeenth-century atlas publishers aimed obsessively at comprehensiveness, producing bloated and expensive multivolume works or abortive projects that often failed to live up to their prospectuses. Eighteenth-century atlas publication mostly abandoned the pursuit of grandiosity, developing the atlas largely as we know it: a distillation, popularization, and interpretation of current geographical knowledge informed by divergent local, national, and imperial interests. Mercator’s term “atlas” was applied widely to books of maps by 1700, and its use was nearly universal by 1800. The most prominent genre was the geographical world atlas, a treatment of the entire earth employing mostly medium- and small-scale maps. Regional and national atlases, compilations of city maps and views, sea atlases, and historical atlases were also established genres by the mid-seventeenth century. The steady expansion of European map consumption during the eighteenth century encouraged mapmakers and publishers to experiment with new forms, most prominently road, war-related, and scholastic atlases. The geographical diffusion of the form throughout Europe and across the Atlantic accompanied this thematic diversification. Of the 1,173 printed atlases in the Library of Congress published before 1801 listed by Philip Lee Phillips and Clara Egli LeGear (1909–92, vols. 1–8), 72 percent were published between 1676 and 1800. Comparable numbers have been found among atlases held by the British Library (Woodfin 2007). The Netherlands remained the leading producer until the mid-eighteenth century. Thereafter, British, French, and German production matched or exceeded the Dutch (Akerman 1991, 303–5; Woodfin 2007, 66–67). Thematic diversification and geographical diffusion were clearly correlated. Road atlases flourished among mobile Britons (Delano-Smith and Kain 1999, 168– 78). Atlases of theaters of war and fortifications, such as Pierre Duval’s Les acquisitions de la France par la paix (1660 and later) (fig. 75) and Nicolas de Fer’s Les forces de l’Europe (1690–95), were popular on the Continent during the expansive wars of Louis XIV, and the endless dynastic and imperial struggles among European powers throughout the eighteenth century ensured their continuing popularity. National and local interests supported the emergence of new genres. In the Netherlands, composite polder atlases, composed of multi- and single-sheet maps of lands reclaimed from the sea, en-

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joyed some success. Wall-sized multisheet maps of the great eighteenth-century seats of empire, notably Louis Bretez’s twenty-sheet Plan de Paris (1739; see fig. 174) and John Rocque’s sixteen-sheet An Exact Survey of the City’s of London, Westminster (1746), survive primarily in durable atlas formats, accompanied by title pages, summary regional or index maps, or indexes (fig. 76). Established genres also evolved in ways reflective of shifting geopolitical interests. From the later seventeenth century, British, Dutch, and French sea atlases expanded the traditional European, Baltic, and Mediterranean navigation to include maps and sailing instructions embracing the worldwide scope of their imperial activities, with the east coast of North America, the West Indies, and the Indian Ocean receiving particular attention (Woodfin 2007, 187–214). Historical atlases, previously focused exclusively on classical and biblical geography, took on medieval and early modern subjects reflective of religious, dynastic, and national history (Black 1997, 21–26; Goffart 2003, 131–302). The eighteenth-century wealth of British, French, and German geographical atlases likewise reflected the geographical orientations of their respective markets. The British were prolific publishers of county atlases during the eighteenth century (Hodson 1984–97). British editors produced geographically balanced and systematic works such as John Senex’s Modern Geography (1708–25) and A New General Atlas (1721), the didactic A New Sett of Maps Both of Antient and Present Geography (1700) by Edward Wells, and A New Atlas of the Mundane System

Fig. 75. PIERRE DUVAL, DONKERQVE. From Duval’s Les acquisitions de la France par la paix (Paris: Chez l’Auteur, 1663). Size of the original: ca. 13.5 × 14.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (F 3924 24).

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Fig. 76. INDEX SHEET TO LOUIS BRETEZ, PLAN DE PARIS COMMENCÉ L’ANNÉE 1734 (PARIS?, 1739).

Size of the original: ca. 62.5 × 90.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (Wing oversize ZP 739 B844).

(1774) by Samuel Dunn. But more politicized works cut a higher profile, including Herman Moll’s sharply mercantilist The World Described (1708–20), the openly imperialist General Atlas of Thomas Kitchin (1773), and its successor, A New and Elegant Imperial Sheet Atlas published by Laurie and Whittle. In the 1760s to 1780s, Thomas Jefferys’s West-India Atlas and American Atlas, Jeffreys’s General Topography, and J. F. W. Des Barres’s Atlantic Neptune provided a cartographic context to British power in North America and the Caribbean. Germans, in contrast, favored volumes preoccupied with Continental affairs. Larger volumes by Johann Baptist Homann (and Homann Heirs), Tobias Conrad Lotter, and Matthäus Seutter typically included substantial complements of maps of the many states and provinces

of Continental Europe but relatively few maps of the world beyond Europe. A copy of Seutter’s Atlas novus (ca. 1740) in the Newberry Library, Chicago, comprising forty-nine sheets, for example, treats the world, Asia, Africa, and the Americas in the first five maps only, while the other forty-four mostly concern Central Europe. The general expansion and diversification of atlas publication was also reflected by the number of distinct atlas projects associated with a single mapmaker, author, or publisher. The map compiler and engraver Emanuel Bowen, for example, was author or contributor to Britannia depicta (1720), a road atlas; The English Pilot, fourth book (1729); A Complete System of Geography (1747); A Complete Atlas (1752); Patrick Gordon’s Geography Anatomiz’d (20th ed., 1754); John Gib-

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Fig. 77. ASIA ACCORDING TO THE SIEUR D’ANVILLE. The northern two sheets of a four-sheet map joined, folded, and bound together in Thomas Kitchin’s A General Atlas Describing the Whole Universe (London: Robert Sayer, 1773).

Size of the original: 54.5 × 120.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (oversize Ayer 135.K6 1773 A).

son’s Atlas Minimus (1758); The Maps and Charts to the Modern Part of the Universal History (1766); and an atlas of English counties, The Large English Atlas (1749–60), and its reduced version, The Royal English Atlas (1762). The great Amsterdam publishing house of Covens & Mortier published thirty-six different atlas titles during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (many in multiple editions and versions), mostly copied or derived from previous work (Van Egmond 2009). If produced in greater variety, atlases were also narrower in ambition. Partly this was a matter of economics. London map publishers were in constant financial stress. During the last decades of the seventeenth century four ambitious atlas projects floated by Richard Blome, John Ogilby, Moses Pitt, and John Seller floundered. The use of prepublication or serial subscriptions to spread expenses among distributors and consumers was tried with limited success by both British and French publishers. Atlas map sheets were frequently also sold as separate items, offering a more flexible way to realize profits from costly engraving and printing. A Parisian composite atlas assembled circa 1786 features twelve two- and four-sheet maps by Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville. It lacks a title page and index but includes an engraved price list for the maps in the atlas when sold singly (Chicago, Newberry Library, Baskes oversize G1019 A598 1786). Similarly, Kitchin’s General Atlas is composed almost entirely of maps printed on either two

or four large plates (many based on d’Anville). Most of the four-plate maps in the volume, including the world map, six continental maps, and a map of India, bear elaborate title cartouches that betray their marketability as separate wall maps (fig. 77). Finally, quarto, octavo, and even smaller formats were published for a growing market in economical and portable atlases (fig. 78). The instability of editions and the cost and time involved in copper engraving worked against the achievement of a truly uniform design among the maps in a given atlas. Costly, larger-format works commonly incorporated maps from a variety of sources. As a result, the graticule may have appeared on some maps in an atlas but not on others, and that graticule might have been based on two or more prime meridians. Maps often were oriented haphazardly to the north, east, or south as dictated by their subjects. At times, projections differed without any apparent system. Inconsistencies in symbols for towns, natural features, and political boundaries, as well as standards for nomenclature, betrayed both multiple sources and the stylistic habits of individual engravers. Even so, by the last half of the eighteenth century most atlas publishers clearly had enforced uniformity in their use of conventional signs. Each one of the maps in Gilles Robert Vaugondy and Didier Robert de Vaugondy’s Atlas universel (1757) is aesthetically admirable on its own terms, from its elegantly framed cartouches

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to its pleasing calligraphy, but the Vaugondys also struggled to achieve uniformity in the use and placement of toponyms, topographic and political symbols, color schemes, and size and format of the maps (Pedley 1992, 51–68). Dunn’s New Atlas of the Mundane System, Isaak Tirion’s Nieuwe en beknopte Hand-Atlas (1744), Jacques-Nicolas Bellin’s Le Petit atlas maritime (5 vols., 1764), and Antonio Zatta’s Atlante novissimo (4 vols., 1779–85) are representative of smaller folio atlases (35– 45 cm) designed uniformly. Their compilers only rarely

incorporated foldout maps, preferring instead to break regions accorded more detailed treatment into constituent subregions. The style of borders and cartouches and the use of text and topographic symbols show little variation from plate to plate, except—as for the representation of cities and rivers—variations required by scale. Uniformity was nevertheless occasionally breached by expedience. Zatta, motivated by the American Revolution, inserted a twelve-sheet map of the United Colonies (Le Colonie Unite dell’America Settentrle di nouva pro-

Fig. 78. A SELECTION OF SMALLER-FORMAT ATLASES. Left to right, top to bottom: Herman Moll, Atlas manuale (London: A. and J.  Churchil and T. Child, 1709); Francisco Giustiniani, El atlas abreviado (Lyon: Jaime Certa, 1739); George Taylor and Andrew Skinner, Survey and Maps of the Roads of North Britain or Scotland (London, 1776?); Louis Brion de La Tour, Atlas, et tables élémentaires de géographie, ancienne et moderne (Paris: J. Barbou, 1777); and Bibliothèque universelle des dames: Atlas portatif (Paris, 1786).

All images courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago. Moll, 19.5 × 21.5 cm (Ayer 135.M7 1709); Giustiniani, 18.5 × 26.1  cm (Ayer 135.G53 1739); Taylor and Skinner, 22.0 × 58.8 cm (sc1002); Brion de La Tour, 19.0 × 22.4 cm (Baskes G1015.B769 1777), and Atlas portatif, 18.0 × 24.8 cm (Baskes G1015.B45 1786).

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jezione) among his more characteristic self-contained single-sheet maps. Underlying this greater formal consistency was a more systematic approach to geographical content, particularly geopolitical content. Before 1750, for example, the shared boundaries between France and the Holy Roman Empire in the region of modern Belgium were often delineated differently in the same atlas’s maps of France, the Netherlands, the counties of Flanders and Artois, and the Empire. After that date these inconsistencies largely disappeared (Akerman 1991, 543–49; 1995b). Smallerformat atlases and atlases developed for scholastic use were particularly mindful of the need for consistency in the rendering of topography, hydrography, and political geography. Atlases had been, since the time of Ortelius, microcosms of the world, flavored by the worldviews, impulses, and sentiments of both their makers and their consumers. Yet, as atlasmakers abandoned the goal of mapping the whole world in detail and settled into reaching specific markets, needs, and tastes, editors more consistently expressed geographical ideas through an orderly sequence of maps specifically designed for a given purpose. The differences between a late eighteenth-century and a midseventeenth-century atlas are often subtle. More often than not, later atlases betray an increasing sophistication and consistency in design. This greater devotion to the plan and organization of an atlas made it possible for atlases not merely to catalog and systematize the representation of geographical features, but also, through the thoughtful selection and edition of constituent atlas maps, to elucidate local, national, and imperial narratives. J a mes R. Akerman See also: Celestial Mapping; Geographical Mapping; Map Trade Bibliograp hy Akerman, James R. 1991. “On the Shoulders of a Titan: Viewing the World of the Past in Atlas Structure.” PhD diss., Pennsylvania State University. ———. 1995a. “From Books with Maps to Books as Maps: The Editor in the Creation of the Atlas Idea.” In Editing Early and Historical Atlases, ed. Joan Winearls, 3–48. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. ———. 1995b. “The Structuring of Political Territory in Early Printed Atlases.” Imago Mundi 47:138–54. Black, Jeremy. 1997. Maps and History: Constructing Images of the Past. New Haven: Yale University Press. Carhart, George. 2016. Frederick de Wit and the First Concise Reference Atlas. Leiden: Brill/HES & De Graaf. Delano-Smith, Catherine, and Roger J. P. Kain. 1999. English Maps: A History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Egmond, Marco van. 2009. Covens & Mortier: A Map Publishing House in Amsterdam, 1685–1866. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Goffart, Walter, 2003. Historical Atlases: The First Three Hundred Years, 1570–1870. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hodson, Donald. 1984–97. County Atlases of the British Isles Published after 1703: A Bibliography. 3 vols. Tewin: Tewin Press.

Koeman, Cornelis, et al. 2007. “Commercial Cartography and Map Production in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1672.” In HC 3:1296– 1383. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. Phillips, Philip Lee, and Clara Egli LeGear, eds. 1909–92. A List of Geographical Atlases in the Library of Congress. 9 vols. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office; Library of Congress. Woodfin, Thomas McCall. 2007. “The Cartography of Capitalism: Cartographic Evidence for the Emergence of the Capitalist WorldSystem in Early Modern Europe.” PhD diss., Texas A&M University. Wolter, John A., and Ronald E. Grim, eds. 1997. Images of the World: The Atlas through History. Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress.

Geographical Atlas. Though all atlases that have the earth as their subject are in the broadest sense geographical, works providing a general overview of global or regional geography, consisting primarily of medium-scale general reference maps are here defined as “geographical atlases.” Despite the proliferation of new genres, geographical atlases remained the dominant type, accounting for roughly 50 percent of editions produced during the eighteenth century (Akerman 1991, 320). Basic and unspecialized, they were intelligible to wide audiences and often explicitly didactic. Eighteenth-century geographical atlases could be grand or voluminous, but competition and economics encouraged most atlas editors and publishers to embrace selectivity and system over exhaustiveness. The concise reference atlas published in-folio or small folio, ranging from twenty to a hundred mapsheets, developed in the later seventeenth century (Carhart 2016). Their modest size allowed compilers to enforce uniform symbolic templates, scales and projections, orientations, textual styles, ornament, and color. Comparatively simple designs emphasized clarity over density of information. A preference for uniformity and clarity was at work as early as 1658, in the design of Nicolas Sanson’s Cartes générales de toutes les parties du monde. The layout, symbolization, and color schemes of its component sheets were unusually uniform. Notably, country or regional boundaries and labels conformed very closely to a set of hierarchical geographical tables of the regions and physical features of the world published by Sanson fourteen years earlier as geographical aide-mémoires. Many geographical atlases of the eighteenth century had similar didactic orientations. The title page of Edward Wells’s A New Sett of Maps Both of Antient and Present Geography (1700) instructed the binder to assemble the atlas with ancient and modern maps of the same country side-by-side so that “the most remarkable Differences of Antient and Present Geography may be quickly discern’d by a bare Inspection or Comparing of Correspondent Maps; which seems to be the most natural and easy Method to lead Young Students . . . unto

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Fig. 79. TYPICAL EXAMPLE OF MAP DESIGN FOR AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY GEOGRAPHICAL ATLAS. A Map of Independent Tartary, Containing the Countries of the Kalmuks and Uzbeks, with the Tibet, from Samuel Dunn, A

New Atlas of the Mundane System (London: For R. Sayer and J. Bennett, 1778), 26. Size of the original: 31 × 44 cm. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (Ayer 135 D85 1778).

a competent Knowledge of the Geographical Science.” Johann Baptist Homann’s Kleiner Atlas scholasticus (1710) was conceived and carefully illuminated to accord with Johann Hübner’s highly popular didactic work, Kurtze Fragen aus der neuen und alten Geographie (1693). The uniformly designed maps in “Mathematician” Samuel Dunn’s A New Atlas of the Mundane System carefully attend to the subdivisions of each country or region (fig. 79). The simple design of Didier Robert de Vaugondy’s Nouvel atlas portatif (1762) is striking especially when compared to the same publisher’s ornate Atlas universel (1757). Though more expensive and beautiful, the Atlas universel was nevertheless a standard atlas with prescribed content and arrangement and engraved according to uniform specifications under the watchful eye of the editors (Pedley 1992).

The history of geographical atlas production over the course of the eighteenth century was largely one of gradual triumph of the systematic atlas over more informally designed and compiled atlases—but not entirely. Leading German publishers, such as Homann, Matthäus Seutter, and Tobias Conrad Lotter, produced both standard and composite atlases, as did the French heirs of Sanson. The practice of offering constituent atlas maps for separate sale was clearly widespread. And large regional maps, such as Henry Popple’s A Map of the British Empire in America (1733), were often bound as atlases, and so might be combined with other maps independently conceived and designed. These practices invited customization by or for individual customers. Whether in standard or irregular editions, the content, structure, and design of eighteenth-century geographi-

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cal atlases are almost all marked by increased sensitivity to political territory and geopolitics. British world atlases of the eighteenth century were more likely to include maps of British territories in America and Asia than French or Spanish territories; French atlases were similarly biased toward their colonies. The larger works of Seutter and Homann are crowded with maps of German principalities ignored by publications from Britain or France (Akerman 1995). County atlases of the British Isles enjoyed enduring popularity (Hodson 1984–97), while Dutch atlases of their homeland clung to the politically anachronistic concept of the Seventeen Provinces of a united Low Countries. Not surprisingly, Philadelphia publishers issued distinctly American atlases, dominated by American states and territories, within two decades of the Declaration of Independence. While composite atlases assembled to the order of individual buyers remained popular, over the course of the eighteenth century the standard geographical atlas asserted its dominance, in part because it allowed editors to assert that geographical science was the basis of their work. Geographical atlases, however, also appealed to geopolitical sentiment. While not all were explicitly didactic, eighteenth-century geographical atlases provided a foundation for what was already by 1800 becoming a sharply territorial and imperialistic geography of nation-states. J a mes R. Akerman See also: Geographical Mapping; Map Trade Bibliograp hy Akerman, James R. 1991. “On the Shoulders of a Titan: Viewing the World of the Past in Atlas Structure.” PhD diss., Pennsylvania State University. ———. 1995. “The Structuring of Political Territory in Early Printed Atlases.” Imago Mundi 47:138–54. Carhart, George. 2016. Frederick de Wit and the First Concise Reference Atlas. Leiden: Brill/HES & De Graaf. Hodson, Donald. 1984–97. County Atlases of the British Isles Published after 1703: A Bibliography. 3 vols. Tewin: Tewin Press. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications.

Marine Atlas. From the close of the sixteenth century

and especially through the first half of the seventeenth century, European cartographic production, including marine charts, benefited from progress made in engraving. The term “atlas,” which prevailed only after 1630, was applied to many collections of printed marine charts that were heterogeneous works of compilation without a coherent purpose. “Atlas” was also used to describe combinations of maps and texts when the former outnumbered the latter. A need existed to gather charts into volumes that could be handled more easily than individual large-format sheets. Yet these volumi-

nous atlases remained expensive, and works of nautical instruction experienced greater success (Chapuis 1999, 145, 150, 152). Nautical books actually favored coastal views over maps, the geometric perspective of which was still difficult for many coastal navigators to understand (Chapuis 1999, 150). Their lower cost and more manageable size also played a role in their popularity (Chapuis 1999, 144–45). Even well into the eighteenth century, the imperatives of cost and size encouraged the production of small atlases such as Le Petit atlas maritime (1764) of Jacques-Nicolas Bellin, although such atlases were impractical for plotting while navigating (Chapuis 1999, 314). Atlases of printed charts acquired a particular distinction for their rich illumination, paid for by wealthy clients who appreciated the application of color to the maps; such addition was one of the trademarks of engraved charts from Holland up to the eighteenth century. Thus the Spieghel der zeevaerdt by Lucas Jansz. Waghenaer, published from 1584 to 1585, became the standard maritime atlas, lending the name of its author to any atlas of this type, the waggoner (Schilder and Van Egmond 2007, 1385). Waghenaer’s Spieghel influenced the production of marine atlases in other European countries. In France, Le Neptune françois (1693) adopted the Spieghel ’s innovative principle of uniform scale by providing detailed maps of the French coasts at ca. 1:100,000, a rather large scale for the period (Chapuis 1999, 104). These maps overlapped one another at their edges, initiating a clever practice still employed today for ease of use (Chapuis 2007, 134). The Neptune also offered quite complete legends and adopted a uniform set of standardized conventional signs, a distinguishing feature of marine atlases. Finally, the Neptune systematized features not invented by its authors, such as a proposed reference point for tides of the lowest seas of the equinox (Chapuis 2007, 135). Just as the waggoner had assumed its place in European vocabulary, in French, the word neptune (without the initial capital) has been becoming the standard term since that time for a maritime atlas (Chapuis 2007, 109). A neptune was either an atlas of marine charts organized according to an order established at publication or, more often, a diverse collection of navigational charts assembled for binding as needed, containing maps of diverse provenance—even an artificial collection (recomposed after the fact with neither practical or editorial logic), of which the best example was the Hydrographie françoise in eighteenth-century France. Le Neptune françois was not the first French effort at a marine atlas. Sixty years earlier, Christophe Tassin, royal engineer and géographe du roi, prepared the

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Fig. 80. MURDOCH MACKENZIE THE ELDER, THE SOUTH ISLES OF ORKNEY, WITH THE ROCKS, TIDES, SOUNDINGS &C., 1750. One of the seven detailed charts from the first edition of Orcades: Or a Geographic and Hydrographic Survey of the Orkney and Lewis Islands in Eight

Maps (London: Murdoch Mackenzie, 1750), map engraved on one sheet, ca. 1:65,000. Size of the original: 59 × 65 cm. © The British Library Board, London (General Reference Collection N.Tab.2017/16, chart 2, fols. 17–18).

Cartes generale et particulieres de toutes les costes de France tant de la mer oceane que mediterranée (1634) (Pelletier 2007, 1496; Chapuis 2007, 52). This atlas presented a map of France as an assembled picture (although Le Neptune françois did not contain such an assembled map), prefiguring the practices of numerous

subsequent maritime atlases and of modern-day hydrographic departments. In Great Britain, the competitive influence of the great maritime atlases engraved in Holland could be seen in the second half of the seventeenth century, notably with the publication of The English Pilot by John Seller begin-

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ning in 1671 and continued by his successors through the eighteenth century. This atlas combined nautical instructions and charts, some of which were reengraved or copied from Dutch plates, and its six volumes covered most of the coasts of the known world. For home coastal waters, both France and England decided to launch new surveys in the field, under the authority and with the financial support of the state. With official assistance but little monetary backing, Greenvile Collins published Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot in 1693, the same year as Le Neptune françois. Collins’s work was regularly reissued, sometimes with revisions, for nearly one hundred years. State-supported marine mapping also encouraged the survey of the coasts of Spain under the direction of Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel y Vandewalle, resulting in the Atlas maritímo de España (1789). The eighteenth century saw the continued production of large, prestigious atlases, including those of exploratory voyages in the Pacific. In France, Le Neptune oriental (1745), a volume covering the waters of the Indian Ocean, Southeast Asia, and the East Indies, included nautical instructions as well as charts, which were published facing the texts relating to the areas represented. The Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique, designed in three parts and not completely published until 1810 (dated 1809), held particular importance, especially for engraving—much greater than its confidential diffusion would suggest (Chapuis 1999, 286). In Great Britain, Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder’s Orcades (1750) included a general map and seven more detailed maps of the Orkney Islands and surrounding waters at ca. 1:65,000, very large for the period; it was unquestionably the finest work of marine cartography at midcentury (fig. 80). The general outline of the Orkneys as delineated by Mackenzie conformed more closely to the actual coastline than that of Collins in 1693 (Robinson 1962, 66). Finally, The Atlantic Neptune (1774–82), edited by J. F. W. Des Barres, which covered the coasts of North America, was a monumental atlas of charts on standardized scales that provided an initial page of conventional symbols to be inserted at the front of each volume, though the volumes themselves varied in contents. No two exemplars were alike among the several editions (Evans 1969, 20). O liv ier Ch apuis See also: Atlantic Neptune, The; English Pilot, The; Map Trade; Marine Chart; Marine Charting; Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique; Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise; Neptune oriental, Le B ib liograp hy Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. ———. 2007. Cartes des côtes de France: Histoire de la cartographie marine et terrestre du littoral. Douarnenez: Chasse-Marée.

Evans, Geraint Nantglyn Davies. 1969. Uncommon Obdurate: The Several Public Careers of J. F. W. DesBarres. Salem: Peabody Museum of Salem; Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J.  F.  W. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1984. Les atlas français, XVIe–XVIIe siècles: Répertoire bibliographique et étude. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Cartes et Plans. Pelletier, Monique. 2007. “National and Regional Mapping in France to About 1650.” In HC 3:1480–1503. Robinson, A. H. W. 1962. Marine Cartography in Britain: A History of the Sea Chart to 1855. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Schilder, Günter, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Maritime Cartography in the Low Countries during the Renaissance.” In HC 3: 1384–1432.

Composite Atlas. A composite atlas (atlas factice or Sam-

melatlas) is a book, or books, of printed maps assembled according to the specifications of individual consumers, often from the works of multiple publishers (Carhart 2016, 44). First developed by Italian mapsellers in the 1560s–70s, the practice persisted until the nineteenth century. The distinction between composite atlases and standard editions (i.e., those that conform to a predetermined plan) was an important but complicated one during this period. Since books of all types were commonly sold unbound, sellers and consumers could easily improvise on the plans of atlas compilers before binding them. Printed title pages, frontispieces, tables of contents, and introductory text might indicate that a work was conceived as a standard edition but did not guarantee that every or even most copies of that edition would be identical. Copies of Herman Moll’s The World Described included a table of contents that doubled as a sales catalog for individual sale of the maps contained therein. This common practice invited seller and consumer alike to elaborate on the apparent plan. The manifest of a copy of Moll’s atlas issued around 1760 by John Bowles (in Chicago, Newberry Library [NL], Case oversize G1007.58) lists thirty maps, all of which are present in their specified order, but the volume includes seven additional maps relating to the French and Indian War, five of which were made by Thomas Jefferys. Several differences exist between the collector’s composite atlas and the mapseller’s composite atlas. The former was assembled by the consumer, perhaps over time from a variety of commercial sources; while the latter was assembled at a specific time apparently from a single seller’s stock, but still has indeterminate content and may include maps from a variety of sources (Carhart 2016, 46). The gigantic “Atlas of the Great Elector” composed of Dutch wall maps presented to Friedrich Wilhelm, elector of Brandenburg, by Johan Morits van Nassau and the similarly proportioned “Klencke Atlas” given by Dutch merchants to Britain’s Charles II are famous

Fig. 81. MANUSCRIPT TABLE OF CONTENTS FROM A COMPOSITE ATLAS. From volume 1, “General Atlas of Modern Geography,” composite atlas perhaps assembled by William Faden in London, ca. 1816.

Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (Ayer 135 G32 1775).

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examples of collectors’ atlases. The circumstances of the assembly of most surviving composite atlases, however, are usually more difficult to document. One example, in two volumes titled on their spines “General Atlas of Modern Geography,” consists of 145 map sheets dated from 1775 to 1816 (NL, Ayer 135 G32 1775). Perhaps half of the maps were published by William Faden, but the volumes include maps from several other London houses, as well as French, Dutch, Prussian, Swiss, and Austrian publishers (fig. 81). It is plausible that Faden assembled the atlas, but no direct evidence in the atlas supports this conjecture. One edition of the Atlas minor assembled by the Amsterdam-based publisher Carel Allard, perhaps in 1682 (NL, Ayer 135 A4 A), bears Allard’s imprint on its frontispiece but includes maps from nine different publishers. The manuscript map register at the back of the volume lists only 70 of a total of 106 sheets. It conforms roughly to other examples of Allard atlases (described by Koeman 1967–85, 1:31–48), but it remains difficult in such cases to know whether the consumer or the seller held greater responsibility for determining the content of the volume. Still more highly varied were the composite atlases assembled by Reinier Ottens and Josua Ottens of Amsterdam in the middle decades of the eighteenth century. These atlases ranged in size from one to fifteen volumes and included “nearly every map of Dutch origin, available at the time” (Koeman 1967–85, 3:86). One example is in five volumes, with 247 map sheets of the Netherlands, primarily magnificent polder maps and provincial and city plans, dating from 1665–1734 (NL, Case oversize G1860 .O88 A84 1750). The persistence of composite atlases would seem at odds with the Enlightenment’s taste for systematic compilation and presentation of knowledge. Highly systematic atlases issued in uniform editions were indeed becoming the norm by the end of eighteenth century, but making atlases remained an expensive proposition requiring a high level of capitalization. Grand atlas projects, like those proposed by Moses Pitt and John Ogilby, fell under their own weight. Many English publishers relied on advance subscriptions and serial publication of atlas components to finance their projects, while in France guild loyalties and restrictions could militate against the collaboration of cartographers and book publishers (Pedley 2005, 84–93). In these circumstances, composite atlases offered a flexible form of atlas publication that limited mapsellers’ up-front investment while satisfying buyers’ desire for collections suited to their personal tastes and interests. Only the nineteenthcentury development of printing technologies suited to industrial production and mass marketing gave publishers of fully standard atlases the upper hand. J a mes R. Akerman

See also: Map Collecting; Map Trade Bibliography Carhart, George. 2016. Frederick de Wit and the First Concise Reference Atlas. Leiden: Brill/HES & De Graaf. Harley, J. B. 1970. “Bibliographical Note.” In John Ogilby, Britannia, London 1675, V–XXIII. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. Koeman, Cornelis. 1967–85. Atlantes Neerlandici: Bibliography of Terrestrial, Maritime, and Celestial Atlases and Pilot Books Published in the Netherlands Up to 1880. 6 vols. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

School Atlas. While almost any atlas can be construed

as educational in nature, school atlases developed in the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as inexpensive works of small or medium size that were conceived and executed on a pedagogical plan (Pastoureau 1997, 110). They were often prepared in Latin or French, the languages of knowledge and teaching. One long-lasting cartographic didactic device was developed early, by the Hanoverian schoolmaster Johann Strube and published posthumously in his Orbis terrarum veteribus cogniti typus in binis tabulis (1664). It offered two maps of each region, one with place-names filled in and one in outline only, awaiting the student to fill in the names; this technique was used in many later school atlases, such as that published by Michał Gröll in Warsaw in 1770 (see fig. 490). The development of school atlases followed a common pattern in those countries in Europe where the map trade had developed substantially, such as the German states, France, and the Italian states. Education flourished in the German states after the Thirty Years’ War as the ideological struggle continued in the classroom. On the Catholic side, teachers associated with religious orders (especially the Jesuits and Piarists), and on the Protestant side, educators such as Johann Amos Comenius (who had been expelled from recatholicized Bohemia), labored to strengthen the study of geography, a process that continued into the eighteenth century. The school atlas developed in conjunction within the proliferation of geography schoolbooks. The educator Johann Hübner, whose textbook Kurtze Fragen aus der alten und neuen Geographie (1693) had become a European bestseller, joined the Homann publishing firm to create the first German world atlas that identified an educational goal in its title: Kleiner Atlas scholasticus . . . durch eine accurate Illumination zu seinen geographischen Fragen accomodiret durch Johann Hübnern, Rectorn zu Merseburg (1710?). In it Hübner described his unique system of coloring political divisions. In 1719, the Homann firm published the Atlas methodicus = Methodischer Atlas, whose maps were designed specifically for educational purposes. In Prussia, the Berlin Akademie der Wissenschaften

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Fig. 82. DETAILS OF IE CARTE DE L’EUROPE. 1754 AND IIIE CARTE DE L’EUROPE. 1754. Both in Jean Palairet, Atlas méthodique (London, 1755). The first map (left), in a series of three, shows the simple outlines of Europe and its constituent regions in colors with only political boundaries and a few

major cities depicted, the third has added more features such as rivers, bodies of water, and important physical features. Size of the originals: 49 × 57 cm; size of details: ca. 18 × 27 cm. Images courtesy of the David Rumsey Map Collection.

employed its privilege for reviewing and taxing imported maps. In the face of the increasing number of school atlases produced in Nuremberg, Leipzig, Augsburg, and outside the German states, the academy decided to produce its own, the Atlas geographicus omnes orbis terrarum regiones . . . ad usum potissimum scholarum et institutionem juventutis editus (1753) compiled by one of its members, Leonhard Euler. Reflecting the concerns of Enlightenment science and adding text written in Latin and French, Euler included world maps with magnetic declination for 1744 (see fig. 6), winds and monsoons, and measurements of gravity with a pendulum according to Isaac Newton, James Bradley, and Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis. In France, the Jesuits dominated the late seventeenthcentury educational market, exemplified by Parallela geographiæ veteris et novæ (1648–49) by Philippe Briet, SJ, with 144 maps illustrating ancient and modern geography plus text to match. Other works competed with Briet’s to attract clientele in the specialized market for supplying local academies and schools with products such as Pierre Duval’s pocket atlases, copied and reduced from other authors, in pocket form and priced within reach of even a poor student (Pastoureau 1997, 119–22). In all these works, the maps and the cartes muettes method (blank geographical maps or longitude and latitude grids to be filled in) emphasized memorization of nomenclature by students. By the second half of the eighteenth century, new concepts in pedagogy, under the influence of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, moved away from teaching by rote and embraced physical activity and a

more child-centered, developmentally incremental approach to learning. Following these trends, the Italian map trade met an increased demand for school atlases in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, particularly in Venice. In France, the introductions and texts accompanying the school atlases of Didier Robert de Vaugondy (Nouvel atlas portatif, 1762; see fig. 233) and Louis Brion de La Tour (Atlas, et tables élémentaires de géographie, ancienne et moderne, 1774) incorporated new educational ideas (Pedley 1992, 97–104). L’enfant géographe, ou nouvelle méthode d’enseigner la géographie (1769) by Jacques-Nicolas Bellin employed simplified maps for very young students and included the traditional blank maps for filling in. The Atlas méthodique (1755) by the educator Jean Palairet employed two or three maps for each region, each one with progressively more information, allowing students to gradually increase and recapitulate their knowledge (fig. 82), as discussed in his “Préface.” Edme Mentelle’s Atlas nouveau (1779) included maps of physical geography and other themes, which he continued in greater detail in later editions. Yet the old tropes of memorization and linking geography with history persevered. The Atlas méthodique et elémentaire (1756) by the professor of geography Claude Buy de Mornas offered each map framed by columns of text that provide a historical overview and lists of old localities with their current names. In the pedagogical debate in France on the eve of the Revolution—sharpened by the expulsion of the Jesuits between 1762 and 1764 and the end of their governance of more than one hundred colleges, nearly one-third of the secondary education institutions in France—there

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was scope for reform that looked toward standardization of programs and school textbooks, including atlases (Pastoureau 1997, 129–30). In 1791, the same committee that published the Atlas national produced the first official French school atlas, prepared by Pierre-Grégoire Chanlaire: the Atlas national portatif de la France, destiné à l’instruction publique. By the early years of the nineteenth century, educational reformers such as Mentelle had eliminated historical geography and introduced in his atlases essays on understanding and using maps, preparing children to understand large-scale maps as well as the more general small-scale standard fare of atlases (Heffernan 2005, 293). J oac h im Neumann See also: Education and Cartography; Euler, Leonhard; Geographical Mapping; Map Trade Bibliograp hy Eckert, Max. 1921–25. Die Kartenwissenschaft: Forschungen und Grundlagen zu einer Kartographie als Wissenschaft. 2 vols. Berlin: Walter De Gruyter. Goffart, Walter. 2003. Historical Atlases: The First Three Hundred Years, 1570–1870. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Heffernan, Michael. 2005. “Edme Mentelle’s Geographies and the French Revolution.” In Geography and Revolution, ed. David N. Livingstone and Charles W. J. Withers, 273–303. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Neumann, Joachim. 2004. Die deutsch-französischen Beziehungen im Spiegel deutscher Schulatlanten: Katalog zur Ausstellung im Hauptstaatsarchiv Stuttgart vom 6. Oktober bis 17. Dezember 2004. Karlsruhe: Fachhochschule Karlsruhe—Hochschule für Technik, Fachbereich Geoinformationswesen Neumann, Joachim, and Isabelle Wilt. 2006. Les relations franco-allemandes à travers les atlas scolaires allemands et français: Exposition présentée aux Archives de la ville et de la communauté urbaine de Strasbourg, 27 février–21 Avril 2006. Trans. Brigitte de Montgolfier. Strasbourg: Archives de la ville et de la communauté urbaine de Strasbourg. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1997. “French School Atlases: Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries.” In Images of the World: The Atlas through History, ed. John A. Wolter and Ronald E. Grim, 109–34. Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications.

Historical Atlas. The Parergon of Abraham Ortelius

(1579) often ranks as the original historical atlas, but 150 years after its appearance authors were still unsure of what a historical atlas might be. The first books titled “historical atlas” were a seven-volume Atlas historique probably by Zacharias Châtelain (1705–20) and a slim Atlas historicus by Johann Georg Hagelgans (1718). The former was no more historical than the Dutch atlases of the 1600s; the latter was a world chronicle in little pictures (Goffart 2003, 23–24, 132–33). Only in 1750 was the term first used for a collection of maps to illustrate and teach all or a part of history. Ortelius’s goal was ancient geography, not “historical

cartography.” Strictly biblical maps prolonged a medieval tradition of Holy Land illustration; for the classical repertory, Ortelius rejuvenated Ptolemy’s maps of the ancient world and initiated the atlases of ancient geography, “classical and sacred,” that continue to this day, in which timeless maps of ancient lands compete with scenes of historical moments. Ancient geography collections in the Enlightenment included independent anthologies (Janssonius Heirs, Jean Le Clerc, Johann David Köhler), supplements to geographical atlases (Guillaume Sanson, Giovanni Maria Cassini), scholarly improvements (Christophorus Cellarius, Adriaan  Reelant), and schoolbooks. Comparisons of ancient and modern geography were held in great honor (Goffart 2003, 21). Nursed by a master like Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, ancient geography held its own as a discipline only in part concerned with history. Its atlases had a devoted, steady, and widening clientele. The historical atlas as we know it developed on a track of its own. An atlas attentive to time was first assembled, from Holy Land maps, by Philippe de La Rue (1651), and described by Augustin Lubin in 1678 as worthy of a wider effort (Goffart 2003, 105–7). The actual execution of such collections did not occur until Menso Alting’s Descriptio secundum antiquos, agri Batavi & Frisii (1697–1701) and Nicolas de La Mare’s eight plans of Paris (1705), both of them isolated endeavors (Goffart 2003, 100–104, 110, 205–8). Guillaume Delisle planned historical collections covering broader geographical and chronological ranges, but died before carrying them out. Johann Matthias Hase first compiled an atlas spanning all history, in twenty-eight small maps of the “greatest empires” (fig. 83). These maps along with Hase’s seven successive maps for German history were gathered by Homann Heirs into an Atlas historicus (1750). Applied to Hase’s works, “historical atlas” inaugurated the sense it still has (Goffart 2003, 147–49, 256–62; 1995, 54–56). Hase’s epoch-making collection was imitated only in its universal scope. Its successors eschewed “empires” and focused on sequentiality. A commentator spoke in 1804 as though a normal form had jelled: “A historical atlas must . . . supply many maps and they must follow each other in chronological order, so as to present to the eye the gradual changes in the setting of events” (Goffart 1995, 58). This active atlas design, advancing almost cinematically frame by frame, continues to be used to illustrate change. It first appears as an unpublished sixty-six-map atlas, uncertainly dated 1747 (at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris) and was realized in the anonymous sixty-map Révolutions de l’univers (1763); both included map-by-map explanations (Goffart 2003, 152–60). The same design, without associated text, guided Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni’s

Atlas

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Fig. 83. JOHANN MATTHIAS HASE, IMPERIVM ROMANVM SUB JVSTINIANO I. From Hase’s Historiae universalis politicae qvantvm ad eivs partem I ac II. (Nuremberg, 1743), pl. XI.

© The British Library Board, London.

sixty-map Atlas historique et géographique de la France ancienne et moderne (1764) and Johann Christoph Gatterer’s twenty-four-map Charten zur Geschichte der Völkerwanderung (1776), now almost wholly lost (Goffart 2003, 161–73). János Tomka Szászky’s eighteenmap Parvus atlas Hungariae (1750–51) was also sequential but more clearly topical (Goffart 2003, 274–77). Only the idiosyncratic (and unfinished) Historical Atlas of England (maps dated 1790–97) by John Andrews was untouched by the sequential design (Goffart 2003, 278–80). Ancient geography aside, these five publications were the total output of historical atlases between midcentury and 1800. Such works were not in demand; classics-weighted school curricula dispensed with atlases of the rest of history. Gatterer, professor of history at Göttingen, compiled the Charten to accompany his

lectures, and Tomka Szászky’s Hungarian collection had local interest; but the historical atlas, while becoming a recognized type of map book, found only a scattered public. The Rizzi Zannoni atlas, foreshadowing myriad nineteenth-century historical atlases of France, was the only example of its kind for sixty uninterested years. Maps of ancient geography in anthologies were generously proportioned, those in schoolbooks usually very small. Small size also characterized the maps of historical collections, in part because atlases of universal history, though on folio sheets, extended from the British Isles to Japan. For all concerned, territorial boundaries, sometimes shifting from map to map, were the main historical information conveyed. Tracks signifying movement occurred almost only on select maps of ancient geography. Walter Goffart

148 See also: Geographical Mapping; Hase, Johann Matthias; Historical Map; History and Cartography; Homann Family; Map Trade; Public Sphere, Cartography and the Bibliograp hy Black, Jeremy. 1997. Maps and History: Constructing Images of the Past. New Haven: Yale University Press. Dörflinger, Johannes. 2003. “Das geschichtskartographische Werk von Johann Matthias Hase (Hasius)—Paradigmenwechsel in der Historischen Kartographie (?).” In Geschichtsdeutung auf alten Karten: Archäologie und Geschichte, ed. Dagmar Unverhau, 221–47. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Goffart, Walter. 1995. “Breaking the Ortelian Pattern: Historical Atlases with a New Program, 1747–1830.” In Editing Early and Historical Atlases, ed. Joan Winearls, 49–81. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. ———. 2003. Historical Atlases: The First Three Hundred Years, 1570–1870. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hofmann, Catherine. 2000. “La genèse de l’atlas historique en France (1630–1800): Pouvoirs et limites de la carte comme ‘œil de l’histoire.’” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 158:97–128.

Austrian Monarchy. The mapping activities of the Austrian monarchy in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were characterized by an enormous increase in military and administrative cartography due to numerous wars and related territorial expansions of the Habsburg Empire in that period. In the eighteenth century, Austria—in addition to its hereditary lands—comprised the Bohemian lands, of which Silesia was largely lost in 1742; Hungary; nearly all of northern Italy; and, toward the end of that century, Galicia, Lodomeria, and Bukovina after the partitions of Poland-Lithuania (Vocelka 2001, 21–23). The expansion began after the successful repulsion of the second Turkish siege of Vienna in 1683 and the subsequent Habsburg-Ottoman War, ended by the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699) by which Austria acquired Hungary, Transylvania, and parts of Slovenia and Croatia. Credit for these acquisitions went to Prince Eugene of Savoy, who from 1697 played an increasingly important role in the Austrian army (Sachslehner 2003, 8–9, 20–25). Prince Eugene, a connoisseur of already renowned French cartography, promoted military mapping in the Habsburg Empire. A growing number of mostly secret maps and plans of fortresses, battles, and sieges were drawn starting in the late 1690s. By the early eighteenth century, leading mapmakers in the field included Leander Anguissola and Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli from Italy and Johann Christoph Müller from Germany (Dörflinger 2004, 75–76). During the 1690s, Marsigli and Müller had mapped the Danube from Vienna to the mouth of the Yantra River and published a map in eighteen sheets of unprecedented accuracy in 1726. Between 1699 and 1701, they surveyed the border area between Austria and the Ottoman Empire as defined by the Treaty of

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Karlowitz with a corresponding map drawn in 1706 (see fig. 101). In addition, Müller also surveyed Moravia and Bohemia, resulting in several manuscript and printed maps (e.g., Mappa geographica regni Bohemiae, 1722, 1:132,000) (Dörflinger 1989, 70–75; Wawrik and Zeilinger 1989, 318–20). The War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) led to the transfer of the Spanish Netherlands, the Duchies of Milan and Mantua, and parts of the Kingdom of Naples and Sardinia (swapped with Sicily in 1720) to the Austrian monarchy, with cartographic results. Notable examples are several maps of theaters of war on the Upper Rhine and in southern Germany drawn by the engineer-corps officer Cyriak Blödner as well as manuscript maps of Sicily by the quartermaster general’s lieutenant Samuel von Schmettau (“Nova et accurata Siciliae Regionum, Urbium, Castellorum, Pagorum, Montium, Sylvarum, Planitierum, Viarum, Situum, ac singularium quorum. locorum et rerum ad geographiam pertinentium,” 1722, 1:80,000; see fig. 305) (Dörflinger 1989, 66–68, 70). In 1717, Prince Eugene and Anguissola promoted the establishment of an academy of military engineering, Militär-Ingenieurakademie, in Vienna, where engineercorps officers were trained in map drawing and cartographic surveying. The first rectors of the academy were Anguissola and Johann Jakob Marinoni; together they had produced a plan of Vienna (Accuratissima Viennæ Austriæ ichnographica delineatio, 1706, ca. 1:5,400). This map was the first to provide an accurate picture of the Vienna suburbs so heavily affected by the Turkish incursion of 1683 as well as of the Linienwall, erected in 1704 as a second fortification line (Wawrik and Zeilinger 1989, 343). Marinoni’s reputation rests chiefly on his development of a new plane table technique that he used for the cadastral survey of the Duchy of Milan, which had become part of Austria in 1714, and explained in his book on surveying, De re ichnographica (1751) (Dörflinger 1986, 565) (see fig. 2). The War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48) and the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) again required numerous maps and plans. Outstanding contributions were made by Johann Lambert Kolleffel (e.g., “Militärische Special-Charte der Reichs-Gefürsteten Marggrafschafft Burgau,” 1:21,600) and Constantin Johann Walter (“Mappa Derienigen Gränzen Linie, welche zwischen dem Koenigreich Hungarn und dem Erzherzogthum Oesterreich unter der Enns von Marggrafthum Maehren bis an das Herzogthum Steytermark bestehet,” 1756, 1:28,800) (Dörflinger 2004, 158–59; 1989, 78). It became particularly clear after the Seven Years’ War that the Austrian defeat resulted, in part, from a lack of accurate maps of the Habsburg Empire. In 1764, Em-

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press Maria Theresa ordered the engineers of the quartermaster general’s staff, established a few years before, to begin a comprehensive survey of the empire, known as the Josephinische Landesaufnahme. Rendered in over 3,500 sheets at a scale of 1:28,800, this survey, largely completed in 1787 under Emperor Joseph II, was certainly modeled on the Carte de France. However, the Habsburg monarchy lacked standardized triangulation techniques, and the surveying methods varied from province to province. For example, in Bohemia and Moravia, the map by Müller was used as a base map, enlarged to a surveying scale of 1:28,800, on which topographical details were integrated without extensive surveys. In most other provinces, however, the plane table was used to survey features that were represented by hatching. Thus were over 570,000 square kilometers of the empire surveyed. The mapping of the Tyrol, Vorarlberg, and the outer Austrian territories was not required, as excellent maps (by inter alia Peter Anich, Blasius Hueber, and Anton Kirchebner) already existed of these provinces; the same was true of the empire’s territorial holdings in Italy. The Austrian Netherlands were not surveyed by the quartermaster general’s staff but by the Artillerie Corps stationed there under the command of Joseph Jean François de Ferraris (Dörflinger 1986, 566; 2004, 77–78). Contrary to the French model, the Josephinische Landesaufnahme remained in manuscript and top secret. Yet it served as a base for a map of the Austrian Netherlands (Carte chorographique des Pays-Bas autrichiens, 1777–78, 1:86,400, see fig. 238), for a map of the environs of Vienna by Stephan Jakubicska (Neuester Grundriss der Haupt und Residenzstadt Wien, 1789, 1:28,800, see fig. 69), and for the Estates map of Upper Austria (Mappa von dem Land ob der Enns, 1787). The map of the Austrian Netherlands used the same scale as the Carte de France and paralleled the French sheet format and topographical renderings. The map of Upper Austria was compiled at the request of the Upper Austrian Estates (political representatives of the different classes). To make sure that the secret maps of the Josephinische Landesaufnahme would not fall into the wrong hands, the Estates had to promise Emperor Joseph II that the map would be accessible only to select persons. Terrain was represented in perspective style and hence less suited for military purposes. The scale was reduced from 1:28,800 to 1:86,400 (Dörflinger 2004, 99, 112–13, 120–21). Topographical surveys in the two decades after the Josephinische Landesaufnahme on the one hand involved newly acquired territories, such as western Galicia and the Veneto, which had become Austrian in 1795 and 1797, respectively, and on the other hand concerned territories occupied as a result of mili-

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tary conflicts with the Ottoman Empire and France (e.g., Western Moldavia, Walachia) (Dörflinger 1986, 566). Among the products of civil cartography, the work of Joseph Liesganig, Anich, and Hueber certainly deserves mention. Liesganig, a Jesuit who from 1756 was also prefect of the Vienna Observatory, introduced triangulation to Austria. After triangulating the environs of Vienna together with César-François Cassini (III) de Thury, he was commissioned by Empress Maria Theresa in 1762 with surveying the Vienna meridian across three degrees of latitude. After determining two baselines between Neunkirchen and Wiener Neustadt as well as in the Marchfeld plain, he established a triangulation network from Sobietschitz near Brünn (Brno in the Czech Republic) to Varaždin in Croatia. This was followed by astronomical-trigonometrical surveys in the newly acquired province of Galicia and Lodomeria (Kretschmer 1986, 448). Anich, a farmer’s son from Oberperfuss near Innsbruck, authored an exceptionally detailed map of Tyrol, one of Austria’s most important eighteenth-century maps. The survey for this map began in 1759; from 1765, Anich cooperated with Hueber. After Anich’s death, Hueber completed the work and published it in 1774 (fig. 84; see also fig. 57). Hueber also surveyed Vorarlberg, published as Provincia Arlbergica (1783, ca. 1:104,800) (Dörflinger 2004, 80–81, 106–7). The late eighteenth century saw significant developments in the private enterprise of Austrian cartography. The establishment of the Vienna copperplate engraving school, Wiener Kupferstecherschule, in 1766 and the resulting enlarged pool of well-trained copperplate engravers (including Johann Ernst Mansfeld) helped the growth of the map trade. The improved level of general education during the reign of Empress Maria Theresa; the ascent of the bourgeoisie; the promotion of crafts, industry, and trade; Emperor Joseph II’s liberal Censorship Decree; and the decline of the southern German publishing houses also contributed to Austrian commercial cartography. From 1780, the number of printed maps increased dramatically. At least 227 maps were produced in Austria during that decade, compared to a mere 240 maps published between 1700 and 1779. Most map publishers lived in Vienna, where Franz Anton Schrämbl, Franz Johann Joseph von Reilly, and Carlo and Francesco Artaria accounted for the majority of cartographic products. In addition to the supraregional atlases by Schrämbl and Reilly, the overwhelming share of published maps concerned regions and provinces of the Austrian monarchy and theaters of war. Commercial cartography exemplified the close ties between map production and political events. For example, the year 1788, when Austria entered the war between Russia and

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the Ottoman Empire begun in 1787, saw a quantitative highpoint in the cartographic output of the Artaria company. During the First and Second Coalition Wars against France and in the wake of the Third Partition of Poland-Lithuania, map production increased noticeably (Dörflinger 1984, 74–78, 104–5, 108–9, 279, 288–96, 301–2, 312). In addition, the number of thematic maps grew. Apart from maps depicting theaters of war, the increasingly dense post-route network demanded more post-route maps in the late eighteenth century. The most important examples of these include the Post Charte der Kaiserl. Königl. Erblanden (fig. 85) by Georg Ignaz von Metzburg and the Atlas universae rei veredariae bilinguis . . . Allgemeiner Post Atlas von der ganzen Welt (1799) by Reilly. The Court Chamber requested that Metzburg, who taught mathematics at the University of Vienna, design a post map of the entire Habsburg Empire, with an overview of post stations and trading posts (Dörflinger 2004, 90–91, 132–33). Due to the growing number of new factories and rising interest in the economy, the volume of economic map production increased as well (e.g., Comitatus Soproniensis ungarice Soprony varmegye et germ: Oedenburger Gespanschaft by Joseph Marx von Liechtenstern, 1793, ca. 1:250,000; Natur und Kunst Producten Karte von Kærnten by Heinrich Wilhelm von Blum von Kempen, ca. 1795, ca. 1:1,000,000). In addition, thematic maps of the Austrian multinational state of the late eighteenth century began to gradually take into account languages, nations, and religions (Novissima Regni Hungariæ potamographica et telluris productorum tabula by Johann Matthias Korabinsky, 1791, ca. 1:1,000,000) (Dörflinger 2004, 91–92, 138–41, 166–67). Petra Svatek

Fig. 84. DETAIL FROM PETER ANICH AND BLASIUS HUEBER, TYROLIS SUB FELICI REGIMINE MARIÆ THERESIÆ ROM. IMPER. AVG. CHOROGRAPHICE DELINEATA (VIENNA, 1774), SHEET 16. Copper engraving on twenty sheets; 1:104,000. The special value of this map lies above all in its wealth of thematic and topographic particulars, revealed in its legend. See also figure 57. Size of each sheet: 65.0 × 49.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 32 × 14  cm. Image courtesy of the Woldan Collection, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna (Sammlung Wolden, K-III: OE/Tyr 159).

See also: Anich, Peter; Boundary Surveying; Geodetic Surveying; Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699); Map Collecting; Military and Topographical Surveys; Military Cartography; Netherlands, Southern; PolandLithuania, Partitions of; Property Mapping; Reilly, Franz Johann Joseph von; Thematic Mapping; Urban Mapping Bibliography Dörflinger, Johannes. 1977. “Das 18. Jahrhundert.” In Descriptio Austriae: Österreich und seine Nachbarn im Kartenbild von der Spätantike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert, by Johannes Dörflinger, Robert Wagner, and Franz Wawrik, 28–35 and pls. 46–70. Vienna: Edition Tusch. ———. 1984. Österreichische Karten des 18. Jahrhunderts. Vol. 1 of Die österreichische Kartographie im 18. und zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Privatkartographie zwischen 1780 und 1820. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. ———. 1986. “Österreichische Kartographie.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 2:563–69. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. ———. 1989. “Vom Aufstieg Österreichs zur Grossmacht bis zum Wiener Kongress (1683–1815).” In Austria Picta: Österreich auf alten Karten und Ansichten, ed. Franz Wawrik and Elisabeth Zeilinger, 66–114. Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt.

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Fig. 85. DETAIL FROM GEORG IGNAZ VON METZBURG, POST CHARTE DER KAISERL. KÖNIGL. ERBLANDEN (VIENNA, 1782). Copper engraving on four sheets; 1:1,300,000. As in most printed maps of the eighteenth century, the decorations surrounding the title cartouche are particularly rich and intricate. The title is depicted on a large monument crowned by the Austrian coat of arms and an eagle

with a post-horn. A landscape with scenes from postal traffic is represented below and to the right of the title. Size of the entire original: 100.5 × 150.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 51 × 76 cm. Image courtesy of the Woldan Collection, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna (Sammlung Wolden, K-III: OE 185).

———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Kretschmer, Ingrid. 1986. “Liesganig, Joseph.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 1:448. Vienna: Franz Deuticke.

Liesganig, Joseph. 1770. Dimensio graduum meridiani Viennensis et Hungarici. Vienna: Vindobonæ. Sachslehner, Johannes. 2003. Barock und Aufklärung. Vienna: Styria Pichler Verlag. Vocelka, Karl. 2001. Glanz und Untergang der höfischen Welt: Repräsentation, Reform und Reaktion im habsburgischen Vielvölkerstaat. Vienna: Ueberreuter. Wawrik, Franz, and Elisabeth Zeilinger, eds. 1989. Austria Picta: Österreich auf alten Karten und Ansichten. Graz: Akademische Druckund Verlagsanstalt.

B Back Staff. See Instruments for Angle Measuring: Back Staff

Balkans. The Balkans comprise the large mountainous peninsula in southeast Europe surrounded by the Adriatic, Ionian, and Black Seas. The word “balkan,” from Turkish, means “mountains.” The region lies south of the rivers Danube, Sava, and Kupa, incorporating in a wider sense the area south of the Carpathian mountain range. For centuries the multiethnic and multicultural Balkan region was infamous for instability and unrest. After the second failed siege of Vienna (1683) the Austrian Habsburg Empire gradually recovered the territories of the former Kingdom of Hungary (including Transylvania). The borders agreed to in the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699) became relatively stable, although there were later modifications in the Treaties of Passarowitz (1718) and Belgrade (1739). The fundamental military and political situation changed little as the territory was contested by the Austrian Habsburgs and the Ottoman Empire. Although the city of Belgrade was taken by Austria three times during the eighteenth century, Turkish rule was restored each time. In the east the vassal principalities of Walachia and Moldavia were occupied on several occasions by an emergent Russia, yet they too remained attached to Turkey. The conventional division of Europe into east and west may be considered an eighteenth-century invention reflecting a Western European perception of the world. The relative economic, cultural, political, and social backwardness of the region was the fundamental reason why Enlightenment philosophers considered the Balkans as belonging to their spatial and temporal counterpart, the Orient. Contemporary maps by Guillaume Delisle, Gilles Robert Vaugondy, and Didier Robert de

Vaugondy showing an imaginary political-geographic entity of “Turkey in Europe” served as visual propaganda of this East-West concept. Although represented early on Ptolemaic maps, the Balkans’ harsh geographic and political conditions meant that by the eighteenth century it was an underexplored region of Europe. Although its coastlines and islands were represented on marine charts and the Venetian territories (Dalmatia) were well mapped, the cartography of the inner peninsula was based on scarce information. The 1762 journal and the measurements by the Jesuit astronomer Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich (published in 1784) were useful, but their accuracy was limited by the lack of astronomical information and dearth of appropriate measuring instruments in the region. The exploration and modern mapping of the Balkans was closely related to Austrian and Russian military operations in the Turkish wars. The map corpus made by Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli and Johann Christoph Müller in connection with the Treaty of Karlowitz pioneered cartographic work in the region. Their survey of the course of the Danube was represented correctly to a wider audience with Delisle’s map of Hungary (1703). Apart from large-scale fortification, siege, and battle plans, maps of larger regions were constructed for strategic reasons by military geographers or engineers (e.g., Giovanni Morando Visconti’s Mappa della Transiluania, e prouintie contigue nella qualesi vedano li confini dell’ Ongaria, e li Campamti fatti dall’ Armate Cesaree in queste ultime guere, 1699). In the eighteenth century, large areas were topographically mapped in the northern Balkans by Austria (e.g., Banat of Temeswar, the military frontiers districts). The 1761–69 meridian arc measurements by Joseph Liesganig resulted in triangulation points in Croatia and Serbia. The southern part of the Balkan peninsula was represented on the new map of Greece by Rhigas Velestinlis (1797), for the first time in the Greek language, an expression of national identity (Tolias 2010, 26). The weakening Ottoman Empire posed a special danger, called the “Eastern Question.” The international interest in the Balkan question required general maps for the public (e.g., Maximilian Schimek’s Oesterreichisch-

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Russisch-Türkischer Kriegsatlas, 1788), as well as more detailed and accurate topographic maps for making military and political decisions. By the nineteenth century, rising nationalism resulted in uprisings, wars of independence, and, with the decline of Ottoman power, new territorial-political divisions of the Balkans. Z s o lt G. Tö rö k See also: Austrian Monarchy; Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699); Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the; Russia B i bliogra p hy Boscovich, Ruggiero Giuseppe. 1784. Giornale di un viaggio da Costantinopoli in Polonia. Bassano: Remondini. Gregory, Derek. 1994. Geographical Imaginations. Cambridge: Blackwell. Jelavich, Barbara. 1983. History of the Balkans, vol. 1, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mitev, Plamen, et al., eds. 2010. Empires and Peninsulas: Southeastern Europe between Karlowitz and the Peace of Adrianople, 1699– 1829. Berlin: LIT. Todorova, Maria. 2009. Imagining the Balkans. Updated ed. New York: Oxford University Press. Tolias, George. 2010. “Maps Printed in Greek during the Age of Enlightenment, 1665–1820.” e-Perimetron 5:1–48. Wolff, Larry. 1994. Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Bathymetric Map. See Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Bathymetric Map

Battle Map. See Military Map: Battle Map Beautemps-Beaupré, Charles-François. Born in La Neuville-au-Pont (in present-day Marne) on 6 August 1766, Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré began studying cartography in 1780 under his cousin, JeanNicolas Buache, premier géographe of King Louis XVI, who brought him to Paris in the summer of 1776. From May to June 1785, supervised by Buache and CharlesPierre Claret de Fleurieu—his two principal masters and the best geographers of their time—BeautempsBeaupré prepared the manuscript maps for Jean-François de Lapérouse’s expedition to the Pacific (1785–88). In August 1785 with Fleurieu, he began six years of work on the Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique (1785–90). On 1 September 1785, Beautemps-Beaupré was named ingénieur hydrographe of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, but he reported directly to Fleurieu, under whom from February to September 1791 he prepared maps for Joseph-Antoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux, whose two ships left in search of Lapérouse on 29 September 1791; on 31 July 1791, Beautemps-Beaupré was chosen as the expedition’s hydrographer. During this expedition (which lasted until October 1793), he prepared thirty-two maps (Beau-

temps-Beaupré 1807), mainly around New Holland (Australia), in Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania), and in New Caledonia (the latter two islands being where most of the expedition’s principal discoveries occurred). Although these exploration maps were not very informative and rather poor in soundings, the depiction of coastlines benefited from a new sea surveying technique (Chapuis 1999, 511–23). Beautemps-Beaupré was inspired by the work of Jean-Charles Borda and used Borda’s reflecting circle (see fig. 411). For the first time a large scientific expedition systematically and reliably employed the simultaneous use of many precise astronomical observations for longitude and latitude and cartographic plotting, carried out by determining angular distances between the sun and coastal landmarks. Realtime graphic constructions made by Beautemps-Beaupré—bearings and resulting triangles—enabled geodesy to control astronomy and vice versa, since each relative position was directly attached to an absolute position, independently of each other. Beautemps-Beaupré drew the maps for the report of Étienne Marchand’s voyage, then became the hydrographer for Napoleon Bonaparte for all missions conducted in the coastal regions of the great French Empire (1799– 1814). During this period he produced an innovative printed map of the coast of Flanders in which he used color to emphasize the bathymetry and isobaths for the shoals (fig. 86). He prepared enormous secret manuscript maps for the emperor that primarily covered the Scheldt, the Baltic, and the Adriatic. He published the method used during the d’Entrecasteaux expedition in 1808 (Beautemps-Beaupré 1808). While he trained and led a pioneering generation of French hydrographers in land surveying along European coasts, the second edition of his method (1811) was also used by naval officers carrying out overseas reconnaissance. This activity marked the end of the first period of BeautempsBeaupré’s long career, the most significant part of which was still to come during the nineteenth century. He died in Paris on 16 March 1854. O li vi er Chapuis See also: Marine Chart; Marine Charting: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; Pilot Book; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation Bibliography Beautemps-Beaupré, Charles-François. 1807. Atlas du voyage de Bruny-Dentrecasteaux, contre-amiral de France, commandant les frégates la Recherche et l’Espérance, fait par ordre du gouvernement en 1791, 1792 et 1793. Paris: Dépôt Général des Cartes et Plans de la Marine et des Colonies. ———. 1808. “Appendice: Exposé des méthodes employées pour lever et construire les cartes et plans qui composent l’atlas du voyage du contre-amiral Bruny-Dentrecasteaux.” In Voyage de Dentrecasteaux, envoyé a la recherche de La Pérouse, 2 vols., 1:591–685. Paris: Imprimerie Impériale. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émer-

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Fig. 86. DETAIL FROM CHARLES-FRANÇOIS BEAUTEMPS-BEAUPRÉ, RECONNAISSANCE HYDROGRAPHIQUE DE LA CÔTE NORD DE FRANCE (PARIS, 1804), FIRST EDITION. From Beautemps-Beaupré, Description nautique de la côte de France sur la mer du Nord, de Calais à Ostende (Paris, 1804), following 46. Map engraved on one sheet, 1:87,100. Surveyed in 1801 and 1802, this map of Flanders marks an important stage in the work of Beautemps-Beaupré and in French hydrography. The density of the soundings is even more striking in that each is fixed by the use of a repeating

(i.e., reflecting) circle, with the best precision possible in that epoch. The representation of depth is just as interesting. The sand banks are colored in two shades of pink; the area of the intertidal zone is in a grey stipple. This classification of depths works out into contour lines or isobaths, which were already old but still little used. Size of the entire original: 63.5 × 93.0 cm; size of detail: ca. 23 × 31 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

gence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne.

only venture near the sea was a trip to Dunkirk in 1730, where he surveyed various plans of the port. In the great tradition of the first half of the eighteenth century, Bellin was a géographe de cabinet who compiled the data from sailors and other geographic works. Such was his Carte reduite de la mer Mediterranée (1737; see fig. 206), the very first map published by the Dépôt. Ubiquitous foreign publications encouraged the French to engrave and print their own nautical charts, not only to assure national independence, essential in times of war, but also for prestige. Granted the new title ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine by Louis XV on 1 August 1741, Bellin launched the republication of Le

Bellin, Jacques-Nicolas. Born in Paris in 1703, Bellin entered the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine in early 1721, only a few weeks after its creation. Almost nothing is known about his training (Le Guisquet 1999, 5), but he did show a talent for drawing. Thus, his initial task as a premier commis was to trace manuscript and engraved maps, both French and foreign, onto oiled paper for use by the French Marine. With the help of logbooks he updated printed maps (mainly Dutch). His

Bellin, Jacques-Nicolas

Neptune françois (1693) in 1753. As he was not able to survey new maps, the Neptune remained almost exactly as it was, save a few dubious slight changes to the plates (Chapuis 1999, 106–8). As publications of the Dépôt’s plates grew in number, the hydrographer spent more time piecing together collections of maps and plans needed by the Marine. These neptunes were assembled on request and received the generic title Hydrographie françoise (fig. 87). They were produced in successive versions in 1756, 1765, 1785, and 1806. Essentially the work of Bellin, the maps were often the subject of published memoirs, initially printed separately, then as collections (Bellin [1767]). At the same time, the hydrographer published his own works, such as Le Petit atlas maritime (1764) in five volumes, financed by the Marine

Fig. 87. DETAIL FROM JACQUES-NICOLAS BELLIN, CARTE RÉDUITE DE L’OCEAN OCCIDENTAL CONTENANT PARTIE DES COSTES D’EUROPE ET D’AFRIQUE, 4TH  ED. (PARIS, 1766). Map engraved on one sheet, 1: 11,000,000. This map does not appear in all issues of the third edition of the Hydrographie françoise, where it is often replaced by the more recent plates that are much superior to it. In fact, even though this fourth edition of the map of the Atlantic Ocean (after those of 1738, 1742, and 1756) comprises all the principal reference meridians, it still includes many vigies (dangerous spots or observed hazards), most of which were imaginary. Some are visible here in the Bay of Biscay (Golfe de Gascogne), including the “Roche la Chapelle vue en 1764”: these represent a conjunction of hallucinations due to the fatigue of a long sea journey and the sea rising along the continental shelf. Size of the entire original: 63 × 95 cm; size of detail: ca. 16 × 16 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [9645 B]).

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even though the maps were too small to plot locations and routes. Bellin was a member of the Académie de marine (created in 1752) and the Royal Society of London, as well as the censeur royal for travel logs (for which he often drew the maps), geography, and navigation. He was also concerned with classical geography and its teaching (L’enfant géographe, ou nouvelle méthode d’enseigner la géographie, 1769). Moreover, he wrote some nautical articles for Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie, although the contribution of someone who had never set foot on a boat did little to help the much debated maritime credibility of this prestigious work. These varied pursuits won him enemies, especially in the wake of accusations of plagiarism by Jean-BaptisteNicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette (Filliozat 1993, 119). Thus Bellin never officially obtained the title of ingénieur hydrographe en chef, which he requested many times, even though he fulfilled the same duties in his role as hydrographe de la Marine. Some also criticized him for profiting excessively from the sale of nautical charts, a privilege that became enormous as production grew and the terms of his employment allowed him to sell maps privately (Chapuis 1999, 191). Bellin did not complete government control of hydrographic production, which only occurred shortly after his death, but he nevertheless upheld the preeminence of the state in cartographic compilation. He knew how to protect and expand the collections in his care (e.g., introducing a Dépôt stamp to prevent the fraudulent release of manuscript maps), and became the veritable popularizer of maps on the Mercator projection in France by publishing Le Neptune françois, which owed its success to the systematic application of principles developed by Pierre Bouguer. Bellin died in Versailles on 21 March 1772, as the second edition of Le Neptune françois was being published (dated 1773). He was by far the most prolific hydrographer of the French Enlightenment, and as such the most famous (along with d’Après de Mannevillette): among the 127 plates printed under the authority of the Dépôt from 1737 to 1772, only 12 are not the work of Bellin. However, the quality of his work was heavily criticized, both during his life and after death, by officers versed in science, adept at using new navigation methods to calculate longitude at sea (Fleurieu 1773; Chapuis 1999, 174–87). In the absence of on-site practical hydrography, with a few rare exceptions, Bellin’s work remained in use until the early nineteenth century, when CharlesFrançois Beautemps-Beaupré brought hydrography to a new standard. O li vi er Chapuis See also: Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France); Marine Chart; Marine Charting:

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France; Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise; Reproduction of Maps: Color Printing B ib liograp hy Bellin, Jacques-Nicolas. [1767]. Recueil des mémoires qui ont été publiés avec les cartes hydrographiques que l’on a dressées au Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, pour le service des vaisseaux du roi, par ordre du ministère, depuis l’année 1737, jusqu’en 1751. Paris: [Bellin]. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Filliozat, Manonmani. 1993. “D’Après de Mannevillette, capitaine et hydrographe de la Compagnie des Indes, 1707–1780.” MS thesis, École des chartes, Paris. Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de. 1773. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1768 et 1769, à différentes parties du monde, pour éprouver en mer les horloges marines inventées par M. Ferdinand Berthoud, 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Le Guisquet, Bernard. 1999. “Le Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine sous l’Ancien Régime (1720–1789).” Neptunia 214:3–21.

Bering Expeditions to Northeast Asia. At the beginning of the eighteenth century European geographers did not yet possess empirical data for northeast Asia, northwest North America, or the northern Pacific Ocean. The dearth of information gave birth to hypothetical and fantastic features on European maps of these unexplored territories near the north Pacific, such as the “Anian Strait” and the lands of “Yeso,” “De Gama,” and “Compagnie.” Russian travelers looking for new lands and natural resources were destined to change that state of affairs. In 1639, a party of Russian Cossacks and promyshlenniki (hunter-traders), under Ivan Yur’yevich Moskvitin, reached the Pacific. The following year, Cossacks from this party sailed the Sea of Okhotsk north to the mouth of the Okhota River and south to the Shantar Islands. In 1648, Fedot Alekseyevich Popov and Seme¨ n Ivanovich Dezhne¨v, sailing along the Arctic coast from the Kolyma River east, rounded East Cape (Cape Dezhnev) of the Chukchi Peninsula, and thus were the first European explorers to sail between Asia and America to the Pacific. The geographical information acquired by the Russian advance to the east is especially visible on two maps of Siberia from 1667 and 1673 that show an uninterrupted waterway along and around the northeast Asian coast. The Russian government sharpened its focus on this area when in 1701 Vladimir Vasil’yevich Atlasov furnished new information about an island or a “Great Land” off the Chukchi Peninsula after his four-year trip to Kamchatka. In the first decade of the eighteenth century, these tales were confirmed by other Cossacks from the Anadyr River region. Two of them, Ivan Petrovich Kozyrevskiy and Danilo Yakovlevich Antsyforov,

Fig. 88. DETAIL FROM “ANCIENNE CARTE DE SIBÉRIE ET CAMCHAT,” 1724–29. This manuscript map from the collection of Joseph-Nicolas Delisle shows the results of the Cossack expeditions to the Kuril Islands and the Kamchatka and Chukchi Peninsulas. Size of the entire original: 108 × 138 cm; size of detail: ca. 66.0 × 33.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge BB 124 [158] RÉS).

reached at least two of the Kuril Islands and described and made drawings of fifteen others while exploring and raiding for yasak (levy) collection in the Kamchatka and Chukchi Peninsulas. Their results are reflected in the “Ancienne carte de Sibérie et Camchat” (fig. 88). Peter I struggled throughout his reign to put Russia

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on the same level as Europe both in economic development and in scientific achievement. He well understood the special opportunity for his country to compile a reliable map of the northern Pacific and to answer definitively the question of whether America was connected to Asia. The emperor ordered a naval exploration expedition, the result of which would be conveyed via a precise cartography that would be understood and acknowledged by European scientists. The First (1725–30) and Second (1732–42) Kamchatka Expeditions were led by Vitus Bering and Aleksey Il’ich Chirikov, and the voyages to the islands in the Bering Strait and to the shores of northern Alaska were led by Mikhail Sipiridonovich Gvozdev and Ivan Fe¨ dorov (1732). Vitus Bering, born 1681 in Horsens, Jutland (Denmark), was the son of a customs officer. He studied at the Amsterdam Marine Cadet Corps and received practical training by sailing to the East Indies aboard a Dutch vessel. After graduation in 1703, he moved to Russia and joined the Russian navy, serving as sublieutenant in the Azov campaigns initiated by Peter I. He rose quickly in rank while engaged in many important missions during the Great Northern War. Ultimately he was awarded captaincy of the largest vessel in the Russian fleet, the ninety-gun battleship Lesnoye. Having been selected by Peter I in 1725 to explore northeastern Siberia, he moved men and supplies across Siberia. In 1728 he sailed north along the Asian coast to 67°18ʹ N, but strong winds and mist prevented sighting land to the north and east. A second attempt in 1729 also failed to verify land to the east. He returned to St. Petersburg in 1730 with his report of the strait, but met criticism for not having actually seen the American coast. The Second Kamchatka Expedition, also called the Great Northern Expedition or Velikaya severnaya ekspeditsiya, was one of the largest the world had seen, consisting of several thousand men and including several members of the Akademiya nauk, such as Gerhard Friedrich Müller, Johann Georg Gmelin, Georg Wilhelm Steller (whose account of the voyage is the only published primary source on the expedition), and astronomer Louis Delisle de La Croyère, whose brother, JosephNicolas Delisle, prepared a memoir and map for the expedition based on earlier compilations of his brother, Guillaume Delisle (Golder 1914, 170, and app. F). As overall expedition leader, Bering supervised his own mission, which was to find and map the west coast of America; a second group under Chirikov was to explore the Arctic coast; and a third group with Morten Spangberg was to explore the islands of Japan. In 1741 Bering commanded the Sv. Pe¨tr while Chirikov commanded the Sv. Pavel. They set out, rounded Kamchatka, founded the town of Petropavlovsk, and then sailed east, but the vessels were separated. Chirikov’s

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ship reached 55°36ʹN, sighting Prince of Wales Island. This discovery supported Russia’s claim to that stretch of coastline that became, by agreement with Great Britain and the United States in 1824 and 1825, the southern limit of Russian America and consequently of Alaska. Both ships were within sight of the Aleutian Islands, and Bering reached the North American coast near Kayak Island, which he named St. Elias. His officers made a survey of this region and compiled a largescale chart that has survived. On his return voyage, the Sv. Pe¨tr anchored off the coast of Nogay Island, which Bering named Shumagin in memory of a sailor who was buried there. The island was also surveyed. These two surveys resulted in the first European charts of Alaskan coasts and islands (for facsimiles, see Russkiye ekspeditsii 1984, 220–21). But Bering was forced by bad weather to turn back to Kamchatka and by illness to give up command of his ship during the return journey. After months of difficult sailing, the Sv. Pe¨tr sought refuge on an island near the Kamchatka Peninsula in the Bering Sea, where Bering died, on 8 December 1741, along with many in his company. Of seventy-seven men originally on board the ship, only forty-six survived; they named the island after their commander. The third arm of the Second Kamchatka Expedition was led by Spangberg with Englishman William Walton on board; Spangberg sailed his two ships, the Arkhangel Gavriil and Sv. Mikhail, to Japan, where they were well received. The two main charts from the Second Kamchatka Expedition were based on the nautical surveys routinely performed on both expedition vessels. But the charts created two different images of the lands and waters between Kamchatka and America. The chart compiled by Ivan Fomich Yelagin, the pilot of the Sv. Pavel, and checked by Chirikov shows some lands between Kamchatka and America, which Chirikov’s men correctly guessed to be islands. In contrast, the chart compiled by Sven Waxell and Sofron Fe¨ dorovich Khitrovo on Bering’s Sv. Pe¨tr proposes a continuous coast from the American mainland to the middle of the ocean. In his summary map, Chirikov faithfully represented all lands sighted by his own men and by the members of Bering’s crew, but he did not follow Waxell’s and Khitrovo’s cartographic interpretations of their discoveries and kept to his own notion about the region between Kamchatka and America (fig. 89). Russian officials tried to keep the results of the Bering Kamchatka Expeditions secret. They were successful to such a degree that even the Akademiya nauk in St. Petersburg was not entirely privy to these results, which is evident on the Nouvelle carte des decouvertes faites par des vaisseaux russiens, drawn by Müller, who had been on the expedition (see fig. 10). There is also a

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Fig. 89. “CARTE MARCHANDE, DESSINÉE SUR LES LIEUX, PAR LE PILOTE AFFANACI .  .  . FAITTE SUR LE BATEAU ST PAUL, . . . VÉRIFIÉE PAR LE CAPIT. MIKAÏL TATARINOFF, ET REVÜE ENCORE PAR LE PILOTES,” 1770. As described in the explanatory text, this manuscript map shows the route of a merchant ship from the southern end of Kamchatka to the Aleutian chain of islands inspired

by the earlier voyages of Bering and Chirikov. It forms part of the collection of d’Anville, who notes the veracity of the map’s author as having been on the spot. In two sheets. Size of the original (assembled): 58 × 127 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [7415 B]).

Russian edition by Ivan Truskott, both being published by the Akademiya nauk in 1754/1758 (Postnikov and Falk 2015, 66–67). This map propagates the conception drawn from the Bering chart, not the Chirikov, with the mainland of North America extended close to Asia in the form of a wide projecting landmass. Müller and Truskott added even more fantastic data to their map from the apocryphal voyages of Juan de Fuca and Bartholomew de Fonte, taken from the map by JosephNicolas Delisle and Philippe Buache published in Paris in 1752. Nonetheless, reports of the expedition were available in the European press (Golder 1914, 218n420), and Delisle, who returned to France from Russia in 1747, presented a memoir to the Académie des sciences in Paris on 8 April 1750 in which he outlined briefly and incompletely the history of Russian voyages to the American coasts. His attention focused more on the fictitious early eighteenth-century so-called discoveries of Fonte and of Fuca in 1592. Delisle’s map, compiled with the aid of Philippe Buache, attempted to reconcile various accounts of discoveries in the northern Pacific, as witnessed by its title: Carte génerale des découvertes de l’Amiral de Fonte et autres navigateurs espagnols, anglois et russes pour la recherche du passage a la Mer du Sud. The map shows the courses of Bering’s expeditions, and in the vicinity of Alaska there is a following

inscription in French, “This is a land that has been seen by Spangberg in 1728,” and below that, “A land that has been seen by Russians under Chirikov’s command in 1741.” The great accomplishment of both the First and Second Kamchatka Expeditions was to demonstrate that Asia was not joined to America, that the large mysterious lands of “Yeso,” “Gama,” and “Compagnie” did not exist, and that a chain of islands was to be found instead in the north Pacific. All these discoveries led to further exploration and the establishment of trade stations along the Aleutian chain and North American mainland throughout the eighteenth century. Alex ey V. Postnikov See also: Geographical Mapping: Russia; Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages; Pallas, Peter Simon; Russia Bibliography Black, Lydia. 2004. Russians in Alaska, 1732–1867. Fairbanks: University of Alaska Press. Golder, Frank Alfred. 1914. Russian Expansion on the Pacific, 1641– 1850: An Account of the Earliest and Later Expeditions Made by the Russians along the Pacific Coast of Asia and North America. Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark. ———. 1922–25. Bering’s Voyages: An Account of the Efforts of the Russians to Determine the Relation of Asia and America. 2 vols. New York: American Geographical Society. Lauridsen, P. 1885. Vitus J. Bering og de russiske opdagelsesrejser fra 1725–43. Copenhagen: Gyldendalske Boghandels Forlag. Lantzeff, George V., and Richard A. Pierce. 1973. Eastward to Empire:

Boscovich, Ruggiero Giuseppe Exploration and Conquest on the Russian Open Frontier, to 1750. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Postnikov, Alexey V., and Marvin Falk. 2015. Exploring and Mapping Alaska: The Russian America Era, 1741–1867. Trans. Lydia Black. Fairbanks: University of Alaska Press. Russkiye ekspeditsii po izucheniyu severnoy chasti Tikhogo okeana v pervoy polovine XVIII v. 1984. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Sopotsko, A. A. 1983. Istoriya plavaniya V. Beringa na bote “Sv. Gavriil” v Severnyy Ledovityy okean. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.”

Boscovich, Ruggiero Giuseppe. Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich (Rud¯er Josip Boškovic´; Roger Joseph Boscovich), SJ, was born in Ragusa (Dubrovnik, Croatia) in May 1711 of a Serbian father and Italian mother. Initially educated at the local Jesuit Collegium Regusinum, he continued his studies from age fourteen in Rome at the Jesuit Collegium Romanum. There he was ordained a priest and in 1740 appointed professor of mathematics at the college. In Rome he published scholarly dissertations in several disciplines: mathematics, physics, astronomy, and geodesy. He also was called upon to represent his native city of Dubrovnik in a number of legal disputes within the Austrian and Ottoman Empires. His diplomatic manner, intellectual prowess, and lively personality drew him into the learned circles surrounding Pope Benedict XIV and Cardinals Silvio Valenti Gonzaga and Alessandro Albani. Boscovich’s publication Dissertatio de telluris figura (1739) involved him in the debate about the shape of the earth and its anomalies due to gravity; the work qualified him as a candidate to join the other Jesuits invited by João V of Portugal to participate in the mapping of Brazil. However, the pope was persuaded that his talents would be better used for the geodetic survey of the Papal States. Between 1750 and 1752 he joined his fellow Jesuit Christopher Maire in measuring the meridian arc of two and a half degrees between Rome and Rimini. The resulting data served as the basis for Maire’s map of the Papal States (fig. 90), published in Rome to accompany the full narrative of their two-year survey, De litteraria expeditione (Maire and Boscovich 1755). Their measurements resulted in a meridian arc that was shorter than that measured in France between similar degrees of latitude. Assuming all measurements had been taken properly—and the few doubts about them were gradually dispelled—a reason for such a discrepancy had to be found. Similar expeditions were undertaken in various European states, modeled on that of Boscovich and Maire, in order to collect the data necessary to resolve the problem of the shape of the earth. Boscovich’s reputation as teacher, scholar, and diplomat brought him to Vienna to represent the interests of Dubrovnik. In the Austrian capital his seminal and enormous scientific treatise, Philosophiæ naturalis theo-

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ria, was published (1758) and drew the attention of the entire European intellectual community. Regarded by some as the most important scientific book after Isaac Newton’s Philosophiæ naturalis principia mathematica (1687), it offered a system explaining the forces of nature with one law. In 1759 he journeyed to Paris, where he attended meetings of the Académie des sciences and participated in discussions planning the international effort to observe the transit of Venus across the sun in 1761. He next traveled to London, where he became a foreign member of the Royal Society. He continued through the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany until reaching Venice in 1761, then to Constantinople, where he intended to observe the transit of Venus, although delays in departure prevented him from doing so. In Constantinople he stayed at the French embassy, under the aegis of the ambassador Charles Gravier, comte de Vergennes, who later, as minister of foreign affairs under Louis  XVI, would protect Boscovich. From Turkey he traveled north to Warsaw, a journey that he recorded in a diary published in 1784. Having returned to Rome, in 1763 he was called to serve as the chair of mathematics at the University of Pavia, which was undergoing reforms reflecting the enlightened thinking of the Austrian monarch and the minister Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz. Boscovich was enthusiastic about the new assignment, which would give him more freedom as a teacher. In 1764 he began to design and build the astronomic observatory of the Jesuit College Santa Maria di Brera, in Milan. While working at Brera, he applied his own study methods to practical astronomy, with special focus on the evaluation of errors in measurement tools. But by 1772 internal dissent brought his removal from the post of director of the Brera Observatory. With the suppression of the Jesuit order in 1773, his many powerful French friends encouraged him to go to Paris, where he was appointed director of optics for the Marine in 1774. He remained in France for nine years, during which he worked on problems of the achromatic telescope and his mammoth poem Les éclipses (1779), which he dedicated to Louis  XVI. Obtaining royal leave to return to Italy to work on optics and astronomy, Boscovich died in Milan on 13 February 1787. Pasq uale Tucci See also: Calcografia Camerale (Copperplate Printing Administration; Rome); Geodetic Surveying: Italian States; Society of Jesus (Rome) Bibliography Altic´, Mirela. 2014. “Exploring along the Rome Meridian: Roger Boscovich and the First Modern Map of the Papal States.” In History of Cartography: International Symposium of the ICA, 2012, ed. Elri Liebenberg, Peter Collier, and Zsolt G. Török, 71–89. Berlin: Springer. Boscovich, Ruggiero Giuseppe. 1758. Philosophiæ naturalis theoria

Fig. 90. CHRISTOPHER MAIRE, NUOVA CARTA GEOGRAFICA DELLO STATO ECCLESIASTICO, 1755. Map in three sheets engraved by Felice Polanzani and Gaetano De Rossi and based on the observations of Maire and Ruggiero

Giuseppe Boscovich. See figure 268 for the triangulated foundation of the map. Size of the original: 136 × 61 cm. Image courtesy of the Map Department, Zentralbibliothek, Zurich (4 GI 03: 4: 1–3).

Bouguer, Pierre

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ruary 1698 in the harbor town of Le Croisic (present-

day Loire-Atlantique), where his father, Jean Bouguer, the author of Traité complet de la navigation (1698), was professor of hydrography from 1691 to 1714. Immersed early in mathematics and the art of navigation, Bouguer studied under the Jesuits at Vannes (Chesnais 2002). Although only sixteen years old when his father died in 1714, he succeeded him as professor of hydrography (then understood as the science of navigation and not as surveying). Interested in a wide variety of disciplines including naval geometry, architecture, and shipbuilding, as well as astronomy, optics, and geodesy, he acquired the prestigious chair of hydrography at Le

Fig. 91. PLATE FROM PIERRE BOUGUER, NOUVEAU TRAITÉ DE NAVIGATION (1753). The first edition of a major work by Bouguer, with 466 pages and 13 plates. Much used by French naval officers versed in science in the eighteenth century, this navigation manual was reedited in 1760 by Nicolas-Louis de La Caille, and in 1769, 1781, and 1792.

In plate III (between 160 and 161) shown here, Bouguer applied principles of trigonometry to navigation (figs. 25 and 26) and provided examples for the purpose of teaching sailors to measure distances (figs. 27, 28, and 29) and even to survey a simple map (figs. 30 and 31). Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

redacta ad unicam legem virium in natura existentium. Vienna: In Officina Libraria Kaliwodiana. Hill, Elizabeth. 1961. “Roger Boscovich: A Biographical Essay.” In Roger Joseph Boscovich, S.J., F.R.S., 1711–1787: Studies of His Life and Work on the 250th Anniversary of His Birth, ed. Lancelot Law Whyte, 17–101. London: George Allen & Unwin. Maire, Christopher, and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich. 1755. De litteraria expeditione per pontificiam ditionem ad dimetiendos duos meridiani gradus et corrigendam mappam geographicam. Rome: In Typographio Palladis Excudebant Nicolaus, et Marcus Palearini.

Bouguer, Pierre. Pierre Bouguer was born on 16 Feb-

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Havre in 1730, which he occupied until 1745, while his younger brother Jean succeeded him in Le Croisic. Named associate member of the Académie des sciences in September 1731 and pensioner in January 1735, Bouguer was chosen by the Académie in 1735 to lead an expedition to Peru with Charles-Marie de La Condamine in order to measure a degree of latitude on the equator. In doing so, he helped solve the great geodetic question of La figure de la Terre, the title of his work published in 1749. In 1757, he did the same—with Charles-ÉtienneLouis Camus, César-François Cassini (III) de Thury, and Alexandre-Gui Pingré—resulting in the publication of the Opérations faites par ordre de l’Académie royale des sciences pour la vérification du degré du méridien compris entre Paris & Amiens. Bouguer returned from South America in June 1744, a year before he moved to Paris to serve as astronomer to Louis XV. The South American trip had allowed him to practice open ocean navigation and to refine and deepen his nautical thinking. This experience resulted in one of the most important nautical manuals of the eighteenth century: his Nouveau traité de navigation (Bouguer 1753; Chapuis 1999, 91, 139–40), republished four times before the end of the century, well after his death in Paris on 15 August 1758. In this major work, Bouguer laid out methods and developed concrete exercises that joined theory to practice, two systems so often pitted against each other by naval factions during the Enlightenment. Bouguer’s combination of the two ensured the success of a treatise with which navigators could identify, at least those officers versed in science. Some pilots and candidates for hydrography schools found it too complex, and a simplified edition was produced by Nicolas-Louis de La Caille in 1760. Brilliant scientist, contributor to Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie, member of the Royal Society in London, and honorary member of the Académie de marine from its creation in 1752, Bouguer was the most important navigation professor of the eighteenth century. Doubtless, he was one of the most famous as well, as much for the didactic quality of his observations as for his efficiency and particularly for his use of cartes réduites (charts on the Mercator projection instead of the more commonly used plane charts). He did, however, err in proposing that maps be oriented to magnetic north. Though he touched on the use of triangulation, he did not concretely apply the principles of trigonometry to marine cartography in a way that would have made him a chartmaker. He was concerned only with teaching trigonometry to navigators including the way to survey a simple map (fig. 91), which was itself an important contribution. O liv ier Ch apuis

See also: Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: Enlightenment; Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to; Marine Charting: France Bibliography Bouguer, Pierre. 1753. Nouveau traité de navigation, contenant la théorie et la pratique du pilotage. Paris: Guérin & Delatour. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Chesnais, René. 2002. “Les trois Bouger et Le Croisic.” In Pierre Bouguer: Un savant breton au XVIIIe siècle, ed. Jean Franco, 9–31. Vannes: Institut Culturel de Bretagne.

Boundary Disputes and Cartography. Europeans drew up hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions of maps and plans during the eighteenth century, but it is difficult to evaluate how many of these pertain to boundaries (Brun 1997). The eighteenth century did not introduce this type of cartographic representation. Boundaries had appeared in both manuscript and printed maps, either because the maps represented circumscriptions, from principalities to seigneuries, or because the administrator or draftsman had to resolve a conflict. The seigneurie was composed of lands whose extent had long since been carefully established, and the same was true of the parish inscribed in a known territory. It would therefore be erroneous to pay attention only to external borders or frontiers, forgetting that these sometimes had their origins in and rested on internal boundaries (Antoine 2000, 73–103). A persistent conviction has shaped the historians who focus on ancient boundaries: the idea that these circumscriptions were always imprecise and shifting. Medieval historians, who have produced very convincing studies on these issues over the last half century, have helped to call into question this long-prevailing negative evaluation by providing evidence to show that it is inappropriate to attribute such characteristics to medieval administrative boundaries. They were not, a priori, uncertain; many of them were known at the local level and accepted by the local government and inhabitants. They were not (or at least were not all) approximate and discontinuous, nor did they all fluctuate over time. From the end of the Middle Ages, maps have illustrated what appeared on the land by placing in the margins of maps or on the map itself enclosures underlined in bright colors, swollen rivers, trees marked by a letter, boundaries or posts, borders (varying in straightness), inscriptions, and brief keys to the symbols. This tendency toward universality is perhaps a fundamental element of a system that assumes interlocking elements, articulations, and methods of circulation for decision making and application. Nonetheless, the eighteenth century can lay greatest

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claim to being the century of delimitation. In the preceding century, conflicts among powers or negotiations over land could still be resolved without cartographic documentation. But beginning in the 1740s, the plan and the map appeared as the instruments providing the justification for claims, serving to accompany and illustrate claims when debate concluded, and finally—an essential point—allowing a return to origins of the dispute. An initial example from religious geography is found in the work of dom Augustin Calmet, a Benedictine from the congregations of Saint-Vanne and Saint-Hydulphe. In an article concerning Calmet’s Commentaire littéral sur tous les livres de l’ancien et du nouveau Testament (1711), the comment was made that maps are weighed down haphazardly with countless names whose position is uncertain. Yet in the Bible when Yahweh spoke to Moses, he told him to indicate the southern frontier of the Promised Land (Numbers 34), “He used the word ‘to turn’ (tourner) twice to show that the line running from the Dead Sea to the Mediterranean turned to the southwest toward Egypt” (Mémoires 1712, 411, 414; reprint 12:112–13). In this instance, the boundary results from legislative operation and is precise. In philosophical reflection, it is the foundational act described resoundingly by Jean-Jacques Rousseau: “The first person who, having enclosed a piece of land, dared to say: ‘This belongs to me’ and found people simple enough to believe him, was the true founder of civil society. How many crimes, wars, and murders, how many miseries and horrors might have been spared the human race had someone who, pulling up the stakes or filling the ditch, shouted to his fellows, ‘Beware of listening to this imposter; you are lost if you forget that the fruit belongs to all and the land to no one’” (Rousseau 1755, 95). Delimitation is the act of origins, whether within history or outside of it. The European concept of boundary—whose limitations as a term will become clear—extended also into space appropriated by Europeans. The abbé Gabriel Bonnot de Mably, who served in the French ministry of foreign affairs, pondered questions of international politics and diplomatic practices. He enjoyed a certain prestige with Friedrich II and, as a specialist in public law—known in Switzerland, Italy, and Germany—was consulted on questions of Polish politics and on constitutional problems in the United States. He wrote: “America should not in fact be thought of as completely different from Europe. It is as easy to regulate its destiny as it is for the provinces that are within our view and which we know. In Europe, all the states have borders and clear boundaries; in America there are vast deserts and regions without jurisdictions or boundaries, and each power regards the undefined countryside that bor-

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ders it as its empire, and without limits. The early treaties that the French and the English made on the subject of America were intended to provide justifications for excessive demands from the moment that they acted to establish the frontiers and borders between the two nations. If this could have been predicted at the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, it would have been easy . . . to avoid disagreements by fixing limits” (Mably 1789, 7:148–49). Similar issues preoccupied the geographer Jean-Nicolas Buache, author of “Considérations géographiques sur la Guiane française” (1801), in which he contested Portuguese claims. Continual conflicts with the Spanish over colonial claims in Saint Domingue (Haiti) were addressed in the 1777 Treaty of Aranjuez, which recalled that various provisional agreements had not resolved the frequent disputes between members of the two colonies. The treaty committed the sovereigns to order their governors to survey the territories and to prepare exact maps (Glénisson 2006). Governments in Europe organized administrative bodies, such as the French Bureau des limites, whose principal role, as defined by jurists, was to establish the boundaries of private property and the frontiers of states. An archetypal model was the Jointe des terres contestées created in Brussels in 1740 by Archduchess Maria Elisabeth of Austria, governor of the Netherlands from 1725 to 1741, to examine territorial disputes between the Austrian Netherlands and the Principality of Liège. The Jointe soon extended its jurisdiction to cover all questions of this type as well as relations with France. It often included important figures (a counselor of state and of finance, the president of the Conseil de Flandre, and members of the Conseil privé). In 1749, PatriceFrançois de Nény, counselor in the Conseil suprême, general treasurer of finances, and then chef-président of the Conseil privé, joined and remained active in the Jointe until 1783. Far from functioning as an obscure office of technicians, this organization was integral to the machinery of government. It brought together various types of documentation, including instructions for boundary commissioners, minutes from meetings, correspondence, investigations and supporting mémoires, and maps. Two sources fed the growth of the Jointe’s archival holdings: documents generated by current activities and preexisting items assembled for the defense of rights, the latter dating, for the most part, to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. All the materials consolidated territorial memory and with patient compilation and cataloging provided an inventory of it (a summary list along with thirteen volumes of analysis of documents were developed around 1765) (Hélin, Grauwels, and Thielemans 1952, V–XIV). In 1793 a Bureau du dessin et de la rédaction des cartes des limites

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was added to the Jointe, to which two engineers of the hydraulic corps were appointed. As at the archives, the maps held at the new bureau could circulate. In 1794 the maps were sent to Vienna and in 1809 to Paris (Dubois 2001, XXV–XXVIII). In Turin, an office of topography recruited technicians and cartographers for its personnel. In Tuscany, the magistracy of the Nove conservatori della giurisdizione e del dominio fiorentino, founded in 1560 and suppressed in 1769, was replaced by the Archivio dei Confini (1782), which had employees working from offices in Florence and engineers working in the field. The former copied old documents and kept up correspondence with local judges, while the latter carried out reconnaissance, established the lines of frontiers, and placed boundary markers (Stopani 2008). In eighteenth-century France the ministerial offices of the secretary of state for foreign affairs also had established protocols (summaries of correspondence, synthetic notes, mémoires and copies, and a command of foreign languages) and formed a Dépôt des archives in 1709 where jurists and commissioners housed documents. In 1746, the ministry established a collection devoted solely to boundaries. Associated duties were divided between lawyers and engineers, both experts in their own rights, and their work reflected a systematic desire to resolve interminable frontier disputes. Jurists never tired of proclaiming this desire, as Emer de Vattel stated: Since the slightest usurpation of another’s territory is an injustice, in order to avoid such a situation and to stave off all subject of discord [and] every occasion for disagreement, one should mark with clarity and precision the limits of territories. If those who drew up the Treaty of Utrecht had given this important matter all the attention that it deserved, we would not see France and England in arms to decide, by bloody warfare, the borders of their possessions in America. But often, someone left in the design some obscurity, some uncertainty in the agreements, in order to provide a basis for a disagreement; an unworthy artifice in an operation where good faith should prevail. Commissioners have also been seen working to surprise or corrupt their counterparts in a neighboring state in order to gain unjustly for their master a few leagues of land. How do princes, or their ministers, allow themselves to engage in maneuvers that would dishonor an individual? (Vattel 1820, 1:302–3)

One notes that juridical reasoning detoured into territories considered new, as in an experiment ex nihilo. In Geneva, the jurist Jean-Jacques Burlamaqui, discussing the rights and duties of nations, evoked the example of a nation that, already possessing a certain expanse of territory, might legitimately take possession of a coun-

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try without a ruler, as did those exploring sailors who claimed in the name of their nation islands or other uninhabited lands that they encountered. However, the nation was obliged to establish colonies and make the land useful to people. One nation cannot drive out another that inhabits a country in order to establish itself there, as the ancient Helvetians, discontented with their native land, had tried in vain to do in the time of Julius Caesar. The jurist concluded: “In order to avoid all occasion of disagreement or conflict with regard to territory, it is very important to mark boundaries with precision so that each nation knows the extent of its domain. This maxim is not, moreover, to the taste of our politicians; they are quite content to provide themselves with a basis for conflict” (Burlamaqui 1820–21, 5:7). Treaties establishing boundaries proliferated. A sampling would include treaties that determined boundaries for the Austrian Netherlands (1769, 1779); the episcopal Principality of Liège (1767, 1772–78) and the electoral Principality of Trier (1773, 1778); the principalities of Nassau-Saarbrücken (1760–70), of Nassau-Usingen (1774), and of Nassau-Weilburg (1776); Zweibrücken (the duchy of Deux-Ponts) (1766, 1783, 1786); the Principality of Salm (1751); Württemberg for the comté de Montbéliard (1748, 1785, 1786); the episcopal Principality of Basel (1780); the cantons of Soleure (1771) and of Bern (1750); Prussia for the Principality of Neuchâtel (1765); the Republic of Geneva (1749); the Sardinian states (1760); and Spain. All of them negotiated their boundaries with their powerful French neighbor. In central and Mediterranean Europe, Austria, Prussia, Bavaria, and Venice agreed on boundaries with their neighbors. While treaties were the final result of negotiations, a complex relationship existed between the land, the words of the treaty, and the map. It is helpful to distinguish several, interrelated levels. First, there were the projects related to politics that aimed to defend frontiers, avoid future usurpations, suppress enclaves, fight against contraband and establish better fiscal control, regularize watercourses serving as boundaries by controlling flooding, and facilitate the circulation of people and merchandise. They could not be separated from political debates over duties and customs and freedom of trade. Second, there were discussions and agreements dictated by juridical preoccupations specific to the Enlightenment. The law of nations tended to establish the rules of a durable peace among nations. Agreements ended these frequently laborious discussions and, once lines were drawn, cartographers were sent into the field. In order to draw boundaries, the operations of a commission were necessary. These were conducted on location by surveyors, engineers, geometers, and geographers who were aided by subordinates such as chainmen. These manual

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workers undertook to establish boundary markers using instruments such as graphomètres, compasses, and plane tables. It was still necessary, in the city offices, to carry out the drawing and to report the boundary on a paper document. The map responded more than ever to the requirements of visual sense and to theories of the senses (Traité des sensations, 1754, by Étienne Bonnot de Condillac). The limits drawn could respond to different concerns. Many were conceived as convenient spatial frameworks, static and reputedly permanent, indispensable a priori for the control of territory and for increased intelligibility of the space in question, allowing one to locate a city, villages, or a forest and providing names for provinces as well as judicial, fiscal, and religious territories. Other maps were in play at the moment of their conception and were themselves diverse in purpose. They might either constitute provisional topographic instruments in support of a particular position in negotiations, or they might accompany decisions playing the role of a supposedly definitive guarantee. Finally, the maps were later verified and rectified and all levels of consideration intervened—ideological, juridical, state-related, and technical. These were the means by which territory was delimited. The question of boundaries became a specific preoccupation, as it impinged on relations with neighboring principalities. It is impossible, however, to consider boundaries and maps as the outcome of high politics alone. Rural communities and frontier villages were involved in the reorganization of boundaries. New borders took the structures of habitation into account, avoiding as much as possible the division of villages (whole communities often passed to one side or the other); jurists, engineers, and topographers went on site and heard grievances; principal inhabitants were consulted as witnesses and took oaths of fidelity to the new ruler. The elaboration of limits, the recognition of boundary drawings, and the establishment of boundary markers were the result of the intense circulation of norms, orders, requests, relations, and reactions across the entire social scale. Nor did the sea escape these general tendencies. In contrast with the Mediterranean Sea, mare nostrum for the Romans but not appropriated completely by successive empires, the channel between the British Isles and the Continent raised the question of ownership, evident in the symbolically important debates over proper names: Manche, mer du Nord, océan germanique, mer d’Irlande, British Seas, Channel, North Sea, even mers françaises. International law pitted the Mare libervm (1609), supported by the Dutch jurist Hugo Grotius, who cited Cicero in comparing water to the air, declaring that the open sea could not be appropriated (unlike watercourses), against the Mare clausum (1635) of the

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English jurist John Selden, who affirmed that the seas had been possessed by the Hebrews, the Carthaginians, the Greeks, and the Tuscans, but not by the French. The Dutch Cornelius van Bynkershoek formulated the doctrine of territorial waters (De dominio maris dissertatio, 1703), and the distance of a marine league (the distance of a cannon shot) was recognized by the end of the eighteenth century. Specific disagreements concerned issues like the maritime ceremonial and salute to the flag, to which the English were particularly sensitive having imposed “British Seas” as an expression in 1654; naval captures; herring fishing in the North Sea; the Anglo-Norman (Channel) Islands; and the establishment of customs duties. When diplomats convened at Saint-Malo in 1749, the French plenipotentiary marked off with two red horizontal lines a neutral zone on a rudimentary map for negotiations, and, in their turn, the English commissioners proposed a dotted line encircling the British Isles. Then the question of the borders of the Channel, the North Sea, and the Irish Sea as well as their nomenclature came to the fore. In 1752, after three and a half years of debate, the commissioners declined to draw boundaries. The project of delimitation, realistic on land, was technically ill adapted to the sea. However, it demonstrated that the importance of the historic argument about who was first to possess the sea had gradually faded in the face of the needs for geographic partition. Despite the failure, the idea had appeared (Morieux 2008, 160–63). These agreements rested on the sometimes fictive idea that it was necessary to negotiate as equals, with the strongest recognizing the weakest. Without doubt, violence did decrease in the eighteenth century, but not everywhere. For example, in the partitions of PolandLithuania (1772, 1793, 1795) and the period of the French Revolution and the First Empire, large areas were redistributed, accompanied by a change of sovereign, such that the territorial mass often mattered more than the detailed delimitation. In addition, in a country like Russia, there was the search for so-called natural boundaries, especially rivers that were useful for commerce and easy to defend with a small number of fortresses (LeDonne 2004, 103, 119). After the First Partition of Poland-Lithuania, the treaty of cession concluded at Warsaw on 3 August 1773, imposed by Empress Maria Theresa on Poland, described the new boundaries, chiefly composed of rivers such as the Vistula and straight lines. They were to be marked and determined according to the locale and its received ideas regarding the most ancient demarcations. Commissioners would be named for both sides before preparing an exact map of boundaries on site, which would have the force of law in the future. Ceded vassals, subjects, and inhabitants were freed from their loyalty oath to

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the Crown of Poland. Meanwhile, archives, documents, charters, and other public and individual papers were to be handed over to Maria Theresa (Article II). Article V made provision for commissioners in case of boundary disputes. Analogous clauses concerning boundaries, the loyalty oath, and the cession of papers appeared in the treaty between the empress of Russia, Catherine II, and the king, Stanisław August Poniatowski, and parliament of Poland, signed at Warsaw in that same year (Article II); commissioners were to be named in the case of disagreements over boundaries (Article VII). The Prussian king, Friedrich II, also imposed a treaty. In 1776, specific boundary agreements between the Austrian burgs and Poland and between Prussia and Poland provided for the intervention of engineers and the elaboration of maps (Martens 1791–1801, 1:474–98). However, the three powers competed in their claims, with a map (one it seems, that was already prepared and available) serving as a pretext: A new rumor then spread in Poland: the nation complained loudly about reports that the Austrians and the Prussians placed no limits on the extension of their boundaries. The complaints were not completely without foundation; for the Austrians, exploiting an inexact map of Poland, as they all were, and having confused the names of the two rivers, the Sbruze and the Podhorze, had on this pretext extended their boundaries far beyond what had been granted them by the treaty of partition. Yet it had been agreed that the divisions were to take place with such perfect equality that none of the portions falling to each of the three powers would be larger than the others. Since, therefore, the Austrians had infringed on this condition, the king believed himself authorized to do the same: he therefore expanded his boundaries and encompassed both the old and the new Netze in the part of Pomerellie that he already possessed. The court of Petersburg intervened in this affair, and the king promised to restrict the limits of his cordon once again, provided the court of Vienna would do the same. (Friedrich II 1789, 102)

Moreover, the involvement of local society and their customs and geographic milieu made the politics of delimitation difficult. In the Pyrenees, conflicts between shepherds in the valley with those on the opposite slopes had long existed. Livestock found grazing outside authorized areas were subject to seizure, and occasions for reprisal were not lacking. The agreements between good neighbors (the lies et passeries) were renewed regularly in an attempt to find peaceful solutions. The agitation linked to demographic growth and to clearances, the exploitation of wood and iron, the resistance of the shepherds, and the defense of the rights of usage and shared pasturage all emphasized the urgency of regulation. A

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Franco-Spanish commission (the Caro-d’Ornano Commission) worked several years (1784–92), built up vast documentation, proceeded to conduct cartographic surveys, and established boundary markers (see fig. 123) (Sahlins 1989, 98–99). Sixteen geographical engineers (the eight French included four geographical engineers from the department of war and four from foreign affairs) were sent into the field. Discussions concerned the possibilities of cession and exchange. On several points, the work of delimitation bore fruit. In November 1785 the Spanish completed a plan for delimitation up to the valleys of Salazar and of Roncal, and a map of the forest of Irati was prepared. The Treaty of Elizondo (1785) decreed the boundary by establishing two straight lines running across the pastures in Aldudes, north of the dividing line of the rivers. The lines served as the boundary for the two realms and prevented inhabitants from crossing or maintaining their system of neighborly relations, which disappeared. Contested by frontier dwellers and local administrations and interrupted by the Revolution, further boundary agreements were taken up again under the Second Empire by the Treaties of Bayonne (Nordman 1998, 339–40). While the situation was different elsewhere in Europe, it had comparable effects. The conclusion of the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699), in which the Ottoman Empire, Austria, the Venetian Republic, Poland, and Russia were all involved, marked one of the most memorable periods in Ottoman history (Hammer-Purgstall 1838, 12:449, 455, 473). From the first meeting, the line determining frontiers was followed attentively on the map—through Transylvania, along the Danube and the Sava River up to the Una—and it was agreed to establish three borders where the line stopped, having crossed five states watered by these three rivers (see fig. 426). With the boundary line established, discussions on the exchange of prisoners, fortifications, religion, and commerce could follow. At negotiations for the Treaty of Passarowitz (1718), the Ottoman government nominated commissioners in order to definitively establish in 1718–19 the boundary along the Danube, in Walachia, and on the boundaries of Venetian territory. The territorial adjustments, if not upsets, affected one end of the Adriatic to the other, although the populations were left largely unchanged, including populations of Venetians, Slavs, and Morlachs (Chaline 2001, 357–59). Toward the east, the zone of contact between Venetian and Ottoman territory created a porous frontier, with no obstacle to migratory currents, to the displacement of manpower and the exploitation of domains under foreign jurisdiction, to transhumance or the frequentation of markets—in a word to the neighborly solidarity that maintained peaceful practices in the populations despite the threat of hostilities between states. Between the possessions of Venice

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and those of the Ottoman Empire, between the two interlocking worlds (Poumarède 2004), the convergence of interests was manifest, even to the de facto practice of a double allegiance (Vatin 2004). This perhaps extreme case indeed shows that forms of local autonomy could effectively elude the law of states. D a n iel N o rd man See also: Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying B i bliogra p hy Antoine, Annie. 2000. Le paysage de l’historien: Archéologie des bocages de l’Ouest de la France à l’époque moderne. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Brun, Christophe. 1997. “Cartes et plans.” In Dictionnaire européen des Lumières, ed. Michel Delon, 190–93. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Buache, Jean-Nicolas. 1801. “Considérations géographiques sur la Guiane française, concernant ses limites méridionales par le citoyen Buache, lu le 27 frimaire an 6.” Mémoires de l’Institut National des Sciences et Arts: Sciences Morales et Politiques 3:15–39. Burlamaqui, Jean-Jacques. 1820–21. Principes du droit de la nature et des gens. New ed., rev. and corr. 5 vols. Paris: B. Warée. Chaline, Olivier. 2001. “L’Adriatique, de la guerre de Candie à la fin des empires (1645–1918).” In Histoire de l’Adriatique, ed. Pierre Cabanes, preface Jacques Le Goff, 313–505. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Dubois, Sébastien. 2001. La rectification du tracé des frontières sur les cartes des Pays-Bas autrichiens de Ferraris (1777–1779). Brussels: Palais des Académies. Friedrich II. 1789. Mémoires depuis la paix de Hubertsbourg en 1763, jusqu’à la fin du partage de la Pologne en 1775. Vol. 5 of Œuvres posthumes de Fréderic II, roi de Prusse. Amsterdam. Glénisson, Jean-Louis. 2006. “La question des limites des colonies française et espagnole de Saint-Domingue et la carte de la frontière (1776).” Le Monde des Cartes 187:80–87. Hammer-Purgstall, Joseph von. 1838. Histoire de l’empire ottoman depuis son origine jusqu’a nos jours. 18 vols. Trans. J.-J. Hellert. Paris: Bellizard. Hélin, É., J. Grauwels, and M.-R. Thielemans. 1952. Inventaire des archives de la Jointe des terres contestées. Brussels: Éditions J. Duculot, S.A., Gembloux. This inventory of maps collected in the archives of the Jointe is available online at the Belgian national archives. LeDonne, John P. 2004. The Grand Strategy of the Russian Empire, 1650–1831. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mably, Gabriel Bonnot de. 1789. Le droit public de l’Europe, fondé sur les traités. Vols. 5–7 of Œuvres complètes. London. Martens, Georg Friedrich von. 1791–1801. Recueil des principaux traités d’alliance, de paix, de trêve, de neutralité, de commerce, de limites, d’échange &c. 7 vols. Göttingen: Jean Chretien Dieterich. Mémoires pour l’Histoire des Sciences & des Beaux Arts. 1712. Article XXXI, 394–419. Reprinted 1968, Journal de Trévoux, 12:108–14. Geneva: Slatkine Reprints. Morieux, Renaud. 2008. Une mer pour deux royaumes: La Manche, frontière franco-anglaise XVIIe–XVIIIe siècles. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Nordman, Daniel. 1998. Frontières de France: De l’espace au territoire XVIe–XIXe siècle. Paris: Gallimard. Poumarède, Géraud. 2004. Pour en finir avec la Croisade: Mythes et réalités de la lutte contre les Turcs aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. 1755. Discours sur l’origine et les fondemens de l’inégalité parmi les hommes. Amsterdam: Marc Michel Rey. Sahlins, Peter. 1989. Boundaries: The Making of France and Spain in the Pyrenees. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Stopani, Antonio. 2008. La production des frontières: État et communautés en Toscane (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles). Rome: École Française de Rome. Vatin, Nicolas. 2004. “Îles grecques? Îles ottomanes? L’insertion des îles de l’Égée dans l’Empire ottoman à la fin du XVIe siècle.” In Insularités ottomanes, ed. Nicolas Vatin and Gilles Veinstein, 71–89. Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose, Institut Français d’Études Anatoliennes. Vattel, Emer de. 1820. Le droit des gens, ou principes de la loi naturelle appliqués à la conduite et aux affaires des nations et des souverains. New ed., aug., rev., and corr. 2 vols. Paris: Janet et Cotelle.

Boundary Survey Plan. In 1648 the Peace of Westphalia confirmed the right of German princes of the Holy Roman Empire to choose their state’s religious confession independent of the emperor and to impose the choice on their populations. This date has been viewed as a decisive turning point in the use of territory to define sovereignty: each prince provided a territorial foundation for his power. A more or less direct consequence of this event was the emergence of the linear frontier as the ordering principle of international relations. Émile Benveniste (1969, 14) noted the connection in Latin between rex (king) and regere fines (to draw boundaries); so we may associate the sovereign with the act of drawing a straight or just line, which is simultaneously a boundary and a route to follow. It is an act that, in an even more suggestive manner, recalls a distinction between order and disorder. While accepting Westphalia as an ideological frame of reference, it is important nonetheless to specify the variable and particular circumstances in which the demarcation of a separating line between two state formations emerged as a political necessity. In this sense, the cartography of frontiers is inseparable from both the establishment of a policy of frontiers and the diverse significations that this policy assumed within governmental practices, which were undergoing dramatic and rapid evolution. This movement was particularly evident in the course of the eighteenth century, when frenetic reform efforts intersected with the institutional apparatuses of a number of European states, multiplying the number of both permanent governmental offices supervising boundaries and provisional commissions charged with occasional tasks. The relation between the elaboration of a policy of frontiers and a thematic cartography of boundaries should be understood in relation to the complex military events that pitted European powers against one another. To this end, it is helpful to distinguish three contexts of cartographic production. First, boundary cartography could respond to the need of the military to provide itself with a graphic instrument during a military campaign, whether in progress or imminent, in a location where no previously existing representation was available

Fig. 92. PIETRO AUDIBERT, “CARTE PARTICVLIERE DES VALLÉES DE STVRE [DE] QVIERAS DU SAVSE,” AFTER 1710–BEFORE 1722. The plan shows the military operations that took place during the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) along the border between the State of Piedmont and the kingdom of France, with special attention given to

the roads through valleys in the Alps and to the frontier line between the two states. Manuscript, ink and watercolor. Size of the original: 49.2 × 113.1 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Turin (Corte, Carte Topografiche per A e B, Piemonte 7).

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(fig. 92). For example, during the war between Poland and Austria in 1790, Jan Gawłowski was charged with preparing a map of the Galician border no less than three miles wide. Similar operations were conducted in Poland again the following year in 1791, when war with Russia loomed (Buczek 1966, 113–14). The speed with which information was selected to satisfy military demands characterized this type of cartographic production, which focused on the principal inhabited and fortified locations and the networks of roads and rivers. A second type of boundary cartography provided much more detailed elaborations of these objects of military interest when the map was made with a military objective but outside the context of an immediate conflict. The cartographer might then undertake the representation of terrestrial morphology, give greater attention to the connection of roads, and differentiate inhabited locales according to their function and importance. In both types of cartography, plans or geometric or topographic maps depicted the frontier as a zone of friction and more rarely as a separating line. Under these circumstances, the boundary was rendered in an approximate manner with a hatched or dotted line as depicted in numerous atlases from the latter half of the seventeenth century. The third military context for a boundary plan focused on issues of delimitation arising out of military conflict. It expressed a desire for a more precise relationship between the boundary and the natural (e.g., forests) and man-made (e.g., cities and roads) that it divided. To show this relationship, governments prepared a provisional but consensual frontier line to insert in the text of a treaty by using topographic maps; the line might later be made more precise or even be modified at the time of field operations (fig. 93). Similar cartographic documents, mentioned in 1713 at the time of the Treaty of Utrecht and in 1718 at the Peace of Passarowitz, exemplify the growing role of maps in the establishment of peace accords in the latter half of the seventeenth century. In this sense, there was a striking difference between the operational procedures of Gian Battista Nani in 1671 and Giovanni Grimani in 1699, both Venetian commissioners in Dalmatia. At the end of the War of Candia (or Cretan War) between the Republic of Venice and the Ottoman Empire (1645–69), Nani had to begin his mandate by soliciting the dispatch of documents and conducting investigations among very mobile local populations. Grimani could rely on a vast documentation gathered for this objective as well as an approximate—but constraining—definition of the boundary represented on a map that the diplomats had agreed upon at the time of the Treaty of Karlowitz (Mayhew 2008, 23–90). With the wave of treaties peacefully pursued by European princes during the eighteenth century, practices

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pioneered in the previous century became routine. Bilateral commissions were established, directed by diplomats, jurists, and influential commissioners, while technicians—surveyors, engineers, and cartographers— accompanied them and assisted their work in the field. Technicians would gradually assume greater and greater importance. The commissions applied the treaty articles with the territorial variations sanctioned by military vicissitudes and sealed by preliminary negotiations. As the instrument of communication par excellence, maps were first levied unilaterally by each commission. The first sketches that captured the principal stakes were later refined to prepare for diplomatic discussions. In the course of negotiations, maps allowed commissioners to illustrate their reciprocal claims and to propose and negotiate agreements. Finally, at the signing of the treaty, maps were included more and more frequently among the pieces of official documentation. The map thus rendered visible the line of the newly established frontier by enumerating and designating the boundary markers and by drawing attention to the territorial consequences of recent divisions. The frontier maps produced varied in scale—between 1:10,000 (or larger) and 1:50,000—as a function of the different stakes at the core of individual agreements and variation in their intended uses and recipients. Differing representations of territorial allotments emerged. The maps produced within the framework of commissions, whether made during or at the end of negotiations, shared the goal of precisely indicating how frontier lines (concurrently projected by the commissions or agreed upon by them) would be drawn, along with the divisions they established. The representation of terrestrial morphology (relief and plains), the reference to vegetation with conventional signs, and the use of colors to distinguish cultivated plots from wooded expanses were the techniques available that responded to the concern for anchoring the boundary to the land and making visible the division that it decreed. These maps were infused with a concern for the representation of detail that could extend all way to the depiction of individual property divisions if these became significant for the work of the commissions. The maps—whether preparatory or annexed to treaties—used varied scales within the same document. In 1765, Antoine Durieu, an engineer from Savoy, reproduced a map that he had made with his counterpart, Giovanni Andrea Boldrini of the Duchy of Parma (fig. 94). Durieu enlarged certain sections of the frontier, as if “zooming in” to show in detail areas where the more heated discussions had resulted in an amicable agreement such as possessions particularly intertwined, confusing twists and turns on a riverine frontier, or the institutional entanglement of an enclave. In general the scale of the map was adapted to the context of the negotiations. At all stages of the negoti-

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Fig. 93. “CARTE POUR SERVIR A LA NEGOCIATION D’UN TRAITÉ DE LIMITES ENTRE LA FRANCE ET LES PAÏS-BAS,” 1760. The engineer Fisco, representing the Habsburgs, prepared this provisional map for the negotiations between France and the Austrian Netherlands. He used a color key to focus on the territorial claims of all parties to enclaves

and to the routes between the two states, which would later become an object of discussion by the French and Austrian plenipotentiaries in 1769. Manuscript ink, and watercolor. Size of the originals: 70 × 118 and 65 × 110 cm. © Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (GR J6 M J10C 647 [1 et 2]).

ating process, variant maps were sometimes necessary to extend visual understanding. From 1769 to 1779, France, the Austrian Netherlands, and the Principality of Liège sought to make their enclave-strewn frontiers more regular. Communication routes were at the heart of negotiations in which the stakes were to define territorial sovereignty in relation to the road traffic in the whole region with its commercial network and geography of customs and duties. The demarcation of frontiers was articulated by the leitmotif of freedom of trade and freedom of circulation of goods and persons, of which sovereigns made themselves the guarantors in order to assure the “happiness of the people” (Stopani 2008, 382–83). Another type of smaller-scale boundary cartography was elaborated within organizations created by various European princes to coordinate frontier policy. Some of these maps summarized the results of several previously

concluded treaties and allowed one to see at a glance the boundaries that were represented more precisely on the topographic and geometric plans annexed to the agreements. The “Réduction géométrique” drawn by Durieu in 1761 combined the results of several treaties that the Court of Turin had signed with Geneva and France from 1754 (fig. 95). The progressive establishment of frontier bureaus, committees, and offices called for this sort of cartographic production that allied the recollection of modifications and (sometimes historical) disputes with the celebration of the efficacy of administrative action. In the eighteenth century, the cartography of frontiers benefited from advanced techniques in topographic representation. As far as the boundary was concerned, its semiography developed along lines already indicated in the past. The thick line (red and/or yellow, sometimes black) snaked on the maps supported by bound-

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ary markers, increasingly represented by symbols in the form of dots or triangles, numbered or labeled with letters. This change from portraiture of individual markers to a generic symbol for any marker reflected the shift to using man-made boundary markers on the ground, objects that also provided a stable base for making measurements of angles and distances. Preparatory maps made use of colors to identify the surface of lands whose ownership was disputed or which were the object of an amicable exchange. The maps were ornamented with decorative insets in the form of cartouches and illustrations containing the title, the typological technique of the map (“plan” or “map”—topographic, in measure, geometric—“geometric reduction,” “perspective view,” “sketch,” “illustrative drawing”), and the location of the part of the frontier represented. The date and the author(s) of the map or plan were accompanied by an official signature on the document. The

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map was not considered simply technical performance on the part of one or several engineer-cartographers. The official circumstances of the production of the map lay at the heart of an initiative that affected sovereignty. In this sense, diplomatic agents were all the more solicitous to authenticate maps as maps increasingly occupied a place among the documents composing a treaty or an agreement. Illustrations and cartouches opened a space for complex symbolic discourse: princes and states drew from an allegorical register (royal figures with scepters or other signs of royalty) or symbolic register (emblems and coats of arms of the powers concerned); local life was represented by popular clothing or scenes from daily life; the principal localities such as cities and fortifications affected by the delimitation were shown in perspective view, or bird’s-eye-view, or in plan; the professional identity of the engineers was shown in the ap-

Fig. 94. ANTOINE DURIEU, “CARTA TOPOGRAFICA CHE COMPRENDE LI CONFINI DEL BOBBIESE E DEL PAVESE OLTRE PO,” 1765. The map represents the territorial transformations produced by the determination of the border between the state of Piedmont and the Duchy of Parma. The sections colored pink designate the part of the territory discussed by the bilateral commission with regard to claims on both sides. The upper part of the map shows in more detail

the nature of the land of individual parcels. Numbers in black and red scattered on the pink sections identify precisely those parcels that were subject to the agreement and those for which there was insurmountable opposition and would be discussed by the appropriate ministries. Manuscript, ink and watercolor. Size of the original: 103.0 × 171.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Turin (Corte, Paesi, Confini con il Piacentino, Carte Topografiche, m. I, n. 5, 1765).

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Fig. 95. ANTOINE DURIEU, “REDUCTION GEOMETRIQUE DE LA CARTE DU COURS DU RHÔNE DEPUIS GENÉVE JUSQU’AU CONFLUENT DU GUIERS,” 1761. The map recapitulates the territorial transformation accomplished by the negotiations between the Duchy of Savoy, France, and the Republic of Geneva. The small scale employed demonstrates that the finality of this document rests less on the technical representation of the position of the boundary markers

and the drawing of the boundary line than in the general presentation of the modifications and territorial exchanges codified by the treaty, shown by the colors used along the zones that were the object of the transactions (pink, yellow, black). Size of the original: 36 × 108 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Turin (Corte, Paesi, Duché de Savoye, Confins avec la France, Plans et Desseins, m. 2, n. 8, 14 février 1761).

plication of a scale and wind rose and the images of instruments of the trade (compass, square, and graduated half-circle). The legend appeared in this discursive space where the cartographer specified the semiographic conventions adopted: the meaning of the signs and colors indicating the disputed spaces and the adjustments adduced or proposed and the letters and numbers designating the succession of boundary markers. The course of the eighteenth century saw an increased propensity for multiple insets on boundary plans. The text tended to spread onto the map and to emulate written documents by providing the reader with more and more information. While the legend had previously provided space for historical information or a summary of claims, it now included much technical data. The boundary markers were numbered, and their position was described with the aid of mathematical, geometric, and astronomic techniques. The objects of territorial exchanges were qualified and quantified in terms of rights (fiscal and customs-related), surface area, and demographic or residential units. This accumulation of technical information fed the illusion at times of the omnipotence of the image of the frontier line in relation to its verbal description. The idea that the map itself could become, on its own, the legal support of a treaty was even sometimes proposed by a functionary or an engineer, but this practice was not adopted during the period discussed here (Stopani 2008, 345–400).

See also: Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying; Cartouche Bibliography Benveniste, Émile. 1969. Pouvoir, droit, religion. Vol. 2 of Le vocabulaire des institutions indo-européennes. Paris: Éditions de Minuit. Buczek, Karol. 1966. The History of Polish Cartography from the 15th to the 18th Century. Trans. Andrzej Potocki. Warsaw: Zakład Narodowy Imienia Ossolin´skich Wydawnictwo Polskiej Akademii Nauk. Comba, Rinaldo, and Paola Sereno. 2002. Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo. 2 vols. Turin: Allemandi. Dainville, François de. 1964. Le langage des géographes: Termes, signes, couleurs des cartes anciennes, 1500–1800. Paris: A. et J. Picard. Kivelson, Valerie. 1999. “Cartography, Autocracy and State Powerlessness: The Uses of Maps in Early Modern Russia.” Imago Mundi 51:83–105. Mayhew, Tea. 2008. Dalmatia between Ottoman and Venetian Rule: Contado di Zara, 1645–1718. Rome: Viella. Nordman, Daniel. 1998. Frontières de France: De l’espace au territoire, XVIe–XIXe siècle. Paris: Gallimard. Roksandic´, Drago, and Nataša Štefanec, eds. 2000. Constructing Border Societies on the Triplex Confinium. Budapest: Central European University. Roksandic´, Drago, et al. 2003. Triplex confinium (1500–1800): Ekohistorija. Split: Književni Krug. Rothenberg, Gunther Erich. 1960. The Austrian Military Border in Croatia, 1522–1747. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Stopani, Antonio. 2008. La production des frontières: État et communautés en Toscane (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles). Rome: École Française de Rome. Watelet, Marcel. 1998. “Production cartographique et enjeux diplomatiques: Le problème des routes et de la frontière entre les PaysBas autrichiens et la France (1769–1779).” Imago Mundi 50:84–95.

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Boundary Surveying. E n l i g ht e n me n t Au s tri an Mon a rc h y D e n m ark an d N o rway F ran ce N e w F ran ce F re n ch We s t I n d i e s Bri t i sh Ame r i c a I tal i an Stat e s O t to man E mp i r e P o rtu g al P o rtu g u e s e A me r i c a Ru s s i a S pai n S pani s h Ame r i c a S w e de n -F i n l a n d S w i t ze rl an d

Boundary Surveying in the Enlightenment. From the end of the Middle Ages in Europe various levels of administration added painters, draftsman, and technicians to commissions charged with resolving disputes between princes, a practice attested and well documented from the early sixteenth century. Plans in perspective (in both black-and-white and color) increasingly depended on geometric operations, which united precision in depicting the actual boundary with a realistic view of the frontier landscape. The line drawn by the cartographer on the map exhibited a spatial discontinuity that mimicked the discontinuity created by the boundary on the terrain. Moreover, the representation of the line and the institution of the boundary emerged from the same institutional context that sanctioned the division between two adjoining powers. But the line was not meaningful without the indication and localization of objects on the map that the map showed as divided. Villages, churches, roads, rivers, and contours were included; they were represented because various property, fiscal, and jurisdictional rights were simultaneously attached to them and were split from them by means of the border. To understand the natural, demographic, and juridical composition of the frontier landscape required direct observation of locales. This did not always happen, as, for example, in the case of a unilateral topographical survey in preparation for a diplomatic meeting. From the sixteenth century, instructional guides described secret tours, offering profuse advice on how to cross territory without the knowledge of its sovereign or how to gather fiscal, demographic, or topographic information without the knowledge of inhabitants. Disguised as a merchant or traveler, the engineer was to behave with great circumspection. Even without the instruments of

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his trade (plane table, compass, and graduated semicircle) he was to note the morphology of the terrain, assess economic values, calculate distances, and estimate population. Later, upon return, he would reconstruct these data in order to prepare a map responding to the demands of those who had ordered it. When morphological conditions permitted, the engineer might draw a map from a high peak, which allowed him to view the whole frontier zone at once and situate the observations made during the secret tour more precisely (Bartoli 1564). Unlike the fields, forests, and villages that it divided, the boundary itself was not visible on the terrain. Therefore, mapping a boundary implied the representation on the map of those material signs that served as markers for the boundary line on the ground. Certainly there were boundaries that relied on and incorporated concrete objects that were already there, such as roads, watercourses, and watersheds that provided concrete anchoring of the boundary to the land. When the terrain lacked these elements, boundary markers punctuated the path of the border, sometimes established by assigning this function to a preexisting object (a tree, rock, or summit) and sometimes by erecting a new, artificial reference point. However, between these markers the boundaries were still not tangible; they were invisible, tracing a kind of conceptual trajectory in space, yet all the while producing consequences that were concrete and divisive. Boundary markers faced one another along imaginary or immaterial lines, each marker serving as a point of arrival and departure for two segments of the boundary. Because they were the only material elements providing concrete support for lines of division, boundary markers attracted the greatest attention in the cartography of frontiers. Cartographers preferred to represent the markers with a portrait rather than with a symbol; the latter suppressed the specificity and individuality of the markers in the name of an abstract and standardizing principle (fig. 96). The predilection for using an icon of the boundary marker arose from the realist logic that acknowledged the marker’s dual role as both symbol and practical embodiment of sovereignty. Erected on the occasion of an agreement, arbitration, or other international pact, boundary markers bore the imprint of these highly formalized circumstances when plenipotentiaries and diplomats proceeded to give a treaty material form. The arms or the initials of sovereigns and states as well as the dates of the agreement were solemnly carved on the marker and minutes of the event were recorded. At the same time, other signs indicated the source and destination of the two lines that came into and went out from each boundary marker. The small arms of a cross, a strike-through stripe, or, more explicitly, an arrow pro-

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Fig. 96. DETAIL FROM INGÉNIEURS GIOVANNI MARIA VERACI AND GIULIO AMBROGIO GIANNETTI, “PIANTA ED ALZATO DEL TERMINE NUOVO POSTO NELLA PRESENTE RIPA DEL LAGO NEL PUNTO,” 1729. In this detail, Veraci and Giannetti show a series of the relevant boundary markers both in plan and elevation. Manuscript, ink and watercolor; scale of 100 pertiche, each of 5 Florentine braccia (1 braccio = 0.583 m). Size of the entire original: 35 × 70 cm; size of detail: ca. 35.0 × 24.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio Storico Comunale di Pietrasanta (356, 1729).

vided this explanatory function to orient the viewer and was of the greatest importance for understanding the course of the frontier line. The desire for verisimilitude in the image of the boundary marker on the map caused the cartographer to enlarge either its image or a detail on the border of the map and to describe its form in the map’s legend in great detail, e.g., “Letter A, place called Fontaine Couverte, where there are two old stones on which are carved the arms of Savoy and of the République de Vallois, and in the middle there is a sign serving as an alidade to indicate the line of division (BCD) . . . ; letter E, wooden cross of Dromaz with the date 1749

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facing the monastery of Grand St. Bernard . . . ; letter K, stone column topped with iron bearing the arms of the aforementioned powers” (fig. 97) (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:101–2 [no. 59]). The same practice applied to localizing the site of a marker identified with the aid of toponyms that appeared on the maps alongside the icons of boundary markers. In the second half of the seventeenth century, the visibility of the material signs of the frontier and their stability through time became the object of sustained reflection. In the field, the boundary (especially the international boundary) was to conform to a particular grammar and to be characterized by its own semiology. When a portion of territory was delimited, it was necessary to ensure that border markers were numerous and near one another. With the reduction of intervening distances, these markers rendered the imaginary lines discernable and reduced confusion as much possible. Markers were to be uniform, and their form was to be clearly differentiated from other objects standing out in the surrounding environment (a tree, a rock, a summit). Parallelepiped or cylindrical stones were to be erected and identified with conventional signs, which were codified to a greater and greater degree: they often included the year of the treaty, together with the arms of the princes and the initials of the states concerned (fig. 98). While border markers were visible in the field, the boundary was conceived, understood, and described by means of three technical operations that developed and spread successively, effecting a progressive geometric abstraction of the frontier line and raising the status of the cartographer-technician. First, the boundary was conceived as a succession of lines, each having a boundary marker as a point of departure and arrival. The calculation of the length of each segment was no doubt practiced in diverse fashions in different regions, but it had long been known, as evidenced by the rediscovery of Roman surveying texts at the end of the Middle Ages and their diffusion in print within Europe. Second, during the seventeenth century, particularly in the latter half, the practice began of defining the line between two markers by its orientation with respect to the four cardinal directions or the wind rose using degrees, e.g.: “Marker n.1 is found 182 cannes romaines in a straight line 141/6 degrees to the east” (Florence, Archivio di Stato [ASF], Archivio dei Confini, 23, Dossier n. 14). Third, by the middle of the eighteenth century a new technique of calculating the value of the angles formed by the lines that connected boundary markers gained strength. The increasing geometric abstraction involved in understanding frontiers was accompanied by increasing complexity in the technical instruments needed for their description. Any surveyor had sufficient knowledge to

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Fig. 97. DETAIL FROM ANTOINE DURIEU, “PLAN TOPOGRAPHIQUE, EN MESURE, DES MONTAGNES AUX ENVIRONS DU MONASTÈRE HÔPITAL DU GRAND S.T  BERNARD DIT MONTJOUX,” 1756. The entire map shows the area around the Saint Bernard pass in the Alps, an area of dispute between the Duchy of Savoy and the Republic of Vallese. The inset pasted onto the map highlights the boundary stone (K) near the covered fountain (A) that determined the line of division, shown with a straight line drawn in black,

in contrast to the natural boundary lines of the watersheds, articulated with red dotted lines, from (E). Manuscript, ink and watercolor; scale of 110 trabucchi (the trabuccho varied from 2.611 to 3.243 m). Size of the entire original: 49 × 130 cm; size of detail: ca. 38 × 60 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Turin (Corte, Paesi, Duché d’Aoste, Constestations avec le Valley, cat. II, m. I, n. 5/2, 1756).

measure the distance between two objects, though the instruments and units might vary from region to region. However, defining the angle between the two lines intersecting at a boundary marker required competence with instruments, such as the compass for azimuths with respect to magnetic north and the graduated semicircle for terrestrial angles. Their diffusion and use were directly linked to the scientific preparation of the technical personnel and the institutional support surveyors received in topographic offices and engineering schools. The inclusion of the map among the documents that illustrated and sanctioned international treaties increased during the eighteenth century. This resulted from, on the one hand, the diffusion of mathematical and geometric techniques for the definition of boundaries, and, on the other hand, the recourse to the services of military engi-

neers or engineer-cartographers in operations of delimitation. The cartography of the frontier thus tended to assume a formal character previously unknown. Indications of the length of lines between boundary markers, together with the azimuths or angles they formed, were integrated into a cartographic framework. The length of each segment or the height of boundary markers might appear in red ink in the drawing itself or in framed areas specifically created in order to contain this technical information (fig. 99). The mobilization of these mathematical and geometric techniques in the description of boundaries made the boundary marker a privileged location where an array of instrumental practices were put in place that only engineer-cartographers could effectively supervise, e.g., “With the compass positioned beside the parapet

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toward the tramontana [the north] and perpendicular to the latter, we looked through the alidade, observing that the line goes toward marker XIII with 37 degrees of sirocco [southeast]” (ASF, Archivio dei Confini 79, 17 November 1762). Such notes dedicated much space to the results of the observations made, the usage of instruments, and the execution of technical operations. “After having measured the distance of 628 perches of Bologna between markers XII and XIII, we placed the compass on the horizontal plane of marker XII and found that the line headed toward marker XIII with 30 degrees between grec [northeast] and levant [east]” (ASF, Archivio dei Confini, 40, Dossier 13, 28 July 1704). As the boundary became progressively more abstract, the boundary marker increasingly assumed a parallelepipedal or cylindrical form in order to allow the systematic application of these technical methods, and straight lines increasingly tended to appear everywhere, even where the boundary could have joined or adapted itself to the sinuous contours of the natural landscape

(rivers, paths, watersheds) (fig.  100). In the eighteenth century, the abstract logic of the geometric line did not contradict the rise of the concept of natural frontiers as a geopolitical principle in international politics. It joined with this principle and, at the level of the terrain, made it more precise. Riverbeds were split in half, frontier routes were bounded, and mountain watersheds were marked with a series of artificial reference points. The innumerable segments, which were established by the repetition at will of these same technical operations and which composed each portion of the frontier, disappeared from maps at smaller scales in favor of curved lines, drawn in thick colors, emphasizing the separating and impermeable character of the new forms of territorial sovereignty. At this smaller scale, local customs linked to the circulation of persons, merchandise, and livestock disappeared, as did systems of reciprocity assuring access to sources, forests, or paths at certain locations. It was, however, these principles that frontier treaties regulated by codifying good neighbor principles—such as the lies

Fig. 98. DETAIL FROM GIOVANNI SANTINI, “CARTA DELLA DIVISIONE TRA IL GRANDUCATO DI TOSCANA E LA REPUBBLICA DI LUCCA,” 1686. The map shows the territorial consequences of the “imaginary lines” drawn from one marker to another. The images of the boundary markers with the carved signs of sovereignty and their technical details are accompanied by representations of the houses and hamlets

at stake during boundary negotiations. Manuscript, ink and watercolor; scale in pertiche lucchesi, each of 5 braccia (1 pertica = 2.95 m). Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Florence (Piante Antiche dei Confini 63). By concession of the Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo.

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Fig. 99. DETAIL FROM GIOVANNI CRISTOFORO LORRAIN AND GIOVANNI AZZI, “PIANTA, O MAPPA DELLA CONFINAZIONE, E TERMINAZIONE DEL TORRENTE ANIA DAL L. D. LA CHIUSA FINO AL SUO SBOCCO NEL SERCHIO, 1684.” Ingénieurs Lorrain and Azzi deployed mathematical and geometrical techniques and instruments to represent the border along the streambed (Torrente Ania) that formed the boundary between Lucca and Tuscany by placing

markers on either side of the bed and then measuring the distance between them. Manuscript, ink and watercolor; scale of 100 pertiche, each of 5 Florentine braccia (see fig. 96). Size of the entire original: 45 × 120 cm; size of detail: ca. 45 × 75 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Florence (Piante Vecchie dei Confini 78). By concession of the Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo.

et passeries of the Pyrenees and similar practices governing the exchanges between local societies.

Comba, Rinaldo, and Paola Sereno, eds. 2002. Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo. 2 vols. Turin: Allemandi. Dubois, Sébastien. 1999. Les bornes immuables de l’État: La rationalisation du tracé des frontières au siècle des Lumières (France, PaysBas autrichiens et principauté de Liège). Kortrijk-Heule: UGA. ———. 2001. La rectification du tracé des frontières sur les cartes des Pays-Bas autrichiens de Ferraris (1777–1779). Brussels: Palais des Académies. Imarisio, Caterina Simonetta. 1988. Confini politici e cartografia in Antoine Durieu (sec. XVIII). Turin: Biblioteca di “Studi Piemontesi,” Centro Studi Piemontesi. Nordman, Daniel. 1998. Frontières de France: De l’espace au territoire XVIe–XIXe siècle. Paris: Gallimard. Stopani, Antonio. 2008. La production des frontières: État et communautés en Toscane (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles). Rome: École Française de Rome. Watelet, Marcel. 1992. Paysages de frontières: Tracés de limites et levés topographiques XVIIe–XIXe siècle. Tielt: Lanoo; Paris–Louvain-la Neuve: Duculot.

A n to n io S to pani See also: Administrative Cartography; Boundary Survey Plan; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Traverse: Surveying Traverse Bibliograp hy Bartoli, Cosimo. 1564. Del modo di misvrare le distantie, le superficie, i corpi, le piante, le provincie, le prospettiue, & tutte le altre cose terrene, che possono occorrere a gli huomini, secondo le uere regole d’Euclide, & degli altri piu lodati scrittori. Venice: Francesco Franceschi Sanese. Biggs, Michael. 1999. “Putting the State on the Map: Cartography, Territory, and European State Formation.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 41:374–405. Carassi, Marco. 1996. “Topografi e diplomatici: L’arte di delimitare confini = Topographes et diplomates: L’art de délimiter les frontières = Topographers and Diplomats: The Art of Delimiting Borders.” In Securitas et tranquillitas Europae, ed. Isabella Massabò Ricci, Marco Carassi, and Chiara Cusanno, 190–215. [Rome]: Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali, Ufficio Centrale per i Beni Archivistici.

Boundary Surveying

Fig. 100. DETAIL FROM LUIGI KINDT AND LUIGI FANTI, “PIANTA DEL CONFINE GIURISDIZIONALE FRA IL GRANDUCATO DI TOSCANA, E LO STATO DI MODENA,” 1791. The map shows the proliferation of boundary markers, in Roman numerals north of Boscolungo, and the imposition of straight lines and recording of angles in an era of more detailed boundary determination. Not shown is the inset table of distances between the boundary markers. Manuscript, ink and watercolor; scale of 100 canne, each of 5 Florentine braccia (1 canna = 2.92 m). Size of the entire original: 65 × 162 cm; size of detail: ca. 26.5 × 17.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Florence (Piante Notarile dei Confini 11 C2). By concession of the Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo.

Boundary Surveying in the Austrian Monarchy. Legal dis-

putes often required the drawing of bird’s-eye views or maps recording the topographical situation of disputed territories that included the representations of the positions of boundary stones or markers or the imposition of boundary lines. Such maps demonstrated the claims of the litigants or documented the final judgments (e.g., “Karte der bayerisch-tirolerischen Grenze zwischen

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Achensee und Tegernsee”; Munich, Staatliche Archive Bayern, map collection, Plansammlung nr. 8689; Horst 2009, 2:392). In many areas such manuscript maps were the first cartographic images of the region and are generally found in state archives; they fall outside the scope of this entry. By the beginning of the eighteenth century the situation of boundary surveying at the national level in the Austrian monarchy had changed. The successful wars of Prince Eugene of Savoy against the Turks after the Siege of Vienna (1683) actuated boundary surveying in the newly conquered territories. The survey of the new boundaries between the Austrian monarchy and the Ottoman Empire began after the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699) under the direction of Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, colonel and later general in the Austrian army. The results of this survey in areas now part of Hungary were based on many astronomical observations and triangulation. Marsigli was aided by Johann Christoph Müller to prepare the manuscript maps of the new boundary fixed by the treaty (fig. 101). Mapping the boundary with the Ottoman Empire was an important experiment in field surveying, particularly in the unique type of territory known as the Militärgrenze (military frontier). From its beginnings in 1522–34, this small area running from the Adriatic Sea to the River Drau along the boundary with the Ottoman Empire, was independent of other Crown lands of the monarchy; during the period 1702–64 it grew to a more than 1,750-kilometer narrow strip. A few printed maps such as Etienne Briffaut’s Carte originale et particuliere de la Bosnie (1740, ca. 1:550,000) show the situation of boundaries in this part of the Austrian monarchy. The Militärgrenze was of importance both for defense and as an area of recruitment as well as a buffer zone against the plague. It was given a preferred status during the Josephinische Landesaufnahme (1763–87), the first general military mapping survey of all countries of the Austrian monarchy. As administrative changes occurred during the eighteenth century, maps were required to determine new states or regions. Maria Theresa ordered Constantin Johann Walter, a captain in the engineer corps of the Austrian army, to prepare a manuscript map that documented the different territorial demands and boundaries between the Kingdom of Hungary and Lower Austria, a survey accomplished from 1754 to 1755 and extant in two copies at 1:14,400 and 1:28,800 respectively (fig. 102) with an accompanying descriptive booklet (Ulbrich 1952). The Austrian monarchy also responded to Russian incursions in Moldavia and Walachia with mapping parties and boundary marking, resulting in the mapping of territory in Transylvania beyond the limits of the Josephinische Landesaufnahme and concentrat-

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Fig. 101. JOHANN CHRISTOPH MÜLLER, MAP OF AUSTRIAN-TURKISH BORDER, CA. 1:500,000, CA. 1706. The “Mappa geographico-limitanea in qva imperiorum cæsarei et ottomannici confinia in almæ pacis Carlovitzensis congressu decreta” provides the overview of the proposed boundary between the territories of the Ottoman and Habsburg monarchies. Oriented to the south, it uses red for the Ottoman

side of the boundary and yellow for the Austrian. It is one of hundreds of maps made by Müller, under the direction of Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, who headed the Austrian boundary survey (see fig. 426). Size of the original: 36.0 × 63.7 cm. Image courtesy of the Kartensammlung, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (Cod. Min. 85 Han, fol. 1r).

ing on boundary markers (Veres 2015). A number of printed maps were based on the modifications of the boundaries of the Moravian counties in 1783, such as Das Markgraftum Mæhren (1784, ca. 1:320,000). Besides official boundary surveys, a number of semiofficial efforts focused on regional boundaries during the second half of the eighteenth century, especially in Hungary, where many Comitat (county) maps were produced by local land surveyors. These maps showed not only topographic and economic data of a single territory, but also documented administrative boundaries, although with varying quality, from the refined topographical detail of Neue und Volstaendige Karte von dem Szalader Comitat im Koenigreich Ungarn (1789, ca. 1:147,000) to the aesthetically decorative Tabula Bannatus Temesiensis by Francesco Griselini (1776, ca. 1:480,000). However, these maps only incorporated the results of boundary surveys to provide an overview at a smaller scale of a particular region.

Bibliography Dörflinger, Johannes. 1984. Österreichische Karten des 18. Jahrhunderts. Vol. 1 of Die österreichische Kartographie im 18. und zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Privatkartographie zwischen 1780 und 1820. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. ———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1818).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Dörflinger, Johannes, Robert Wagner, and Franz Wawrik. 1977. Descriptio Austriae: Österreich und seine Nachbarn im Kartenbild von der Spätantike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert. Vienna: Edition Tusch. Horst, Thomas. 2009. Die älteren Manuskriptkarten Altbayerns: Eine kartographiehistorische Studie zum Augenscheinplan unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Kultur- und Klimageschichte. 2 vols. Munich: Verlag C. H. Beck. Ulbrich, Karl. 1952. “Die Grenzkarte Ungarn-Niederösterreich von C. J. Walter (1754–56).” Burgenländische Heimatblätter 14:108–21. Veres, Madalina Valeria. 2015. “Constructing Imperial Spaces: Habsburg Cartography in the Age of Enlightenment.” PhD diss., University of Pittsburgh. Wawrik, Franz, and Elisabeth Zeilinger, eds. 1989. Austria Picta: Österreich auf alten Karten und Ansichten. Graz: Akademische Druckund Verlagsanstalt.

G er h a rd H o lzer See also: Austrian Monarchy; Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699); Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando; Müller, Johann Christoph; Poland-Lithuania, Partitions of

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Fig. 102. DETAIL FROM CONSTANTIN JOHANN WALTER, “MAPPA DERIENIGEN GRÄNZEN LINIE,” 1754–56. A single sheet from Walter’s twenty-sheet reduction (1:28,000) of the original survey, performed at 1:14,400 in seventy-three sheets, shows the proposed boundary line (yellow), the boundary claimed by lower Austria (red), and that claimed by Hun-

gary (green). The capital letters mark station points along the surveyed lines and are described in the accompanying booklet. Size of the entire original: 580 × 143 cm. Image courtesy of the Kriegsarchiv, Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (Kartensammlung B IX c 642, sheet 16).

Boundary Surveying in Denmark and Norway. Survey-

from Norway to Sweden, necessitating a survey of the new national boundary. This was accomplished in 1661, and a map was made by Kettil Classon Felterus of the area from the sea to Øvre Kornsjø (Kjellén 1899, 287– 88). After the conclusion of the Great Northern War (1700–1721), it was agreed to survey the long mountainous boundary between Norway and Sweden. This frontier had previously been accepted unchanged since time immemorial. In 1738 delegations from Sweden and Denmark-Norway met at Øvre Kornsjø to establish the boundary from there to Finnmark. The delegations were to establish where the boundary should run and make a provisional map. The general rule was to follow the watersheds—along the height of land, so that Norwegian areas were where water ran north and west, while Swedish areas were where water ran south and east—adjusted for actual possession and use of the land, for example where inhabitants had grazing rights in disputed areas or where inhabitants went to church or paid tax. Where there was no agreement, both countries’

ing and mapping of the boundaries of DenmarkNorway in 1650–1800 focused almost entirely on the Norwegian-Swedish boundary. Denmark’s boundaries with the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein remained largely undisturbed during the period and required no official efforts to delineate them. Moreover, the midseventeenth century wars with Sweden, concluding in peace treaties of 1645, 1658, and 1660, led Denmark to lose large areas of land. The land boundary between Denmark and Sweden now became a sea frontier through Øresund. By contrast, the complex mountainous boundary between Norway and Sweden was of interest because of access to deposits of iron ore and other economically useful minerals. Several boundary demarcations were accordingly made; the resultant maps and journals can be found in the respective national archives (Oslo, Arkivverket, RA/EA-5930/T/T023; Stockholm, Riksarkivet, SE/RA/81007/2). The peace of 1658 transferred coastal Bohus County

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claims were marked. In 1742, the southern boundary of the Trondheim diocese was reached and from that year the Norwegian delegation received help from Peter Schnitler. He collected additional information by studying historical documents and by questioning the local population. The survey work on the Norwegian side was carried out by Thomas Hans Heinrich Knoff and Friedrich Christian Knoff, while the Swedish surveyors were Lorents Lindgren and Kilian Ratkind. After the boundary survey was completed in 1749, there were negotiations over the disputed points and an agreement was signed in Strømstad in 1751 (Fraenkl 1997). In 1752–66, a boundary survey was carried out with the erection of boundary cairns. The chief surveyor on the Norwegian side was Jørgen Nicolai Holm and on the Swedish side Nils Marelius. The surveying was done with the help of plane tables (see fig. 127), and Marelius also had with him a new instrument for measuring angles, the geografiska cirkel (geographical circle) designed by the Stockholm instrumentmaker Daniel Ekström (see fig. 406). Marelius also used the instrument to take measurements of latitudes, which he published, along with his observations of magnetic declinations and associated boundary maps in three articles (Marelius 1771a, 1771b, 1772). N i ls V o j e J o h ans en See also: Denmark and Norway; Geodetic Surveying: Denmark and Norway Bibliograp hy Fraenkl, Stefan. 1997. Fastleggingen av Norges nåværende grense mot Sverige og Finland under grenseoppgjøret, 1738–1751. Oslo: Hovedoppgave i Historie ved Universitet i Oslo. Kjellén, Rudolf. 1899. “Studier öfver Sveriges politiska gränser.” Ymer 19:283–331. Marelius, Nils. 1771a. “Om Gränsen imellan Sverige och Norrige.” Kongl. Vetenskaps Academiens Handlingar 32:95–114. ———. 1771b. “Fortsättning om Land- och Fjäll-ryggarne samt Gränsen imellan Sverige och Norrige.” Kongl. Vetenskaps Academiens Handlingar 32:175–92. ———. 1772. “Slutet om Land- och Fjäll-ryggarne, samt Gränsen imellan Sverige och Norrige.” Kongl. Vetenskaps Academiens Handlingar 33:1–16.

Boundary Surveying in France. In seventeenth-century

Europe, after fierce conflict, defeated foes suffered imposed or negotiated annexations of territory. By the eighteenth century the price of war was less onerous: technical progress, military discipline, ability to resupply, as well as the philosophical and juridical currents of the day prevented the massacre of populaces. Although the eighteenth century had not rejected all violence, as shown by the fate of Poland, French frontiers bore less military pressure. An equilibrium had nearly been reached, with Dombes (1762), Lorraine (1766), and Corsica (1768) as the last additions to French territory. Barter politics—the acquisition of Corsica was a dis-

guised sale—carried more influence than the results of armed conflict. Henceforth, discussions would concern small borderlands, featuring interminable negotiations over boundaries. This boundary regularization began to define the relationship between land and state, as it made more sense to attend to the status of tiny hamlets than to engage in massive displacements (Nordman 1998, 286). New methods were applied. In the seventeenth century, the secretary of state for war assumed jurisdiction over the frontier provinces because of their relative proximity to Paris, their imbrication in political and strategic decision making, and, as with Flanders, Lorraine, and the Franche-Comté, the need to maintain order (Nordman 1998, 295–300). By the eighteenth century, the secretary of state for foreign affairs oversaw border politics, and his ministerial offices adopted certain administrative routines (resumés of correspondence, summaries, memos and copies, uses of foreign languages) that required the establishment of a Dépôt des archives in 1709. Jurisconsults or clerks—including Jean-Conrad Pfeffel, Chrétien-Frédéric Pfeffel, and Jean-Baptiste Duché—continuously gathered documents, and in 1746, a collection devoted to boundaries was established within the ministry. By having diplomats, jurists, and surveyors on site, the ministry at Versailles tended not to increase territory but to simplify territory through the exchange of disputed enclaves. The jurist Emer de Vattel declared that to avoid the injustice of usurpation it was necessary to mark boundaries with precision (Nordman 1998, 303). Thus it became less a matter of an offensive on the borders (frontières) than of the contractual establishment of boundaries (limites). During this period these terms became synonymous, and the frontier slowly became peaceful. The result was clear: after the Treaty of the Pyrenees (1659) and its supplements there were about 350 disputed territories from the North Sea to the Meuse (Girard d’Albissin 1970, 97). In 1789, only four enclaves remained. In an earlier period, sovereignty was based on juridical and fiscal rights, which were difficult to prove because they were conceptual and invisible. Now the establishment of sovereignty responded to other demands. More than ever, kings, ministers, intendants, and residents of city and countryside wanted to know their boundaries henceforth geographically, thus both visible and accessible. In this way, eighteenth-century French border maps were not innovative: good examples exist from the early seventeenth century for the area between France and the Spanish Franche-Comté. After a visual inspection (inspection oculaire) commissioners drew up wonderful color maps—called tibériades after the maps of the Tiber—showing woods, paths, watercourses,

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bridges, and hamlets (Pelletier 2007, 1523). However, when France acquired a small portion of Lorraine in 1661, no allusion to a map existed. Yet by the period between 1740 and 1780 an immense borderland cartography developed systematically, piece by piece, from the Austrian Netherlands to the Lorrainian and German principalities, along the Swiss cantons, Sardinian states, and to Spain; this was not surprising in the era of largescale mapping by the Cassinis. In the north and east, France made agreements with the Netherlands and the principalities of Trèves and Liège in the second half of the eighteenth century through long negotiations (Nordman 1998, 363–64). While certain criteria, such as language, were absent, the basic principle was founded on exchange of property: entire villages were evaluated (including hearths, land, livestock, and state revenues) and balanced “within a few sticks”; surveyors and geometers together undertook the surveying (Nordman 1998, 399–402). For example, after the France-Liège treaty of 1772 and the articles of 1773, one surveyor went to the very small town of Givet, fixed the origin of the boundary line at the height of a small island in the Meuse, differentiated points from A through  F, and raised twelve boundary markers in dressed stone (figs. 103 and 104). Certain adjustments revealed that sometimes geography prevailed over geometry. Other arpenteurs jurés (sworn surveyors) continued the work in the presence of mayors and magistrates from Haybes (France) and Oignies (Liège). During four days in November 1774 they established markers on Mont Castillon. In November 1776, boundary markers that were visible (se reconnaître) to one another were established in the territory of Philippeville. A dossier includes minutes, attestations, and a sketch of a large and a small boundary marker (fig. 105). Such dossiers included precise descriptions for every marker, whether old or new, such as the following one on the border of the Swiss principality of Porrentruy: “the new marker, numbered eighteen, with the same coats of arms and mileage as the preceding marker, also set up in the woods in the same place at distance of seventeen perches, four pieds from the preceding, whence one continues through the woods north toward the next marker, turning twelve degrees to the west” (quoted in Nordman 1998, 384–85). The markers were mutually visible. The boundary was a succession of angles and lines. On cloth-mounted manuscript maps, the markers were numbered in red ink with distances indicated. The continuous black line of the border was accented in yellow and red (fig. 106). Although this fragmentation of space is extreme from the point of view of geographical and topographical representation, the geometric abstraction guaranteed continuity of the boundary line. The Rhine, with its many channels and contested

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Fig. 103. “CARTE FIGURATIVE DES LIMITES DES TERRES DE FRANCE D’AVEC CELLES DE LIEGE,” 1774. From the papers relating to the process of boundary adjudication near the small town of Givet, attached to a letter of one of the subdelegates, Gérard de Contamine. Image courtesy of the Archives du ministère des Affaires étrangères et européennes, Paris (Limites, Pays-Bas, vol. 276, fol. 227).

islands, required lengthy operations (1770–88) to reconcile geometry and local interests, both on the terrain and on the map. A boundary line separated France from the margravate of Baden-Durlach and the city of Basel. Distances were measured “geometrically and horizontally without regard to height or the slope of terrain.” Marker 6 on the Île des Veaux, fixed in 1720 and clamped with iron, separating the territories of the city of Basel from that of the margravate, and marker 7, formerly planted on the right bank, both assure (assurent) fixed point 1. “R” and “M” were inscribed on the markers (royaume, margraviat). A black line shaded (nuancée) in yellow and red separated the sovereignties on the

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Fig. 104. PLAN OF THE BOUNDARY ESTABLISHMENT FOR THE TERRITORY OF HIERGES, BETWEEN FRANCE AND LIÈGE, 8 OCTOBER 1779. The plan shows the precise measurements and placements of the boundary markers.

Fig. 105. DRAWING DEPICTING BOUNDARY MARKERS THAT WERE ESTABLISHED AT THE CORNERS AND ALONG THE LINES OF THE TERRITORIAL LIMITS CEDED TO FRANCE BY THE PRINCE-BISHOP OF LIEGE IN THE ENVIRONS OF PHILIPPEVILLE, 27 NOVEMBER 1776. The design of the large and small boundary markers was made by two arpenteurs jurés, who signed their work. Image courtesy of the Archives du ministère des Affaires étrangères et européennes, Paris (Limites, Pays-Bas, vol. 142, fol. 285bis verso).

map (fig. 107) (Nordman 1998, 319–20). Local interests prevailed: boundary delimitation would concern lands dependent upon villages, not the boundaries between villages. Some islands remained intact; others were divided; local rights were distinguished from sovereignty.

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Image courtesy of the Archives du ministère des Affaires étrangères et européennes, Paris (Limites, Pays-Bas, vol. 284, fol. 298).

Some residents took no notice of the pretensions of state. For example, mountain dwellers, whose habits were of movement and exchange, clearance, forest access, flock passage, oaths of peace taken by communities on opposing slopes, and contraband, had for centuries ignored state sovereignty. Their world was codified in the Pyrenees during the eighteenth century. Yet the Alpine region became less abstract as it became better known: numerous toponyms were more frequently used; the valley beds were reduced in size on the map, whereas they had previously been shown much larger in relation to the higher mountain regions; and astronomic and mathematical coordinates no longer had only symbolic value. The mountain became more familiar. One of the treaties of Utrecht (1713) established a natural boundary between France and the House of Savoy along the summits, formalizing the geographic and judicial criterion of natural slope and drainage, or eaux pendantes. Thus international law confirmed an ongoing evolution causing the Alpine border to edge ever nearer the ridges (fig. 108). In a century of boundaries—more than frontiers— cartography combined, in varying proportions, a largescale understanding of local usage and the demanding requirements of sovereignty, which redefined the relationships between nature, law, and power. While in the seventeenth century the question of borders could still be settled without recourse to a map, the negotiations of the eighteenth century were expressed simultaneously in texts and maps. However, visual representations alone, presented as simple annexes to documents, were not suf-

Fig. 106. “PLAN DES LIMITES DE LA PROVINCE D’ALSACE CONTRE LA 3E  PARTIE DES ETATS DE L’ÉVÊCHÉ DE BÂLE” (PRINCIPAUTÉ DE PORRENTRUY). The black line of the border is highlighted in yellow and red, with the boundary markers numbered in red.

Image courtesy of the Archives du ministère des Affaires étrangères et européennes, Paris (Limites, Suisse, Annexe cahier no. 4 Limites Alsace/Bâle).

Fig. 107. THE COMMUNITIES OF HUNINGUE IN FRANCE AND WEILL (WEIL AM RHEIN) IN GERMANY, 22 OCTOBER 1770. The plan employs a black line to separate the two sovereignties on either bank of the Rhine, highlighted in yellow and red, with the sixteen boundary markers enumerated in red and the measured distances between them shown in dotted lines.

Size of the original: 28.5 × 43.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Archives du ministère des Affaires étrangères et européennes, Paris (Limites, Bade, Annexe procès-verbal délimitation du Rhin).

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Fig. 108. CARTA GENERALE DE STATI DI SVA ALTEZZA REALE, GIOVANNI TOMMASO BORGONIO, 1680, SHEET 8. The detail of the map of the Italian Piedmont shows provincial borders in red and blue along the alpine summits between modern France and Italy. Torino (Turin), outlined in red, is in the lower right corner were the Doria Riparia River meets

the Po. In French Savoy, Mont Cénis (Grand and Petit) lies in the center, just above the red and white coat of arms, with the legendary massif of Mont Iseran immediately to the north. Size of the original: 48.0 × 70.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [5023,8 B]).

ficient in the eyes of diplomats to resolve disputes. The old customs—texts, research on the ground—counted more in the final negotiations. But the boundary was more than a line, important less for the places through which it passed than for its character (juridical, administrative, state-related, permeable or impermeable, linked or not to former feudal-vassalic structures). This explains why from the French Revolution to 1815 the line itself was less contested than it had been or would be in the nineteenth century. It became a military frontier once again; enormous territories were redistributed just as they were, signaled by the changing of a sovereign at the top. Finally, from the Revolution to 1815, the total mass of territory would matter more than lines. Some nuance was possible, as indicated for instance by the Treaty of Paris of 1796, which applied to the Alpine frontier; or the First Treaty of Paris (1814),

which left to France several cantons of the former French départements of Jemmapes and Sambre-et-Meuse (Lentacker 1974, 21–22); or the allocation of Versoix (1815) and Carouge (1816) to Geneva. The micro-territory always existed within the macro-territory, and the boundary still eroded the frontier. However, what mattered henceforth was the optimal division of states as a decisive factor in international relations, on the one hand, and, on the other, the link established by powers between the territory, its symbolic value, and the nature of the political regime. D ani el Nordm an See also: Administrative Cartography: France; France; Topographical Surveying: France Bibliography Cubells, Monique, ed. 2000. La Révolution française: La guerre et la frontière. Paris: Éditions du C.T.H.S.

Boundary Surveying Dubois, Sébastien. 1999. Les bornes immuables de l’État: La rationalisation du tracé des frontières au siècle des Lumières (France, Pays-Bas autrichiens et principauté de Liège). Kortrijk-Heule: UGA. Girard d’Albissin, Nelly. 1970. Genèse de la frontière franco-belge: Les variations des limites septentrionales de la France de 1659 à 1789. Paris: Éditions A. & J. Picard. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la Principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. Lentacker, Firmin. 1974. La frontière franco-belge: Étude géographique des effets d’une frontière internationale sur la vie de relations. Lille: Impr. Morel & Corduant. Nordman, Daniel. 1998. Frontières de France: De l’espace au territoire XVIe–XIXe siècle. Paris: Gallimard. Nordman, Daniel, and Marie-Vic Ozouf-Marignier et al. 1989. Le territoire (1): Réalités et représentations and Le territoire (2): Les limites administratives. Vols. 4–5 of Atlas de la Révolution française, ed. Serge Bonin and Claude Langlois. Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Pelletier, Monique. 2007. “Representations of Territory by Painters, Engineers, and Land Surveyors in France during the Renaissance.” In HC 3:1522–37. Sahlins, Peter. 1989. Boundaries: The Making of France and Spain in the Pyrenees. Berkeley: University of California Press. Watelet, Marcel. 1992. Paysages de frontières: Tracés de limites et levés topographiques XVIIe–XIXe siècle. Tielt: Lannoo; Paris–Louvainla-Neuve: Duculot.

Boundary Surveying in New France. The process of demarcating boundaries in New France was very unstable over the course of the territory’s history, shifting in response to conquest and competing claims. The French, English, and Spanish all marked their territories as they understood them, interpreting in their own fashion the successive treaties signed by their sovereigns. On several occasions French authorities appealed to cartographers not only to describe the limits of the empire but also to explore and map frontier zones. To the extent possible, French explorers expanded the frontiers of the empire and took possession of territories that would assure the “maintenance of commerce and the growth of the colony” (Louis XIV 1688) while blocking the expansion of rival powers. In 1688, preparing for negotiations with the king of England, Louis XIV ordered the preparation of an “exact map to indicate what should belong to each nation” (Louis XIV 1688). The cartographer Jean Baptiste Louis Franquelin complied, but the map he gave the king was executed at a scale too small to provide a precise description of territory. At the time, detailed surveys of frontier zones were quite rare. Nonetheless, Franquelin benefited from some sketches carried out on the margins of the empire: a map of the Hudson Bay, 1687, by Pierre Allemand, a member of the expedition that attacked the English outposts (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 PF 124 DIV 1 P 1) and a sketch of Iroquois territory, ca. 1687, probably linked to the military campaign led by Governor

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Jacques-René de Brisay de Denonville against the Tsonnontouans (Senecas) (see fig. 825); a general map and particular plans of Acadia, 1686, produced at the time of an expedition by the intendant Jacques de Meulles in that region (Boucher 2007). In a mémoire submitted to the king, Franquelin ([1688–89]) emphasized the importance of mapping the frontiers of New France, especially around Hudson Bay, a region recently settled by English merchants. Louis XIV reacted by ordering the cartographer to “draw borders, erect boundary markers, and display our arms wherever necessary” (Louis XIV [1689]). Unfortunately, the outbreak of war, followed by a series of unfortunate events, prevented the realization of these efforts (Palomino 2017). About twenty years later, the Treaty of Utrecht (1713) modified the frontiers. France lost important parts of its empire: Hudson Bay, Newfoundland, and Acadia. However, the fact that the exact boundaries of these territories were still not fixed caused many problems. For example, there was disagreement over the exact definition of the “former boundaries” of Acadia mentioned in the treaty. The British, on the one hand, maintained that these extended north to the Saint Lawrence River and west to the Penobscot River. Their territorial ambitions received support from various official documents, including the grant of a concession by King James I to William Alexander, earl of Stirling, in 1621 (Litalien 2007, 170). The French contested this definition, reducing Acadia to the Atlantic coast of present-day Nova Scotia and the territory of Port Royal. After the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle (1748) was signed, commissioners were named to resolve the matter once and for all. Several maps of Acadia were brought into the discussion as evidence, some of which already existed, such as that of the Jesuit Joseph Aubery (1713), and some which were produced to defend French interests, notably those by Gaspard-Joseph Chaussegros de Léry, fils (1751) and by the missionary Jean-Louis Le Loutre (1752). Extremely active both in the field and behind the scenes, Le Loutre even indicated which territories should be conceded and which retained by the negotiations. By midcentury, the Ohio River Valley emerged as another point of contention. The English presence in Virginia and Pennsylvania threatened this strategic communications water route from the Great Lakes to the Mississippi. In 1749 the French governor, RolandMichel Barrin de La Galissonière, sent an armed detachment to guarantee military control of the region. Joseph-Pierre de Bonnécamps, SJ, joined the troops in order to map precisely the course of the Ohio River using astronomical observations (fig. 109). On the resulting map, he carefully indicated the place where his team had buried engraved pieces of lead marking the territory as French property (Palomino 2009, 94–95). Cartog-

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Fig. 109. JOSEPH-PIERRE DE BONNÉCAMPS, “CARTE D’UN VOYAGE FAIT DANS LA BELLE RIVIERE EN LA NOUVELLE FRANCE,” 1749. Pen, ink, and watercolor on paper; ca. 1:1,000,000.

Size of the original: 80 × 90 cm. © Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (MV/71/67-21).

raphers also attended to other frontier areas, including the water routes linking Canada to the English colonies through Lake Champlain and the Hudson River. This route was examined and mapped by the aforementioned Chaussegros de Léry in 1743. These surveys in response to treaty negotiations in the early 1750s precipitated an avalanche of maps rolling into the office of the ministre de la Marine, AntoineLouis Rouillé, comte de Jouy. The documents “left no doubt regarding the possession of the Ohio and all the

rivers that run into the Mississippi on its left side. . . . All these maps placed the boundaries of English possessions at the summit of the Appalachian Mountains” (La Galissonière 1755). Even though the question of frontiers preoccupied French authorities, it was never possible for them to clearly define the borders of New France. The empire was immense, and differences between viewpoints of English and French authorities were too great, not to mention the claims of the Amerindians. For years peace-

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ful coexistence had been possible, despite the vagueness of the law concerning the issue. Then, by the middle of the eighteenth century, with an increasing shortage of unoccupied space, frontier quarrels became too frequent. With no diplomatic solution possible, the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) was fateful for New France, resolving the issues of boundaries entirely. The territory, with exception of the islands of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon, was lost. J e a n -F r a n ç o is Palo mino See also: New France; Topographical Surveying: New France; Utrecht, Treaty of (1713) B i bliogra p hy Boucher, Sandrine. 2007. “Le voyage de l’intendant Jacques de Meulles en Acadie (1685–1686) dans la cartographie de J. B. L. Franquelin, maître d’hydrographie pour le roi à Québec.” In Regards croisés sur le Canada et la France: Voyages et relations du XVIe au XXe siècle, ed. Pierre Guillaume and Laurier Turgeon, 173–90. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis. [1688–89]. “Mémoire pour informer Monseigneur de l’importance qu’il y a de tirer des lignes justes sur les limites des terres qui appartiennent au Roy dans la Nouvelle France, planter des bornes, arborer des armes de Sa Majesté, et en faire une carte bien fidelle” [followed by] “Additions au mémoire que Franquelin hydrographe du Roy a Quebec, a presenté a Monseigneur.” Aix-en-Provence, Archives nationales d’outre-mer, 3DFC/ mémoires/280. La Galissonière, Roland-Michel Barrin de. 1755. Lettre adressée au ministre Rouillé, 7 March 1755. Aix-en-Provence, Archives nationales d’outre-mer, COL C11A 100/fol. 324–25. Litalien, Raymonde. 2007. “Acadia in the Crossfire between Colonial Empires.” In Mapping a Continent: Historical Atlas of North America, 1492–1814, by Raymonde Litalien, Jean-François Palomino, and Denis Vaugeois, trans. Käthe Roth, 165–70. Sillery: Septentrion. Litalien, Raymonde, Jean-François Palomino, and Denis Vaugeois. 2007. Mapping a Continent: Historical Atlas of North America, 1492–1814. Trans. Käthe Roth. Sillery: Septentrion. Louis XIV. 1688. “Instructions données à Denonville au sujet des prétentions territoriales de la France et de l’Angleterre en Amérique du Nord.” 8 March 1688. Aix-en-Provence, Archives nationales d’outre-mer, COL C11A 10/fol. 20–22. ———. [1689]. “Commission octroyée à Franquelin pour faire la carte générale de la Nouvelle-France.” Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des manuscrits, Clairambault, vol. 879, fol. 293. Palomino, Jean-François. 2009. “Entre la recherche du vrai et l’amour de la patrie: Cartographier la Nouvelle-France au XVIIIe siècle.” Revue de Bibliothèque et Archives Nationales du Québec 1:84–99. ———. 2017. “De la difficulté de cartographier l’Amérique: Jean Baptiste Louis Franquelin et son projet sur les limites de la Nouvelle-France (1688).” In Penser l’Amérique: De l’observation à l’inscription, ed. Nathalie Vuillemin and Thomas Wien, 59–82. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation.

Boundary Surveying in the French West Indies. During the period covered in this volume, rivalries among the Europeans in the West Indies caused the partition of certain islands, including Saint-Christophe (Saint Kitts), which France had to cede to England in 1713; Saint-Martin (Sint Maarten), still divided today between France and

the Netherlands; and Saint-Domingue (Haiti), where the treaty establishing the Franco-Spanish border in 1776 was based on a large-scale topographic map. The mapping of the Saint-Domingue border serves as an exemplar for the other islands. Beginning in 1640, the French settled the western part of the island, previously a Spanish colony. The Treaty of Nijmegen (1678) recognized the French colony, but because of the very imprecise border, incidents, sometimes violent, continued until the rapprochement of the Pacte de Famille in 1761 that more or less stabilized the border. Following the Massacre (Dajabón) River south, the border turned west near Mont-Organisé and followed the heights of land along the left bank of the Grande Rivière du Nord, then turned southwest near Marmelade and, rejoining the Cahos range north of Dessalines, it turned and ran southeast along that range, north of the Artibonite Valley, to reach the Etang Saumâtre from whose southeast shore it crossed the mountains to follow the Anses-à-Pitre (Pedernales) River. Simply marked by guard posts at the main crossing points, it remained controversial in several places. The borderline was confirmed at the end of long and difficult negotiations (1771–76), largely conducted by the governors of the two colonies, Pierre Gédéon, comte de Nolivos, followed by Victor-Thérèse Charpentier d’Ennery, for France, and for Spain José Solano, who had previously established the boundary between Brazil and New Castile, in the upper valley of the Orinoco River. The Atalaye treaty, signed by d’Ennery and Solano on 29 February 1776 and ratified on 3 June 1777 in Aranjuez, stipulated that the border be punctuated by pyramid-shaped markers “numbered and located by means of a compass” and described in a topographic map accompanied by a procès-verbal to be prepared under the supervision of one French and one Spanish commissioner (Glénisson 2006, 84). Two copies were to be sent to Madrid and Versailles, and two copies kept in Port-au-Prince and Santo Domingo. Moreover, each governor had to name a general border inspector to “ensure the compliance with this border treaty and the tranquility of the border,” with the death penalty threatening anyone who moved the markers (quoted in Glénisson 2006, 84). In August 1776, the map and the procès-verbal were completed and sent to Versailles. The map, in nine sheets on a scale of 1:14,400 (fig. 110), was drawn by a French military ingénieur géographe, Jean-Pierre Calon de Felcourt, who had previously worked on the Carte de France before collaborating on the topographical map of Saint-Domingue of the later 1760s, a colony for which he continued to work as engineer. Having surveyed the boundary without a Spanish counterpart, Calon de Felcourt’s map indicated the location of the

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Fig. 110. DETAIL FROM SHEET ONE OF THE “PLAN GENERAL DES LIMITES DE L’ISLE DE SAINT DOMINGUE ENTRE LA FRANCE ET L’ESPAGNE,” BY JEAN-PIERRE CALON DE FELCOURT, 1776. The estuary of the Massacre River and the Petit Islet is shown, divided by the border, yellow for France and red for Spain. The boundary markers, in shape of pyramids, are shown on this sheet in red triangles noted by a

“P” (for pyramide) and their number. On the other sheets, they are represented by a triangle and the note “Bne” (for borne, boundary marker) followed by the number. Scale: 1:14,400. Size of sheet one: ca. 55 × 246 cm; size of detail: ca. 55 × 79 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, SH pf 147 pièce 1).

markers and described a short width of the terrain on both sides of the border, but the work was not based on triangulation. Because of the difficulty of manipulating the large-scale map, sheets at a smaller scale were prepared (ca. 1:88,000, 1:250,000, and ca. 1:750,000). The map was not a complete success: as early as 1777, the secrétaire d’État à la Marine, Antoine de Sartine, noted several inaccuracies, which he pointed out to Hyacinthe-Louis, vicomte de Choiseul, who seems to have neglected to have the chief engineer on the island, Nicolas Taverne de Boisforêt, verify the boundary, an omission from which Choiseul may have profited. However, the accompanying “Procès-verbal des limites de Saint-Domingue” (La Courneuve, Archives du Ministère des Affaires étrangères, service des traités) written in

French and Spanish, described precisely the border and placement of the markers in easily spotted locations, according to the terms of the treaty. Some were engraved directly on rocks while in the dense forest of the south, simple markers were indicated on big trees (Glénisson 2006, 86). Provisionally ignored while the island was unified (1801–2, then 1822–44), the physical border remained in place until 1936, when a new treaty annexed the central basin to the Republic of Haiti. It is difficult to know whether the map and the procès-verbal describing the 1776 boundary were used in the later boundary disputes or were entirely forgotten. More likely the new border recognized the situation resulting from the continuous and spontaneous expansion of the numerous Haitian

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small farmers seeking new lands in the nearly uninhabited central basin during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. J e a n -L ou is G lénis s o n See also: French West Indies; Topographical Surveying: French West Indies B i bliogra p hy Glénisson, Jean-Louis. 1986. “La cartographie de Saint-Domingue dans la seconde moitié du XVIIIe siècle (de 1763 à la Révolution).” Thèse diplôme d’archiviste-paléographe, École nationale des chartes, Paris. ———. 2006. “La question des limites des colonies française et espagnole de Saint-Domingue et la carte de la frontière (1776).” Le Monde des Cartes 187:80–87. Pérez, Carlos Federico. 1973. Historia diplomática de Santo Domingo (1492–1861). Santo Domingo: Universidad Nacional Pedro Henríquez Ureña.

Boundary Surveying in British America. The earliest po-

litical boundaries drawn on North American maps were proclaimed by one or another of Europe’s great powers in the absence of surveyed lines, monuments, or accurate maps to guide their choice. Formulated as they were in Europe’s royal council chambers, the claims were easily exaggerated and the documents describing them were verbose, with often strikingly unclear language. Furthermore, early grants were overlapped by later grants (see fig. 303) and actual colonial settlement did not always align neatly with the imperial territorial vision. Disputes over intercolonial boundaries were accordingly a chronic feature of local politics in British America, and their demarcation a subject of literary remark (Byrd 2013). Yet, bound up as they were in local conditions, the only point of similarity between the many disputes was their referral to the imperial authorities in London for adjudication. Initial decrees of the boundaries for colonies featured parallels of latitude running from the Atlantic shoreline westward to the uncharted interior and the western sea beyond. Typical of these was the charter King James I granted to the Virginia Company of London in 1606. It granted liberty to found Virginia’s first settlement anywhere on the coast “in some fit and convenient Place, between four and thirty and one and forty Degrees of the said Latitude.” In the same year, another grant permitted the Virginia Company of Plymouth to settle on the coast anywhere “between eight and thirty Degrees and five and forty Degrees,” thus creating a three-degree overlap (Thorpe 1909, 7:3783). Nor were things improved in 1609, when the so-called second charter was granted describing Virginia’s bounds as beginning at Point Comfort and running “all along the Sea Coast to the Northward, two hundred miles” and the same distance along the coast to the south; toward the interior, Virginia was confusingly described as extending from “Sea to Sea, West and Northwest” (Van Zandt 1976, 92).

Colonial charters could also designate rivers as bounding the territories granted. The Potomac River was chosen to divide the Maryland of Cecil Calvert, second baron Baltimore, from Virginia in 1632. Disputes concerning this riverine boundary continue to the present day (De Vorsey 2004). Even the ill-defined watershed of the Appalachian Mountains was proclaimed in 1763 as dividing eastern North America between its Indians and the colonial settlers (De Vorsey 1966, 34; Edelson 2017, 141–95). As the land was explored and settled, such proclaimed boundaries soon proved too vague and produced seemingly endless boundary disputes. It was through the many attempts to solve these disputes that boundary surveying developed in North America. The surveying of relatively short political boundaries posed no great problem once delegated boundary commissioners from each neighboring jurisdiction came to agreement on where the line should run. The familiar tools and techniques of the land surveyor, based on the assumption that the landscape was essentially a plane surface, were employed to demarcate a line’s course through field and forest. Directions were found with a magnetic compass corrected to true north by the application of local declination. Declination, the local difference between true and compass north, was determined by relatively simple astronomical techniques. Distances were found by means of the sixty-six-foot Gunter’s chain. Trees were blazed and marked, and stakes, rocks, cairns, or carved stones were placed to demarcate the surveyed lines on the landscape; maps were prepared to record the location of the monuments (fig. 111). In the process, the surveyors kept careful record of the nature of the landscape through which the boundary passed (see fig. 194). When lines of latitude or positions of longitude were concerned, however, more sophisticated astronomical techniques were called for. A parallel of latitude, although often appearing straight on maps, in reality forms a subtly curving line on the earth’s spherical surface. Latitude was determined by finding the angular altitude of the sun at local noon or the angle of Polaris above the horizon when visible. For accurate determination, both these methods required training in astronomy and the use of instruments not always available on the frontier. Longitude determination was even more demanding. The persistence and technical complexity of boundary disputes is evident from the example of Charles II’s 1681 grant of Pennsylvania to William Penn, which required both the accurate determination of longitude and latitude as well as the arc of a circle “drawne at twelve miles distance from New Castle” (Thorpe 1909, 5:3036; Van Zandt 1976, 80). It was not until 1732 that Penn’s heirs and Charles Calvert, third baron Baltimore, were able

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to agree on where the boundary between Pennsylvania and Maryland should be drawn; a number of maps were published with the proprietors’ respective claims. Attached to the 1732 preliminary agreement, and included with the final compact, was a printed map published by the London cartographer John Senex (Pritchard and Taliaferro 2002, 130–33), one of a number of printed boundary maps commissioned by the London solicitor Ferdinando John Paris (Edney 2007). Even in the light of a good-faith agreement, boundary controversies continued in the form of riots and civil disorders concerning land granting and ownership in areas near the boundaries (Cope and Robinson 1954). What was needed was an accurately surveyed boundary unambiguously demarcated through the landscape.

Boundary commissioners and local surveyors labored from the 1680s to determine the baseline and circle’s tangent to find the northeast corner of Maryland. Wearied by the delays, the proprietors eventually secured the services of two famous English astronomers and surveyors, Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon. Beginning in 1763, Mason and Dixon at last measured the twelve-mile arc of a circle around New Castle, surveyed the line of latitude separating Pennsylvania and Maryland westward for 244 miles with over a hundred surveyors, chain carriers, axmen, and laborers until stopped by their Indian guides in 1767 (fig. 112). They demarcated the line at one-mile and five-mile intervals with monuments made from stone shipped from England. The importance of the Mason-Dixon line meant that it was soon recorded

Fig. 111. CONSTRUCTING A DIFFICULT COLONIAL BOUNDARY. George Mitchell, in 1741, surveyed the line decreed in August 1740 by the king-in-council (i.e., George II and the Privy Council) for the eastern portion of the boundary between the provinces of Massachusetts Bay and New Hampshire as paralleling the Merrimack River but three miles to the north. This detail of his final map (“A Map of the River Merrimack from the Atlantick Ocean to Pantuckett Falls,” 1741)

shows how Mitchell re-created the river’s curves, indicating the trees that mark each leg of the final boundary. The line divided the town of Haverhill, founded by Massachusetts Bay in 1640, leaving its meeting house in New Hampshire. Size of the entire original: 51 × 72 cm; size of detail: ca. 21 × 30 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Western Manuscripts, Add MS 57711, no. 3).

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Fig. 112. CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE LANDSCAPE THROUGH WHICH A BOUNDARY RUNS. Detail of the western end of a published version of Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon’s plan of the Pennsylvania-Maryland boundary, A Plan of the West Line or Parallel of Latitude, which Is the Boundary between the Provinces of Maryland and Pensylvania

(1768). Note the indication of five-mile increments between monuments. Size of the entire original: 65 × 185 cm; size of detail: ca. 5 × 22 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3841.F7 1768.M3).

in a number of published maps. The century-and-a-half it took for this one boundary to be delineated was not unusual; other boundary disputes lingered for as long (see, e.g., Schwarz 1979).

bound up with the emergence and formation of the modern state” (Mongiano 2002, 165; Stopani 2008, 1–27). From the sixteenth century onward, special offices were created to deal with such matters, and by the second half of that century, small- or medium-scale maps—in particular, those in the large atlases printed in Italy and elsewhere in Europe—were beginning to depict state boundaries, even if imprecisely. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, exceptions to this cartographic approximation started to appear: original works, most of geometric construction, that incorporated reasonably accurate national and intranational boundaries. Seventeenth-century examples include the innovative Carta generale de stati di sva altezza reale (1680, ca. 1:190,000), by the Savoy engineer Giovanni Tommaso Borgonio (see fig. 108) (Sereno 2007, 851–52), and the Mappa geografica esattissima delle Provincie del Tortonese, Pauese, Allessandrino (ca. 1680) and Carta de la Rivera dei Genova con sus verdaderos confines y caminos (1685), both by the military engineer José Chafrion (Quaini 1994; 2007, 863). Some of the printed works of the eighteenth century improved markedly on those produced in the previous century in their rendition of state boundaries and constitute veritable landmarks in the cartography of Italy, even if they were prepared for purposes other than the demarcation of boundaries: the map of the Papal States (Nuova carta geografica dello Stato Ecclesiastico) by Christopher Maire from his and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich’s survey (1755) (Mangani 2001, 366; see fig. 90); the map of the Legazione di Urbino, also by Maire (1757) (Mangani and Mariano 1998, 194–95); the Atlante geografico del Regno di Napoli (31 sheets) by Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni (published 1788– 1812; see fig. 270) (Valerio 1993, 121–217); the Carta topografica dello Stato di Milano secondo la misura censuaria (1777, ca. 1:135,000) designed by Carlo Galeazzi

L o u is D e Vo rs ey See also: British America; Mason-Dixon Line B i bliogra p hy Byrd, William. 2013. The Dividing Line Histories of William Byrd II of Westover. Ed. Kevin Joel Berland. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Cope, Thomas D., and H. W. Robinson. 1954. “When the MarylandPennsylvania Boundary Survey Changed from a Political and Legal Struggle into a Scientific and Technological Project.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 98:432–41. De Vorsey, Louis. 1966. The Indian Boundary in the Southern Colonies, 1763–1775. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. ———. 2004. “Historical Maps as Evidence.” Portolan 59:42–52. Edelson, S. Max. 2017. The New Map of Empire: How Britain Imagined America before Independence. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Edney, Matthew H. 2007. “Printed but Not Published: LimitedCirculation Maps of Territorial Disputes in Eighteenth-Century New England.” In Mappæ Antiquæ: Liber Amicorum Günter Schilder, ed. Paula van Gestel-van het Schip and Peter van der Krogt, 147–58. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Pritchard, Margaret Beck, and Henry G. Taliaferro. 2002. Degrees of Latitude: Mapping Colonial America. New York: By the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation in association with Harry N. Abrams. Schwarz, Philip J. 1979. The Jarring Interests: New York’s Boundary Makers, 1664–1776. Albany: State University of New York Press. Thorpe, Francis Newton, comp. and ed. 1909. The Federal and State Constitutions, Colonial Charters, and Other Organic Laws of the States, Territories, and Colonies Now or Heretofore Forming the United States of America. 7 vols. Washington: Government Printing Office. Van Zandt, Franklin K. 1976. Boundaries of the United States and the Several States. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office.

Boundary Surveying in the Italian States. The legal and

political problems “relating to the identification and preservation of frontiers or boundaries are closely

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and engraved by Giovanni Ramis, a product of the geometrically based cadastre ordered by Maria Theresa but not particularly accurate in its account of border areas (Signori 1990, 42–44); the map of Lombardy prepared by the astronomers of the Brera Observatory from 1783–96, published as Carta topografica del Milanese e Mantovano eseguita dietro le più esatte dimensioni geografiche ed osservazioni astronomiche (1804–7, ca. 1:86,400; see figs. 269 and 306) (Signori 1990, 44–45; Cantile 2007, 110); and the “Carta geografica del Granducato di Toscana” by Ferdinando Morozzi (1784), which remained in manuscript (Rombai 1993, 149–55). In spite of the rich production of large-scale topographical maps that often focused on representing the boundary lines between states or between the different provinces and communes within a state, many maps that were prepared during the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries remained in manuscript, kept as secret documents in the offices of the state institutions that ordered and used them. These large-scale boundary documents responded to conflicts over borders within a state or, more likely, between different states, usually arising from disputes over the exploitation of the natural resources (pastureland, woods, waterways) that lay in border areas. When official treaties and agreements stipulated boundaries at the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century, many of these boundaries neither existed in codified legal form nor were they easily recognizable on the ground. Contributing to inaccuracies was the general practice of hasty—often clandestine—surveys carried out in enemy territory well into the eighteenth century. Nevertheless, within Italy the cartography of boundaries was an indispensable instrument of government, important both to respond to contingent events and to prepare and negotiate international agreements. Work on these matters involved state functionaries, topographers, and local officials. In seventeenth-century Liguria the manuscript atlas prepared in 1650–55 by Pier Maria Gropallo was the first systematic survey of boundaries dividing the Genoese Republic from the Duchy of Savoy and a number of fiefdoms (Genoa, Archivio di Stato [AS], Manoscritti, 39, atlante A) (Quaini 1983, 33; Bislenghi 2001, 145). In the following century, the 1757 “Valle di Pieve di Teco” (Genoa, AS, Raccolta cartografica, B. D., 13) by Giuseppe Maria Sibilla fixed the locations of areas of woodland and pasture that were subject to dispute between various communities (Quaini 1986b, 99–100). Matteo Vinzoni produced his excellent maps of the borders between Genoese and Tuscan territory in the 1711 “Carta della Selva della Pertegara” (Genoa, AS, Archivio Segreto, Confinium, 190) (Quaini 1994, fig. 22) and the 1714 “Carta de boschi di Gambatacca di Pontremoli e di Suvera” (Genoa, AS, Raccolta cartografica, busta 19,

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n. 1120) (Quaini 1986a, 98–99, 102, 104). Vinzoni also created a geometrical model of the areas around Monte Gottero in Lunigiana in 1743–44, which incorporated both perspective views and planimetrical rendering, in collaboration with Giovanni Maria Veraci and Antonio Falleri, two engineers from the Grand Duchy (Rossi 2001, 442, 449–51) (fig. 113). From the beginning of the eighteenth century, as a result of the numerous treaties stipulated with its neighbors, Piedmont saw the production of official maps of the state’s borders with both France and the Genoa Republic (Sereno 2002, 69). Right up to the period of French occupation, these activities continued not only along the French and Genoese borders but also along those of Austrian Lombardy, Swiss Valais, the Duchy of Parma and Piacenza, and the fiefdom of Montferrat to resolve disputes or to regulate commercial traffic and combat smuggling. Examples of these works include the maps of the borders between Kingdom of Sardinia and Parma by F. Tocchi (1748) and by Antoine Durieu (1765) (Turin, AS, Corte, Paesi, Confini con il Piacentino, Carte topografiche, m. 1, n. 1 and n. 5, respectively) (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:106–8, pls. 63, 66); Giuseppe Ignazio Bertola and Bernardo Pessina’s 1751 map of the border between Kingdom of Sardinia and Lombardy along the course of the Ticino (“Tippo originale vistato dal Signor Bertola e dal Signor Conte Cristiani,” Turin, AS, Corte, Materie politiche, Trattati diversi, m. 29, n. 6); the maps used for the 1760 treaty between the Kingdom of Sardinia and France, which relied on the best cartographic accounts available; Durieu’s espionage map of the area of Great Saint Bernard pass 1756 (“Plan topographique, en mesure, des montagnes aux environs du monastère hôpital du grand St. Bernard,” Turin, AS, Corte, Paesi, Duché d’Aoste, Contestations avec le Valley, cat. II, m. 1, n. 5/2) (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:101–2, pl. 59). Particularly noteworthy is the “Carta della riviera di ponente di Genova” (1746– 47, Turin, AS, Carte topografiche segrete, A, 15, nero), based on geometrical surveys carried out by Savoy engineers during the War of the Austrian Succession. Various official maps were created from the mid-eighteenth century onward to resolve disputes between Piedmont and Genoa, works that still employed, in part, pictorial renditions of terrain (Mongiano 2002, 170–74; Bislenghi 2001, 143–55). The Grand Duchy of Tuscany bordered on seven different states and various fiefdoms. From 1560 its Florentine office, the Nove conservatori del dominio e della giurisdizione, was responsible for overseeing the definition of state boundaries. From 1691 onward, those Nove conservatori employed their own engineer. In 1769 responsibility for borders passed to the Camera delle comunità, luoghi pii, strade e fiumi. Tuscan state

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Fig. 113. “PARTE DEL TIPO GEOMETRICO FATTO SOTTO DÌ XXIII NOVEMBRE MDCCXXXXIV E SOTTOSCRITTO DA DVE INGEGNERI, TOSCANO E GENOVESE.” The map was copied in 1780 by Donato Maria Fini from the original map of 1744 prepared by Matteo Vinzoni and signed by him and Giovanni Maria Veraci. It shows the mountainous frontier between the Republic of Genoa and the Grand Duchy of Tuscany in the region of Monte Gottero between Levanto and Pontremoli in Lunigiana. It was prepared in order to settle a

centuries old dispute between the two states and concerning the presence of a road traveled by smugglers. Drawn on paper in ink and watercolor, ca. 1:5,700. The 1744 original is in the Archives nationales (France) (Cartes et plans, N II Apennins 1). Size of the original: ca. 52 × 73 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Florence (Miscellanea di Piante, n. 77). By concession of the Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo.

boundaries generated immense cartographic production; by itself, the collection entitled Confini (Florence, AS) comprises around one thousand images produced from the sixteenth century to 1859. Examples include many maps of the boundaries between the Grand Duchy and the Principality of Piombino in Maremma prepared by the engineers Alessandro Nini and Giacomo Benassi from on-site surveys for the treaty between the two states in 1780–83 regarding control over the river resources that served the steel works of Follonica (Florence, AS, Miscellanea di Piante; Grosseto, AS, Ufficio dei Fossi) (Rombai, Toccafondi, and Vivoli 1987, 379–88; Rombai 1993). Other manuscripts account for

the border with the Papal States in Val di Chiana, including those prepared by Salvatore Piccioli and Antonio Capretti under the direction of the mathematicians Pietro Ferroni (for Tuscany) and Pio Fantoni (for the Papal States). Subsequently engraved by Cosimo Zocchi (1788) as an illustration of the 1780 Concordato between the two states, these maps—designed planimetrically—give a detailed account of the southern part of the valley, historically the scene of fierce disputes resulting from the adverse side effects of land reclamation and consolidation implemented by both governments (Guarducci 2005, 79). The Republic of Lucca also had its own Offizio so-

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pra le Differenze dei Confini, active from the sixteenth century to 1804, which employed numerous technicians. The borders of the Republic with the Grand Duchy of Tuscany and the Duchy of Modena—in Garfagnana, Lunigiana, and Massa-Carrara—attracted a sizeable body of cartography (Lucca, AS), such as Francesco Maria Butori’s 1798 “Nelle marine di Viareggio,” which gives a precise account of the area, showing the border between the Lucca territory of Versilia and territories of Pisa and the Grand Duchy (Lucca, AS, Acque e Strade, 737). In southern Italy, noteworthy works defined the borders between the Papal States and the Kingdom of Naples, for the purposes of overseeing natural resources and repressing the brigandage that exploited the uncertain demarcation lines between state jurisdictions. An early example is the detailed topographical map with eleven partial drawings of the territory of Teramo, produced in 1684 by the engineer Carlo Antonio Biancone: “Situación de la Montaña de Roseto: délas Valles de San Juan y Castellana con sus confines en la Provincia de Abruzo ultra Año 1684” (Simancas, Archivo General, Mapas, planos y dibujos, t. I) (D’Ascenzo 2006, 335– 42). Subsequent works include a map showing the borders as agreed in 1750: “Ritratto, seu pianta delli confini fra la Rga Terra d’Acvmoli, Tra e Conf no di Norcia” (Naples, Raccolta piante e disegni, cart. XXXI, n. 10); its boundary lines are figured in Giannandrea Giardini and Feliceantonio Iafolla’s 1785 “Pianta della controversia de Confini fra lo Stato di Accumoli per parte del Regno di Napoli, e di Norcia per parte dello Stato Pontificio” (Naples, AS, Archivio Farnesiano, b. 1120/I, c. 54) (Martullo Arpago et al. 1987, 24, 34). In the 1780s and 1790s, the two states tackled further problems of border definition by setting up a joint commission under Alessandro Ricci and Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni. Among other works, the commission produced a map of border between Cappadocia and Dogana Colonna (in Naples kingdom) and Feudo Valle Pietra (in the Papal States), 1786 (Naples, AS, Ministero Affari Esteri, fs. 4556, inc. XIII), in which pictorial renditions give a clear depiction of the disputed woodlands (Martullo Arpago et al. 1987, 38). Tommaso Zampi also prepared many large-scale maps (ca. 1:48,000) of specific territorial areas (e.g., Tivoli, Velletri, Cerveteri, Albano, Marino, Frascati) between 1793–98 (Naples, AS, Affari Esteri, vol. 4559; Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, b. 4 a; Florence, Istituto Geografico Militare, cartoteca 71/12) (Valerio 1993, 654–55). Many maps of borders and boundaries fall within the category of judicial assessment, that is, they were prepared by publicly appointed officials to resolve disputes between private individuals or between individuals and fiefdoms or public bodies. In the Kingdom of Naples, for example, the dispute between the princes of Torella and

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Melfi in Basilicata resulted in a map prepared by Gabriele Preziosi and Tommaso Pinto in 1750 (“Pianta de’ luoghi controvertiti tra il Sig.r Principe di Torella ed il Sig.r Principe di Melfi nelle loro rispettive terre di Atella e S. Fele in Provincia di Basilicata,” 1:23,000) (Potenza, AS, Intendenza di Basilicata, b. 561, fasc. 121) (Angelini 1987, 122–24). A military aspect to boundary surveying may be seen in maps depicting theaters of war (sea and land battles or the sieges of fortified cities), which had existed from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. These printed maps generally adopted a pictorial language well suited to their function as illustrations; their relationship to boundary cartography becomes all the closer in the eighteenth century, when the presence of military engineertopographers in armies meant that such cartographic accounts of theaters of battle took on a higher degree of technical expertise. Such maps often could represent boundaries before, during, and/or after conflicts. The representation of change over time demonstrates the importance of boundaries in war. There were also topographical works, such as the “Carta topografica militare dalle sponde del mare, da Ventimiglia sino a Demonte” of the Ligurean-French coast by L. Bergalli and Giovanni Maria di Monthoux in 1795 (Turin, AS, Corte, Carte topografiche segrete, Ventimiglia 22 Bis A VII rosso) (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:124–25, pl. 76) and the “Carte militaire du Col de Tende,” by Pietro Antonio Audé in 1796 (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:115–16, pl. 70) (fig. 114). One final category of boundary maps includes those that depict the cordon sanitaire between various states. Generally in manuscript but sometimes engraved and published, they were primarily produced in Italy from the 1720s to 1750s and were intended to prevent the transit of men, animals, or goods that might transmit pestilence and epidemics from one state to another. Examples include the “Topografia de’ territorij di Cividale, di Monfalcone e Basso Piano del Friuli” of the border between Austria and Friuli, prepared in 1739 by Faustino Brascuglia at the order of the Magistrato della Sanità in Venice (Venice, AS, Senato, Provveditori da terra e da mare, b. 903, dis. 2.) (Milanesi 1990, 141); a 1745 map drawn and engraved by Antonio Bova of the cordon sanitaire placed around Messina and northeast Sicily during the plague epidemic of 1743 (Pianta del cordone esteriore e interiore) (Ioli Gigante 2001, 278–79); the map of the Tuscan coast and its defensive towers that was first drawn up in response to the 1743 Messina plague and subsequently redrawn and updated in 1754 by Pier Giovanni Fabbroni (“Pianta della costa del mare toscano,” Florence, AS, Miscellanea di Piante, 5/20, 258) (Bertuccelli Migliorini and Caccia 2006, 176–77, 204); and the “Piano dimostrativo della marina di Lecce e

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197

Fig. 114. “CARTE MILITAIRE DU COL DE TENDE,” 1796, BY PIETRO ANTONIO AUDÉ. An example of a representation of a theater of war map on which the border area (the Maritime Alps) is presented with precision and detail. Drawn in ink and watercolor on paper, colored, no scale given.

Size of the original: 52.5 × 65.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Archivio di Stato, Turin (Corte, Carte Topografiche segrete, Tenda 22 A V rosso).

del suo cordone marittimo,” drawn and watercolored in 1743 by Agustin de Bargas Machuco (Naples, AS, Segreteria di Stato d’Azienda, fs.  253, fascic. 20). This last work renders the entire territory of Lecce (with the Salento Peninsula) in coastal views as perceived from the sea, with indications of the cordon sanitaire and the surveillance outposts set in place in response to an outbreak of the plague in the Levant (Polto 2006, 83). A unique work among the cordon sanitaire maps is the extraordinary manuscript collection “Pianta delle due riviere della Serenis.sima Rep. di Genova divise ne’ Commissariati di Sanità,” prepared by Matteo Vinzoni from 1720 to 1758 after the outbreak of plague in Marseilles. Employing refined perspective and plani-

metric renderings based on measurements taken both on land and at sea, the thirty-six watercolored sheets (and seventy-two maps with descriptive data) show the whole of the coast of Liguria, with the exact location of settlements, harbors, and health facilities, as well as a delineation of both external and internal boundaries (Quaini 1983, 9–10, 42–50) (fig. 115). In the second half of the eighteenth century, various states undertook the reorganization of the administrative framework of provinces, towns, and religious establishments and began to create cartographic collections and to order regional maps to indicate borders and boundaries. In the vanguard was the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, evidenced by the sizeable number of maps

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Fig. 115. “COMMISSARIATO DELLA SANITÀ DI LEVANTO,” BY MATTEO VINZONI. The map represents the territory of Levanto and is part of a collection created by Vinzoni from 1720 to 1758 after the onset of plague in Marseilles, on orders from the state to represent the entire Ligurian coast

from the border of Savoy to that of Tuscany. Drawn in ink and watercolor on paper, 1:10,000. Size of the original: 42.5 × 28.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Civica Berio, Genoa (Manoscritti, cf. 2.8, cc. 206–207).

generated for administrative purposes. The complete collections produced by Ferdinando Morozzi, Antonio Giachi, and Francesco Giachi (Florence, AS, vari fondi; Prague, Národní Archive, Rodinný Archiv Toskánsckých Habsburk [NA, RAT]; Siena, AS, Comune di Colle di Val d’Elsa, Carte Topografiche Morozzi) comprise both partial maps and such general overall works as Antonio Giachi’s 1766 “Pianta dello Stato Senese” (Florence, AS, Reggenza, n. 675, ins. 2) (Rombai 1993, 116–23; Guarducci 2008).

Mirabilia Maris: Visioni cartografiche e resoconti di viaggio. Pisa: ETS. Bislenghi, Attilio. 2001. “La cartografia come strumento di individuazione di una identità locale: Le ‘ville’ di Quarzi e Verzi nel contado loanese.” In La cartografia degli autori minori italiani, ed. Claudio Cerreti and Annalena Taberini, 135–56. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Cantile, Andrea, ed. 2007. La cartografia in Italia: Nuovi metodi e nuovi strumenti dal Settecento ad oggi. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Comba, Rinaldo, and Paola Sereno, eds. 2002. Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo. 2 vols. Turin: Allemandi. D’Ascenzo, Annalisa. 2006. “Cartografia e confini: Il confine settentrionale del Regno di Napoli e l’Abruzzo Ultra Primo nella tavola dell’ingegnere Carlo Antonio Biancone del 1684.” In Atti del convegno di studi “La cartografia come strumento di conoscenza e di gestione del territorio,” Messina, 29–30 marzo 2006, ed. Corradina Polto, 335–42. Messina: Edizioni Dr. Antonio Sfameni. Guarducci, Anna. 2005. “La cartografia delle bonifiche della Valdichiana.” In Atlante della Val di Chiana: Cronologia della bonifica, ed. Gian Franco Di Pietro, 73–88. Livorno: Otello Debatte Editore.

A n n a Guarducci See also: Italian States Bibliograp hy Angelini, Gregorio. 1987. “Agrimensura e produzione cartografica nel Regno di Napoli in età moderna.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 1:117–32. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. Angelini, Gregorio, and Giuseppe Carlone, eds. 1981. La cartografia storica nelle fonti documentarie: Terra di Bari nel XVIII e XIX secolo. Molfetta: Mezzina. Bertuccelli Migliorini, Anna Vittoria, and Susanna Caccia, eds. 2006.

Boundary Surveying ———. 2008. Cartografie e riforme: Ferdinando Morozzi e i documenti dell’Archivio di Stato di Siena. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Ioli Gigante, Amelia. 2001. “L’attività cartografica di Antonio Bova, incisore palermitano del secolo XVIII.” In La cartografia degli autori minori italiani, ed. Claudio Cerreti and Annalena Taberini, 275–83. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Mangani, Giorgio. 2001. “La questione della raccolta delle fonti cartografiche (secoli XVI–XVIII).” In La cartografia degli autori minori italiani, ed. Claudio Cerreti and Annalena Taberini, 361–69. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Mangani, Giorgio, and Fabio Mariano. 1998. Il disegno del territorio: Storia della cartografia delle Marche. Ancona: Il Lavoro Editoriale. Martullo Arpago, M. A., et al., eds. 1987. Fonti cartografiche nell’Archivio di Stato di Napoli. Naples: Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali, Ufficio Centrali per i Beni Archivistici, Archivio di Stato di Napoli. Milanesi, Marica, ed. 1990. L’Europa delle carte: Dal XV al XIX secolo, autoritratti di un continente. Milan: Mazzotta. Mongiano, Elisa. 2002. “Delimitare e governare le frontiere: Le istituzioni per i confini nello stato sabaudo del secolo XVIII.” In Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo, 2 vols., ed. Rinaldo Comba and Paola Sereno, 1:165–78. Turin: Allemandi. Polto, Corradina, ed. 2006. Atti del convegno di studi “La cartografia come strumento di conoscenza e di gestione del territorio,” Messina, 29–30 marzo 2006. Messina: Edizioni Dr. Antonio Sfameni. Quaini, Massimo. 1983. “Introduzione.” In Pianta delle due riviere della Serenissima Repubblica di Genova divise ne’ Commissariati di Sanità, by Matteo Vinzoni, ed. Massimo Quaini, 9–54. Genoa: Sagep. ———. 1986a. “Matteo Vinzoni: La formazione dello sguardo e del linguaggio di un cartografo (1707–1715).” In Studi in memoria di Teofilo Ossian De Negri, 3 vols. 3:85–106. Genoa: Cassa di Risparmio di Genova e Imperia. ———. 1986b. “Sibilla e Levreri: Due generazioni di stipendiaticartografi nel capitaneato della Pieve.” In Carte e cartografi in Liguria, ed. Massimo Quaini, 99–111. Genoa: Sagep. ———. 1994. “La Liguria invisibile.” In La Liguria, ed. Antonio Gibelli and Paride Rugafiori, 41–102. Turin: Einaudi. ———. 2007. “Cartographic Activities in the Republic of Genoa, Corsica, and Sardinia in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:854–73. Rombai, Leonardo, ed. 1993. Imago et descriptio Tusciae: La Toscana nella geocartografia dal XV al XIX secolo. Venice: Marsilio. Rombai, Leonardo, Diana Toccafondi, and Carlo Vivoli, eds. 1987. Documenti geocartografici nelle biblioteche e negli archivi privati e pubblici della Toscana, vol. 2, I fondi cartografici dell’Archivio di Stato di Firenze, pt. 1, Miscellanea di Piante. Florence: L. S. Olschki. Rossi, Luisa. 2001. “Per un contributo alla cartografia ‘minore’ e alla toponomastica della Lunigiana: Un grande ‘tipo geometrico’ inedito di Matteo Vinzoni conservato nelle Archives Nationales di Parigi.” In La cartografia degli autori minori italiani, ed. Claudio Cerreti and Annalena Taberini, 439–69. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Sereno, Paola. 2002. “‘Li Ingegneri Topograffici di Sua Maestà’: La formazione del cartografo militare negli stati sabaudi e l’istituzione dell’Ufficio di Topografia Reale.” In Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo, 2 vols., ed. Rinaldo Comba and Paola Sereno, 61–102. Turin: Allemandi. ———. 2007. “Cartography in the Duchy of Savoy during the Renaissance.” In HC 3:831–53. Signori, Mario. 1990. “La carta della Lombardia austriaca realizzata dagli astronomi dell’Osservatorio milanese di Brera.” In L’Europa delle carte: Dal XV al XIX secolo, autoritratti di un continente, ed. Marica Milanesi, 42–45. Milan: Mazzotta. Stopani, Antonio. 2008. La production des frontières: État et com-

199 munautés en Toscane (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles). Rome: École Française de Rome. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. Società uomini e istituzioni cartografiche nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare.

Boundary Surveying in the Ottoman Empire. The Ottoman Empire expanded over a vast area stretching from Europe to Asia and Africa; its international boundaries were determined at relatively irregular intervals in accordance with cadastral land surveys held within the imperial territories. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the boundaries along the western and northern parts of the empire required territorial adjustments, where Ottoman lands bordered Venetian, Habsburg, Polish, and Russian lands. By contrast, the eastern boundaries with the Safavid Empire enjoyed relative stability based on the current position of settled areas. However, the southern and southwestern boundaries of the empire, namely the imperial territories covering North Africa and the Arabian Peninsula, remained largely unidentified because of the geographical peculiarities of those regions and the absence of an established political body with whom to negotiate official boundaries. In Ottoman terminology the demarcation process was known as k.atʿ-ı h.uduˉd ve temyıˉz-i sınur, “cutting of the boundary and separating the frontier.” For this task the central administration appointed a commission that was headed by a muh.addid (borderer) chosen from among high-ranking military personnel; although he carried a military title, he indeed performed civil duties. The number of borderers assigned to work on boundary surveying varied according to the significance and size of the territory to be surveyed. In fact, when the Ottoman administration had to negotiate with a single counterpart concerning multiple regions simultaneously, it dispatched at least one borderer or his deputy to each zone. After the imperial decree to survey a boundary was issued, the commission departed from Istanbul with official ceremonies. The boundary commission included a border expert (sınur mollası/mevlaˉsı) who was customarily a member of the ʿulemaˉ (scholar) class and who added the legal verification to the document prepared and signed by the borderer. Among the other members of the commission were dragomans and engineers. Although there is no mention of mapmakers in Ottoman boundary commissions, it is apparent that some engineers who participated in such missions were able to draft maps. After the two sides had reached mutual agreement, a h.uduˉdnaˉme-i hümaˉyuˉn was signed by both parties and contained all the relevant details concerning the new border. It is possible to find examples of these documents in Ottoman archives, chiefly among the naˉme-i hümaˉyuˉn, düvel-i ecnebiye, and aˉmedıˉ registers. The

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. . Fig. 116. “DEVLET-I ʿALIYYE H OLAN YER. ÜKMÜNDE . LER VE MOSK.OV VE NEMÇE’NI N. ET.RAˉFLARINDA . . . OLAN H . UDUˉ D VE SINUR-I ISLAˉMI YYE RESMI DI R,” CA. 1201/1787–88. Anonymous manuscript map on cloth of

Ottoman lands and Ottoman borders with the AustroHungarian and Russian Empires. Size of the original: 48.0 × 27.5 cm. Image courtesy of Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, Istanbul (A 3623).

boundary treaties were drafted in the languages of both parties and exchanged between the two sides after they had been ratified by their signatories. Thus, the Ottoman documents concerning the status of the border, signed by the borderer and the representative of ʿulemaˉ, were traded for the documents bearing the seals of the counterpart general and the engineer in charge. On some occasions, the Western counterpart also made a Turkish translation of the original treaty and submitted the translated document, which was elegantly embellished, to the Ottoman court. In case of a disagreement or appeal, the viceroys, governors, and k.aˉd. ıˉs (judges) who functioned at places near the frontier were authorized . to publish various documents (temessük, h.üccet, ʿarz, k.aˉʾime) that revealed the status and prevailing circumstances along the border at that time. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, geographical features served as basic criteria for boundary determination. At this time military and political boundaries were determined by the Ottoman state, since there was no clear reference to any kind of commercial trade boundary. In practice, instead of surveying the frontier from one end to the other, it was more common to take

a defined piece of land whose overall length in terms of time (i.e., hours required by engineers to traverse) was calculated by the engineers sent by the relevant parties. Natural barriers such as islands, mountains, hills, rivers, lakes, valleys, forests, and deserts and settled areas like villages, towns, castles, ports, and palankas (wooden forts) determined to a great extent what was to be regarded as the foreign boundary. According to the Treaty of Bakhchisarai (1678), the Dnieper (Özi) River marked the boundary between the Ottoman lands and Russia; in 1680, certain villages along the Podolian frontier functioned as markers; in 1699, some fortresses served to mark the Venetian frontier and in 1774 the Russian border; finally, in 1792 the Dniester (Turla) River served as the Russian border. Ottoman boundary treaties in which the borderline was mostly delineated in harmony with the apparent location of fortresses rested heavily upon the ʿalaˉ h.aˉlihıˉ (uti possidetis, as you possess) principle. In Ottoman boundary treaties the border was depicted in accordance with the neighboring settlements, which were indicated by name in the text. To describe the border area, the Ottoman surveyor expressed the

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. Fig. 117. “LEHISTAˉN H . UDUˉ DU HARIˉ T.ASI BY ENDERUˉ NLU RESSAˉM MUS.T.AFAˉ,” CA. ˘1187/1773–74. Manuscript map drafted on silk cloth. The map of the OttomanPolish border.

distances in terms of the time required to cover the area on foot, using the pace (adım, ayak., k.adem, or hat.ve) as his scale, which corresponds to ca. 38 cm. Other˘ units of length used by the Ottoman surveyor were the Turkish statute mile (1,995 m), the league of three miles (fersah, ˘ 5,985 m), or a distance marched in one hour at average speed; and, for longer distances, the stage (menzıˉl, 22.74 km) and the day’s journey (merh.aˉle, 45.48 km). During the 1701 boundary negotiations between the Ottoman Empire and Russia, one article fixed the border zone as ten hours walking distance; this became a matter of debate since the concerned parties could not agree whether this distance should be the length or width of the boundary. The 1724 boundary treaty divided the territory stretching from Shemakha to the Caspian Sea between the Ottomans and the Russians. The Ottoman portion created by the partition was carefully recorded in the Ottoman document in terms of degrees, minutes, and seconds of longitude and latitude, thus providing

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Size of the original: 66 × 92 cm. Image courtesy of Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, Istanbul (EH 1453).

geographical coordinates in order to draw the new border. In the end, the Ottoman administration established a landmark set up according to the aforementioned values. Following the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699), the Ottoman-Austrian border was encompassed by territory extending two hours either side the border into the interior of each country. Similar articles in other agreements required such a buffer zone along a border. In boundary surveying the first step was to choose a curbstone (h.uduˉdbas¸ı) to start; this was followed by determining the method of surveying. For instance, at one of the test surveys held at the time of boundary resettlements after the Great Turkish War (or War of the Holy League) (1683–99), a clock was set in order to measure the distance of one hour’s march by a Turk with big steps; according to the Venetian cartographer who took part in the incident, this distance equaled 4,228 Venetian passas. The border went along a straight line in an

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open field; however the borderer had to draw semicircles whenever he came upon a settled area. After the delineation process, the borderer had to mark the boundary line with proper signs on the ground. The borderers were instructed to dig a wide ditch, to use a big stone or tree, or to point a stake in order to identify the boundary at places not easily seen from all directions. The common means employed in boundary marking was to pile up soil in pyramids called hunca (or unca), a term that the Ottomans also used for similar raised heaps of stones (masiera). In some boundary conventions the distances between huncas were recorded in terms of time. Up until 1699, the boundaries between the Ottoman Empire and the Venetian Republic were marked by a big stone or tree on which a Latin cross and emblems of the two dynasties were cut. The 1699 treaty changed this situation as the Ottomans began to mark the border stones with a crescent. The boundaries shared commonly by Ottoman-Habsburg-Venetian states were determined more distinctively by larger huncas and artful structures. In the western part of the empire, the Treaty of Karlowitz, signed on 26 January 1699, initiated the first true boundary survey that officially authorized the border between the Habsburg and Ottoman states in more precise terms. As a result, Ottoman subjects living close to the frontier suffered various socioeconomic problems. A large group of translators and draftsmen from both sides took part in the boundary negotiations that followed the peace treaty. In order to map the area that would form the permanent border between the two empires, the Habsburg representative, Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, used the most advanced instruments of the period and worked with the Ottoman delegation for two years. It is highly probable that an Ottoman map of the boundary was produced during this survey, although it has yet to be found. According to Ebuˉ Sehl S.aˉlih.-zaˉde Nuʿmaˉn Efendi, who participated in the Ottoman-Habsburg boundary negotiations in 1741 concerning the Danube River, Ors¸ova, Walachia, and Hungary, the Ottoman commission had fewer cartographers and modern surveying instruments than their Habsburg counterparts (Nuʿmaˉn Efendi 1999, 65). Although the Ottoman commission included engineers, they lacked practice in surveying. From the capital, reʾıˉsülküttaˉb (secretary of state) Raˉg.ıb Efendi sent to this commission the boundary treaty accompanied by a map that delineated the border in red lines. Whether this map was made by the Ottomans or by a foreign draftsman is not known, as it is only attested by literary sources. In the same year, the khan of Crimea called for a conference in which the Russian-Ottoman frontier would be discussed with reference to some

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. cograˉfyas (geographies), which implied maps in addition to a current boundary treaty. There are some Russian maps (Istanbul, Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi [BOA], Haritalar Katalog˘u 185, 188–190) produced in accordance with the treaties of Belgrade (1739) and Küçük Kaynarca (1774) that are briefly annotated in Turkish and carry the seals of both empires. Among the engineers of the boundary commission assigned to survey the vacant area surrounding Ochakiv and the castle of Kılburun in 1775, Ebuˉbekir Halıˉfe was the ˘ leader. After five months’ work, the borderer Meh.med S¸erıˉf dispatched to the Ottoman capital a map (BOA, Naˉme-i Hümaˉyuˉn Defterleri 9, 48–55) displaying the borderline based on triangulation and settled in conformity with the Russian party. Yet again, the producer of this map is not known. In the texts prepared by the boundary commissions, the distances were recorded in time and verst, the standard Russian unit of measurement. For marine boundaries in the Ottoman Empire, the limit of territorial waters was traditionally determined by the range of a gun located seaside. In other words, it was important to establish the farthest spot in the water that could be protected by artillery fire discharged from the guns placed on shore (K.alʿa/T . op altı). Among the several negotiations held between the Ottomans and Venetians to settle a naval frontier, the arrangement following the Treaty of Passarowitz (1718) is distinctive for fixing the territorial limits of both states at thirty nautical miles in Dalmatian, Herzegovinan, and Albanian waters and in the Mediterranean Sea. They agreed to use a nautical mile equivalent to 1,856 meters. As yet, no Ottoman map created as a result of boundary surveying has been identified. Nevertheless, there are several maps depicting Ottoman borders that had been reorganized according to mutual agreements. Among those that provide the distances in time and miles, the unsigned manuscript map drafted after the Treaty of Belgrade (1739) depicts the new boundary that emerged after the Ottomans regained Adakale (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi, E. 10201/2). The anonymous map delineating the Ottoman, Habsburg, and Russian lands with the Black Sea placed in the center contains explanatory notes about the fortifications that changed hands between the Ottoman and Russian armies, and it marks the Russian territories with red crosses. These notations make it apparent that the map shows the existing borderline during the Russo-Ottoman war of 1787–92 (fig. 116). When considering Ottoman boundary maps, a prominent place is held by Enderuˉnlu Mus.t.afaˉ, who translated and adapted numerous maps of this kind. His manuscript map of 1768 showing all European boundaries exists in two copies (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Mü-

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. zesi Kütüphanesi, E.H. 1455, and Istanbul Arkeoloji Müzesi Kütüphanesi, no. 1074). In another work of 1768–69, he depicted the Ottoman-Polish border zone that encircled the frontier castles of Khotyn, Tighina, and Bilhorod-Dnistrovskyi and the Russian border in Ukraine, Crimea, and Azov. Enderuˉnlu Mus.t.afaˉ’s manuscript map of 1773–74 drafted on silk cloth delineates the new borders that had come into existence after the partition of Polish lands between Russia and Prussia in 1772 and the Ottoman border along the Danube River (fig. 117). The unsigned map depicting the TurcoRussian frontier settled in accordance with the Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca (1774) (BOA, Haritalar Katalog˘u 187) was in fact translated from a foreign source. The manuscript boundary map of the Treaty of Jassy that was signed between the Russian and Ottoman empires in 1792 (BOA, Haritalar Katalog˘u 184) is elaborated with a supplementary text. Given the sparse evidence and the stimulating contact between the Ottoman engineers and their foreign counterparts, the question of the contribution of the engineers who played an increasing role in boundary surveying from the latter half of the eighteenth century, as well as to general mapmaking and land surveying, requires further investigation. . F i k r et S a r icao g˘ l u

See also: Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699); Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the B i bliogra p hy Abou-el-Haj, Rifa’at Ali. 1969. “The Formal Closure of the Ottoman Frontier in Europe: 1699–1793.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 89:467–75. Baycar, Adnan, prep. 2004. Osmanlı Rus ilis¸kileri tarihi (Ahmet Câvid Bey’in Müntehabâtı). Esp. 193, 250, 252, 255, 261, 439, 450, 568. Istanbul: Yeditepe. Emecen, Feridun M. 2006. “Osmanlı sınırları nerede bas¸lar nerede biter?” In Sosyoloji ve Cog˘rafya, ed. Ertan Eg˘ribel and Ufuk Özcan, 490–502. Istanbul: Kızılelma. Molnár, Mónika. 1999. “Karlofça Antlas¸ması’ndan sonra OsmanlıHabsburg sınırı (1699–1701).” In Siyaset, vol. 1 of Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, 472–79. Ankara: Yeni Türkiye Yayınları. Nuʿmaˉn Efendi, Ebuˉ Sehl S.aˉlih.. -zaˉde. 1999. Tedbîrât-ı pesendîde (Beg˘enilmis¸ Tedbirler). Ed. Ali Ibrahim Savas¸. Esp. 54–143. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu. Pedani Fabris, Maria Pia. 1999. “XV–XVIII. yüzyılda Osmanlı Venedik ilis¸kileri.” In Siyaset, vol. 1 of Osmanlı, ed. Güler Eren, 259–65. Ankara: Yeni Türkiye Yayınları. . Savas¸, Ali Ibrahim. 1996. “Takrîr-i Ahmed Merâmî Efendi (Azak Muhaddidi Ahmed Merâmî Efendi’nin 1740/1741 sınır tespit çalıs¸maları hakkındaki raporu).” Türk Tarih Kurumu Belgeler 16: 151–73.

Boundary Surveying in Portugal. Portugal’s land border

was established by the Treaty of Alcañices, signed by Portugal and Castile in 1297, fixing the Portuguese territory in the Iberian Peninsula between the Atlantic Ocean on the west and south and the kingdoms of León and Castile (Spain) on the north and east. The borderline,

or “Raia,” more than 1,200 kilometers in length, was based on natural features such as rivers and mountains wherever possible but without an established demarcation line. During the medieval period, castles and (from the seventeenth century onward) fortresses and forts were the effective border landmarks. Some attempts to establish an effective borderline were made during the reign of Manuel I; in 1509 Duarte de Armas undertook a survey to depict the border castles, and both local and central authorities tried to implant markers along the border. The first cartographic representation of the Portuguese borderline was shown on the map of Fernando Álvaro Seco, after 1561 (Alegria et al. 2007, 1039–41, 1047–48). Between Portugal’s independence in the twelfth century and the end of the eighteenth century, there were many wars with Spain (Castile). Most military actions between Portugal and Spain were limited to the frontier territories and employed siege warfare. Thus, boundary surveying in Portugal was based on the recognition of its main defensive works. Beginning with the Portuguese Restoration War (1640–68), the Portuguese renewed their interest in controlling the country and consolidating state autonomy, which presupposed a strong military defense of the border. To this end, cartographic rendering of the border was of vital importance and was controlled by both the king’s Conselho da Guerra and the Junta de Fortificações. Manuscript maps meant for military use, mostly made by foreign engineers in the service of Portugal, were drawn either at a large scale, depicting the space surrounding the main fortresses to be used for tactics and battle movements, or at the smaller regional or national scale to be used for defense strategy. Nevertheless, the most important map showing the entire Portuguese border with a double dotted colored line, was the Descripcion del Reyno de Portvgal y de los Reynos de Castilla qve parten con sv frontera, printed and edited in Madrid in 1662 by the Portuguese cartographer Pedro Teixeira Albernaz, who worked for Spain’s Felipe IV (Alegria et al. 2007, 1044–45). At the beginning of the eighteenth century, Portugal participated in the Anglo-Austrian Grand Alliance in the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14), which led to invasions by Franco-Spanish forces. Maps were particularly useful tools in the planning of these military actions, many of which occurred along the borderlands where forts and castles demarcated the frontier. The work of Manuel Pinto de Vilalobos, chief military engineer for the province of Entre Douro e Minho, exemplifies boundary mapping of this period. Vilalobos drew maps on site of the military fortresses throughout the northwest region of Portugal between 1713 and 1715 (Soromenho 1991). Besides representing the physical

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geography and waterways of the region, these exemplary manuscripts detail the principal existing fortifications and also identify possible routes of invasion. Several copies of his maps are now housed in Lisbon at the Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, the Arquivo Histórico Militar, and the Sociedade de Geografia de Lisboa (Teixeira and Valla 1999, e.g., 41, 169, 187, 204 [pls. 1, 40, 48, 56]). Along the borders of the Alentejo region in the south, João Tomás Correia made several relatively detailed maps of the forts involved in the principal military sieges: Moura (1707), Olivença (1709), and Campo Maior (1712). The maps of these three forts, engraved and printed by Charles de Granpré, were included in the second volume of Geografia histórica de todos os estados soberanos de Europa (1734–36) by Luís Caetano de Lima, published when the two Iberian countries were once again on the brink of military conflict, with both armies concentrated along the Alentejo border. During the second half of the eighteenth century, representations of the border seemed to be limited to the

fields of war. Maintaining boundary defenses served as a pretext for new projects under the direction of the king’s chief military engineer, Manoel de Azevedo Fortes, who personally undertook to survey the border, reinforce the defensive capacity of the fortresses, and plan new fortifications. He created the oldest known plan of Almeida, the strategically important fortress in the central region of Beira province as well as a plan to build a new fort in Zebreira in 1736–37 (Conceição 2002, 85–87, 289–90). Similar motivation encouraged topographical studies in Minho in the north and in the Alentejo in the south between 1755 and 1759 (Dias et al. 2005, 212–15). New military boundary maps were created at the time of the so-called Guerra Fantástica (1762–63), when Portugal participated in the Seven Years’ War (1756– 63). Facing a Franco-Spanish invasion, the Portuguese government solicited England’s support; the combined forces were commanded by Count Wilhelm de Schaumburg-Lippe, whose engineers included Paul Joseph Champalimaud de Nussane, Robert de Bassenond, Louis d’Alincourt, Jean Benoit Python, Francisco d’Alincourt,

Fig. 118. “CARTA DO RECONHECIMENTO MILITAR FEITO NA FRONTEIRA DO ALEMLEJO EM 1797,” BY LUÍS CÂNDIDO CORDEIRO PINHEIRO FURTADO. Manuscript, ca. 1:62,000, 10 decimos, or a league, of 2,540 braças = 9.0 cm.

Size of the original: 57 × 189 cm. Image courtesy of Portugal/ Gabinete de Estudos Arqueológicos da Engenharia Militar/ Direção de Infraestruturas do Exército (498-1-4-7).

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Gustave Adolphe Hercule de Chermont, and Jacob Crisóstomo Pretorius, all of whom followed the theater of war and executed important surveys of the border, both during the conflict and in the following years (Dias 2009, 56–57). These foreign engineers made various sketches along the land borders with relatively few geographic details but showing the region’s hydrographic aspects, possible routes of invasion with roads and bridges, the principal settlements, and various defensive works. They represented relief in a graphic form closer to the French technique of hachures, but the cartographic rendition of borders altered little from previous depictions: dotted, dashed, or continuous lines, colored according to Azevedo Fortes’s handbook for military engineers (Azevedo Fortes 1722, 197). The “Copia do mappa de huma parte do Alemtejo, e da Beira” (1763) by Louis d’Alincourt, a Frenchman serving Portugal, shows not only the border (with a green line), but also a strip of Portuguese territory defended by several fortresses and forts connected by a road network, providing useful documentation for the defense of this section of the Portuguese border (Dias

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2007, 38). Until the end of the century, the rebuilding of principal land and sea fortifications continued to occasion new maps and topographical studies, such as the work of José de Sande Vasconcelos and Baltazar de Azevedo Coutinho in the Algarve. Spanish threats to Portugal’s territory strengthened from 1795 until 1801, when the War of the Oranges again focused the attention of Portuguese authorities on the land border, effecting multiple topographical surveys throughout the kingdom. These large, detailed studies were based on networks of triangulation and baseline measurements carried out primarily by Portuguese military technicians with the aid of foreigners. They were completed within the purview of the Real Corpo de Engenheiros, whose officers had graduated from the Academia Real de Fortificação, Artilharia e Desenho, created in 1790. The “Carta do reconhecimento militar,” coordinated by Luís Cândido Cordeiro Pinheiro Furtado, shows the results of the triangulation methods (fig. 118). Three teams, comprising three or four engineers each, worked along a section of the border, start-

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ing from the baseline of the map established in the town of Marvão (Dias 2007, 41). After Portugal’s defeat in the War of the Oranges, the terms of the Treaty of Badajoz (1801) transferred to Spain one of the main border fortresses in the Alentejo, the town and environs of Olivença, a territory still claimed by Portugal. In 1802, the prince regent created the Inspecção-Geral das Fronteiras e Costas Marítimas do Reino under the direction of Louis-François Carlet de La Rozière; the Inspecção-Geral included other foreign officials who had accompanied Carlet de La Rozière in 1797 to aid Portugal in the war. In its brief two years of activity (suspended in 1804), the InspecçãoGeral directed innumerable projects, from topographical studies to geographic accounts, especially concerning the defense of the border of the provinces of Beira and the Alentejo. Some maps made under the orders of Carlet de La Rozière were given to Jean-Andoche Junot’s engineering corps during the first French invasion of Portugal in 1807–8 and sent to the Dépôt de la Guerre in Paris (they are housed in the Service historique de l’armée de terre at the Chatêau de Vincennes) (Vicente 1984, 116–17). The manuscript “Carta militar de huma parte da fronteira do Alemtejo” (1803) made by José Maria das Neves Costa while he was working for the Inspecção-Geral demonstrates perfectly the boundary cartography of Portuguese technicians; it illustrates a geographical-military description of the border based on field observations that followed the existing itineraries in order to prepare an effective future defense of this border (Dias 2007, 39–40). In 1803, Portugal and Spain cooperated in creating several maps to establish the border in contested populated locations, including the “Planta do terreno e lemites da contenda de Moura” (1803) by Conrado Henrique Niemeyer describing the Alentejo and the “Desenho topographico de huma porção do Conselho de Lindoso” (1803) in the Minho by Custódio José Gomes de Vilas Boas (Dias 2009, 23–24, 60–62). However, these territorial disputes were resolved only in the second half of the nineteenth century. L u í s Mig u el Mo reira See also: Portugal Bibliograp hy Alegria, Maria Fernanda, et al. 2007. “Portuguese Cartography in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:975–1068. Conceição, Margarida Tavares da. 2002. Da vila cercada à praça de guerra: Formação do espaço urbano em Almeida (séculos XVI– XVIII). Lisbon: Livros Horizonte. Dias, Maria Helena, ed. 2003. Contributos para a história da cartografia militar portuguesa. CD-ROM. Lisbon: Centro de Estudos Geográficos, Instituto Geográfico do Exército e Direcção dos Serviços de Engenharia. ———. 2005. Brigadeiro José Maria das Neves Costa, 1774–1841:

Patrono do Instituto Geográfico do Exército. Lisbon: Instituto Geográfico do Exército. ———, ed. 2007. Portugal em vésperas das Invasões Francesas: Conhecimento geográfico & configurações. Lisbon: Instituto Geográfico do Exército. ———. 2008. Portugalliae civitates: Perspectivas cartográficas militares. Lisbon: Instituto Geográfico do Exército. ———. 2009. Finis Portugalliæ = Nos confins de Portugal: Cartografia militar e identidade territorial. Lisbon: Instituto Geográfico do Exército. Dias, Maria Helena, et al., eds. 2005. História da cartografia militar (séculos XVIII–XIX). Viana do Castelo: Câmara Municipal. Fernandes, Mário Gonçalves, ed. 2006. Manoel de Azevedo Fortes (1660–1749): Cartografia, cultura e urbanismo. Porto: GEDES (Gabinete de Estudos de Desenvolvimento e Ordenamento do Território), Departamento de Geografia da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Fortes, Manoel de Azevedo. 1722. Tratado do modo o mais facil, e o mais exacto de fazer as cartas geograficas. Lisbon: Na Officina de Pascoal da Sylva. Garcia, João Carlos. 1996. “A configuração da fronteira lusoespanhola nos mapas dos séculos XV a XVIII.” Treballs de la Societat Catalana de Geografia 41:293–321. Soromenho, Miguel Conceição Silva. 1991. “Manuel Pinto de Vilalobos: Da engenharia militar à arquitectura.” MS thesis, Universidade Nova de Lisboa. Teixeira, Manuel C., and Margarida Valla. 1999. O urbanismo português: Séculos XIII–XVIII, Portugal-Brasil. Lisbon: Livros Horizonte. Vicente, António Pedro. 1984. Le génie français au Portugal sous l’empire: Aspects de son activité à l’époque de l’invasion et de l’occupation de ce pays par l’armée de Junot, 1807–1808. Lisbon: Direcção do Serviço Histórico Militar.

Boundary Surveying in Portuguese America. The process of surveying the boundaries of Portuguese America was marked by a series of vicissitudes, particularly concerning the resolution of disputes regarding Spanish territorial claims and possessions. The Treaty of Madrid (1750) established the Luso-Hispanic demarcation lines, which took effect in 1752 but were disrupted by the outbreak of war with the Guaraní tribes. The Treaty of El Pardo (1761) annulled the terms established by the Treaty of Madrid, and the lines of demarcation were redrawn following new negotiations for the Treaty of San Ildefonso (1777). Both treaties set up joint cartographic surveys, but the ensuing negotiations were especially heated and ended without definitive conclusions. Yet although the results could seem to be a failure from a political perspective, the practical outcome was exactly the opposite. Both in technical as well as human terms, the demarcation lines represented on cartographic products provided the most complete picture to date of Portuguese America; these boundaries had long-term effects and exemplified the multiple purposes of cartographic work of the eighteenth century. Portuguese cartography of the sixteenth century demonstrated meticulous knowledge of the Atlantic coast of South America, but settlement of the continent’s inte-

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rior did not enjoy similar cartographic documentation, causing some urgency in the eighteenth century for new maps of the region’s interior boundaries. This lacuna was understandable given the enormous extent of the region, which covered more than eight million square kilometers. Specific articles in the treaties of Madrid (XI, XXII, XXVI) and San Ildefonso (III, IV, V) established commissions for both sides consisting of military officers who were familiar with the region, and astronomers and military engineers who were charged with surveying the frontier based predominantly on rivers, mountains, and other natural features. The commissions’ three objectives were demarcating the lines, cataloging the astronomical observations made during the survey, and cataloging the physical observations of the terrain and its natural history. In addition, visual markers, such as stones, were also to be established in appropriate areas (fig. 119). These objectives reflected the interplay between scientific concerns and the political agenda of the Portuguese administration (Martín-Merás 2005–7). The first surveys, following the instructions of the Treaty of Madrid, were carried out from 1752 to 1753 and 1758 to 1759. They relied on the standard surveying instruments of tavoletta Praetoriana (plane table) and compass or graphomètre, while the astronomers used telescopes, quadrants of various sizes, pendulums, clocks, compasses, thermometers, and barometers for their observations. The Treaty of Madrid set up two commissions: the northern one was headed by Francisco Xavier de Mendonça Furtado, brother of Sebastião José

de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal, the governor of Grão-Pará e Maranhão; and the southern by António Gomes Freire de Andrade, governor of Minas Gerais and Rio de Janeiro (Ferreira 2001, 130–42). Their instructions directed the officers in the field to keep notebooks (some now held in Rio de Janeiro, Biblioteca Nacional do Brasil) and make observations of the physical and natural history of the areas explored, including the flora and fauna of the region and especially plants with medicinal properties. The instructions of the later Treaty of San Ildefonso required more sophisticated instruments for measuring and drawing, which were ordered and purchased from the best European instrumentmakers, along with the most up-to-date bibliography relevant to the expeditions. During the preparatory meetings for the Treaty of Madrid, the absence of Portuguese geographic and cartographic specialists necessitated the recruitment of Italian and German engineers and surveyors for the commissions. After the Treaty of San Ildefonso, the majority of military surveyors were Portuguese, indicating the considerable increase in training that had occurred during the twenty-five years between the treaties, no doubt a result of the aulas de fortificação (schools of fortification) established in the colony. Although the Portuguese officials had been instructed to follow a certain method in their cartographic work, including scales, the maps themselves do not demonstrate a standard scale or specific typology of drawing. The surveyors’ work resulted primarily in manuscript

Fig. 119. “RIO JAURÚ DESDE A SUA CONFLUENCIA NO PARAGUAY, ATHE A BOCA DOS BAGRES HUMA LEGOA ACIMA DO REGISTO; PLANTA DE VILLA MARIA DO PARAGUAY; MAPA DO RIO PARAGUAY DESDE A BOCA DO RIO JAURÚ ATHE A CONFLUENCIA E PARTE DO RIO SEPOTUBA; MARCO DO JAURÚ QUE SE COLOCOU EM

14 DE JANR.O DE 1754,” 1784. Manuscript on two sheets; two maps (ca. 1:110,000, ca. 1:120,000), one plan (no scale specified), and a profile of a boundary monument (ca. 1:23). Size of the original: 42 × 113 cm. Image courtesy of the Núcleo Museológico da Casa da Ínsua, Penalva do Castelo (cota 68 A, rolo no 5).

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maps; printed versions, at least at first, were not of interest to the political powers. Some maps are very colorful and detailed, suggesting that they were produced for the court or for meetings between chief commissioners. Others are much simpler, their principal concern being the correct indication of coordinates and boundary connections, mostly between rivers, to establish the lines of demarcation. In all cases, attention was to be consistently given to recording observations and measurements in notebooks so that they could be checked and rechecked, which distinguished this cartography from earlier efforts to depict the frontier and reflected an Enlightenment emphasis on observation, measurement, and incorporation of multiple sources of information. The collaborative nature of these maps should also be noted, as they are for the most part unsigned, indicating that the engineers worked in groups, checking each other’s work. There were many difficulties during the survey, as the teams often navigated previously unexplored river courses and encountered many problems taking measurements or making astronomical observations, all while contending with the unhelpfulness of the indigenous people in the area. The Treaty of Madrid demarcation teams worked in three large border areas: in the south around the Colónia do Sacramento at the mouth of the Río de la Plata, in the southwest along the Paraná River, and in the north along the Amazon basin. The southern commission, working in the best-known and most disputed area, produced the largest number of maps, frequently drawn under the threat of war with the indigenous peoples. The work of engineer José Custódio de Sá e Faria stands out, along with that of José Fernandes Pinto Alpoim (engineers and first commissioners), Michel (Miguel) Angelo de Blasco, Manuel Vieira Leão (engineers), and Miguel António Ciera (astronomer), among others. The northern Amazon region required mostly hydrographic surveys, which effected an absolute change in the cartographic representation of the region. João André Schwebel, Henrique Antonio Galluzzi (engineers), and Ignácio Sermatoni (astronomer) worked with the commissions of the Treaty of Madrid, and Teodósio Constantino de Chermont, Henrique João Wilkens (engineers and first commissioners), José Simões de Carvalho, Pedro Alexandrino Pinto de Sousa, and Manuel da Gama Lobo d’Almada worked with the commissions of the Treaty of San Ildefonso. In the center of the country, along the Guaporé, Madeira, Mamoré and Paraná Rivers, Portuguese technicians produced a new cartographic interpretation of the treaty, advancing the previous lines and claiming exclusive Portuguese navigation of the rivers. The founding of villages and forts along the western border of those rivers, which were also mapped at the same time, corroborated this advance. The maps of this commission, including work by Ricardo Franco de Almeida Serra, Joaquim José Fer-

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reira (engineers), Francisco José de Lacerda e Almeida, and António Pires da Silva Pontes Leme (astronomers), passed into the collections of the governors of this part of Brazil (Mato Grosso), such as that of Luís de Albuquerque de Melo Pereira e Cáceres in the Casa da Ínsua and that of Luís Pinto de Sousa Coutinho in the Biblioteca Pública Municipal do Porto. The maps became basic elements in the region’s political activity during the eighteenth century (fig. 120). Defining the border with the Spanish colonies ultimately implied defining the very territory of Portuguese America. Similarly, demarcating the external border cannot be separated from the general cartographic surveys of the interior borders that occurred throughout the second half of the eighteenth century. The most elegant synthesis of this process is the “Carta geografica de projecção espherica da Nova Lusitania ou America portugueza e estado do Brazil,” produced under the direction of Pontes Leme from 1797 and based on the cartography of the boundary surveys (see fig. 633). Although not established politically until the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Brazil’s borders largely correspond to the lines drawn up during the surveying expeditions of the eighteenth century, and their demarcation depended on the maps produced at that time. Renata Araujo See also: Madrid, Treaty of (1750); Portuguese America; Society of Jesus (Rome) Bibliography Adonias, Isa. 1960. Mapas e planos manuscritos relativos ao Brasil colonial conservados no Ministério das Relações Exteriores. 2 vols. in 1. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério das Relações Exteriores, Serviço de Documentação. Almeida, André Ferrand de. 2001. “Entre a guerra e a diplomacia: Os conflitos luso-espanhóis e a cartografia da América do Sul (1702– 1807).” In A Nova Lusitânia: Imagens cartográficas do Brasil nas colecções da Biblioteca Nacional (1700–1822): Catálogo, ed. João Carlos Garcia, 37–65. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Cortesão, Jaime. 1950–60. Alexandre de Gusmão e o Tratado de Madrid. 5 vols. Esp. vol. 5, Execução do Tratado. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério das Relações Exteriores/Instituto Rio-Branco. ———. 1965–71. História do Brasil nos velhos mapas. 2 vols. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério das Relações Exteriores, Instituto Rio Branco. Ferreira, Mário Olímpio Clemente. 2001. O Tratado de Madrid e o Brasil meridional: Os trabalhos demarcadores das partidas do sul e a sua produção cartográfica (1741–1761). Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Garcia, João Carlos, ed. 2002. A mais dilatada vista do mundo: Inventário da colecção cartográfica da Casa da Ínsua. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Guedes, Max Justo. 1997. “A cartografia da delimitação das fronteiras do Brasil no século XVIII.” In Cartografia e diplomacia no Brasil do século XVIII, ed. Joaquim Romero Magalhães, João Carlos Garcia, and Jorge Manuel Flores, 10–38. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Martín-Merás (Verdejo), Luisa. 2005–7. “Fondos cartográficos y documentales de la Comisión de Límites de Brasil en el siglo XVIII en el Museo Naval de Madrid.” Terra Brasilis 7–9:123–80.

Fig. 120. “CARTA GEOGRAPHICA DOS EXTENÇOS TERRITORIOS E PRINCIPAIS RIO DO GOVERNO, E CAPITANIA GENERAL DO MATO GROSSO, QUE MAIS CENTRALMENTE CONFINAM A OS DOMINIOS ESPANHOIS D’AMERICA MERIDIONAL,” 1781. Manuscript map on two sheets.

Size of the original: 126 × 89 cm. Image courtesy of the Núcleo Museológico da Casa da Ínsua, Penalva do Castelo (cota CG 13 e no 13).

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Boundary Surveying in Russia. Inventories of the Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy arkhiv drevnikh aktov in Moscow and other archives suggest that by the 1570s nearly all the western frontier of Muscovy from the Arctic Ocean to Putyvl and Chernigov had been depicted in a series of local geographical drawings called chertëzhi. Later scholars have argued that some of these chertëzhi date to the early 1500s (Rybakov 1974, 9–10). In the early 1700s the expansionism of Peter I created many boundary changes. In his quest for Westernization, he incorporated European practices for the delimitation and demarcation of boundaries within conquered countries, including the compilation of boundary maps approved by official representatives of the countries involved in the settlement or treaty. Important boundary surveying under Peter I took place at Ingria, a much-contested region south of the Gulf of Finland. Although Russia had earlier ceded the land to Sweden under the Stolbovo Treaty of 1617, in 1702 Peter conquered Swedish-occupied portions of Ingria and promptly built his new capital of St. Petersburg there. The new acquisitions were represented in the “Karta ostrova zund i blizlezhashchikh ostrovov”

(1718; Moscow, Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy arkhiv drevnikh aktov) in manuscript compiled by Russian topographers using Swedish materials. A similar process involved Finland. Under the Treaty of Nystad (1721), Russia took control of the Finnish regions of Ingria, resulting in new boundary surveying. By the Treaty of Åbo (1743), which ended the Russian-Swedish war of 1741–43, Russia, under the Empress Elizabeth, added part of Swedish Finland running alongside the Kymi River, which became the new Swedish-Russian border. Swedish maps flowed into Russian hands during this war, influencing Russian map design. The traces of such materials have survived in several Russian-made maps of Russian Finland and its boundaries with Sweden, described archivally as “Karta granitsy mezhdu Rossiyskoy imperii i Korolevstom Shvetsii, 1744 g” (fig. 121), “Karta proliva villen-zunda i nekotorykh,” and “Karta Finlyandii i chasti Baltiyskogo morya, 1744 g.” Before his death in 1725, Peter I also sought to delimit and demarcate the Empire’s boundary on the Siberian east. Under the Treaty of Nerchinsk (1689), the Russian-Chinese border was established along the Ar-

Fig. 121. DETAIL FROM A 1744 MANUSCRIPT MAP OF THE BORDER BETWEEN THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE AND THE KINGDOM OF SWEDEN ACCORDING TO THE 1742 TREATY. The border is delineated in this detail by the red line arcing northward alongside the Kymi River and then eastward through the Finnish lakes. The map is described in a cartouche (not shown) as “Yeneral’naya karta Rossiyskoy

Finlyandii s pokazaniyem Rossiyskoy s Shvedskoyu granitsy uchrezhdennaya 1742.” Size of the entire original: 130 × 145 cm; size of detail: ca.  63  ×  115 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy voyenno-istoricheskiy arkhiv, Moscow (f. 846, op. 16, d. 25394).

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Fig. 122. DETAIL OF PART OF UKRAINE FROM KARL IVANOVICH OPPERMAN, NOVAYA POGRANICHNAYA KARTA ROSSIYSKOY IMPERII, 1795. Published probably in St. Petersburg, this large and highly detailed new boundary map of the Russian Empire summarized the westward growth of the empire under Catherine II. The boundaries of each major expansion were indicated by letters in Latin script, including the empire’s boundaries on Catherine II’s accession in 1762 (A...A, red), after the First and Third Partitions of Poland-

Lithuania in 1773 (a...a, yellow) and 1793 (d...d, yellow), and after treaties with the Ottomans in 1774 and 1783 (b...b, light green) and 1791 (c...c, red); the contemporary boundaries of the empire were also marked (B...B, green). Size of the entire original: 67 × 55 cm; size of detail: ca. 10 × 20 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Cartographical Department, Code No. Ko 7/IV-14).

gun River and the Stanovoy Range. The Chinese subsequently undertook elaborate surveys under the Kangxi emperor, collecting information for maps that they may have later shared with Russian officials (Cams 2017, 184; Fuchs 1943). In 1727, Russia and China extended their earlier agreements through the Treaty of Kyakhta. The Russians wanted to establish good relations with the new Yongzheng emperor, as well as open up regular trade between the two countries. The treaty called for new maps: “Lands, rivers, and [boundary] pillars should be written down with their names and drawn on a land maps. This should be done in languages of both Empires. The envoys should exchange these maps between them and bring them to their superiors” (Myasnikov 2004, 31). A follow-up document written two months later confirmed that the maps had been compiled, “and the envoys from both sides had described and drawn the delimitation and these descriptions and drawings exchanged between them and carried to their superiors” (Myasnikov 2004, 42–43). Although copies of these drawings have not been found in Russian archives, one source for these later drawings may have been the Chinese-language map consisting of thirteen manuscript sheets (dated 1721), located in Paris (from the wood-

block version of the Kangxi Atlas; Bibliothèque nationale, Cartes et plans, Ge CC 4461) in the papers of Joseph-Nicolas Delisle, a scholar in the St. Petersburg Akademiya nauk at the time. On the Russian side, the collegium for foreign affairs, Kollegia inostrannykh del, attended to the boundary mapping of Siberia under Prince Savva Lukich Raguzinskiy-Vladislavich, who, from 1724, employed three geodesists—Pe¨tr Nikiforovich Skobel’tsyn, Ivan Stepanovich Svistunov, and Vasiliy Shatilov. In 1726, the team was doubled to six to cover the large terrain. Indeed, these geodesists were surveying the regions adjoining China from the Argun River to Lake Baikal and the Yenisey River, a distance of more than 1000 miles. Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov used these materials in his celebrated Atlas vserossiyskoy imperii (1731–34). The Karta Russko Kitayskoy granitsy, 1728 g. in two sheets and the same title in one sheet were the first Russian boundary maps ever published. The events of the latter half of the eighteenth century presented boundary challenges on several fronts for Russia. The three partitions of Poland resulted in changes along the western frontier. The Russian-Ottoman wars (especially 1735–39, 1768–74, 1787–92) shifted the fo-

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cus to the southern regions, from the regions west of the Black Sea, where boundaries changed rapidly in response to events, to the Crimean Peninsula, which incorporated its own coastal boundary giving access to the Black Sea (fig. 122). The very short time between these events and the large spaces involved did not allow for careful surveying and mapping on behalf of central, provincial, or military powers. In addition, the cartographic materials in the foreign policy archive, Arkhiv vneshney politiki Rossiyskoy imperii in Moscow, have not been well explored or thoroughly researched, leaving much still to be learned for this period. A l e x ey V . Po s tnikov See also: Russia Bibliograp hy Baddeley, John F. 1919. Russia, Mongolia, China: Being Some Record of the Relations between Them from the Beginning of the XVIIth Century to the Death of the Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich, A.D. 1602– 1676. 2 vols. London: Macmillan. Cams, Mario. 2017. Companions in Geography: East-West Collaboration in the Mapping of Qing China (c. 1685–1735). Leiden: Brill. Fuchs, Walter. 1943. Der Jesuiten-Atlas der Kanghsi-Zeit: Seine Entstehungsgeschichte nebst Namensindices für die Karten der Mandjurei, Mongolei, Ostturkestan und Tibet. 2 vols. Beijing: Fu-Jen-Universität. Myasnikov, V. S. 1980. Imperiya Tsin i Russkoye gosudarstvo v XVII veke. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” ———, ed. 2004. Russko-kitayskiye dogovorno-pravovyye akty, 1689–1916. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Pamyatniki Istoricheskoy Mysli. Rybakov, B. A. 1974. Russkiye karty Moskovii, XV–nachala XVI veka. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.”

Boundary Surveying in Spain. Spain’s current frontiers

were established during the second half of the seventeenth century. Even with the loss of hegemony in Europe, Spain still had an important empire to preserve; defending borders became one of the focal points of Habsburg policy and of the Bourbons during the eighteenth century after the Treaty of the Pyrenees (1659). Military engineers played a prominent role in this task by taking responsibility for ground reconnaissance and topographic surveying of boundaries as well as the design and construction of fortifications to defend them. From 1675 there had been an Academia Real y Militar del Ejército de los Países Bajos in Brussels, where professionals in the most advanced sciences of that period could train. It closed down in 1706, when the Spanish presence in the Low Countries came to an end. The Real Academia Militar de Matemáticas de Barcelona was set up shortly afterward in 1716 and trained most eighteenth-century Spanish military engineers. The profession also became institutionalized after the establishment of the Cuerpo de Ingenieros in 1711 and publication of the royal ordenanza of 4 July 1718, which defined and governed its functions, in particular the marking out of boundaries (Capel, Sánchez, and Moncada Maya 1988, 14–39, 102–11). The engineering corps produced reports and

cartography related to the work of the diplomatic commissions responsible for delimiting and demarcating the frontier, projects and plans of frontier fortifications, and diverse cartography of a general nature. Despite diplomatic agreements (the 1659 Treaty of the Pyrenees with France and the 1668 Treaty of Lisbon with Portugal), boundaries were not delimited precisely, formally, and completely until well into the nineteenth century. Some partial work was carried out on the French frontier in the eighteenth century, such as the work done in the eastern Pyrenees after the Seven Years’ War (Capdevila Subirana 2008). Of particular note is the work of the Comisión Hispano-Francesa de Límites, also called the Caro-d’Ornano Commission, set up in 1784, whose main objective was to demarcate the entire frontier. The work started on the west side of the Pyrenees, where confrontations between local communities in the area could result in unwanted diplomatic problems for both parties. Headed by mariscal de campo Ventura Caro for Spain and by François-Marie, comte d’Ornano, for France, the commission was behind the Treaty of Elizondo in 1785, created to resolve such conflicts. However, the outbreak of the French Revolution prevented the treaty from being implemented, and the commission was dissolved. Some rough drafts and the manuscript series of maps devised to establish the frontier have been stored in the Archivo Cartográfico y de Estudios Geográficos del Centro Geográfico del Ejército (Madrid). The sheets are drawn up at an approximate scale of 1:14,000, covering the Atlantic to the border with Aragon. It is a joint French and Spanish work, carried out under the supervision of Engineer Colonel Antonio de Zara and Lieutenant Colonel Paul Louis Gaultier de Kerveguen (fig. 123) (Sermet 1983, 142). Far greater effort went into strengthening frontier defenses, mainly the border with France and along the coast. As a result, there are many reports and maps on both Spanish and foreign fortresses and citadels in these areas. One paradigmatic example is Gibraltar, taken by the British in 1704 and ceded formally by Felipe V in the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713. Numerous attempts to recapture the fortified territory throughout the eighteenth century gave rise to important graphic documentation on the fortress and defenses finally used to establish the boundary. There is similar work available for the Spanish cities of Ceuta and Melilla in North Africa, as shown in the catalog of maps of the Biblioteca Nacional de España (Líter Mayayo, Sanchis Ballester, and Herrero Vigil 1994). Marking the boundaries on smaller-scale cartography was based on the aforementioned documents and other similar surveys. The best example is in the work of the military engineer Antonio de Gaver, who inspected the frontier with Portugal in 1750 (Hevilla 2001; Arroyo

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Fig. 123. DETAIL FROM THE SERIES “MAPA TOPOGRAFICO DE LOS MONTES PIRINEOS PARA EL ESTABLECIMIENTO DE LOS LIMITES ENTRE ESPAÑA Y FRANCIA.” Caro-d’Ornano Commission map number  3, manuscript in two sheets, ca. 1:14,000, 1789. The double line represents the border, blue on the French side and red on the Spanish side. In

the center is indicated the position and number of boundary markers (in red). Size of the entire original: 180 × 279 cm; size of detail: ca. 18.5 × 31.5 cm. Image courtesy España, Ministerio de Defensa, Archivo Cartográfico y de Estudios Geográficos del Centro Geográfico del Ejército, Madrid (Ar.H T.5 C.8 no 241).

Berrones 2003). He subsequently produced much cartographic work in the area, of which there are extant five ca. 1:36,000 and four ca. 1:144,000 maps (fig. 124) (CGE 2001, 13–19). No work of this type was performed by Spanish engineers in the Pyrenees. Tomás López, who prepared and published the most complete and well-known cartographic series in Spain at the end of the eighteenth century, used the work of the French engineers Roussel and Jean-François de La Blottière for his boundary depictions.

Capel, Horacio, Joan Eugeni Sánchez, and José Omar Moncada Maya. 1988. De Palas a Minerva: La formación científica y la estructura institucional de los ingenieros militares en el siglo XVIII. [Barcelona]: Serbal; [Madrid]: CSIC. Centro Geográfico del Ejército (CGE). 2001. Catálogo de cartografía histórica de la frontera hispano-portuguesa. Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa, Secretaría General Técnica. Hevilla, María Cristina. 2001. “Reconocimiento practicado en la frontera de Portugal, por el ingeniero militar Antonio Gaver en 1750.” Biblio 3W: Revista Bibliográfica de Geografía y Ciencias Sociales 6, no. 335. Online publication. Líter Mayayo, Carmen, Francisca Sanchis Ballester, and Ana Herrero Vigil. 1994. Cartografía de España en la Biblioteca Nacional (siglos XVI al XIX). Madrid: Biblioteca Nacional. Sermet, Jean. 1983. La Frontière hispano-française des Pyrénées et les conditions de sa délimitation. Pau: Amis du Livre Pyrénéen.

J oa n C a p dev ila S ubirana See also: Spain; Topographical Surveying: Spain B i bliogra p hy Arroyo Berrones, Enrique R. 2003. “La actuación en Ayamonte de D.  Antonio de Gaver, ingeniero en jefe destinado por S.M. para levantar el mapa de España por la frontera entre Andalucía y Portugal.” In Milicia y sociedad ilustrada en España y América (1750– 1800), 2 vols., 2:299–312. Madrid: Editorial Deimos. Capdevila Subirana, Joan. 2008. “Mapes i fronteres: El Plano en que se manifiesta la línea de división de los Reynos de España y Francia por la parte del Ampurdan y coll del Pertús de 1764.” Treballs de la Societat Catalana de Geografia 65:349–60.

Boundary Surveying in Spanish America. Between 1494 and 1750 the boundaries between the overseas territorial possessions of Portugal and Spain were regulated by the Treaty of Tordesillas. Established exactly two years after the unexpected arrival of Christopher Columbus

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Fig. 124. DETAIL FROM “MAPA, Y DESCRIPZION . . . DE ESTREMADURA,” BY ANTONIO DE GAVER, 1751. Manuscript, ca. 1:144,000. The Spanish territory up to the border is represented. In the Portuguese part, only villages and points of interest are drawn.

Size of the entire original: 102 × 140 cm; size of detail: ca. 18.5 × 25.5 cm. Image courtesy España, Ministerio de Defensa, Archivo Cartográfico y de Estudios Geográficos del Centro Geográfico del Ejército, Madrid (Ar.1 T.6 C.1 6a).

to a “new” continent, King João II and Queen Isabella settled their disputes by dividing the lands and oceans to “discover and win” in Africa, Asia, and America (Columbus 1992, 81). While a much-debated countermeridian was established as the official boundary in the Philippines, after some Portuguese reclamations the boundary in Brazil was settled by a meridian located 370 leagues west of Cape Verde. Until 1640 these boundaries did not represent a serious political problem, but the independence of Portugal from the Spanish monarchy meant that it was only a matter of time before Portuguese expansion would collide with Spanish posts and missions in the area of the Amazon and the Río de la Plata. Two Spanish Franciscans had traveled from Quito to Belém de Pará in 1636; in response, Portuguese captain Pedro Teixeira led a great expedition of 2,500 people, half of them natives, with some seventy canoes to the Viceroy-

alty of Peru in 1637. Soon after their arrival in the audiencia of Quito, Luis Jerónimo de Cabrera, conde de Chinchón, viceroy of Peru, ordered Teixeira to return with all his people by the same route to Pará. The 1668 Treaty of Lisbon ratified Portuguese independence from the Spanish Crown, and they continued their frontier expansion into the South American continent, rendering the old Tordesillas boundary largely irrelevant. From the beginning of the eighteenth century Jesuit missionaries confronted Portuguese expansion on the Spanish side of the Tordesillas line. As their missions were the only real obstacle to slave hunters and their well-equipped sertanistas (scouts), the missionaries mobilized support in the court and organized military resistance wherever and whenever possible. They relied on historical arguments to support further diplomatic action, at the same time taking advantage of their own

Boundary Surveying

cartographic traditions and knowledge of the region to support their view. For example, Father Samuel Fritz, SJ, published El gran rio Marañon, o Amazonas con la mission de la Compañia de Iesvs (1707), a compilation of his extensive and difficult explorations in the region, as a defense of Spanish control of the Amazon basin (Buisseret 2007, 1162–65, fig. 41.23; Almeida 2003, 117). The map reached a European audience when published in London (in Edward Cooke, A Voyage to the South Sea, and Round the World, 1712, engraved by John Senex) and in the Jesuit Lettres édifiantes et curieuses (12:213 [1717]); it set a new standard for regional cartography until a completely new organization, the scientific expedition, redefined the production process for medium- to small-scale cartography in this region. Under the guidance of Charles-Marie de La Condamine, an expedition was sent to Quito in 1735 to determine the length of a degree of latitude; their work was published in the Relation abrégée d’un voyage fait dans l’intérieur de l’Amérique méridionale (1745). La Condamine’s book contained a revised chart of the Amazon (see fig. 431), using Fritz’s map for comparison, and paved the way for a new method of dealing with border disputes by using geometric means and by signaling boundaries with physical markers set in the terrain, such as pyramids or obelisks. In 1746 negotiations between the Crowns of Spain and Portugal started to settle their boundary disputes in the Americas and Asia; from these deliberations emerged a reevaluation of historical and diplomatic traditions, Jesuit cartography, and arguments emphasizing observation and measurement to support their positions. Both sides acted upon presumptions based on new ideas about political reform, which asserted the extension of power of the Crown to the South American frontier. Both sides therefore agreed that Portugal could legally control the Amazon, and Spain, the Río de la Plata (Lucena Giraldo 1993, 79). In the middle of these negotiations, Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa, two Spanish naval officers, scientists, and veterans of La Condamine’s expedition, published their Dissertacion historica, y geographica sobre el meridiano de demarcacion (1749). This important book marked the beginning of a Spanish American “scientific” literature on the subject of geometric and geodetic measurement. It combined the traditional justification of the limit of Tordesillas with geographical and astronomical arguments to support the Spanish position in the negotiations about the situation of boundaries, especially in the Amazon region (Lafuente and Mazuecos 1987, 218). As a result of the Treaty of Madrid, signed in 1750 and represented in the so-called Mapa das Cortes (Guerreiro 1999, 26–29; and see fig. 447), Spanish and Portuguese commissioners organized two expeditions to carry out the boundary demarcation in South

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America. The expedition to the Orinoco was to settle the boundary in the north, from Guiana to the Jaurú River; the expedition of Gaspar de Munive, fourth marqués de Valdelirios, operated in the south up to the Castillos Grandes mountains in Uruguay. Each expedition was composed of three parties of Spanish and Portuguese commissioners assigned to explore; to mark part of the border; to measure latitude, longitude, and temperature; and to prepare maps and charts. The most important explorer and cartographer in the Orinoco expedition (1754–61) was naval officer José Solano, who was accompanied by a team of geographers and astronomers who drew many sketches and maps from the middle and upper Orinoco. In 1762, they prepared a map titled “Curso del río Orinoco,” now unfortunately lost. This map and others from this expedition heralded a new type of regional cartography, one that combined Spanish, Creole, and aboriginal ideas about the geography of the Amazon. Solano allied himself closely with several indigenous groups and used their language and nomenclature for lands and new cities (fig. 125). Even more important, Solano’s lost map indicated a new cartography operating in the Amazon forest, based on astronomical observations and measurements taken as carefully as possible with calibrated instruments. It was a source for the famous Mapa geográfico de America meridional (1775) compiled by Juan de la Cruz Cano y Olmedilla (see fig. 765), which became the standard Spanish representation of the southern part of the continent at that time. Solano’s work also served as the basis for the Mapa coro-grafico de la Nueva Andalucia (1778) by Luis de Surville (Capel 1982, 189). Its long, influential life continued in 1832, when Felipe Bauzá used it for his manuscript “Mapa del curso del rio Orinoco” (Museo de América, Madrid). Meanwhile, the Valdelirios expedition (1751–60), charged with establishing the boundary in the south, did not explore but made war against the indigenous Paraguayan Guaraníes and those Jesuits who opposed the treaty. After defeating the native peoples in 1756, the commissioners explored the Ibicuí and Pepirí Rivers without much agreement and few scientific results. In 1761 the Treaty of El Pardo cancelled the Treaty of Madrid, and a frontier war began. In 1777, the reformist Portuguese minister, Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal, and the Portuguese Crown found their position weakened by the outbreak of the American Revolutionary War and the consequent failure of the traditional British alliance. In order to make peace with Spain, they signed the preliminary Treaty of San Ildefonso and duly negotiated a future alliance. New boundary expeditions were organized to survey the borders established between Spanish and Portuguese America. In the southern part of the continent, the brilliant

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Fig. 125. VICENTE DOZ AND NICOLÁS GUERRERO, PLAN OF APURE AND PORTUGUESA RIVERS, 1761. Manuscript plan of the confluence of the two rivers with population sites; created as part of the Orinoco expedition under

the leadership of José Solano. The map reflects the Spanish, Creole, and aboriginal participation in the expedition. Size of the original: 38.8 × 49.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Museo Naval de Madrid (Signaturas 32-B-10).

astronomer, cartographer, and naval officer José Varela y Ulloa commanded the expedition, which was divided into five parties. From 1781 to 1801 they explored and mapped unknown regions in present day Uruguay, Paraguay, and Argentina. Naturalist and engineer Félix de Azara, third commissioner, wrote his Memoria sobre el Tratado de Límites de la América meridional on the political and scientific problems related to the establishment of boundaries (posthumously published in 1847 in his Memorias sobre el estado rural del Rio de la Plata en 1801). Based on explorations, he drew charts of the Salado and Paraná Rivers, and in 1793 he prepared the Descripcion é historia del Paraguay y del Rio de la Plata, with a map of the province of Paraguay and, most important, the first measured plan of the capital, Asunción. The two-volume Descripcion was also published posthumously (1847). A pilot and cartographer of the

expedition, Andrés de Oyarbide, surveyed the Río de la Plata extensively. A professor in the Academia de pilotos established by the Consulado de comerciantes in Buenos Aires, he was a key figure in training river pilots and cartographers. In the northern part of the continent, the Comisión del Marañón (1778–1804) was led by Francisco Requena, military engineer and governor of Mainas. This fascinating figure spent sixteen years in the Amazon and wrote important diaries recording the exploration of the Caquetá (Japurá), Engaños, and Apaporis Rivers (Beerman 1996, 30–45). Already a significant cartographer before his arrival in the region, Requena prepared maps and drawings of the Amazon River and its tributaries, culminating in his map of 1796 (fig. 126), which could be compared to Cano y Olmedillas’s work for other South American regions. These maps represented the

Fig. 126. FRANCISCO REQUENA, MAPA DE PARTE DE LOS VIRREYNATOS DE BUENOS AIRES, LIMA, STA FE Y CAPITANIA GRAL DE CARACAS EN LA AMERICA MERIDIONAL CON LAS COLONIAS PORTUGUESAS LIMITROFES, MADRID, 1796. Paper, printed, ca. 1:4,300,000. Requena compiled a variety of geographical knowledge and

added it to his own observations made while leading the Comisión del Marañón to survey the Amazon. Size of the original: 78 × 64 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G5200 1796.R4 Vault).

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emergence and refinement of a new type of cartography of the interior of the continent, not based on secondhand sources compiled by European geographers, but based on firsthand field experience of trained cartographers, Spanish military, and Spanish American Creoles. With local knowledge and using sophisticated equipment and techniques, these observers established the boundaries of Hispanic America. Ma n u e l Lu c en a Girald o See also: Madrid, Treaty of (1750); Society of Jesus (Rome); Spanish America; Ulloa, Antonio de, and Jorge Juan Bibliograp hy Almeida, André Ferrand de. 2003. “Samuel Fritz and the Mapping of the Amazon.” Imago Mundi 55:113–19. Beerman, Eric. 1996. Francisco Requena: La Expedición de Límites, Amazonia, 1779–1795. Madrid: Compañía Literaria. Buisseret, David. 2007. “Spanish Colonial Cartography, 1450–1700.” In HC 3:1143–71. Capel, Horacio. 1982. Geografía y matemáticas en la España del siglo XVIII. Barcelona: Oikos-Tau. Columbus, Christopher. 1992. The Voyage of Christopher Columbus: Columbus’s Own Journal of Discovery. Trans. John G. Cummins. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Guerreiro, Inácio. 1999. “Fronteiras do Brasil colonial: A cartografia dos limites na segunda metade do século XVIII.” Oceanos 40: 24–42. Herzog, Tamar. 2015. Frontiers of Possession: Spain and Portugal in Europe and the Americas. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Lafuente, Antonio, and Antonio Mazuecos. 1987. Los caballeros del punto fijo: Ciencia, política y aventura en la expedición geodésica hispanofrancesa al virreinato del Perú en el siglo XVIII. Barcelona: Serbal/CSIC. Lucena Giraldo, Manuel. 1993. Laboratorio Tropical: La expedición de límites al Orinoco, 1750–1767. Caracas: Monte Avila Editores; Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Martín-Merás (Verdejo), Luisa. 2005–7. “Fondos cartográficos y documentales de la Comisión de Límites de Brasil en el siglo XVIII en el Museo Naval de Madrid.” Terra Brasilis 7–9:123–80. Weber, David J. 2005. Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Boundary Surveying in Sweden-Finland. In the course of the seventeenth century the Swedish realm had expanded by the acquisition of extensive new territories. Skåne (Scania), Halland, and Blekinge were completely wrested from Denmark in 1679. The Öresund became the frontier between the two countries. From Norway, Sweden gained Bohuslän together with the two provinces Jämtland and Härjedalen to the east of the mountain chain running from north to south through the Scandinavian peninsula. On the other side of the sea, the Baltic provinces Kexholm län (county of Karelia), Ingria, Estonia, and Livonia and large areas in north Germany had become part of the realm and served as outposts of the empire. At the close of the century there were more than fifty fortresses and some forty redoubts guarding the country’s frontiers to the west, south, and east. The dominions were linked together by a Baltic Sea that had become, in effect, a Swedish lake.

Following the Great Northern War (1700–1721), in the Treaty of Nystad (Uusikaupunki) (1721), Sweden lost Estonia, Livonia, and the area of Karelia and Ingria around the interior of the Gulf of Finland, where Czar Peter I had founded his new capital, Saint Petersburg. A boundary commission convened in 1722–23 with Major-General Axel von Löwen and Jacob Johan Faber as Swedish commissioners (Stockholm, Riksarkivet [RA], SE/RA/81007/3/3.3). In treaties of 1719 and 1720 Sweden lost Bremen-Verden to Hannover and parts of Pomerania and Stettin to Prussia. After the Great Northern War a defensive policy was pursued in Sweden, but one party in the Diet (called the Hats), wanted revenge on Russia and hoped to recover the lost Baltic territories. They were able to launch the Russo-Swedish War of 1741–43, which, however, resulted in another Swedish defeat and the loss of additional Finnish territory. Following the Treaty of Åbo (Turku) (1743), yet another boundary commission was authorized, and by the conclusion of its work in 1761 it had produced at least twenty-two maps of the boundary (SE/RA/81007/3/3.4; Stockholm, Krigsarkivet [KrA], SE/KrA/0410/K/002–004). Krigsarkivet holds a leatherbound volume of thirty-three boundary maps by Filip Nordencreutz, the commander-in-chief of fortifications in Finland, who was taken prisoner by cossacks and killed (SE/KrA/0410/K/001 01–033). The stretch of the border between Sweden and Norway that separates Østfold from Dalsland and Värmland is the longest in Europe and is supposed to be the oldest in the world, being largely uncontested since the tenth century. Boundary commissions in 1658, 1661, and 1690, including work by the surveyors Kettil Classon Felterus and Christofer Jakobsson Stenklyft, produced some nine maps of the boundary (SE/RA/81007/2/2.1– 2.1). But it was not until the mid-eighteenth century that boundary commissions and the border treaty of 1751 led to mapping that established the national border in full detail. Of particular concern was the boundary in the far north, separating the Saami under Norwegian and Swedish sovereignty (elaborated in the Lapp/Saami Codicil). A printed map by Georg Biurman was the first to show the contentious areas along the whole border with the Saami villages (Svea ock Göta riken med Finland ock Norland, 1747; see fig. 324). Three men from each country were responsible for the boundary mapping, while local manpower looked after the clearance work. The series of twenty-seven maps (at scales of between 1:20,000 and 1:22,000 for the southern parts of the border and 1:40,000 from Nasafjäll northward) have come to be known as the Marelius maps, because it is thanks to the land surveyor Nils Marelius that it became a very cohesive work of extremely high quality throughout (fig. 127). For a long time after they

Fig. 127. NILS MARELIUS ET AL., “CHARTA ÖFWER DEN DELEN AF RIKSGRÄNTSEN EMILLAN SWERIGE OCH NORRIGE,” 1763. Manuscript map, 1:40,000, part of a series of twenty-seven boundary maps 1752–66. The boundary be-

tween Sweden and Norway is delineated, showing boundary stones numbers 248–74, close to the northern tip of Sweden. Size of the original: 77 × 194 cm. Image courtesy of Krigsarkivet, Stockholm (SE/KrA/0400/26/038).

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were drawn up, these maps served as the basis for later revisions of the Swedish-Norwegian border. Marelius was well-served by his second-in-command, engineer Kilian Ratkind (SE/RA/81007/2/2.4/2.4.3/2.4.3.1). The Napoleonic Wars of 1792–1809 brought with them great changes for the European states. Sweden’s refusal to join the Continental System embargo that Napoleon had proclaimed against the United Kingdom led to the Russian army attacking Finland in 1808. By November the Swedish army had evacuated the eastern half of the realm, and Finland and the Åland Islands were ceded to Russia in the 1809 Treaty of Fredrikshamn (Hamina). The Swedish realm had lost one third of its territory and one fifth of its population, and a new series of boundary surveys commenced in 1810. U lla Eh rensvärd See also: Sweden-Finland; Topographical Surveying: Sweden-Finland Bibliograp hy Gustafsson, Åke. 1995. Riksgränshistoria & gränsöversyner: Från Svinesund till Haparanda. Gävle: Lantmäteriet, Kartförlaget. Numelin, Ragnar. 1925. “Finlands gränser: En geopolitisk studie.” Ymer 45:423–39. Schnitler, Peter. 1929–85. Major Peter Schnitlers grenseeksaminasjonsprotokoller, 1742–1745. 3 vols. Oslo: Norsk Historisk KjeldeskriftInstitutt. Wikström, Sten. 1982. Norrbotten: En studie om gränser. Luleå: Tornedalica.

Boundary Surveying in Switzerland. Before 1798, the

Swiss Confederation was a federation of thirteen sovereign cantons as well as localities and allied and subject territories. Its independence, which had existed de facto since 1499, had been recognized de jure in the Treaty of Westphalia signed at Münster in 1648. Every canton was more or less autonomous; only the common bailiwicks (Thurgau, Italian bailiwicks, etc.) were administrated collectively by multiple cantons. When border disputes arose, Switzerland acted as one entity only for those territories. After the Thirty Years’ War, not a single war was fought with a foreign country until the 1798 invasion by French troops. Military conflicts only occurred domestically, the most important of which were the two confessional civil wars of 1656 and 1712. Therefore neither major external nor internal border adjustments were made. Only in 1712 was the Freie Ämter in contemporary Aargau divided by a straight borderline that delimited the area in which the reformed Protestant cantons were to gain more influence. Boundary surveys in Switzerland thus generally entailed only the negotiation of disputed borders between parts of municipalities, as opposed to the boundaries with foreign countries or between cantons, departments, dominions, or municipalities. Only rarely did treaties define larger borderlines with any precision.

In the Swiss context, border maps are nearly all manuscript maps that serve to illustrate a text. They show the course of the border as a supplement to march (border) descriptions, serve as records for border negotiations, or constitute parts of border treaties. Text and map always form one unit; that is to say the text must always be taken into account when dealing with border maps. Border maps generally contain sketches of border markers and often contain figures on distances. Annotations can form parts of the maps to some extent; for example, they may contain indexes of border markers or the reasons for border disputes. In rare instances maps exist in which administrative division boundaries within a domain are closely detailed. As complements to border treaties, copies of survey schedules, plans in which territorial claims are depicted, and plans that depict the contractually fixed border are issued for all parties. The quality of border maps in Switzerland with regard to surveying and graphic techniques markedly improved during the eighteenth century. On behalf of the city of Basel, Hans Bock and his son Niklaus drew over thirty plans of the borders of the territory of Basel from Gross-Hüningen to Augst on a scale of about 1:4,500 in 1620, of which seventeen have survived. In addition to the border markers, data on distances can also be found on these maps (Burckhardt 1906, 301–2). Several border maps of smaller domains drawn by Hans Conrad Gyger exist, which subsequently constituted one of the bases of his large 1664–67 map of the territory of Zurich, Einer loblichen Statt Zurich (ca. 1: 32,000) along with a Marchenbuch. This map details the boundaries of high courts (Hochgerichtsgrenzen) with gold dots and the boundaries of bailiwicks with red dots. Similarly, in 1688 Heinrich Peyer prepared thirtyone plans of all the borders of the territory of Schaffhausen in scales from 1:8,800 to 1:11,500. Moreover, he constructed a wooden model for each border marker (Wyder 2000). Samuel Bodmer, a wealthy baker by trade who learned surveying as an artillery engineer, recorded the approximately 1,100-kilometer national border of Bern between 1705 and 1710 using step and simple angular measurement, although in so doing he made major mistakes. In 1714–17, he recorded the result in a four volume Marchenbuch of 1,007 pages (Martig 1995; Höhener and Klöti 2010, 23). The landgraviate of Thurgau and the princely abbey of St. Gallen commissioned Daniel Teucher to ascertain the precise definition of their mutual boundaries. His map of the entire border on a scale of about 1:10,000 served as the basis for the border agreement of 1727. About 1730, Gabriel Hecht authored a border atlas of

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Fig. 128. MANUSCRIPT MAP FROM THE SERIES SHOWING THE BOUNDARY BETWEEN THE THEN AUSTRIAN DUCHY OF MILAN AND SWITZERLAND, 1754. This is one sheet of sixteen and depicts the southernmost part of the region, the Canton of Ticino. The series was made in connection with the border treaty of Varese of 1752. On the left is a list of boundary stones (dichiarazione de numeri). This sheet title is “Tipo rapresentante la fissazione de termini territoriali frà Bizzarone, e Rodero della Pieue d’Uggiate Contado di Como,

Ligurno, e Cliuio della Pieue d’Arcisate Ducato di Milano confinanti con Nouazzano, Genestrerio, e Stabbio, e Ligornetto Stato Suizzero.” The authors are the Milanese engineer Gaudenzo Portigliotti and the Swiss engineer Giuseppe Caresana, and the map is sealed by Ignazio Martignoni of Milan and the Swiss landvogt Gian Lodovico (Johann Ludwig) de Peyer. No sheets of the series are known to have been published. Size of the original: 59.5 × 88.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsarchiv des Kantons Zürich (PLAN N 194).

sixty-one sheets (fifty-nine containing maps, two blank) detailing all borders of the princely abbey of St. Gallen on the same scale (Höhener 1992). A conference was called in 1752 in Varese to solve the problems over the disputed border between the then Austrian duchy of Milan and the Swiss bailiwicks of Locarno, Mendrisio, and Lugano. At first, both parties presented maps showing their claims in the disputed areas. The Milanese used maps of the Milanese censimento dating from 1720–23. On additional maps of these areas drawn at 1:2,000, the newly agreed upon borderline was added to the existing lines of both parties. At last in 1754, sixteen maps notarized using seals from both sides were added as supplements to the border treaty. They were drawn at 1:8,000 under the supervision of

engineers Gaudenzo Portigliotti for the Milanese and Giuseppe Caresana for the Swiss (fig. 128). Between 1762 and 1768, the border was adjusted between the cantons of Bern and Solothurn, about which ambiguities had arisen in many places. Geometricians Johann Joseph Derendinger and Johann Abraham Vissaula produced eighty-five plans on a scale of 1:3,000 that record the precise course of the border amidst a small strip of adjoining terrain with great exactitude. H ans -Pe ter H öhener See also: Switzerland; Topographical Surveying: Switzerland Bibliography Burckhardt, Fritz. 1906. “Über Pläne und Karten des Baselgebietes aus dem 17. Jahrhundert.” Basler Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Altertumskunde 5:291–360.

222 Graffina, Gustavo. [1928]. Documenti relativi al confine fra il Cantone Ticino e il Regno d’Italia raccolti e pubblicati per incarico del Consiglio federale svizzero. Lugano: Arti Grafiche. Höhener, Hans-Peter. 1992. “Der Grenzatlas der stiftsanktgallischen Alten Landschaft von ca. 1730.” Cartographica Helvetica 6:33–37. Höhener, Hans-Peter, and Thomas Klöti. 2010. “Geschichte der schweizerischen Kartographie.” In Kartographische Sammlungen in der Schweiz: Beiträge über ausgewählte Sammlungen und zur Kartographiegeschichte der Schweiz, ed. Jürg Bühler et al., 15–38. Bern: Universität Bern. Online publication. Martig, Peter. 1995. “Bernische Grenz- und Gewässerpläne.” Vermessung, Photogrammetrie, Kulturtechnik VPK = Mensuration, Photogrammétrie, Génie Rural 93:622–25. Wyder, Samuel. 2000. “Die Schaffhauser Karten von Heinrich Peyer (1621–1690).” Cartographica Helvetica 22:21–30. ———. 2006. Grenz-, Zehnten- und Befestigungspläne des Zürcher Gebiets von Hans Conrad Gyger (1599–1674). Sonderheft 18. Murten: Cartographica Helvetica.

British America. Britain’s initially hesitant and sporadic interests in America consolidated rapidly after 1650. After a century of imperial expansion at the expense of native peoples and other colonial powers— the period of growth was neatly bracketed by the annexations of New Netherland (1664) and New France (1763)—the British controlled widely diverse colonies stretching along the entire Atlantic seaboard from Labrador and Hudson’s Bay in the north to the West Indies and the littoral of the Caribbean in the south. At both geographical extremes, these colonies possessed simple economic foundations: resource extraction (fish and furs) sustained relatively low levels of European immigration in the northern colonies, such as Newfoundland and Québec (formerly New France); plantation monoculture (sugar), sustained by the massive importation of African slaves, supported the colonies around the Caribbean, such as Guyana, and on the many West Indian islands, notably Jamaica. Between them lay the economically diverse and more demographically balanced thirteen colonies that would, after 1776, break away from British rule to form the United States of America, while the remaining regions of Canada, islands in the West Indies, and establishments along the Caribbean coast and South America remained in British hands. The geography of British America is well illustrated and discussed by D. W. Meinig (1986). The distinctiveness of the several colonies has promoted a fragmented historiography, as historians each study a specific colony or region. In Canada and the West Indies, historians have treated the colonies only as the prelude to their later imperial incarnations and to the eventually independent states. In the United States, historians further developed a master narrative in which the frontier experience in the thirteen original colonies purified British culture such that it became uniquely and exceptionally “American” and could triumph over

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nature, native peoples, and Old World tyranny. In reaction, British (and some U.S.) historians wrote the history of the formation and loss of the “first British empire” from the point of view of developments within the British metropol. After 1945, however, increasing interest in economic, demographic, environmental, and world history led scholars to discard their nationalistic parochialism and instead to understand early British America as an arena of great geographical and sociological diversity (effectively summarized by Meinig 1986 and Taylor 2001). The growth of Atlantic history further reconstituted British America as comprising a series of regional networks intertwined with others of transatlantic and global reach. The historiography of cartography in British America has recapitulated the same fragmentation as colonial history, but it has done so within a general narrative of the inevitable progress of Western science, civilization, and cartography. Empire and mapmaking were seen to march forward in lockstep after 1600. Mapping activities in British America were understood through a simple and direct model of information transfer from America to London, from manuscript surveys and journals in the colonies to printed maps issued in the metropol. Assuming print to be the sole effective medium for disseminating knowledge, historians used printed geographical maps (almost all prepared as commercial products in London) to trace the progress of British exploration, discovery, settlement, expansion, and territorial control in the colonies (Brückner 2011). Within this general framework, scholarship was aligned according to the same modern nationalistic divisions that fractured general historiography. Through exhibitions, cartobibliographies, and general narratives, historians defined sequences of geographical maps to trace the progressive transformation of undifferentiated continental spaces into modern regions, provinces, and states (e.g., Ruggles 1991; Kershaw 1993–98; Cumming 1998; McCorkle 2001). Furthermore, U.S. scholars replicated the general historiography by recasting map history in terms of the development of an American identity and an autonomous agency for the colonial settlers. In particular, the sporadic instances of map printing in North America were seen to mark the transfer of European civilization to the New World, while the revolution and independence formed the inevitable culmination of general narratives (e.g., Winsor 1884–89; Fite and Freeman 1926; Cumming 1974; Pritchard and Taliaferro 2002, 54–311). Since 1980, map historians have steadily abandoned their traditional fixation on the maps made of the colonies, wherever produced, and have begun to address the cartographic work accomplished within the colonies themselves. This new work points to a multiplicity of early American cartographies (Brückner 2011). To begin

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Fig. 129. CYPRIAN SOUTHACK, TO HIS EXCELLENCY SAMUEL SHUTE ESQR. . . .THIS CHART IS MOST HUMBLY DEDICATED & PRESENTED (BOSTON, 1717). Southack, captain of the Massachusetts Bay galley, made this map to promote the message of Governor Robert Hunter, before the New York legislature in June 1716, about the threat

posed by encirclement by the French. Southack drew and labeled the French forts in the continent’s interior but downplayed the extent of British settlement on the map by labeling them with only numbers keyed to the index at lower right. Size of the original: 68.0 × 76.8 cm. Image courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library, Brown University, Providence.

with, there were significant temporal variations in the degree of mapping activity in British America. Mapping activities were generally sporadic and unsustained in the colonies before 1714. Thereafter—with increasing demographic, economic, and political stability—property and regional maps became an ever more pronounced element of colonial life. Through the eighteenth century, mapping endeavors increasingly underpinned the expansion and consolidation of British power in Amer-

ica, the imperial conflicts between the British and other European powers, and British encounters and negotiations with indigenous peoples (e.g., Lennox 2011; Mapp 2011). Spatially, mapping activities differed among groups of colonies. In particular, the plantation economies of the Caribbean and southern mainland colonies emphasized the production of large-scale maps of plantations and the importation of other kinds of maps from the

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metropol. More profound spatial variations lay between the coastal and interior settlements. The patterns of map production, circulation, and consumption align with social and spatial distinctions drawn by David D. Hall (1996, 151–68) and Stephen J. Hornsby (2005). Hall distinguished between elite and traditional forms of literacy. Hornsby distinguished between three economic regions: the resource extraction of the interior American frontier; the Atlantic, dominated by merchants and mariners from Britain itself; and the strip of coastal ports (e.g., Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Charleston) that connected and mediated between the two. Thus, colonial merchants, ship captains, royal officials, lawyers, and major planters were concentrated in the coastal centers and participated in the transatlantic circulation of capital, people, goods, and knowledge; they read widely among imported printed materials, and some of their own maps and writings accompanied their exports across the Atlantic world and to London. By contrast, settlers, slaves, and native peoples in the interior participated in small local networks of exchange within each port’s hinterland; if they read at all, they read the few locally produced works, both manuscript and print, and their own writings did not circulate beyond the ports. Most cartographic activities in British America were undertaken by or for members of the coastal elites. They actively circulated geographical maps, overwhelmingly of the colonies themselves. By the 1750s, when the economies of the central colonies had grown sufficiently sophisticated to support a public sphere of cultural and political exchange, the coastal elites became the mainstay of the trade in printed geographical maps and urban plans, whether imported from Europe or published locally. And government officials commissioned a variety of geographical maps, topographical plans of fortifications and estuaries, and surveys of the boundaries between colonies. All members of the coastal elites participated in the property market, especially as a hedge against the inflation endemic to the colonial currencies. The interior settlers were much less cartographically engaged than the coastal elites. If they dealt with any maps, it was most likely to have been with property plans, yet their practices in producing and consuming manuscript property plans were nonetheless regulated by the coastal elites who invested heavily in frontier lands (Benes 1981, xv–xvi). It is in property mapping that we find the most obvious cartographic role for the interior settlers. Despite the new appreciation of native sources and of the importance of native agency in mapping (e.g., Lewis 1998), the cartographic activities of native peoples within British America remains largely unexamined; it is nonetheless clear that at least some native groups adopted European practices of property mapping in an effort to resist encroachments (Pearce 2004).

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There was relatively little marine charting within the colonies. More precisely, there were only occasional efforts by colonial-based mariners to inscribe their own knowledge about the coasts in pilot books and charts (fig. 480 shows a rare instance). Colonial mariners used charts made in London as part of a system dominated by the metropol. Thus mapping in British America had no common or consistent character. The cultural and economic divisions within and among the colonies and regions prevented the formation of an independent British American cartographic culture. In the early eighteenth century, the coastal elites of the mainland colonies shared a sense of unity based on a common fear of being surrounded by the French. This sense was occasionally expressed in locally produced geographical maps, from Cyprian Southack’s 1717 wall map of the eastern part of North America (fig. 129) to Benjamin Franklin’s 1754 political cartoon map (fig. 130). But the 1763 annexation of New France removed the common threat from British Amer-

Fig. 130. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, “JOIN, OR DIE,” PENNSYLVANIA GAZETTE (9 MAY 1754). In the woodcut engraving the divided snake represented the mainland British colonies from “N.E.” (New England) to “S.C.” (South Carolina) and accompanied Franklin’s political statement of the importance of unity in the face of the French threat to British America on the eve of the Seven Years’ War. Image courtesy of the American Antiquarian Society, Worcester. © American Antiquarian Society.

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Fig. 131. WILLIAM DOUGLASS, THIS PLAN OF THE BRITISH DOMINIONS OF NEW ENGLAND IN NORTH AMERICA (LONDON, [1755]). Douglass fitted the surveys of New England towns to surveys of the lines of colonial boundaries and presented the whole as if it were the product of a single regionwide survey. It remained unfinished on his death in October 1752, and his nephew Cornelius eventually

had it printed in London in mid-1755; it was then used as the basis for John Green’s Map of the Most Inhabited Part of New England (London: Thomas Jefferys, 1755). Size of the original: 93 × 102 cm. (in four sheets). Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3720 1753 .D6 Vault).

ica and with it the sense of territorial unity. Indeed, the revolutionary sentiments that subsequently flourished in the colonies’ nascent public sphere lacked geographical expression: other than the sporadic repackaging of Franklin’s motif of the divided snake (Cook 1996), geographical maps were absent from colonial political rhetoric. Mapping activities in British America were not simply

less stylistically or technically refined versions of those in Britain. Although the colonials drew extensively on metropolitan mapping traditions and consumed geographical maps and marine charts imported from Europe, their cartographic practices diverged significantly. In the West Indies and the southern mainland, the estate maps fostered by a plantation economy were remarkably similar in form to those of Britain; elsewhere in

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British America, property mapping was geared more toward creating property. Less dense settlement and less intensive land use resulted in a particular plain style that required less sophisticated instruments to achieve. The delineation and maintenance of boundaries between the mainland colonies entailed more cartographic activity than similar work in Britain. Boundary surveys applied the techniques of property surveying at regional scales. Hybrid regional maps of the mainland colonies created from boundary and property maps combined two otherwise distinct cartographic modes. Maps such as William Douglass’s plan of New England, published posthumously in 1755 (fig. 131), might appear to validate the traditional narrative of cartographic progress, in which smaller-scale abstractions give way to extensive surveys (Edney 2003, 166–72), yet such a hybrid regional map was clearly a distinct and specific formation of the colonial experience and not a product of an ill-defined civilizing force. M atth ew H . Ed ney See also: Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying; Geographical Mapping; Great Britain; Hudson’s Bay Company (Great Britain); Map Trade; Property Mapping; Revolution, American; Topographical Surveying; Trade and Plantations, Board of (Great Britain); United States of America; Urban Mapping; Utrecht, Treaty of (1713) Bibliograp hy Benes, Peter. 1981. New England Prospect: A Loan Exhibition of Maps at the Currier Gallery of Art, Manchester, New Hampshire. Boston: Boston University for the Dublin Seminar for New England Folklife. Brückner, Martin. 2011. “Introduction: The Plurality of Early American Cartography.” In Early American Cartographies, ed. Martin Brückner, 1–32. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Cook, Karen Severud. 1996. “Benjamin Franklin and the Snake that Would Not Die.” In Images & Icons of the New World: Essays on American Cartography, ed. Karen Severud Cook, 88–111. London: British Library. Cumming, William Patterson. 1974. British Maps of Colonial America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1998. The Southeast in Early Maps. 3d ed., rev. and enl. Ed. Louis De Vorsey. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Edelson, S. Max. 2017. The New Map of Empire: How Britain Imagined America before Independence. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Edney, Matthew H. 2003. “New England Mapped: The Creation of a Colonial Territory.” In La cartografia europea tra primo Rinascimento e fine dell’Illuminismo, ed. Diogo Ramada Curto, Angelo Cattaneo, and André Ferrand de Almeida, 155–76. Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore. Fite, Emerson D., and Archibald Freeman, comps. and eds. 1926. A Book of Old Maps Delineating American History from the Earliest Days Down to the Close of the Revolutionary War. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Hall, David D. 1996. Cultures of Print: Essays in the History of the Book. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2005. British Atlantic, American Frontier: Spaces of Power in Early Modern British America. Hanover: University Press of New England.

Kershaw, Kenneth A. 1993–98. Early Printed Maps of Canada. 4 vols. Ancaster: K. A. Kershaw. Lennox, Jeffers. 2011. “Nova Scotia Lost and Found: The Acadian Boundary Negotiation and Imperial Envisioning, 1750–1755.” Acadiensis 40, no. 2:3–31. Lewis, G. Malcolm, ed. 1998. Cartographic Encounters: Perspectives on Native American Mapmaking and Map Use. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mapp, Paul W. 2011. The Elusive West and the Contest for Empire, 1713–1763. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. McCorkle, Barbara B. 2001. New England in Early Printed Maps, 1513 to 1800: An Illustrated Carto-Bibliography. Providence: John Carter Brown Library. Meinig, D. W. 1986. The Shaping of America: A Geographical Perspective on 500 Years of History, Volume 1, Atlantic America, 1492– 1800. New Haven: Yale University Press. Pearce, Margaret W. 2004. “Encroachment by Word, Axis, and Tree: Mapping Techniques from the Colonization of New England.” Cartographic Perspectives 48:24–38. Pritchard, Margaret Beck, and Henry G. Taliaferro. 2002. Degrees of Latitude: Mapping Colonial America. New York: By the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation in association with Harry N. Abrams. Ruggles, Richard I. 1991. A Country So Interesting: The Hudson’s Bay Company and Two Centuries of Mapping, 1670–1870. Montreal: McGill–Queen’s University Press. Taylor, Alan. 2001. American Colonies. New York: Viking. Winsor, Justin, ed. 1884–89. Narrative and Critical History of America. 8 vols. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin.

Buache, Jean-Nicolas. Born at La Neuville-au-Pont (present-day Marne) on 15 February 1741, Jean-Nicolas Buache (often called Buache de la Neuville by contemporaries) was the nephew of Philippe Buache and the cousin of Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré twice over (their mothers were sisters, Marie-Claude and Marie-Catherine Collin; and Jean-Nicolas married their mutual cousin, Marie-Louise Collin, who was his uncle’s daughter). This extended family of Buache (Delisle)–Collin–Beautemps-Beaupré may be considered one of the most important dynasties of French geographers, with the transmission of knowledge occurring essentially within the family (Chapuis 1999, 274–81, 762–64). In 1751, Jean-Nicolas was sent to his relative Marc-Dieudonné Collin, who kept a private secondary boarding school at Picpus on the outskirts of Paris. After receiving the core of his education, Buache taught there himself before joining his uncle Philippe in geographic work. From 1 January 1762, Jean-Nicolas visited Philippe regularly at Versailles, preparing maps for the lessons of the future Louis XVI, Louis XVIII, and Charles X. After Philippe’s death (1773), Jean-Nicolas inherited his Paris shop and purchased his geographic collection. Jean-Nicolas had just published his Géographie élémentaire (Buache 1772), based on the course he had given at Picpus. He placed astronomy and mathematics at the forefront of geographical concerns, which was contrary to his uncle’s point of view. Moreover, by

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taking an interest in the Northwest Passage, he continued a long tradition of the Delisle and Buache families, and not without repeating some of their errors. These large geographic questions—marked by considerations of strategy, ego, and national prestige, often within the framework of a French-British rivalry (with Alexander Dalrymple in particular)—lay at the heart of his preoccupations, as demonstrated by his communication on the Solomon Islands, presented to the Académie des sciences in January 1781 and about which he was still arguing when Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu took up the problem in 1790. In 1775, Jean-Nicolas Buache entered the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, where he ran the Entrepôt général, created on 30 September 1776 for the sale of maps and others works. He became premier ingénieur hydrographe, the title used in those years for the ingé-

nieur hydrographe de la Marine, on 1 October 1779 (kept secret until 1 April 1789), and garde adjoint (administrative and financial vice-director) in May 1780; shortly afterward (5 June), he sold his private map business to Jean-Claude Dezauche and also handed over to him the management of Entrepôt général in the same year. In 1782, Buache replaced Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, who had died, at the Académie des sciences and followed d’Anville as premier géographe du roi, becoming the last to hold that prestigious title. Named geography professor of the Dauphin in February 1783, in the spring of 1785 he was entrusted to prepare maps for Jean-François de Lapérouse (fig.  132). After some difficulties under the Terror (Chapuis 1999, 465–66, 569–73), he was confirmed as hydrographe de la Marine and conservateur of the Dépôt on 26 August 1795. He was the only geographer in the Bureau des

Fig. 132. DETAIL FROM THE MAP OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN PREPARED FOR JEAN-FRANÇOIS DE LAPÉROUSE’S EXPEDITION, [JEAN-NICOLAS BUACHE] (PARIS, 1785). Manuscript map in six sheets, ca. 1:10,000,000. Prepared by Buache with Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré as designer and under the direction of Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu, this map of the Pacific Ocean was prepared in three sections (northern, equatorial, and southern) of two sheets each, or six large (grand-aigle) sheets for the whole chart. Only five copies were made, destined for the two commanders of the ships for the expedition of Lapérouse, for the naval minister

Charles-Eugène-Gabriel de la Croix, marquis de Castries, for Fleurieu, and for King Louis XVI. This document compiles the best information about the Pacific Ocean known after the three voyages of James Cook, whose routes are shown. Detail shown is from the equatorial section with Hawaiian (Sandwich) Islands upper right and a portion of Australia (Nouvelle Hollande) lower left. Size of the original section: 59.5 × 182.0 cm; size of detail: ca. 46.5 × 75.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18E pf 174 P. 1/2, vue 2).

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longitudes, established on 25 June 1795, and in the same year became professor of geography at the newly formed École normale and member of the equally new Institut national, successor to the royal Academies. Until his death on 21 November 1825, he published relatively little but was influential in the activity of institutions (he imagined the future Société de géographie as early as 1785), guaranteeing the continuity of the hydrographic service of France, especially in maintaining collections and improving the quality of map engraving. In this domain with the engraver Étienne Collin, as in other sectors of the Dépôt, he had promoted members of his brilliant family (Chapuis 1999, 569–73). O liv ier Ch apuis See also: Geographical Mapping: France; Map Trade: France Bibliograp hy Buache, Jean-Nicolas. 1772. Géographie élémentaire moderne et ancienne, contenant les principes de la géographie, une description générale du globe, & un détail particulier de l’Europe & de la France. Paris: D’Houry. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Le Guisquet, Bernard. 1999. “Le Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine sous l’Ancien Régime (1720–1789).” Neptunia 214:3–21.

Buache, Philippe. Philippe Buache was born in Paris on 7 February 1700 to a family from the Champagne region. Artistic at an early age, he studied mathematics and fine arts under the supervision of Robert Pitrou, future inspector of the Ponts et Chaussées. In 1721, he received a grand prize in architecture for a church plan, but, influenced by Guillaume Delisle, he preferred geography and entered into the newly founded Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine. After Delisle’s death, his widow wanted Buache to continue her late husband’s work, because he “knows even more about geometry and astronomy than one asks of a geographer” and has “a deep understanding of M. Delisle’s method and of his principles in mapmaking” (Fréret 1726, 490–91). In 1729, Buache married Delisle’s daughter Charlotte and, like his deceased father-in-law, became premier géographe du roi. The following year, a geographer position was created for him at the Académie des sciences. In 1737, he left the Dépôt and began publishing his own maps at the quai de la Mégisserie, on the right bank of the Seine, near the Pont-Neuf; in 1745, upon the death of his mother-in-law, who bequeathed to him Delisle’s stock of copperplates from which Buache sold new pulls, he moved to the opposite bank, on the quai de l’Horloge. During the 1750s and ’60s, he devised a geographical curriculum through maps for the Dauphin’s sons: the Duke of Burgundy and his three brothers, later Louis XVI, Louis XVIII, and Charles X. Buache died

in Paris on 27 January 1773 (Lagarde 1985, 21–22). The Delisle-Buache cartographic resources were sold to Jean-Claude Dezauche in 1780. One of the great géographes de cabinet of the eighteenth century, Buache used documents from the Dépôt de la Marine and the Delisle collection. His work at the Dépôt responded to the needs of navigators with maps of the Mediterranean and of the North Atlantic, or following family tradition with a new map of the Gulf of Mexico, or studies on the declinational variations of the compass. During the 1730s his position at the Dépôt became preeminent: he reported directly to the ministre de la Marine and even developed a publication program, which certainly aroused the jealousy of his colleague Jacques-Nicolas Bellin (Pelletier 2007, 563). Like his scientific contemporaries, Buache was a systematic thinker, and the Académie des sciences supported his work, which highlighted physical, terrestrial, and marine geography. In a report presented to the Académie in 1752, this former architect viewed the tall mountain ranges that traversed the globe over land and under water “as the girders of the different parts of the globe.” To delineate these ranges, he relied upon “the sources of rivers, which naturally indicate the tallest mountains and the highest ground,” and he looked to islands, reefs, and rocks as indicators of the existence of underwater mountains (Buache 1756, 401). As an illustration of this theory, he showed his map of the English Channel (fig. 133), already presented to the Académie in 1737, on which he had introduced contours (isobaths) (Lagarde 1985, 23–24). Buache combined theory with practice. He studied the Seine and its tributaries, which were important waterways to the provisioning of Paris: he noted the river’s levels, observed the flood of 1740, and engaged in surveying operations in the capital, attentive as always to land and underwater relief. Around 1730, he prepared a “Carte géographique et physique du bassin de la Seine,” completed in 1766, but never printed. On it the various basins are separated by “mountain ranges”—in reality the sills of the basins—which provided useful knowledge for digging new canals and which also appear on the Carte physique ou Géographie naturelle de la France, presented to the Académie des sciences in 1744 and published in 1770. In 1749–50, he created a geometrical plan of the city of Paris, also unpublished. In 1743, Buache proposed to the Académie des sciences the formation of a series of maps of the kingdom, a project judged to be interesting. In 1748 he agreed to edit the map of Languedoc, prepared for the États du Languedoc, but the latter subsequently had to have César-François Cassini (III) de Thury’s ingénieurs resurvey the area. Buache followed news of explorations closely, which stimulated new ideas. In 1739, he drew the map showing Jean-Baptiste Charles Bouvet de Lozier’s voyage to

Fig. 133. PHILIPPE BUACHE, CARTE PHYSIQUE ET PROFIL DU CANAL DE LA MANCHE ET D’UNE PARTIE DE LA MER DU NORD. Engraved in copper by F. Desbruslins; from Buache 1756, pl. XIV. The basins of the Seine and Thames are shown; isobaths are drawn with the depths given in fathoms for the English Channel and the North Sea. Across

the top a cutaway view represents the terrain of the sea floor, matching the isobaths of the map below. Size of the original: 25.2 × 34.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

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the Southern Hemisphere and, in 1754, he added his own theories, presented in a 1757 report. Buache’s contribution to the growing myth of the Sea of the West (near the west coast of North America) drew criticism from Didier Robert de Vaugondy. Buache could be reproached for exploiting his fatherin-law’s fame and for allowing himself to develop some rash hypotheses. Far from being idle, he thoroughly explained his proposals, as the numerous memoirs that he presented to the Académie des sciences demonstrate. These memoirs are supported by a lucid cartography that reveals his blossoming talent for drawing; today, he would be called an excellent “communicator.” Mon iq u e Pelletier See also: Delisle Family; Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France); Geographical Mapping: France; Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Isobath; Marine Charting: France; Sea of the West; Thematic Mapping: France Bibliograp hy Buache, Philippe. 1756. “Essai de géographie physique, où l’on propose des vûes générales sur l’espèce de charpente du globe, composée des chaînes de montagnes qui traversent les mers comme les terres; avec quelques considérations particulières sur les différens bassins de la mer, & sur sa configuration intérieure.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1752: 399–416. Fréret, Nicolas. 1726. “Lettre à M. de L. R. sur les ouvrages geographiques de M. De Lisle.” Mercure de France, mars, 468–91. Laboulais, Isabelle. 2004. “Le système de Buache, une ‘nouvelle façon de considérer notre globe’ et de combler les blancs de la carte.” In Combler les blancs de la carte: Modalités et enjeux de la construction des savoirs géographiques (XVIe–XXe siècle), ed. Isabelle Laboulais, 93–115. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg. Lagarde, Lucie. 1985. “Philippe Buache, 1700–1773.” Geographers: Biobibliographical Studies 9:21–27. Pelletier, Monique. 2007. “Buache et le Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine: Les débuts d’une institution, le départ d’une carrière, 1721–1737.” In Mappæ Antiquæ: Liber Amicorum Günter Schilder, ed. Paula van Gestel-van het Schip and Peter van der Krogt, 563–78. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf.

Bugge, Thomas. Thomas Bugge was born in Copenhagen on 12 October 1740 and died in the same city on 15 January 1815. He completed a degree in theology at Copenhagen University in 1759. But he had also studied pure and applied mathematics under Christen Hee, and his career focused on astronomy and cartography. He became a leading figure in Denmark, as a scientist, teacher, and administrator. Einar Andersen’s (1968) biography remains the main account of Bugge’s life and work; Kurt Møller Pedersen and Peter de Clerq provide a useful summary (in Bugge 2010, IX–XIX). In 1759, Bugge began assisting both Christian Horrebow, director of the Copenhagen Observatory, housed atop the Rundetaarn (Round Tower), and Peder Koefoed, who was then undertaking a survey of Denmark under the auspices of the academy of sciences and letters, the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab. On Koefoed’s early death in 1760, Hee and Bugge submitted

an extensive plan for a continuation of Koefoed’s work, inspired by the work of the Cassini Carte de France (Pedersen 1992, 96–97). The result was the first mapping of Denmark, Schleswig, and Holstein using trigonometry and astronomical operations. The academy formed a commission to take charge of the survey, but Bugge was the actual leader from 1762 until his death, although officially only from 1780. In this capacity he trained many Danish surveyors (Pedersen 1992, 101–2). The academy elected Bugge as a member in 1775, and urged him to publish an account of the methods and results of his triangulation of Sjæland (Zealand): Beskrivelse over den opmaalings maade, som er brugt ved de danske geographiske karter (1779, German edition 1787), including a map of the survey (see fig. 264). He also wrote mathematical textbooks that included much information on geodesy, land surveying, and the construction of geographical maps (fig. 134).

Fig. 134. THOMAS BUGGE’S EXPLANATION OF HOW TO DRAW A GEOGRAPHICAL MAP. From his De første grunde til den sphæriske og theoretiske astronomie, samt den mathematiske geographie (Copenhagen: S. Poulsen, 1796), table 12. © The British Library Board, London.

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In January 1777, Bugge succeeded Horrebow as professor of mathematics and astronomy at Copenhagen University and as director of the observatory. The king committed substantial funds to refit the observatory, so that Bugge could integrate its work with that of the academy’s survey (Pedersen 1992, 101). For most of 1777, Bugge toured the observatories and met instrumentmakers of Germany, the Netherlands, and Britain to learn the state of the field (Bugge 2010). He then took great pains to determine the latitude and longitude of the Rundetaarn as the basis of the national survey. He described his new instruments, made locally by Johan Ahl, and his observations in Observationes astronomicæ annis 1781, 1782 & 1783 (1784). As a knowledgeable, hard-working, practical man, and a good administrator, Bugge became overburdened with different adminstrative tasks, including serving three terms as rector of the university and, after 1801, as secretary to the academy. In 1798 he traveled to Paris to participate in an international conference on the metric system (1798–99), again keeping a journal of great historical importance. A member of several European academies, he kept up a lively correspondence with scientists throughout Europe. Unfortunately, his house, personal library, maps, and instruments were destroyed during the British bombardment of Copenhagen in 1807. B o d il Branner See also: Geodetic Surveying: Denmark and Norway; Geographical Mapping: Denmark and Norway, with Topographical Mapping; Videnskabernes Selskabs kort (Academy of Sciences and Letters map series; Denmark) B i bliogra p hy Andersen, Einar. 1968. Thomas Bugge: Et mindeskrift i anledning af 150 årsdagen for hans død 15. januar 1815. Copenhagen: Geodætisk Instituts. Bugge, Thomas. 2010. An Observer of Observatories: The Journal of Thomas Bugge’s Tour of Germany, Holland and England in 1777. Ed. Kurt Møller Pedersen and Peter de Clerq. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Pedersen, Olaf. 1992. Lovers of Learning: A History of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1742–1992. Copenhagen: Munksgaard.

Büsching, Anton Friedrich. Anton Friedrich Büsching was born the son of a lawyer on 27 September 1724 in Stadthagen. After finishing grammar school in 1740,

he had the good fortune to be taken into private tutelage by Superintendent Eberhard David Hauber, the leader of the Lutheran church in the small principality of Schaumburg-Lippe. Hauber was a founder of cartographic history in Germany and awakened in Büsching a love of geography and cartography. Büsching studied theology in Halle and in 1748 became a home tutor for the family of a diplomat, Rochus Friedrich Graf zu Lynar. Büsching accompanied Lynar to St. Petersburg and to Copenhagen, where he again met Hauber, who had been pastor of the German Evangelical church there since 1746. From 1754 to 1761 as professor of philosophy at the University of Göttingen, Büsching also taught geography. From 1761 to 1765, he served as pastor and school director of a German-speaking evangelical Lutheran congregation in St. Petersburg (Petrigemeinde). In 1766, he returned to Berlin to become director of high schools and chief councilor of the consistory (Oberkonsistorialrat), that is, a member of the church leadership in Prussia, as well as inspector of the kingdom’s schools. He died on 28 May 1793. Through translation, adaptation, and unauthorized copying, his multivolume Neue Erdbeschreibung (1754) became a handbook for European geography. It contained many maps, among them Daniel Friedrich Sotzmann’s Karte von Deutschland in XVI. Blätt (1789) and Karte von Polen (Berlin 1793). Büsching also published one of the first geographic journals, Magazin für die neue Historie und Geographie (1767–93), and the Wöchentliche Nachrichten von neuen Landcharten, geographischen, statistischen und historischen Büchern und Sachen (1773–88) (Bond 2017). J oac h i m Neum ann See also: Geographical Mapping: German States; Geography and Cartography Bibliography Bond, Dean W. 2017. “Plagiarists, Enthusiasts and Periodical Geography: A. F. Büsching and the Making of Geographical Print Culture in the German Enlightenment, c. 1750–1800.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 42:58–71. Büsching, Anton Friedrich. 1789. Eigene Lebensgeschichte, in Vier Stücken. Halle: Johann Jacob Curts Witwe. Hoffmann, Peter. 2000. Anton Friedrich Büsching (1724–1793): Ein Leben im Zeitalter der Aufklärung. Berlin: Berlin Verlag Arno Spitz.

C Cadastral Map. See Property Map: Cadastral Map Cadastral Surveying. Cadastral surveying is the process that led to the production of cadastral maps, though not all cadastral surveys were map-based. It was used in both the Old and New Worlds to demarcate property boundaries of individuals, institutions, or communities. This entry focuses on the survey process, and it reviews practices in the Netherlands, Denmark, and some German states as examples of Old World cadastral surveying in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and explains how these methods were adapted for the New World using some examples from North America (much of this entry draws directly from the fuller treatment by Kain and Baigent 1992). In the northern Netherlands the development of cadastral surveying was closely linked to the management of reclaimed polder farmland. Where land was abundant and of little value, the costs of surveying rapidly exceeded its perceived benefits. In the polder areas of the Netherlands, the population was dense and land relatively scarce. Not only was it not abundant, it was not free: considerable amounts of labor, skill, and money had to be invested before it existed at all. The cost of a map was thus small in comparison with the overall cost of land and with the benefits to be derived from the knowledge that a survey would provide. Training for cadastral surveyors gradually became more systematized, exemplified by the Danish and German experience. One obvious aspect of Danish cadastral cartography was the increasing availability of instruction books and increasingly systematic training. The influence of cartographers such as Thomas Bugge in the late eighteenth century helped to standardize the conventions used by cadastral cartographers (Bugge 1795).

Until the 1780s, surveyors in Denmark were trained in a wide variety of ways. The Danish Landkadetakademi trained some military surveyors, and others received their training abroad. Some received fairly formal instruction; others learned their craft in the field from experienced surveyors; still others were self-taught. This diversity of backgrounds gave rise to great variety among early maps. Greater standardization was institutionalized in the 1780s by setting examinations for aspiring surveyors and survey inspectors; they had to pass tests in mathematics, surveying, and land reallocation before they could be appointed to public bodies. The standardization in style and training was matched by increasing uniformity in units of measurement used (Jensen 1975). This broad picture of systematization over the two centuries was mirrored in the German states. In Hessen-Kassel, comprehensive surveying to reform taxation began in 1680, and in 1699 a new tax office, the Steuerstube, was set up and issued regulations to ensure that surveyors used uniform linear and areal measurements. Little else was regulated, and the maps that the surveyors sent in showed great individuality of style. In the nearby prince-bishopric of Fulda, systematic cadastral surveying began in 1718. Work proceeded far more rapidly than in Hessen-Kassel and the maps (fig.  135) are far more uniform, with surveyors working to strict instructions governing the use of symbols and color washes (Wolff and Engel 1988). In Baden-Württemberg, the authorities of the Imperial City of Schwäbisch-Hall consulted officials in Ulm, Rothenburg, and Nuremberg, which had recently carried out mapped cadastres. Cadastral surveying in Schwäbisch-Hall was led from 1699 by Daniel Meyer from Basel. He already had considerable experience as a cadastral cartographer and came from a long-established Swiss mapmaking family. Meyer was called to Schwäbisch-Hall to survey and map the town itself, but he arrived in May, just when the townspeoples’ gardens were coming into flower. To minimize the damage that would inevitably accompany the survey, it was decided that he should begin work in the rural areas. He would start with the fallow fields; then, when the harvest was

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Fig. 135. CADASTRAL MAP OF MABERZELL, HESSEN, 1722. “Tractus V: Geometrischer Grund Riß über die Fluhr und Marcke des Dorfes Maberzell” is a typical example of the Fulda cadastral maps of the eighteenth century.

Size of the original: 73 × 100 cm. Image courtesy of the Hessisches Landesarchiv beim Staatsarchiv Marburg (Best. Karten P II 13568, Bl. 5).

safely in, go on to the arable areas; and then return to map the town. The Schwäbisch-Hall authorities seem to have shown remarkable sensitivity in this: cadastral surveys elsewhere often ran into trouble because surveyors and their assistants damaged crops and aroused the opposition of farmers. In North America cadastral surveying played a key role in land settlement, but the precise relationships between cadastral surveying and settlement form from one colony to another varied between two broad types. Known as the New England and Virginia methods, they reflected radically different attitudes to political and social control. The Puritan colonies exerted social control over land by the orderly, planned granting of blocks of land to town communities. These were surveyed first and then divided into farms. In colonies south of Pennsylvania, landholdings were larger and granted to individuals who were free to pick and choose the best land as they perceived the realities of the physical environment, and

tracts were claimed first and then surveyed by metes and bounds methods (fig. 136) (Price 1995). From 1642, it was a legal requirement in Virginia that all surveyors “shall deliver an exact plott of each parcell surveyed and measured” (quoted in Hughes 1979, 48). The 1642 enactment coincided with a period of contentious disputes over boundaries; from the 1640s a series of government measures was designed to tighten survey and land patent procedures. In Maryland, early seventeenth-century surveying of tidewater land grants was similarly slipshod. Carville Earle (1975) recounts how in All Hallows Parish, surveyors simply measured off a desired distance along an estuary shore and projected the other three lines to produce a rectangular lot and then calculated its area. Field measurements of distance, direction, and area were also very approximate. In Earle’s opinion, surveyors who measured distance with a Gunter’s chain before about 1670 were few and far between. In fact, the Maryland Assembly of 1674

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tity of Acres has been given to be laid out five or six times as broad as long” (Love 1688, preface). An excellent account of the actual practice of metes and bounds survey in the field during the eighteenth century is given by William Roome in his history of land surveying in the colony of East Jersey (1883, 45):

Fig. 136. GEORGE COOPER, MANUSCRIPT SURVEY FOR TELEIFE ALVERSON, GRANT OF 192 ACRES IN RICHMOND COUNTY, VIRGINIA, APRIL 1697. Size of the original: ca. 30 × 21 cm. Image courtesy of the Library of Virginia, Richmond (Northern Neck Surveys Richmond County, Box 40).

recognized the imprecision of surveys and passed a law that provided a doubling of fees for surveyors who used chain and circumferentor (Earle 1975, 184). Though the position of land plats in the settlement process differed from colony to colony in the eighteenth century, the method of survey by compass or circumferentor (a primitive theodolite) and chain was much the same, whether of individual tracts in Georgia, of townships in New Hampshire, or of seigneuries in Quebec. Didactic treatises published for colonial use adapted Old World surveying and mapping techniques to colonial needs, advocating in particular the compass traverse for surveying new lands. One of the reasons John Love wrote his Geodæsia (1688) was that he had earlier seen “Young men, in America, often nonplus’d so, that their Books would not help them forward, particularly in Carolina, about Laying out Lands, when a certain quan-

The Deputy-Surveyor, when on a land expedition, would sally out on horseback, his compass duly boxed, and his chain in his saddle-bags behind him. Arriving at the point where the land lay which was to be surveyed, and where by previous appointment his assistants were to be found, the first step was to cut a straight stick . . . for a “Jacob’s staff” [i.e., a support for the compass]. . . . All things being now ready, the compass was placed at the beginning point and the bearing decided on, taken, and the flag-man sent ahead and placed in position. The compass was then removed to the flagman’s point, but no back sight left at the point it was removed from. The bearing was here again taken at the same degree as before (by the needle’s point) and the flag-man again sent forward, and this was continued until the survey was completed—the chain-bearers following directly after the surveyor as nearly on the line as practicable. . . . Often no flag was used ahead at all. The surveyor would set up his compass, and with the remark that a certain tree, rock, or some other object ahead was on the line, or within a rod, or a rod and a half of it, perhaps, on either side, as the case might be, he would direct his chain-bearers to “go for it” and they would all start for the place designated. . . . When it was conceded that the chain had been carried “too crooked” an allowance would be made by guess “to make the distance about right.” And this mode would be continued until the lot was completed.

An increasing number of surveying textbooks published in America from the second half of the eighteenth century exemplifies both the continuing need and existing market for works of instruction. Pre-Independence texts included Thomas Abel’s Subtensial Plain Trigonometry (1761) and John Carter’s The Young Surveyor’s Instructor (1774). In 1785, the year in which the presettlement mapping of the federal public domain began, the fourth edition of Robert Gibson’s A Treatise of Practical Surveying appeared: “Adapted to the Use of American Surveyors, Some Parts of the Work have been abridged, and other Parts totally omitted, as being of little or no Use to the American Surveyor” (Gibson 1785, title page and advertisement). The prodigious survey and mapping activity generated by the 1785 and later land ordinances was matched and serviced by additional texts published before the end of the eighteenth century, including those by George Wall (1788), John Clendinin (1793), Samuel Moore (1796)—containing a section on the recovery

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of lost boundaries when original survey markers have disappeared—Solomon Dewey (1799), Zachariah Jess (1799)—whose book was “adapted for the easy and regular instruction of Youth, in our American schools”— and Ezekiel Little (1799). Once land had been improved by clearance and settlement, careless surveying created multifarious problems. When land was thought of as limitless, there was little incentive for accuracy. The recording of survey work on a plat for public witness was but one symptom of a developing capitalist attitude toward land in the tidewater colonies as social and economic changes enhanced the value of survey and provided a role for property maps in the process of land settlement. By the middle of the eighteenth century, attempts were being made in other colonies to regulate the manner of surveying and mapping. From 1747 surveyors in New Jersey for example, were required to submit composite cadastral maps of all the land allocations in the county in which they worked (Wacker 1975). Such systemization was to reach its apogee in the mid-nineteenth century’s age of cadastral surveys. R og er J . P. Kain See also: Property Map: Cadastral Map; Property Mapping; Taxation and Cartography B i bliogra p hy Abel, Thomas. 1761. Subtensial Plain Trigonometry, Wrought with a Sliding-Rule, with Gunter’s Lines: And also Arithmetically. Philadelphia: Andrew Steuart. Bugge, Thomas. 1795. De mathematiske Forelæsningers første Deel, indeholdende Regning, Geometrie, Plan-Trigonometrie og Landmaaling. Copenhagen: S. Poulsens. Carter, John. 1774. The Young Surveyor’s Instructor; or an Introduction to the Art of Surveying. Philadelphia: W. and T. Bradford. Clendinin, John. 1793. The Practical Surveyor’s Assistant, in Two Parts. Philadelphia: Printed for the Author. Dewey, Solomon. 1799. A Short and Easy Method of Surveying. Hartford: Elisha Babcock. Earle, Carville. 1975. The Evolution of a Tidewater Settlement System: All Hallow’s Parish, Maryland, 1650–1783. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gibson, Robert. 1785. A Treatise of Practical Surveying, which Is Demonstrated from Its First Principles. 4th ed. Philadelphia: Joseph Crukshank. Hughes, Sarah S. 1979. Surveyors and Statesmen: Land Measuring in Colonial Virginia. Richmond: Virginia Surveyors Foundation and Virginia Association of Surveyors. Jensen, Hans Ejner. 1975. “Danmarks økonomiske opmåling.” In Landmåling og landmålere: Danmarks økonomiske opmåling, 2 vols., ed. Svend Balslev and Hans Ejner Jensen, 1:11–64. Copenhagen: Den Danske Landinspektørforening. Jess, Zachariah. 1799. A Compendious System of Practical Surveying, and Dividing of Land. Wilmington: Bonsal and Niles. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Little, Ezekiel. 1799. The Usher: Comprising Arithmetic . . . Surveying; The Surveyor’s Pocket Companion. Exeter: H. Ranlet. Love, John. 1688. Geodæsia: Or, The Art of Surveying and Measuring

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of Land Made Easie. London: John Taylor. 12th ed., New York: Samuel Campbell, 1793, is “Adapted to American Surveyors.” Moore, Samuel. 1796. An Accurate System of Surveying. Litchfield: T. Collier. Price, Edward T. 1995. Dividing the Land: Early American Beginnings of Our Private Property Mosaic. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Roome, William. 1883. The Early Days and Early Surveys of New Jersey. Morristown: “The Jerseyman” Steam Press Print. Wacker, Peter O. 1975. Land and People: A Cultural Geography of Preindustrial New Jersey, Origins and Settlement Patterns. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Wall, George. 1788. A Description, with Instructions for the Use, of a Newly Invented Surveying Instrument, Called the Trigonometer. Philadelphia: Zachariah Poulson. Wolff, Fritz, and Werner Engel. 1988. Hessen im Bild alter Landkarten: Ausstellung der hessischen Staatsarchive 1988. Marburg: Hessisches Staatsarchiv Marburg.

Calcografia Camerale (Copperplate Printing Administration; Rome). Pope Clement XII established the Calcografia Camerale (today part of the Istituto centrale per la Grafica) in 1738, as proposed by his nephew Cardinal Camerlengo, Neri Maria Corsini. A cultural innovation of the Corsini papacy, the Calcografia acquired the stock of the prestigious De Rossi print firm, more than 9,000 individual engraved plates (Woodward 2007, 777–79). The pope declared that his aim was to “promote the magnificence and splendour of Rome” and to “advance the studies of youthful scholars of the liberal arts” (Clemente XII, 15 febbraio 1738, Archivio di Stato, Calcografia Camerale, B.1 fasc.7; Petrucci 1953, 3). His act of patronage was strikingly modern in character because it not only blocked the proposed sale of De Rossi’s visual records of the history of Rome to English merchants, but it also foreshadowed papal policy for using prints as mass media since their ease of distribution was an efficient means of propaganda. The De Rossi collection consisted largely of views and maps of Rome, numerous plates cut by sixteenthcentury Italian engravers, and a series of portraits of cardinals. Throughout the eighteenth century, the production of the Calcografia was organized by the genres found in De Rossi’s last Indice delle stampe (the sales catalog of 1735). The Indice began with the series entitled Mercvrio geografico, the oldest and most important collection of geographical maps in Italy, a veritable general atlas of the world. The Mercvrio listed 185 plates, including the work of engravers such as Giorgio Widman, Jan L’Huillier, and Giovanni Battista Falda and of cartographers such as Augustin Lubin, Giacomo Filippo Ameti, and Giacomo Cantelli da Vignola. Assembled according to seventeenth-century criteria established by the print dealer De Rossi, this rich collection of maps played a decisive role in the first publications issued by the Calcografia in the difficult early

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years of its existence, when the new institution struggled with economic difficulties, the lack of appropriate premises, and the dire management of Giovanni Domenico Campiglia. A painter linked with the Corsini family, Campiglia was appointed as both artistic director and head of administration, but he was completely unversed in the demands of the print market. Fortunately, however, final decisions regarding the purchase or commission of plates lay not with him but with the treasurer general of the Camera Apostolica. Although scholarly circles in Rome were aware of the contemporary European debate regarding the methods of land surveying as they affected the production of maps, the main stimulus for the continuing interest in cartography came from elsewhere: the desire to enlarge the existing collection through the addition of other well-known seventeenth-century works. Notable among such acquisitions were Israël Silvestre’s perspective map of Rome (1687) and Pietro Sante Bartoli’s view of the Civitavecchia aqueduct, both included in the new edition of the Mercvrio geografico (1741). To update the cartography of the collection, the engraver Giovanni Petroschi was commissioned to review the engraving of the existing copperplates and also to prepare a new map of the course of the River Po. However, these first years of the Calcografia reveal the absence of any precise program; it was the members of the circle of Cardinal Alessandro Albani, such as Diego de Revillas, amateur scientist and mathematician at Rome’s La Sapienza university, and the marchese Alessandro Capponi, who in 1736 encouraged Giovanni Battista Nolli to prepare a new map of Rome, finally published in 1748 (Bevilacqua 1998, 19–20; and see fig. 609). Yet the fact that the twelve plates for Nolli’s Nuova pianta di Roma were not donated to the Calcografia until 1938 testifies to the scant influence that the institution had on cartography in Rome. In effect, throughout the eighteenth century, popes considered the Calcografia not so much an institution for producing cartography as a means of producing personal propaganda. Hence, the commissions tended to glorify the papacy or more sharply define the territories of the Papal States. Increasing attention was dedicated to producing new views of the city. Benedict XIV made efforts to organize the activities of the Calcografia more adequately, appointing his own secretary of state, the learned collector Cardinal Silvio Valenti Gonzaga, as administrator of the Calcografia from 1747 to 1756. The pope himself was a refined collector of prints; at his behest the Pianta del corso del Tevere e sue adiacenze (1744) was produced, which records the rerouting of the river by engineers Andrea Chiesa and Bernardo Gambarini. Engraved by Carlo Nolli, this print was probably one of

the first on which Giovanni Battista Piranesi worked for the Calcografia. In 1755, with Gonzaga still as head, the Calcografia published the Nuova carta geografica dello Stato Ecclesiastico (see fig. 90), engraved by Felice Polanzani and Gaetano De Rossi for the De litteraria expeditione by the Jesuits Christopher Maire and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich, a geodetically surveyed map of the Papal States. Boscovich, an internationally renowned mathematician who taught at the Collegio Romano, was one of an accademia of scholars who enjoyed the hospitality of Cardinal Gonzaga’s Porta Pia villa. Until the end of the century the activities of the Calcografia were hampered not only by lack of funds (excessive bureaucracy prevented competition with private printers) but also by continuous relocation, hindering the effective organization of its activities. In 1772 Gaspare Sibilla took over from Campiglia as manager, and in 1780 the Calcografia moved its premises to the ground floor of the Palazzo della Stamperia. However, only in 1786, when Giuseppe Valadier became administrator, did a real plan of action emerge: a reorganization allowing the Calcografia to compete with private printers. Valadier wanted to update the catalog of prints on sale, cutting back on those issued from the De Rossi cartographic collection; not only were the plates for these maps worn by excessive use, but they were rendered somewhat obsolete by new geographical discoveries. By 1792 the Calcografia began to commission new maps, publishing the first volume of its Nuovo atlante geografico universale (fig. 137), which contained 182 maps in three volumes, engraved by Giovanni Maria Cassini, who also engraved Giuseppe Morozzo della Rocca’s large Il patrimonio di S. Pietro (1791). The 1797 Indice delle stampe shows the reorganization of genres, beginning with the views and maps of Roma antica e moderna, continuing with prints of paintings organized according to artist. Until this reorganization, cartography as exemplified by the Mercvrio geografico had assumed a place of pride at the beginning of the catalog; now maps were relegated to its last pages. The program of modernization implemented by Valadier led to further serious cartographic losses in the Indice delle stampe of 1806, which omits the seventeenth-century maps of Rome by Antonio Tempesta and Falda and the views of the city by Giacomo Lauro (all works from the De Rossi collection). In fact, just two years earlier, a total of 3,702 copperplates had been melted down so that new ones might be engraved—a decision guided by the consideration of plates as working tools rather than artistic artifacts in their own right. At the end of the eighteenth century the only important cartographic commission was the fifteen-plate Atlante d’Italia (1797–1805). However,

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Fig. 137. GIOVANNI MARIA CASSINI, L’ITALIA, 1790. From volume 1 of Nuovo atlante geografico universale (Rome: 1792), map n. 23. Engraving and etching on copper.

Size of the original: ca. 34.5 × 47.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

by this time the Calcografia appears to have focused almost exclusively on the publication of views of Rome and its monuments. Furthermore, the increasing number of commissions for engravings of existing paintings or works of sculpture emphasized the Calcografia’s desire to meet the demand of travelers and pilgrims with this growing genre in the coming century.

Produzione e acquisizione delle matrici cartografiche.” In Eventi e documenti diacronici delle principali attività geotopocartografiche in Roma, ed. Andrea Cantile, 78–101. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Ovidi, Ernesto. 1905. La Calcografia Romana e l’arte dell’incisione in Italia. Milan: Società Editrice Dante Alighieri. Petrucci, Carlo Alberto. 1953. Catalogo generale delle stampe tratte dai incisi rami posseduti dalla Calcografia Nazionale. Rome: La Libreria dello Stato. Woodward, David. 2007. “The Italian Map Trade, 1480–1650.” In HC 3:773–803.

G i n ev r a Mariani See also: Cassini, Giovanni Maria; Map Trade: Italian States B i bliogra p hy Bevilacqua, Mario. 1998. Roma nel secolo dei Lumi: Architettura erudizione scienza nella pianta di G. B. Nolli “celebre geometra.” Naples: Electa Napoli. Grelle Iusco, Anna, ed. 1996. Indice delle stampe intagliate in rame a bulino, e in acqua forte esistenti nella stamparia [sic] di Lorenzo Filippo de’ Rossi appresso Santa Maria della Pace in Roma, MDCCXXXV: Contributo alla storia di una stamperia romana. Rome: Artemide. ———. 2000. “Orientamenti editoriali della Calcografia Romana:

California as an Island. In 1747, Fernando VI of Spain declared without equivocation in a royal decree that California was not an island, ending more than a century of geographical confusion over the precise shape of the Spanish territories known collectively as California, a myth first promulgated in print graphically on the title page of Antonio de Herrera y Tordesillas’s Novvs

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orbis, sive Descriptio Indiae Occidentalis (1622). The explorations of the Croatian Jesuit Ferdinand Konšc´ak (Konschak, Konsag), sent to reconnoiter Baja California in 1746, provided the final assurances to the reigning monarch that the land off the western coast of New Spain, which also contained the region known as New Albion discovered by Sir Francis Drake in the late sixteenth century, was in fact connected to the mainland (Altic 2012). But the interpretive oscillations between an insular and a peninsular shape of California swung through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, confounding those who were convinced that earlier maps and charts had correctly displayed a peninsular form of Baja California. Indeed, the first explorations of the Gulf of California had shown Baja to be a peninsula. As early as 1539, having returned from Spain after capturing the seat of the Aztec empire at Tenochtitlan (Mexico City), Hernán Cortés sent two ships under the leadership of Francisco de Ulloa to extend the reaches of his conquests northward from Mexico’s Pacific coast. Although Ulloa himself did not return from this voyage, one of his two ships managed to return to New Spain with the important news that the area then known as Santa Cruz was a peninsula, not an island. (The Gulf of California remains known today as the Sea of Cortés.) Important sixteenth-century world maps, such as Abraham Ortelius’s Americae sive novi orbis (1570), Jodocus Hondius’s Vera totivs expeditionis navticæ (1595), and Cornelis van Wytfliet’s map of New Granada and California (1597), clearly show a thin “red sea” (Mer Rouge, Mar Vermejo) stretching northward between the peninsula of Baja California and the mainland; nowhere in these early depictions does the Gulf of California cut westward to reconnect with the Pacific Ocean. Following the clear graphical evidence of these earliest maps, debate over whether California was an island or a peninsula flared up again in the early seventeenth century, primarily due to the journal and map produced by the Carmelite friar Antonio de la Ascensión, who had accompanied a reconnaissance mission led by the Spanish merchant Sebastián Vizcaíno. Vizcaíno had traveled frequently between Manila and New Spain, as well as up and down the Pacific coast of North America. In 1602, Vizcaíno captained a fleet from Acapulco to explore the northern coast of California as far as Cape Mendocino. Although the expedition was costly in human terms, it was the basis for a personal account of the journey written by Ascensión. A self-proclaimed student of cosmography at the University of Salamanca, Ascensión purported in his account to have assisted the expedition’s chief cosmographer in collecting information about the region’s topography. He also relied on indigenous testimony when asserting that the Gulf of California was in

California as an Island

fact a sea that connected the inland waterway with the ocean to the west. Dutch pirates may have intercepted one version of Ascensión’s map, now lost, but another copy, also lost, likely served as the primary source for the myth of an insular California. From the 1620s, following Ascensión’s account, many seventeenth-century maps began to show the Baja California peninsula as an island, including Henry Briggs’s The North Part of America (1625), published in Samuel Purchas’s Haklvytvs Posthumus or Pvrchas His Pilgrimes, Henricus Hondius’s America Septentrionalis (1636), and Nicolas Sanson’s Le Nouveau Mexique et la Floride (1656). The myth persisted well into the eighteenth century, in spite of the circulation of the map Passage par terre a la Californie by Eusebio Kino, SJ, based on his exploration of the Baja Peninsula from 1698 to 1701 and published in the Lettres édifiantes (or Jesuit Relations) (1705). Herman Moll’s map of North America (1719) shows a wide Californian island off the western coast of North America that bears little resemblance to earlier depictions of the island as a peninsula, with a small channel running between its northern edge and the North American mainland. Interest in the configuration and size of California (peninsula and region) formed part of a larger debate on the existence and feasibility of a northwest passage, the breadth of North America, and the size of the Pacific (Engel 1776, accompanied by Robert de Vaugondy’s map [fig. 138]; Broc 1975, 167–72, 307–8). Matthäus Seutter’s Novus orbis sive America Meridionalis et Septentrionalis, first published in midcentury, exemplifies the reluctance of European commercial map publishers to abandon the image of an insular California even after the idea was being seriously re-assessed in the larger scientific community. Neil Safier See also: Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages; Geographical Mapping Bibliography Altic´, Mirela. 2012. “Ferdinand Konšc´ak—Cartographer of the Compañia de Jesús and His Maps of Baja California.” In History of Cartography: International Symposium of the ICA Commission, 2010, ed. Elri Liebenberg and Imre Josef Demhardt, 3–20. Berlin: Springer. Broc, Numa. 1975. La géographie des philosophes. Paris: Orphrys. Davidson, George. 1910. “The Origin and the Meaning of the Name California: Calafia the Queen of the Island of California.” Transactions and Proceedings of the Geographical Society of the Pacific, 2d ser. 4, pt. 1:1–50. Engel, Samuel. 1776. “Californie.” In Supplément à l’Encyclopédie, 2:131–37. Amsterdam: M. M. Rey. Heckrotte, Warren, ed. 1999. California 49: Forty-nine Maps of California from the Sixteenth Century to the Present. San Francisco: California Map Society. Leighly, John. 1972. California as an Island: An Illustrated Essay. San Francisco: Book Club of California. McLaughlin, Glen. 1995. The Mapping of California as an Island: An Illustrated Checklist. Saratoga: California Map Society.

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Fig. 138. DIDIER ROBERT DE VAUGONDY, CARTE DE LA CALIFORNIE. Robert de Vaugondy’s map, designed to accompany the entry on California in the Supplément à l’Encyclopédie, shows the chronological development of various states of knowledge concerning the shape of the California peninsula or island (according to maps of 1604, 1656, 1700, 1705, and

1767). Originally published in the Suite du Recueil de planches, sur les sciences, les arts libéraux, et les arts méchaniques, avec leurs explication (Paris: Panckoucke, Stoupe, Brunet, 1777). Size of the original: ca. 31.0 × 38.5 cm. Image courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps, La Jolla.

Canal Map. See Transportation and Cartography: Ca-

—administrative divisions whose importance would be increased by Louis XIV—for the gouvernements généraux used in his previous map of France completed after 1643 (in thirty sheets, but not conserved) (Pastoureau 1982, 149–50). Sanson’s large map of 1652–53, Carte et description generale dv tres-havt, tres-pvissant et treschrestien royavme de France (ca. 1:880,000), was thus divided into généralités and announced the intention to prepare more detailed maps, but that program was never realized. Instead, between 1656 and 1676 Sanson published a series of diocesan maps, usually at ca. 1:234,000, prepared first by himself and then by his son

nal Map

Canal Survey. See Transportation and Cartography: Canal Survey

Carte de France. During the seventeenth century, administrative centralization encouraged the creation of detailed maps covering all of France and prompted cartographers to improve and develop their production. In 1648, Nicolas Sanson proposed substituting généralités

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Guillaume (Pastoureau 1984, 417–26). Although these documents conveyed a reassuring vision of a space subject to royal power, the realization of that vision was more complex. Methods would have to be harmonized and new surveys conducted to complement or replace existing maps. The man driving this change was Louis XIV’s minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert. In 1663–64 he wanted to assemble all existing maps of France in order to correct them, if necessary, and to mark the numerous, complex administrative divisions on them. A report from 1665, attributed to Nicolas Sanson, met the minister’s requirements. Its ambitious goal was to map all of France in great detail, but using the compilation method of the géographes de cabinet. Maps from existing collections (notably those of the ministry of war) would be used and administrative divisions added. Where new surveys were required, the “web” technique would be used: local observers would note directions and evaluate distances from the central point of a circle (Trénard 1975, 83–88). In 1666, a report was presented to the newly created Académie des sciences on existing procedures, and two years later Colbert requested that working methods be defined. The Académie, having heard from Guillaume Sanson, decided to prepare an experimental map of the environs of Paris under the direction of Gilles Personne de Roberval and Jean Picard. Triangulation would cover the whole mapped region. Picard, Jean-Dominique Cassini (I), and Jean Richer verified the surveys in 1669. The Carte particuliere des environs de Paris (see fig. 4) was published in 1678 at the scale of one ligne (2.25 mm) per 100 toises (194.904 m), or ca. 1:86,400, the scale of the future Carte générale et particulière de la France (Pelletier 2013, 56n36). Like most seventeenth-century maps, however, it did not indicate any roads (Gallois 1909, 197–204). To show the real extent of French territorial control, Cassini I and Philippe de La Hire prepared an initial map in 1679–82, presented to the Académie in 1684 and published in 1693, the Carte de France corrigee (see fig. 625). The map gave the latitudes and longitudes of points situated on the perimeter of the realm and compared the new outline to the old one as shown on Guillaume Sanson’s map of 1679 (Konvitz 1987, 5–8). In 1681 Picard presented a very innovative program that took more than sixty years to complete. He proposed establishing a general framework of chains of interlocking triangles based upon the Dunkirk-Perpignan meridian and following terrestrial and maritime frontiers (Gallois 1909, 292–93). Three Cassinis (Jean-Dominique [I], Jacques [II], and César-François Cassini [III] de Thury) and their two cousins, Giacomo Filippo Maraldi (Maraldi I) and Giovanni Domenico Maraldi (Maraldi II), participated in this vast enterprise. Its several objec-

Carte de France

tives included: establishing the realm’s outline through geometric measurements, offering new data on baselines to cartographers, and contributing to the calculation of the dimensions and form of the terrestrial globe. Begun by Jean Picard, measuring the degrees of the Paris meridian by triangulation was entrusted in 1683 to Cassini I and La Hire, but it was soon interrupted. Cassini I and Cassini II resumed measurement in 1700 and 1701, and Cassini II completed it in 1718, using its results to argue that the earth was elongated toward its poles. Even in 1733, the contrôleur général des Finances, Philibert Orry, still supported Picard’s program, because it aided the development of communication systems entrusted to the administration of the Ponts et Chaussées (bridges and highways). Cassini II, accompanied by his sons, his cousin Maraldi II, abbé Jean Delagrive, and François Chevalier, began in 1733 to measure the western portion of the perpendicular to the Paris meridian. This measurement gave degrees of longitude smaller than those congruent with a spherical earth and confirmed Cassini II’s erroneous conclusion that the earth was elongated toward its poles (Cassini II 1735, 402). From 1735 to 1737, the Cassini family, with the help of abbé Nicolas-Louis de La Caille, measured the northern and southern coasts of Brittany, the Norman coasts with an extension to Dunkirk, the Atlantic coasts from Nantes to Bayonne, and the perpendicular BayonneAntibes (Cassini III 1741). In 1739, Cassini II decided to compare the measurements of the degrees of the meridian with astronomical measurements performed along this line by Cassini III and La Caille (Cassini III 1744). The general triangulation of France, organized around the Paris meridian, its perpendicular, and parallels to these lines, included nearly 800 triangles. It was “a sort of geometric fortification that secures in the most unalterable manner the present extent of the realm” and it covered all the provinces (Académie royale des sciences 1749, 75). Each year Cassini III presented Louis  XV with a map showing the progress of the enterprise (Cassini III [1745], 22). Two maps showed the general triangulation. The first, Nouvelle carte qui comprend les principaux triangles qui servent de fondement à la description géométrique de la France (ca. 1:1,772,000), in one sheet, was the work of Maraldi II and Cassini III. Completed in 1744 and presented to the Académie in 1745, it went through several states marked by the addition of the secondary triangulation and the regular sheet lines of the future Carte de France (see fig. 19). The second map, Carte qui comprend touts les lieux de la France qui ont été déterminés par les opérations géométriques (ca. 1:886,000, first in sixteen sheets and then in eighteen sheets with Flanders surveyed in 1746–47 and the Seine triangulation begun in 1747) appeared around 1747. It too exists

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in several states, the earliest of which does not reflect the triangulation of the Seine begun in 1747. This large map was designed to accompany the report on triangulation operations announced by Cassini III in 1744 but was not published until 1783, as Description géométrique de la France. This late work contained only the one-sheet Nouvelle carte. Konvitz rightly thinks that the map elaborated by the Cassinis in the second half of the eighteenth century, the 182-sheet Carte de France, was not the obligatory consequence of the general triangulation (or the Nouvelle carte), and that the Carte de France’s scientific value was less significant than the general triangulation (Konvitz 1982). This view is confirmed by the silence of the Journal des savans in 1756–57 upon the publication of the first sheets of the Carte de France. The work of the Académie des sciences encouraged the production of geometric maps in several parts of the realm. Collaborators in the general triangulation, such as abbé Réginald Outhier and Delagrive, learned from making their own regional maps (dioceses of Bayeux and Sens; environs of Paris). However, Chevalier had already distinguished himself in cartography before entering the Académie des sciences, where he had presented in 1707 a cartographic method less burdensome than triangulation (see fig. 816). MarcPierre de Voyer de Paulmy, comte d’Argenson, minister of war from 1743 to 1757, was very concerned with the exactitude of military maps, and therefore demanded that they be based on triangulation. In the second half of the eighteenth century, as ingénieurs militaires became experts on triangulation, they used and checked the work of the members of the Académie and complained about the lack of access to the original detailed calculations (Pelletier 2013, 116, 127–29). On 7 July 1747, Louis XV, impressed by the fidelity of Cassini III’s maps of the Flanders campaign to the terrain itself, including troop positions and topography, decided to have Cassini III prepare a map of his realm (Cassini III 1775, 147–48), variously called the Carte de France, Carte de Cassini, and, in the introduction accompanying the first sheet in 1756, the Carte générale et particulière de la France. The geometric character of the future map was often praised by its designer, who paid great attention to the orthography of place-names and the correct positioning of places (Cassini III [1756], 9). The ingénieur responsible for the surveys conveyed notebooks of calculations to the Paris Observatory, including the measures of angles used to calculate the sides of triangles, lists of toponyms, and sketch maps of the topography (Cassini III [1756], 7–10). These documents served as a base for the first drafts. The verifying ingénieur would return to the site and submit the draft maps to a local seigneur or priest. Cassini III characterized the division of labor thus: “The geometric op-

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erations belong to us; the rendering of terrain [and] the orthography of names are the work of the seigneurs and local priests; the ingénieurs present the maps to them, profit from their comments, work under their orders, and execute in their presence the correction of the map, which we publish only when it is accompanied by certificates” (Cassini III [1757], 2). Tables accompanying each sheet listed places “described geometrically”: they gave their distances to the meridian of the Paris Observatory and to its perpendicular. The projection of the Carte de France, a transverse cylindrical system, was based upon the two principal axes of the general triangulation (the meridian of the observatory and its perpendicular). The tables confirmed the principal function of the map as a foundation for other maps and other types of projects. Between 1748 and 1755 the work of the ingénieurs (numbering eight in 1750 and thirteen in 1755) initially concentrated on complements to the general triangulation. Cassini III trained the personnel, essentially geometers, and organized the operations. At the end of 1755, however, the new contrôleur général, Jean Moreau de Séchelles, was trying to reduce the court’s expenses and asked Cassini III to interrupt the surveys. As the king did not oppose this decision, Cassini III created a society in June 1756 to ensure financing for the enterprise under conditions approved by the Conseil du Roi at Compiègne on 10 August 1756 (Pelletier 2007, 8). One of the society’s first decisions was to request financial contributions from the provinces that had sought the survey of their territories. The Carte de France thus received support from three principal sources: the associates who paid membership fees for a limited time; the provincial governments; and sales, which included subscriptions, block sales of all published sheets, and sale of individual sheets, which were less substantial than anticipated (Pelletier 2013, 166–77, 252–55). The contract of association confirmed the society’s links with both the Académie des sciences and the Ponts et Chaussées. The challenges encountered by the enterprise were varied and numerous: training and maintaining quality teams of ingénieurs; achieving homogeneous quality in surveying; dealing with financial shortfalls; maintaining good relationships with the provinces, which might criticize the ingénieur’s works; recruiting quality engravers; and selling a map, whose 182 sheets formed regular rectangles that reflected a geometric spirit also developed by the ingénieurs of the Ponts et Chaussées (fig. 139). This form was badly adapted for some map uses, such as administrative ones requiring a clear perception of internal divisions. Also, a user might be inconvenienced when a place of particular interest was located at the edge of a sheet, requiring the purchase of other sheets to acquire a sense of context (Pelletier 2013, 239). The surveys for the Carte de France were completed

Fig. 139. CABAY AND DUBOIS, ENGINEERS OF CASSINI III, “PARTIE DU DEMI QUART OCCIDENTAL DU QUART NORD OUEST DE LA PLANCHE DE VENCE NO 168,” SURVEYED IN 1778. Manuscript draft. Sheet number 168 of the Carte générale et particulière de la France, surveyed in

1778–80. The draft outlines the boundary between France and the comté of Nice. Size of the original: 32 × 25 cm. Image courtesy of the Cartothèque, Institut géographique national, Saint-Mandé (Archives de la carte de Cassini).

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in 1790, so they were used in the creation of the départements, new administrative divisions of France established by the revolutionary government in 1789–90. This creation anticipated the absolute necessity to visualize France’s new administrative structures. In fact, a competing enterprise captured this promising market: the Atlas national, published by Pierre Dumez and Pierre-Grégoire Chanlaire from 1790 to 1794 (with new editions in the nineteenth century), with a large format including maps at a scale of 1:260,000 that were clear and exact. Nonetheless, the one-quarter reduction of the Carte de France (1:345,600), prepared by Louis Capitaine in 1789 with administrative boundaries added the following year, held its own. This reduced version of the Carte de France was acquired by the

Dépôt de la Guerre in 1815 to be enlarged beyond the Rhine and the Alps. The other event marking the revolutionary epoch was the complete transfer of the Carte de France to the Dépôt de la Guerre in September 1793: copperplates and print runs—1,351 finished sheets and 1,106 proofs—as well as 400 original designs, 50,000 copies of tables, 60 volumes of observations for construction of the large triangles, 400 volumes of observations carried out by the ingénieurs, 600 notebooks of calculations, and 500 notebooks listing communes (Cassini IV 1810, 132–34). Henceforth, diffusion of the map was controlled by the army, which between 1803 and 1812 undertook updating the road network, which had been greatly transformed during the eighteenth century (fig. 140). The

Fig. 140. DETAIL FROM THE PLATE OF PARIS, SHEET NUMBER 1 OF THE CARTE GÉNÉRALE ET PARTICULIÈRE DE LA FRANCE, SURVEYED IN 1749–55. New edition around 1803 of the sheet renumbered 7 H. The new edition includes the roads and canals created in the second half of the eighteenth century. Demarcation of the borders of the

département of Paris has been added, together with the districts composing it, which were suppressed in the year III (1794–95). Size of the entire original: 59.5 × 92.0 cm; size of detail: ca. 17 × 22 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge CC 707 [7 H]).

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sheets of this new edition of the Carte de France also bore two scales, one in toises and the other in meters. The military did not fail to draw attention to the shortcomings of the Cassinis’ map, including the weak topographic depiction—not a primary objective for Cassini III—errors in positions of certain localities, difficulties in calculating longitudes ignored by the map, and the worn condition of the copperplates. In 1807, Emperor Napoleon I launched the great enterprise of the cadastre that in principle involved more than one hundred million parcels of land. It was an endeavor that the new Carte de France could not ignore, as shown by the 14 October 1816 report of Colonel Simon-Pierre Brossier and Commandant Maxime-Auguste Denaix: Projet d’une carte topographique militaire de la France. Devised as a geometric map and accepted, not without criticisms, as a topographic one, even though it did not include any elevation measurements or representation of secondary roads, the Cassinis’ Carte de France had a very long life. It would be replaced by a true topographic map with elevations and standardized hachures for the relief representation, but that map, the carte de l’État-Major, begun in 1818 (first proofs), would not be completed until 1880 (final printing). Mon iq u e Pelletier See also: Academies of Science: Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France); Administrative Cartography: France; Cassini Family; Projections: Topographical Survey Plans; Revolution, French; Topographical Surveying: France Bibliograp hy Académie royale des sciences. 1749. “Sur la description géométrique de la France.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1745: 73–76. Cassini (II), Jacques. 1735. “De la carte de la France, et de la perpendiculaire a la méridienne de Paris.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1733: 389–405. Cassini (III) de Thury, César-François. 1741. “Sur les opérations géométriques faites en France dans les années 1737 & 1738.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1739: 119–34. ———. 1744. La meridienne de l’Observatoire royal de Paris, vérifiée dans toute l’étendue du royaume par de nouvelles observations. Paris: Hippolyte-Louis Guérin, & Jacques Guérin. ———. [1745]. “Description geometrique de la France.” Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des cartes et plans, Rés. Ge EE 1322. ———. [1756]. Avertissement ou introduction à la carte générale et particulière de la France. N.p. (accompanying the first sheet, Paris, 1756). ———. [1757]. Tableau alphabétique de la distance à la méridienne et à la perpendiculaire de toutes les paroisses comprises dans la feuille de Sens. N.p. (accompanying the forty-sixth sheet published in 1757). ———. 1775. Description des conquêtes de Louis XV, depuis 1745 jusqu’en 1748. In Relation d’un voyage en Allemagne. Paris: De l’Imprimerie Royale. Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique. 1810. Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire des sciences et à celle de l’Observatoire royal de Paris. Paris: Bleuet. Gallois, Lucien. 1909. “L’Académie des sciences et les origines de la carte de Cassini.” Annales de Géographie 18:193–204, 289–310.

Konvitz, Josef W. 1982. “Redating and Rethinking the Cassini Geodetic Surveys of France, 1730–1750.” Cartographica 19, no. 1:1–15. ———. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1982. “Les Sanson: Cent ans de cartographie française (1630–1730).” Thèse de doctorat, Université de Paris IV. ———. 1984. Les atlas français, XVIe–XVIIe siècles: Répertoire bibliographique et étude. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Cartes et Plans. Pelletier, Monique. 2007. “La carte de France en 1756.” Le Monde des Cartes 191:7–12. ———. 2013. Les cartes des Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Trénard, Louis. 1975. Les mémoires des intendants pour l’instruction du duc de Bourgogne (1698): Introduction générale. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale.

Cartographic Practice, Modes of. See Modes of Cartographic Practice

Cartouche. The presence of cartouches on both printed and manuscript maps and globes was not a novelty in 1650 (Welu 1987). For a century or more, Italian and Flemish geographers and cartographic editors, followed by the Dutch, customarily added various decorative elements to their maps, including iconographic vignettes, historiated frames, cartouches, and color. Thus the cartouche may be considered as one of the “places” on the map that articulated the map’s cognitive scope. As both a connector and a catalyst, the cartouche played a role in the circulation of social and cultural values and imaginary spaces connected to the construction of the visual culture of its epoch. To consider the map in conjunction with its cartouches is thus to understand the map fully as a “cultural text” (Clarke 1988). The diverse definitions of “cartouche” found in the dictionaries and manuals of the period correspond to that given in Antoine Furetière’s Dictionaire universel (1690): “it is a card in the shape of a cylinder or scroll or its representation, for which the sculpture and the engraving make diverse ornaments, in the middle of which is placed some inscription or device. The titles of geographical maps are written in the cartouches, very much historiated.” The cartouche is therefore an entirely decorative element, an ornament that belongs to the domain of architecture, sculpture, and engraving. As a noncartographic element in mapmaking, the cartouche developed as an imagistic ensemble of narrative, description, and symbols appropriate to the territory represented by the map. For its function on a map, the cartouche may be considered equivalent to the pointer (admoniteur) in a painting by drawing attention to the subject of the map and orienting its reading (Alberti 1966, 78). The cartouche introduces, shows, recalls, and alerts: in other words, it determines (or tries to determine) a priori the inter-

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Fig. 141. CARTOUCHE AS A POINTER. From Nicolas de Fer, L’Amerique meridionale et septentrionale, 1727.

Size of the entire original: 46.5 × 60.2 cm; size of detail: ca. 11 × 20 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 2-B-1727 Fe).

pretive framework. The pointer is sometimes shown directly in the cartouche (fig. 141). Moreover, the cartouche functions also as a container, like a frame, whose interior space is usually filled with a title, a device, an inscription, a coat of arms. The cartouche is the place that gathers “titles, explanations, notes necessary for the understanding of each map” (contract between Philippe Buache and the États du Languedoc, quoted in Dainville 1964, 64). As a hollow space, it envelops a central area in which a text announces the map’s contents, which are anticipated by the reader. In 1691 the Mercure Galant (no. 7) announced a map of the Piedmont (Carte du Piemont et du Monferrat, 1691) by le Père Placide, géographe du roi, containing “ten cartouches which not only serve just as ornaments, but which are also tables that give a general idea of the regions in a few words and in a very methodical manner” (169–70). Sometimes the cartouche contains more than the simple identifying words (“Here is Italy .  .  .”); it may present a historical account of the territories mapped, describe the regions, and give the measurement scales. Finally, it provides the political identity of the place as well as its possessor. In addition, the title in the cartouche can equally proclaim property rights, thus reverberating with the themes of legitimacy and law. Even though the principal reason for the presence

of the cartouche is to aid the reading and comprehension of the map, evoking the territory represented by the map, the cartouche also responds to a more societal function: it contains the name of the person to whom the map is dedicated or addressed. “One calls the cartouche the design that one places at the bottom of plans and geographical maps and which serves to contain the title or the heraldry of the person to whom the map is presented. These cartouches are likely to be decorated with the attributes and allegories that ought to relate to the person being presented with these designs or to the subjects of the designs” (Blondel 1752). In addition to the title and the contents of the map, the cartouche also may contain the names of the author or editor and the dedicatee. Thus the cartouche becomes a place of legitimization and insertion of cartography into the network of sociability. In describing the cartographic productions of Alexis-Hubert Jaillot, Christine M. Petto has shown how the cartouche is inscribed into a social relationship between the author or editor and the dedicatee, which was completely characteristic of French society during the Ancien Régime: that of patronage (Petto 2007). The importance of the practice of dedication, central to the economy of patronage, is well known: it obliged the patron (the dedicatee) to offer protection, employment, or remuneration in exchange

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Fig. 142. CARTOUCHE AS AN AFFIRMATION OF POWER OVER TERRITORY. From Guillaume Sanson, Les provinces des Pays-Bas catholiques (Paris: Jaillot/Mortier, 1691).

Size of the entire original: 52.1 × 84.9 cm; size of detail: ca. 16.5 × 26.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven.

for a book or a map, dedicated, offered, and accepted. The author or editor was thus obliged to manifest the glory of the patron (Pedley 2005, 83–84). Of course, the editors of maps and globes developed this rhetoric of glory and symbolic power toward a monarch (in France, the elements at work in the “fabrication of Louis XIV,” to use the phrase of Peter Burke, are well known), but similar language was also used for other levels of political authority, including a prince or dauphin, ministers and grand officers of state, ecclesiastical personnel, municipal authorities, landed gentry, and local aristocracy. The diversity of patrons does not suggest a fundamental rupture in the rhetorical register adopted by the author of the dedication addressed to his patron. To whatever level of authority the map was presented, the dedication was designed to manifest the positive effects of the exercise of this authority, independent of scale. The discourse or meanings of the cartouche may be classified into three principal categories, which are not mutually exclusive: power and possession, ethnogeography, and arts and civilization. A single cartouche may, in

effect, simultaneously develop several levels of different meaning. The discourse of power, or, as has often been written, of possession or claim of a territory, uses the cartouche like a signature, the mark or imprint of the proprietor and their wishes for a region (fig. 142). This discourse plays out on two levels, sometimes combined: symbolic control and real control. Cartouches employ various strategies for these levels of meaning, including moral or political allegory, heraldry, the recitation of the foundation or genealogical heritage of a territory or of the claimant, and historic events. These affirmations of power over the territory represented by the map often resonate with the transfer of authority or situations of conflict, as has been shown in the subjects of cartouches that ornament maps produced at the moment of the American Revolutionary War or other period of conflict (Clarke 1988; Pedley 2008; Petto 2009). However, the discourse of the cartouche is not limited in a simplistic way to this first level of power. The hermeneutic richness of the cartouche speaks to its capacity to vary the levels of meaning and to connect them.

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The second discourse employed by cartouches on globes and maps is that of ethnogeography, which develops the rhetorical mode of visual evidence. The cartouche elicits the effect of reality by showing the region and its visual “truth” by the presence of iconographic vignettes representing the natural resources of the region, its flora and fauna, population and customs, practices and rituals, and mode of dress (fig. 143). Evidence exists of requests for mapmakers to em-

bellish any heraldry on the map with “geniuses or allegorical figures and appropriate attributes that show the productions of the earth, the natural history, and the commerce of the different cantons, to which one will add what one can concerning particular ancient and modern monuments” (contract between Buache and États du Languedoc, 1748, quoted in Dainville 1964, 64). These discourses or levels of meaning support the hypothesis that the cartouche embodies the descriptive

Fig. 143. CARTOUCHE INCORPORATING THE NATURAL HISTORY OF A REGION. From Thomas Kitchin, A Map of South America, 1787, in Robert Sayer, A General Atlas, Describing the Whole Universe (London: Robert Sayer, 1790), 35.

Size of the entire original: 50 × 118 cm; size of detail: ca. 38 × 41 cm. Image courtesy of the David Rumsey Map Collection, David Rumsey Map Center, Stanford Libraries.

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or chorographic aspect of the map itself, at the same time as the map loses this dimension from its own cartographic contents. As the cartouche took on the functions of the historiated frame, typical of seventeenth-century Flemish and Dutch cartography, this extended decoration gradually disappeared from the so-called scientific cartography of the eighteenth century, though it persisted in the form of vignettes surrounding the map in the productions of the German publishing houses of Homann Heirs and Matthäus Seutter (Diefenbacher, Heinz, and Bach-Damaskinos 2002; Ritter 2001). A third level of discourse is that of the arts, sciences, and civilization. These were expressed with allegorical representations, both moral and philosophical (the four elements, the Bible, the four parts of the world); by scientific instruments, more precisely by geographical and astronomical instruments; and by portraits. Such cartouches assembled evidence for an image of not just the terrestrial world, but also of an ordered cosmos. There does seem to be a correlation between differ-

ent types of discourse and different types of maps. The small scale of a mappemonde, globe, or universal atlas employed cartouches filled with philosophical iconography. Similarly, allegories of power and control operated at the medium scale of country and regional maps, just as the heraldry and genealogical display emphasized the ownership in large-scale property maps. Within the manuscript traditions of large-scale military mapping, land surveying, and geodetic mapping, the iconographic use of images of the tools of the observer—measuring rod, chains, poles, plane table, compasses, theodolites, telescopes—embellished the map. As representations of the instruments of science, they highlighted the map’s authority in its reliance on measurement and observation and were designed to increase the reader’s trust in the veracity of the map. These instruments were often shown in action in cartouches, deployed by surveyors or by the ever-present putti who made their use seem both easy and perhaps even divinely inspired (Heilbron 2000) (fig. 144).

Fig. 144. INSTRUMENTS OF SCIENCE AND CIVILIZATION WITHIN A CARTOUCHE. Title page from Claude Buy de Mornas, Atlas méthodique et élémentaire de géographie et d’histoire (Paris: Buy de Mornas and Desnos, 1761), vol. 1, folio oblong.

Size of the original: ca. 32.0 × 47.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

Cartouche

The prescriptive character of Blondel’s text, cited above (images that “ought to relate”), signals that the cartouche is subject to another tension. Because it is simultaneously the key for reading the map itself and a decorative ornament (carrying signs and explanations that are not necessarily cartographic), the cartouche has two sometimes contradictory goals: knowledge and the pleasure of design and image. The “moment” of the creation of the cartouche within the process of creating the map has been described in numerous ways. The cartouche is usually added at the end of the process of creating the contents of the map itself. On a manuscript map, the cartouche was usually designed and executed by the author of the map, thereby displaying the artistic skills of the creator and the rhetorical devices aimed at its audience, for example, in the trompe l’oeil effects employed on the maps created for the prize competitions of the École des Ponts et Chaussées (see fig. 631). On printed maps, the cartouche was usually added to the map after the map proper had been engraved. It was often designed by an artist, not the creator of the map, and engraved either by the same artist or another engraver who specialized in this genre of work (cartouches were very often etched, whereas maps themselves were mostly engraved with the burin), at the order of the editor (or publisher) or the mapmaker. For example, the maps of Nicolas Sanson published by Jaillot were engraved by Robert Cordier while the cartouches were entrusted to François Chauveau. Thus the cartouche is very precisely the parergon of the map: a supplement, an ornament. “One has not yet completed the coloring of a design,” wrote Henri Gautier, “until one has tried to decorate it with a border or a lovely cartouche” (1708, 100). The cartouche embodies a tension, at once graphic and professional, for the creators of maps. Since the cartouche was designed, according to the vocabulary of the authors of the epoch, to render the map more beautiful and agreeable, it reintroduced the dimension of the spectacle, both iconographic and theatrical, into cartographic practice at a moment when, quite rightly, geographers were attempting to separate themselves from the mere imagers, in a desire to broadcast their special competencies in scientific milieus. Pierre Duval reaffirmed the necessity for geographers to check and correct the work of mere illuminators who tended to trace the borders of countries on a whim or overload maps with “useless and superfluous names” (Duval 1672, 59–60). Inasmuch as it was an ornament, the cartouche represented a decorative danger for “geographical truth”; certain principles had to be adhered to by the designer of a cartouche in order to ensure that the map was not simply an amusement, but an instructive instrument. The identification of designers and engravers of cartographic cartouches, as well as the analysis of their in-

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Fig. 145. GLORY AND RENOWN DEPICTED IN A CARTOUCHE. François Chauveau, cartouche for the ProvincesUnies des Pays-Bas by Guillaume Sanson, published by Jaillot, 1673. Size of the entire original: 55.6 × 86.7 cm; size of detail: ca. 24.5 × 25.0 cm. Image courtesy of the James Marshall and Marie-Louis Osborn Collection, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven.

volvement in the process of printed mapmaking, constitutes a field open for scholarly inquiry. When cartouches are signed, they provide information on both the designer (inv[enit] or del[lineavit]) and engraver (sc[ulpsit] or fe[cit]). In Paris, one could profitably research the work of Chauveau, a prolific illustrator and engraver whose cartouches adorn the maps of Sanson published by Jaillot (fig. 145). Similarly rewarding would be a study of the work of Pierre-Philippe Choffard, who, as one of the principal Paris decorative engravers of the eighteenth century, designed and engraved many of the rococo cartouches of Jean Lattré’s Atlas moderne (1762) and for maps of other geographers, such as Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville and Jacques-Nicolas Bellin. Of similar benefit would be a fuller understanding of the role of the artist Hubert-François Gravelot in the design of cartouches for his brother, the geographer d’Anville, and of Gravelot’s association with engravers Jean-Baptiste Delafosse and Thomas Major in the completion of these cartouches. Other names equally merit deeper investigation from the point of view of their relationship with the map trade: Jean Le Pautre, PierreGabriel Berthault, Clément-Pierre Marillier, the sisters Elizabeth Haussard and Marie Catherine Haussard, and the well-known Charles-Nicolas Cochin, to name just a

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Fig. 146. CLÉMENT-PIERRE MARILLIER, CARTOUCHE. Marillier signed as the designer of the cartouche (lower left) for l’Amérique méridionale, by Jean Janvier in Atlas moderne, ou Collection de cartes sur toutes les parties du globe par plusieurs auteurs (Paris: Lattré et Delalain, 1762), map no. 33. Size of the entire original: 30.5 × 44.0 cm; size of detail: ca. 17 × 15 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Atl 1762 La).

few in the Paris market (fig. 146). In Germany, the rich cartouches and allegorical vignettes on the maps from the Seutter publishing house were signed by specific artists: Martin Gottfried Crophius, Abraham Drentwett, Melchior Rhein, and Gottfried Rogg (Ritter 2001, 130). While the role of cartouche designer and engraver in other national contexts has yet to be fully explored, preliminary work has been done in the German and Dutch markets (Bosters et al. 1989; Van Egmond 2009; Diefenbacher, Heinz, and Bach-Damaskinos 2002; Ritter 2001). Even a rapid overview of the milieu of map design, engraving, and trade in Enlightenment Paris reveals that at the level of professional practice, the work of designers and engravers of cartographic cartouches cannot be reduced to a single activity. Most of them were deeply integrated in the world of the printed book for which they designed and engraved title pages, frontispieces, decorative bands, culs-de-lampe, vignettes, trophies, and medallions. Many of them published collections of engravings of decorative ornaments for use in interior decoration, architecture, or furniture. The collections of Juste-Aurèle Meissonnier in the Livre d’ornemens

Cartouche

inventés & dessines (1734) contributed to the diffusion throughout Europe of the rococo style that echoed throughout cartographic cartouche design during the eighteenth century (Bosters et al. 1989, 65–92; Pedley 1992, 65; Heinz 2002, 127, fig. 66). Thus within the production process for both manuscript and printed maps, the production of cartographic cartouches was linked to the métiers (professional trades) of design and engraving, reflecting the relationship between the cartouche and the history of decorative styles in general. Some commentators (Welu 1987; Andrews 2009; Hedergott 1955) have tried to describe the diversity of cartographic cartouches and account for an evolution in their styles by relying on the large chronological and typological divisions supported by the history of art in general. For the period of the long eighteenth century, the stylistic transformations of cartouches certainly echo the successive phases of mannerism, baroque, and rococo. However, using this lens as a guide would be inaccurate, since it is too general and enclosed in a global comparison that pits art and cartography into two opposing camps. Such an overly generalized interpretive model prevents the historian of cartography from more precisely situating the zones of contact and communication between these two domains (Van Egmond 2009, 258). To acquire a better sense of the stylistic transformations that cartographic cartouches underwent in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it would be more judicious to place the cartouches at the level of the decorative arts rather than that of the fine arts. In adopting this perspective, two things become apparent. First, there is a relation between the modes of production of cartographic cartouches and the practices and professional norms found in the milieus of the métiers of engravers and designers (within the context of commands, prices, and determination of contents). Second, the same designers and engravers involved in cartographic cartouches were also engaged in engravings of allegories, decorative architectural features, designs for furnishings, chimneypieces, and other elements of interior decoration. Cartographic cartouches thus were part of this ensemble of decorative engraving, within which they communicated their message through motifs and content as well as style. This practical relationship (at the level of the métiers, the craftsmen, and the workshops) between the design and the engraving of both cartographic cartouches and decorative objects illustrates the ways in which cartography was inserted in the visual culture and imagination of the period. The cartouche links the cartographic arts and the decorative arts. Through the intermediary of the cartouche, the map becomes a type of “visual furniture”

Cassini Family

and a decorative yet meaningful element in the decor of the daily environment of its proprietors.

251 Historical Essays, ed. David Woodward, 147–73. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

J e an -Ma rc B e s s e a n d N ic o las Verd ier See also: Art and Design of Maps; Iconography, Ornamentation, and Cartography B i bliogra p hy Alberti, Leon Battista. 1966. On Painting. Rev. ed. Trans. with intro. and notes John R. Spencer. New Haven: Yale University Press. Andrews, J. H. 2009. Maps in Those Days: Cartographic Methods before 1850. Dublin: Four Courts Press. Blondel, Jacques-François. 1752. “Cartouche.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 2:731. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Bosters, Cassandra, et al. 1989. Kunst in kaart: Decoratieve aspecten van de cartografie. Ed. J. F. Heijbroek and Marijn Schapelhouman. Utrecht: H&S, HES Uitgevers. Burke, Peter. 1992. The Fabrication of Louis XIV. New Haven: Yale University Press. Clarke, G. N. G. 1988. “Taking Possession: The Cartouche as Cultural Text in Eighteenth-Century American Maps.” Word and Image 4:455–74. Dainville, François de. 1964. Le langage des géographes: Termes, signes, couleurs des cartes anciennes, 1500–1800. Paris: A. et J. Picard. Diefenbacher, Michael, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, eds. 2002. “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Duval, Pierre. 1672. Traité de geographie. Paris: l’Auteur. Egmond, Marco van. 2009. Covens & Mortier: A Map Publishing House in Amsterdam, 1685–1866. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Gautier, Henri. 1708. L’art de laver, ou, La nouvelle manière de peindre sur le papier. Brussels: François Foppens. Hedergott, Bodo. 1955. “Die Kartusche: Die Lebensgeschichte einer Form.” PhD diss., Georg-August-Universität-Göttingen. Heilbron, J. L. 2000. “Domesticating Science in the Eighteenth Century.” In Science and the Visual Image in the Enlightenment, ed. William R. Shea, 1–24. Canton: Science History Publications USA. Heinz, Markus. 2002. “Karten und Atlanten: Der Schwerpunkt der Produktion.” In “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848, ed. Michael Diefenbacher, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, 122–37. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. ———. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2008. Le processus cartographique en Révolution: Le port de Boston et l’intervention française de 1776. Conference, l’École nationale des chartes, Paris, 4 March. Online publication. Petto, Christine M. 2007. When France Was King of Cartography: The Patronage and Production of Maps in Early Modern France. Lanham: Lexington Books. ———. 2009. “Semblance of Sovereignty: Cartographic Possession in Map Cartouches and Atlas Frontispieces of Early Modern Europe.” In Symbolic Landscapes, ed. Gary Backhaus and John Murungi, 227–50. Dordrecht: Springer. Ritter, Michael. 2001. “Seutter, Probst and Lotter: An EighteenthCentury Map Publishing House in Germany.” Imago Mundi 53: 130–35. Welu, James A. 1987. “The Sources and Development of Cartographic Ornamentation in the Netherlands.” In Art and Cartography: Six

Cassini Family. Cas s ini Cas s ini Cas s ini Cas s ini

(I), J ean-D o miniq ue (II), J acq ues (III) d e Th ury, César-Franço i s (IV), J ean-D o miniq ue

Cassini (I), Jean-Dominique. Jean-Dominique Cassini (I),

a renowned astronomer and the founder of a celebrated dynasty that played an important role in the evolution of French cartography, was born Giovanni (Gian) Domenico Cassini in Perinaldo (Imperia, Italy) on 8 June 1625 into a Sienese family. Between 1639 and 1646, he studied at the Jesuit college in Genoa, where he focused on mathematics, including astronomy. During this time, the Jesuits distinguished between facts and theories in the work of Galileo Galilei; using the former and ignoring the latter, they adopted Tycho Brahe’s system of astronomy (Dainville 1940, 212). Cassini I finished his education among the Benedictines of San Fruttuoso (west of Portofino). Beginning in 1649, with support from the marquis Cornelio Malvasia, senator of Bologna, Cassini I made his first observations from the observatory at Panzano, his patron’s villa between Bologna and Modena. In 1650, he was named to the principal chair of astronomy at the University of Bologna, which then rivaled the Jesuit college in Bologna where Giovanni Battista Riccioli was teaching (Bònoli and Braccesi 2001). In 1652–53, Cassini I observed the passage of a comet, and on 21 June 1655 he started using the meridian he had traced on the floor of the Basilica of St. Petronius in Bologna to replace Egnazio Danti’s 1575 meridian. This line allowed Cassini I to make numerous observations regarding the obliquity of the ecliptic, the speed of the apparent movement of the sun, and atmospheric refraction (Cassini I 1810, 266–70). In 1664, he resumed his observations of Jupiter (Débarbat and Wilson 1989) and continued with Mars and Venus. He elaborated tables of movements for the satellites of Jupiter, which were intended for calculations of longitude. He published them in Bologna in 1668 and updated them in Paris in 1693. This work, Ephemerides Bononienses mediceorvm sydervm, made him famous. The publication of the Ephemerides resulted in the invitation from Louis XIV for Cassini to become a corresponding member of the Académie des sciences. For his first contribution to this august body, Cassini observed an eclipse of the moon in Rome on 26 May 1668 in the palazzo of the ambassador to the Holy See, the future cardinal César d’Estrées. Both these observations and

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the Ephemerides drew the appreciation of abbé Jean Picard. The king’s chief minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, saw that Cassini could advise on the construction of the Paris Observatory and encouraged the king to invite the Italian scholar to Paris. Through intermediaries, Cardinal d’Estrées successfully negotiated with newly elected Pope Clement IX for Cassini’s transfer to Paris, at first meant to be only temporary (Cassini I 1810, 284–87). Cassini I arrived in Paris on 4 April 1669 and was presented to the king, whom he subsequently visited on several occasions. He lived initially in the galeries du Louvre, the royal accommodation for state-supported scholars and artists. Although Cassini I influenced the construction of what became the Paris Observatory, his relations with the building’s architect Claude Perrault, who was directing construction, rapidly deteriorated, due in particular to the astronomer’s demand for a huge observation room on the upper floor of the building so that “the sunlight would enter the room through a hole in such a way as to describe on the floor the daily path of the sun’s image” (Cassini I 1810, 294). Cassini’s criticisms, however, rendered important modifications to the initial project. The king himself intervened, and Perrault succeeded, though not without difficulty, in overcoming the problems raised by the astronomer (Picon 1988, 206–12). On 4 September 1671 Cassini moved into the Paris Observatory, which became the Cassini residence, and continued the investigations begun in Italy. Daily logs of his observations are still housed in the observatory’s library. He benefited from participation in the projects of the Académie des sciences and the possibilities afforded by the new observatory, especially the high-quality instruments used to observe Saturn and its satellites as well as the surface of the moon (from 1671 to 1679), of which he prepared a map presented to the Académie in 1679. In April 1673, he obtained French citizenship before marrying Geneviève de Laistre, daughter of the lieutenant general of the comté of Clermont-en-Beauvaisis and counselor of the king. The marriage motivated him to purchase the seigneurie of Thury and Fillerval near Clermont (Oise), and the château de Fillerval became the family’s summer residence. The couple had two sons: Jean-Baptiste (b. 1674) became a soldier and died in 1692; Jacques (Cassini II), followed in his father’s footsteps and was of special help when Cassini I became blind in 1710. Cassini I died on 14 September 1712. On 28 January 1699, Cassini I became the first titleholder of one of the three places designated for astronomers in the Académie, which he directed in 1704 and 1708. In scientific debates, he tended toward the side of tradition: he disputed the theory of the Dane Ole Rømer

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regarding the speed of light, opposed the principle of universal gravity, and did not adhere completely to Copernican theories. On 21 May 1682 Cassini I presented to the king and the court a planisphere on a polar projection (7.8 meters in diameter) drawn on the floor of the west tower of the Paris Observatory by Sédileau and Jean-Mathieu de Chazelles (Wolf 1902, 63–65); a reduced version was engraved in 1696 (fig. 147). This work recorded the observations of latitude and longitude carried out all over the world by académiciens and their emissaries. Cassini I himself oversaw the training of such travelers as shown in Les elemens de l’astronomie (Cassini I 1684, 52–58). At the request of Colbert to the Académie on 12 June 1683, Cassini supported extending the late Picard’s geometric measurements along the meridian of the Paris Observatory. Cassini I’s research program, presented on 15 June as the “Projet de la prolongation de la méridienne . . .” (Cassini I 1684), encouraged the Académie not to forget the importance of establishing an accurate map of all of France. With Philippe de La Hire, Cassini I joined the team heading south to carry out measurements. But Colbert’s death on 6 September 1683 stopped the project. It was restarted in 1700, suspended in 1701 (having reached Collioure), and completed in 1718 by Jacques (Cassini II), Cassini I’s son. In 1701 Cassini  I gave an account of the project in which he discussed the shape of the earth: he concluded it was no longer possible to consider it perfectly spherical. In his examination of the length of degrees calculated between Amiens and Collioure, he noted that their measure increased as one moved toward the south (Cassini I 1719, 171–84), a mistake reiterated by his son Jacques in 1713 and 1720. Mo ni q ue Pelletier See also: Celestial Mapping: Enlightenment; Geodetic Surveying: France; Longitude and Latitude; Meridians, Local and Prime; Paris Observatory (France) Bibliography Bònoli, Fabrizio, and Alessandro Braccesi. 2001. “Les recherches astronomiques de Giovanni Domenico Cassini à Bologne: 1649–1669.” In Sur les traces des Cassini: Astronomes et observatoires du sud de la France, Actes du 121e Congrès national des Sociétés historiques et scientifiques, Nice, Octobre 1996, ed. Paul Brouzeng and Suzanne Débarbat, 101–27. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Cassini, Anna. 1994. Gio: Domenico Cassini: Uno scienziato del Seicento. [Perinaldo]: Comune di Perinaldo. Cassini (I), Jean-Dominique. 1683. “Projet de la prolongation de la méridienne jusqu’aux deux mers pour la mesure de la Terre.” In “Registres de l’Académie royale des sciences,” IX, fol. 221 vo. ———. 1684. Les elemens de l’astronomie verifiez par Monsieur Cassini par le rapport de ses tables aux observations de M. Richer faites en l’isle de Caïenne. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. ———. 1693. Les hypotheses et les tables des satellites de Jupiter reformées sur de nouvelles observations. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. ———. 1719. “De la meridienne de l’Observatoire royal, prolongée jusques aux Pyrenées.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1701: 171–84.

Fig. 147. JACQUES CASSINI (II), PLANISPHERE TERRESTRE OU SONT MARQUEES LES LONGITUDES DE DIVERS LIEUX DE LA TERRE, PAR LES OBSERVATIONS DES ECLIPSES DES SATELLITES DE IUPITER (PARIS: IEAN BAPTISTE NOLIN, 1696).

Size of the original: 64.5 × 56.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [112]).

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———. 1810. “Anecdotes de la vie de J.-D. Cassini, rapportées par luimême.” In Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire des sciences et à celle de l’Observatoire royal de Paris, by Jean-Dominique Cassini (IV), 255–97. Paris: Bleuet. Dainville, François de. 1940. La géographie des humanistes. Paris: Beauchesne et Ses Fils. Débarbat, Suzanne, and Curtis Wilson. 1989. “The Galilean Satellites of Jupiter from Galileo to Cassini, Römer and Bardley.” In Planetary Astronomy from the Renaissance to the Rise of Astrophysics, ed. René Taton and Curtis Wilson, pt. A, 144–57. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Picon, Antoine. 1988. Claude Perrault, 1613–1688, ou La curiosité d’un classique. Paris: Picard. Wolf, Charles. 1902. Histoire de l’Observatoire de Paris de sa fondation à 1793. Paris: Gauthier-Villars.

Fig. 148. CARTE DE FRANCE OU SONT MARQUEZ LES TRIANGLES QUI ONT SERVI A DETERMINER LA MERIDIENE DE PARIS (1720). Illustration from Cassini II’s De la grandeur et de la figure de la Terre, Suite des Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1718 (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1720).

Size of the original: ca. 24 × 26 cm. Image courtesy of the Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library, Ithaca.

Cassini (II), Jacques. An astronomer and geodesist like

his father Cassini I, Jacques Cassini (II) was born on 18 February 1677 at the Paris Observatory. There he began his studies under the direction of Jean-Mathieu de Chazelles. He continued at the Collège Mazarin,

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where he defended a thesis in mathematics in 1691. In 1694 he entered the Académie des sciences as an astronomy student, became an associate astronomer in 1699, and resident astronomer in 1712 at the death of his father. He directed this institution in 1715, 1726, 1729, 1732, and 1739. In 1710, he married SuzanneFrançoise Charpentier de Charmois, with whom he had three sons—Dominique-Jean, César-François (Cassini III), who would succeed him, and Dominique-Joseph—as well as two daughters, Suzanne-Françoise and Elisabeth-Germaine. Cassini II traveled to Italy, Flanders, the Low Countries, and England, where he made contacts with Isaac Newton, Edmond Halley, and John Flamsteed. He was admitted to the Royal Society of London, the Königlich Preußische Sozietät der Wissenschaften, and the Accademia delle Scienze dell’Istituto di Bologna. He combined an administrative career with scientific vocation; he became maître ordinaire in 1706 at the Chambre des comptes and conseiller d’État in 1722. In astronomy, his observations were published in the Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, and later synthesized in the Éléments d’astronomie (Paris, 1740). Cassini, however, did not take a clear stance in the debate on the cosmographic systems. He studied the planets and their satellites and in 1740 published the Tables astronomiques du soleil, de la lune, des planetes, des étoiles fixes, et des satellites de Jupiter et de Saturne, based on the Parisian meridian. As he grew older, he gradually abandoned scientific activities, leaving his son, Cassini III, to carry on the family work. He died at Thury, following an accident, on 15 April 1756. In 1700–1701 Cassini II had joined his father’s efforts to measure the meridian southward. The project, interrupted after 1701, was completed under his direction along the Paris-Dunkirk line in 1718. From 1713, Cassini II entered the debate regarding the shape of the earth, opposing Isaac Newton and Christiaan Huygens, who favored the theory of a flattened earth, and supporting instead the hypothesis of an elongated earth, already formulated by the Strasbourg mathematician Johann Caspar Eisenschmidt. To support his views, Cassini II relied on the measurements of Jean Picard for the northern portion of the meridian and his own measurements for the southern portion, establishing his argument in the “Table des degrés méridiens de la Terre” (Cassini II 1739, 198). In 1720 he published De la grandeur et de la figure de la Terre, which detailed the measurements of the southern and northern portions of the meridian (fig. 148), allowing him to reaffirm that the earth was elongated toward the poles. Although opposed by Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, as well as Voltaire, Cassini II received discreet support from JeanBaptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, who concluded, based on the measurements of longitude available to him as

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an eminent cartographer, that “the earth is much less extended in its east-west diameter than it is north to south” (d’Anville 1735, 12). On 1 June 1733, with his sons, his cousin Giacomo Filippo Maraldi, abbé Jean Delagrive, and François Chevalier, Cassini II undertook the measure of the perpendicular to the meridian, a great circle of the sphere, which crossed France from east to west, in order to “know the relationship between degrees of longitude and those of latitude” (Cassini II 1735, 392). This measurement led him to reaffirm the elongated form of the earth for “the degrees of longitude are smaller than in the spherical hypothesis” (Cassini II 1735, 402). The bitterness of these debates encouraged the Académie des sciences to organize two expeditions: one to Peru (1736–44) and the other to the northern end of Gulf of Bothnia (1736–37). Mo nique Pelletier See also: Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; Height Measurement: Altimetry Bibliography Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1735. Proposition d’une mesure de la Terre. Paris: Chaubert. Cassini (II), Jacques. 1735. “De la carte de la France, et de la perpendiculaire a la méridienne de Paris.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1733: 389–405. ———. 1739. “De la figure de la Terre.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1713: 187–98. Grandjean de Fouchy, Jean-Paul. 1762. “Éloge de M. Cassini.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1756: 134–46.

Cassini (III) de Thury, César-François. Son of Jacques

Cassini (II), César-François Cassini (III) de Thury was born in Thury on 17 June 1714. He studied astronomy at the Paris Observatory under the direction of his great uncle Giacomo Filippo Maraldi. He was named adjunct astronomer supernumerary at the Académie des sciences on 12 July 1735, adjunct astronomer on 22 January 1741, associate mechanic on 22 February 1741, and resident astronomer on 25 December 1745. He acted as director of the Académie in 1758, 1767, and 1771. In 1747, he married Charlotte Drouin, daughter of Louis-François Drouin, seigneur de Vandeuil, with whom he had a son, Jean-Dominique, who succeeded him as astronomer, geodesist, and administrator of the Carte générale et particulière de la France, as well as a daughter, FrançoiseÉlisabeth. In 1748 Cassini III was named maître ordinaire at the Chambre des comptes as well as conseiller du roi. He was also a member of the Royal Society of London and of the Prussian Königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften. His astronomical work was of limited interest, and his efforts to improve the operation of the Paris Observatory had little effect during his lifetime. Nevertheless, in 1771 he became the first titular director of this institution. His principal work was the Carte générale et

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particulière de la France, which mobilized all his energies. He died in Paris on 4 September 1784. Cassini III joined his father in measuring the perpendicular to the meridian of the Observatory in 1733–34. The coasts of France then received priority, and in 1735– 36, with Giovanni Domenico Maraldi, son of Giacomo Filippo, who played an important role in completing the general triangulation of France, Cassini III surveyed the Breton coast. In 1737, again with Maraldi, he measured the Cherbourg-Nantes-Bayonne meridian. He added the Bayonne-Antibes perpendicular line the next year. Cassini III wished to determine the shape of the earth “in all its aspects.” Having measured the degrees of latitude in the south of France, he planned to measure degrees of longitude by measuring the time it took for sound (an explosion) to travel over a certain distance (Cassini III 1741, 133). After Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis published in 1738 the results of the expedition to the Gulf of Bothnia sponsored by the Académie des sciences, Cassini III started the next year to remeasure the meridian of the Paris Observatory with abbé Nicolas-Louis de La Caille. This measurement led him to reconsider the theory formulated by his father and grandfather. According to his newer calculations, the length of a degree gradually diminished the farther one moved to the south; the earth, therefore, flattened out at the poles (Cassini III 1744, 25). Cassini III announced the imminent publication of a map in sixteen sheets included in a book in three parts (Cassini III 1749, 559), the pedagogical goals of which were evident, as the four preserved manuscripts show (Manuel-Gismondi 2001). But the publication of the Description géométrique de la France was delayed until 1783 because Cassini himself was entrusted with a mission that he had first thought others should complete: the survey of a general and detailed map of the kingdom (Cassini III 1775, 147–48). Previously, his mission had been to continue triangulation from France into Flanders and Brabant (Lemoine-Isabeau 1984, 142) in order to link it to the work of Willebrord Snellius and to support the surveys of the ingénieurs militaires. This mission demonstrates how military cartography was developing pari passu with the Carte générale et particulière de la France as surveyed by Cassini’s ingénieurs. But the ingénieurs militaires regretted their lack of access to the calculations of the general triangulation kept by Cassini III (Ingénieurs militaires 1776); their need probably explains the publication of the Description géométrique (Paris, 1783), which included the calculations. The operations for the Carte générale et particulière de la France did not begin until 1750. “Everything had to be created”; good ingénieurs had to be trained, and expenses were higher than expected (Cassini IV 1810, 100–104). The surveys, performed at a scale of

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1:86,400, progressed more quickly than the engraving, and this delayed diffusion of the work. At the end of 1755, a letter from the contrôleur général (minister of finance) ordered the ingénieurs in the countryside to suspend all surveying. Cassini III, distressed by this suspension, began planning in February 1756 for a private society to help resume operations; the society had signed fifty members by mid-July 1756. Soon thereafter, with two sheets prepared and printed (see fig. 140), Cassini III presented one of them, a sheet of Beauvais, to Louis XV at his summer retreat at Compiègne. Although the monarch admired the map, he did not wish to oppose his finance minister. Three days later Cassini III submitted to the king his project for a private association to support the execution of the map, which the king approved the following day. The fifty original associates were soon joined by forty-two others (Cassini IV 1810, 108–10; Pelletier 2007a, 8). Cassini III also navigated skillfully between the desire of the monarch and his administration for centralization and the desire of the provinces to promote themselves by maps and histories (Pelletier 2007a, 2007b). His primary objective for his ingénieurs was to determine the precise positions of places by the mean of angular measurements, recorded in registers used for constructing the draft maps (Pelletier 2013, 131–58). These initial measurements were verified in the field by other ingénieurs who submitted them to local seigneurs and priests in order to check topography and toponymy (geometry remained the ingénieur’s domain). The map was nearly finished when the Revolution broke out in 1789. The principal accomplishment of Cassini III was “to have, for the greatest benefit of geography, realized the transition from geodesy to topography, as his ancestors had accomplished the passage from astronomy to geodesy” using “the direct and global action of the observer whose vision encompassed all of a region, however extended it might be” (Drapeyron 1896, 250). Mo ni q ue Pelletier See also: Carte de France; Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: France; Paris Observatory (France); Projections: Topographical Survey Plans; Topographical Surveying: France Bibliography Cassini (III) de Thury, César François. 1741. “Sur les opérations géométriques faites en France dans les années 1737 & 1738.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1739: 119–34. ———. 1744. La meridienne de l’Observatoire royal de Paris, vérifiée dans toute l’étendue du royaume par de nouvelles observations. Paris: Hippolyte-Louis Guérin, & Jacques Guérin. ———. 1749. “Sur la description géométrique de la France.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1745: 553–60. ———. 1775. Description des conquêtes de Louis XV, depuis 1745 jusqu’en 1748. In Relation d’un voyage en Allemagne, 123–94. Paris: De l’Imprimerie Royale. Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique. 1810. Mémoires pour servir à l’his-

Cassini Family toire des sciences et à celle de l’Observatoire royal de Paris. Paris: Bleuet. Drapeyron, Ludovic. 1896. “La vie et les travaux géographiques de Cassini de Thury.” Revue de Géographie 39:241–54. Ingénieurs militaires. 1776. “Instruction sur la marche que l’on a tenu dans l’établissement du canevas géométrique le long des côtes de Bretagne en 1771, 1772, 1773, 1774, 1775 et 1776.” Saint-Mandé, Cartothèque de l’Institut géographique national, archives de la carte de Cassini, provinces, A région ouest. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la Principauté de Liège à la fin du XVII e et au XVIII e siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. Manuel-Gismondi, Vincent. 2001. “Un document conservé chez les Maraldi sur ‘Le parfait ingénieur’ de Cassini III.” In Sur les traces des Cassini: Astronomes et observatoires du sud de la France, ed. Paul Brouzeng and Suzanne Débarbat, 155–65. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Pelletier, Monique. 2007a. “La carte de France en 1756.” Le Monde des Cartes 191:7–12. ———. 2007b. “La cartographie des Lumières dans le sud de la France et ses rapports avec l’histoire des provinces.” In Géographie et cartographie historique: Méthodes et résultats, ed. Monique Pelletier. CD-ROM. Paris: Éd. du Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. ———. 2013. Les cartes des Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed. Paris: Éditions du CTHS.

Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique. Son of César-François Cassini (III) de Thury, Jean-Dominique Cassini (IV) was born in the Paris Observatory on 30 June 1748. After education at the Collège du Plessis and with the Oratorians at Juilly, he studied physics with abbé Jean Antoine Nollet, mathematics with Antoine-René Mauduit, and astronomy at the Observatory with Giovanni Domenico Maraldi and abbé Jean Chappe d’Auteroche. His artistic gifts also developed, as is shown by his Manuel de l’étranger qui voyage en Italie (Paris, 1778), which includes eight maps. Adjunct astronomer at the Académie des sciences in 1770, he became associate astronomer in 1785. In 1773, he married Claude-Marie-Louise de La Myre-Mory, with whom he had eight children, three of whom died young. The youngest, Alexandre-HenriGabriel, a jurist and a botanist, marked the end of the Cassini dynasty. At the death of his father in 1784, Cassini IV was named director of the Observatory and continued his father’s reforms: restoring buildings, constructing new instruments, and creating a permanent team of young observers. Outraged by the suppression of the Académie des sciences and the confiscation of the Carte générale et particulière de la France in August and September 1793, he did not agree with the Revolutionary reforms and was forced to leave the Observatory on 4 September 1793. Denounced by the Département de l’Oise, he was arrested in Paris on 14 February 1794 and imprisoned in the convent of English Benedictines. On 5 August he retired to Thury with his children. He refused a position at the Bureau des longitudes, which was created in June

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1795 and incorporated the Observatory. The following year, he declined membership in the division of astronomy at the new Institut national, but he reconsidered in 1799. From 1800 to 1818, he presided over the Conseil général de l’Oise. He received pensions and decorations from Napoleon and Louis XVIII, and he died at Thury on 18 October 1845 at age ninety-seven. Like his ancestors, Cassini IV was preoccupied with the determination of longitude. As the Académie’s commissioner for examining marine chronometers, he tested two clocks made by Pierre Le Roy during a voyage to North America and Africa in 1768 (Cassini IV 1770, 115–44). He edited the Voyage en Californie, completed by Chappe d’Auteroche in 1769 (Paris, 1772). But his principal task after his father’s death was to finish the Carte générale et particulière de la France, delayed by critics from the États de Bretagne (Cassini IV 1810, 121–26) and persistent lack of funds. Cassini IV also renewed his father’s ambitious project to extend the chain of triangles that covered France to cover all of Europe. In 1787 he participated in the geodetic connection of the observatories at Paris and Greenwich, working with William Roy, Pierre-François-André Méchain, and Adrien-Marie Legendre. His role in the Carte générale et particulière de la France was ended by the Revolution. On 21 September 1793, the Convention nationale ordered that the Carte générale et particulière de la France be transported to the Dépôt de la Guerre because the French government considered the map national property issued by the Académie des sciences—an institution that had just been suppressed. Cassini IV fought for his rights as author and director and for those of the society members who had invested in the project. On 16 February 1794, the minister of war proposed indemnities that were confirmed seven years later by the Consulate, but Cassini IV was not reinstated as director and curator of the Carte générale et particulière de la France. This struggle and rejection embittered Cassini IV. He refused to participate in the new effort to measure the meridian, and he criticized the excesses of the project as dangerous, expensive, time-wasting, and with the dubious results of a “meter that resembles nothing” (Cassini IV [1823], 78). He recommended a program for the new owners of the Carte générale et particulière de la France: to revise the topography and toponymy of some plates as well as angles and distances; to finish the publication of the tables of distances; and to complement the map by publishing a general geographic, physical, and political dictionary of France (Cassini IV 1810, 249–53). Mo niq ue Pelletier See also: Carte de France; Greenwich-Paris Triangulation; Paris Observatory (France); Revolution, French

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Bibliograp hy Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique. S.d. “Annales.” Clermont (Oise), Bibliothèque municipale, MS. 41. ———. 1770. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1768, pour éprouver les montres marines inventées par M. Le Roy. Paris: C.-A. Jombert. ———. 1810. Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire des sciences et à celle de l’Observatoire royal de Paris. Paris: Bleuet. ———. [1823]. “Mémoires.” Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des cartes et plans, Ge DD 2066 (3). Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique, Pierre-François-André Méchain, and Adrien-Marie Legendre. [1791]. Exposé des opérations faites en France en 1787, pour la jonction des observatoires de Paris et de Greenwich. Paris: Institution des Sourds-Muets. Devic, J. F. S. 1851. Histoire de la vie et des travaux scientifiques et littéraires de J.-D. Cassini IV. Clermont (Oise): Daix.

Cassini, Giovanni Maria. Giovanni Maria Cassini was born in 1745 in Rome, where he also died, probably in 1824, after a long illness. Little is known of his early training; the earliest documentary evidence from 1769 describes him as a procuratore (delegate) in the Roman monastery of the Somaschi Fathers (Grizzuti 1971, 403). As an engraver, his first signed works were sixty-four plates in Giovanni Battista Passeri’s Picturae Etruscorum in vasculis (1767–75) and the eighty plates drawn and engraved for the Nuova raccolta delle megliori vedute antiche, e moderne di Roma (1775). During the 1770s his ability as a draftsman and engraver established him in the close-knit world of Roman copperplate printing, dominated by Giovanni Battista Piranesi. Although Cassini is often described as the latter’s pupil or apprentice, no evidence supports this claim. Cassini’s first cartographic engravings were published in Pier Maria Cermelli’s Carte corografiche, e memorie riguardanti le pietre, le miniere, e i fossili (1782). In 1790, he engraved the gores for his first terrestrial globe (fig. 149), followed in 1792 by the gores for his celestial globe, created according to “the observations of Sig.  Flamsteed and of La Caille” (cartouche). Both works were published by the Calcografia Camerale (Grelle Iusco 1996). The publication of the two globes were steps toward a much more ambitious publishing venture. In 1787 the Calcografia Camerale commissioned Cassini to produce a geographical atlas, promising to pay all the production costs including that of an introductory geographical text. Father Girolamo Pongelli was meant to be the author, but the text mentions only Pietro Bonacorsi, who certainly coordinated the preparation of the maps (Valerio 2005, 74). As the “Introduzione” mentions, this important commission to Cassini served “advantageous purposes of His Excellency the Most Reverend Monsignor D. Fabrizio Russo, General Treasurer,” who intended the publication to provide a social and cultural service for the nation, which lacked a modern geographical atlas (Cassini

Fig. 149. GIOVANNI MARIA CASSINI, TERRESTRIAL GLOBE GORES, ROME, 1790. Three gores with the title cartouche and the Western Hemisphere. Size of the original: 49.2 × 32.6 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3201.B71 1790.C3).

1792, 21). The Nuovo atlante geografico universale was published in three volumes: in 1792 (fifty-five maps), 1797 (seventy maps) and 1801 (fifty-seven maps). The first volume included the previously published terrestrial and celestial globe gores. The “Introduzione” described in detail Cassini’s method for preparing the gores using sinusoidal rather than circular curves (Cassini 1792, 7–8), identifying it as that described by Nicolas Bion in 1699 (Valerio 2005, 79–84). Cassini not only produced a thoroughly up-to-date atlas but also identified the sources he used, thus supplying an overview of contemporary cartography. The “Introduzione” mentions a number of important Italian atlases, including the Venetian atlases by Antonio Zatta “created to accompany Zatta’s edition of [Anton Friedrich] Büsching’s Geografia,” and by Francesco Santini, “who made exact copies of the best recent maps” (Cassini 1792, 20).

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Cassini also included the cartographic work begun in 1788 by the Sienese printer Vincenzo Pazzini Carli and edited by Bartolomeo Borghi. As to his own work, “he spared himself no effort, diligence, or cost . . . in order to gather wherever possible enlightenment, information, and the best available documents, so that they might contribute to the exactitude and value of the work” (Cassini 1792, 21). Among Cassini’s other major cartographic works was his large map of Italy in fifteen sheets, Carta generale dell’ Italia divisa ne’ suoi stati e provincie, published by the Calcografia Camerale (1793). V l a dimiro Valerio

Star maps, which delineated the celestial sphere and the constellations by which the randomly distributed stars were organized and located, were integral to early modern astronomical practice. Determination of the orbits and motions of the sun, moon, planets, and comets required a standard frame of reference, which the fixed stars provided. For example, many seventeenth- and eighteenth-century astronomers mapped the passage of comets across the constellations (fig. 150); conversely, the predicted movement of a planet could be mapped by reference to the stars in order to guide observers in taking new and precise measurements of the planet’s mo-

See also: Calcografia Camerale (Copperplate Printing Administration; Rome); Map Trade: Italian States B i bliogra p hy Cassini, Giovanni Maria. 1792. “Introduzione generale allo studio della geografia.” In Nuovo atlante geografico universale delineato sulle ultime osservazioni, vol. 1, 1–35. Rome: Calcografia Camerale. Grelle Iusco, Anna, ed. 1996. Indice delle stampe intagliate in rame a bulino, e in acqua forte esistenti nella stamparia [sic] di Lorenzo Filippo De’ Rossi appresso Santa Maria della Pace in Roma, MDCCXXXV: Contributo alla storia di una stamperia romana. Rome: Artemide. Grizzuti, Adriana. 1971. “Appunti su Giovanni Maria Cassini e le sue opere cartografiche.” Studi Romani 19:400–409. Valerio, Vladimiro. 2005. “Giovanni Maria Cassini’s Globe Gores (1790/1792)—A Study of Text and Images.” Globe Studies 51–52: 73–84.

Cassini Map. See Carte de France

Celestial Mapping. E n l i g ht e n me n t D e n m ark an d N o rway F ran ce G re at Bri tai n I tal i an Stat e s P o rt u gal S pai n S w e d e n-F i n l a n d

Celestial Mapping in the Enlightenment. By 1650, astronomical enquiry featured well-established traditions of mapping stars within their constellations, elaborating diagrammatic models of the solar system, and constructing naturalistic depictions of the moon, sun, and some of the planets (Friedman Herlihy 2007; Van Gent and Van Helden 2007). This entry considers the continuation of these interrelated practices, together with their reforms, in the Enlightenment. It focuses on the principal works of astronomers but turns, in closing, to the more popular imagery produced for Europe’s public. Subsequent entries explore celestial mapping within particular national contexts.

Fig. 150. A COMET MAPPED AGAINST THE STARS. Ignatio Bergonzoni, Viaggo apparente della cometa osservato in Bologna l’anno 1739, from Eustachio Zanotti, La cometa dell’anno MDCCXXXIX (Bologne, 1739), last page (facing 28). Zanotti, a member of the Accademia delle Scienze dell’Istituto de Bologna, was one of many astronomers who published pamphlets with such maps of the paths of comets. The path of this comet, with its tail steadily diminishing, passes from upper left (28 May), across the constellation Auriga, past the horns of Taurus on the ecliptic (the graduated horizontal line), to bottom right (17 August). Size of the original: ca. 48.0 × 34.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City (Séguier collection, item 5).

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Fig. 151. A PREDICTION OF MARS’S APPARENT RETROGRADE MOTION. Joseph-Nicolas Delisle prepared Dessein représentant le mouvement de la planete de Mars, pandant les mois de Juillet, Aoust et Septembre 1751 to accompany NicolasLouis de La Caille’s Avis aux astronomes (N.p., 1750), between 25 and 26. La Caille observed Mars from the Cape of Good Hope, from August to October 1751, to determine solar paral-

lax in conjunction with simultaneous observations in France and Sweden; the determination would actually be achieved in the 1760s with worldwide observations of the transit of Venus. Size of the original: 8 × 20 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City (Séguier collection, item 24).

tion (fig. 151). In measuring the momentary position of the moon, a planet, or a comet against the stars, astronomers used their star maps to identify the reference stars and so find the coordinates as listed in star catalogs. A major task for Enlightenment astronomy—indeed, the principal task of the many state-sponsored observatories created after 1650 (Bennett 1992, 1–2)—was therefore the perfection and enlargement of the catalogs together with the preparation of comprehensive star atlases as graphic indexes. When astronomers argued after 1660 that the problem of determining longitude at sea could be solved by tracking the motion of the moon relative to the fixed stars, they had to accept that the best catalog then available—Johannes Kepler’s Tabulæ Rudolphinæ (1627), which combined Tycho Brahe’s remarkable catalog  of about 1,000 stars from ca. 1598 with the classical Ptolemaic catalog and observations of southern stars by Dutch navigators in the 1590s (Dekker 1987)— was simply too imprecise and erroneous for the task.

Charles II therefore founded the Royal Observatory at Greenwich in 1675 with the specific goal of creating a large, precise, and accurate stellar catalog. The labors of John Flamsteed, the first astronomer royal, eventually led to the posthumous publication of both his threevolume Historia coelestis Britannica (1725)—which presented all his observations, explained the process of their reduction, located 2,935 stars, and correlated them to previous catalogs—and his Atlas coelestis (1729) with twenty-seven maps (fig. 152). The major star atlases of the Enlightenment were all grounded in new and updated star catalogs. All would be copied repeatedly in various British, French, German, Dutch, and Italian publications (Ashworth 2007; Kanas 2012, 151–90). Johannes Bayer had largely based his Uranometria (1603), with fifty-one maps, on the work of Tycho and Dutch navigators (Dekker 1987; Friedman Herlihy 2007, 115–16). Bayer’s work would not be superseded until Johannes Hevelius in Gdan´sk prepared a corrected and expanded catalog of 1,888 stars

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together with the Firmamentum Sobiescianum, sive Uranographia, an atlas with fifty-six maps (fig. 153). The last and greatest product of nontelescopic astronomy, Hevelius’s catalog and atlas formed separate volumes of his posthumous Prodromus astronomiæ of 1690. But even then, Bayer’s atlas continued to be used as the basic reference work in France and Britain, where Hevelius’s work remained little known: Flamsteed would design his Atlas coelestis in opposition to Bayer’s Uranometria, and he gave little attention to Hevelius’s work. Flamsteed’s works would in turn form the foundation of stellar astronomy for the remainder of the eighteenth century (Warner 1979, 18–20, 112–16, 80–82). The complementarity of stellar cataloging and mapping was

manifested on those occasions when atlas maps were actually interleaved with the relevant portions of the catalogs. This was the case, for example, with the dedication copy of Hevelius’s Firmamentum Sobiescianum sent by his widow to Louis XIV (Targosz 1988, 155) and similarly with John Bevis’s planned but unpublished “Uranographia Britannica” of about 1750, which had the tables opposite the plates (Ashworth 1981, 72). The continuing program by the ever-increasing number of observatories to refine stellar locations meant that new and derivative atlas editions often contained new information. The major advances in this regard came with observations made of the southern skies. From the Atlantic island of St. Helena, in 1676–77, Edmond Halley

Fig. 152. AQUARIUS, FROM JOHN FLAMSTEED’S ATLAS COELESTIS (LONDON, 1729). The heavier graticule, oriented to the graduated horizontal line of the celestial equator, indicates north polar distance (the complement of declination) and right ascension; the lighter graticule, oriented to the graduated diagonal line of the ecliptic, indicates celestial latitude

and longitude. Flamsteed labeled each star within the constellation in order of magnitude: α and β Aquarii, for example, are in the shoulders. Size of the original: 51 × 65 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City.

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Fig. 153. AQUARIUS, FROM JOHANNES HEVELIUS’S FIRMAMENTUM SOBIESCIANUM (GDAN´ SK, 1690), FIG. MM. Hevelius copied most of his constellation figures either from Willem Jansz. Blaeu’s ca. 1598 celestial globe or from the planispheres inserted in the spandrels of Joan Blaeu’s 1648 world wall map. The graduated horizontal line indicates the

ecliptic; the thin diagonal lines are the equator and the Tropic of Capricorn. The graduated margins indicate a trapezoidal projection. Size of the original: 30 × 37 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City.

observed 341 southern stars; his catalog, complete with a map (fig. 154), appeared in 1679. Nicolas-Louis de La Caille prepared a map of the southern sky to accompany his 1763 catalog of 9,800 southern stars, observed from the Cape of Good Hope in 1751–52 (see fig. 165). Persistent astronomical observations led to the updating of Flamsteed’s atlas in Paris, as the Atlas céleste de Flamstéed, first by the globemaker Jean Fortin in 1776 and then, with further corrections by Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande and Pierre-François-André Méchain, in 1795. In Berlin, Johann Elert Bode also updated the 1776 edition of Flamsteed’s atlas, together with a new cata-

log, in his Vorstellung der Gestirne (1782). Finally, Bode combined the work of the eighteenth-century observers into a huge new catalog of 17,240 stars with an accompanying twenty-plate atlas, Uranographia sive astrorum descriptio (1801), which represents the culmination of Enlightenment stellar cartography (see fig. 239) (Warner 1979, 107–9, 142–43, 84–85, 34–39). The increase in the number of known stars—both newly observed southern stars and those visible only with telescopes—led astronomers to create many new constellations to organize and name the new additions to the stellar catalogs, such as the pendulum clock, or

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Horologium (see fig. 183). The new figures were designed for many reasons, including recognition of patrons, and other astronomers did not necessarily adopt them. Nonetheless, the number of constellations in use steadily increased from the forty-eight inherited from Ptolemy to the ninety-nine by which Bode organized his Uranographia in 1801.

The maps in these star atlases possessed a consistent aesthetic. Each positioned the figures of one or more constellations and their constituent stars—whose sizes on the map were proportional to their relative brightness, or magnitude—within a complex network of lines of latitude and longitude. In particular, the artistry with which the constellations were drawn varied with the skill

Fig. 154. EDMOND HALLEY’S GENERAL MAP OF THE SOUTHERN SKY. The chart appeared in Halley’s Catalogus stellarum australium (1679) and used an azimuthal stereographic projection centered on the pole of the ecliptic. The

radiating straight lines indicate stellar longitude; the circles, centered on the Antarctic celestial pole, indicate declination. Diameter of the original: 46.5 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London. The Image Works.

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of the draftsmen and engravers who prepared the maps, the models from which the figures were copied, and the prevailing sentiments of decorative style. One evident eighteenth-century trend was the progressive simplification of the constellation figures in response to the steady increase in cataloged stars needing to be portrayed. Furthermore, watercolor was rarely applied to works intended for astronomers but was common for popular works. Overall, the common aesthetic stemmed from the printing of star charts from copperplates: other than the depictions of stars and the constellation figures, star maps appear remarkably white and empty. Flamsteed’s maps were especially so: he used large Imperial paper that was about twice the size of the folio sheets used in other star atlases, including the French derivatives of his work, and he reduced the size of the cartographic signs for star magnitudes “so that I should enjoy more space” in which to work (Flamsteed 1982, 160). But there were exceptions. First, star maps were occasionally clarified in France by overprinting the constellation figures in red (see fig. 156 below). Second, two works appeared in 1799 that had been printed so as to appear white on black: a pair of celestial hemispheres by R. Brook in London and the maps in Christian Friedrich Goldbach’s atlas published in Weimar (Warner 1979, 43, 96–97); Goldbach’s Neuester Himmels-Atlas, based on Bode’s edition of Flamsteed’s atlas, featured two plates for each portion of the night sky, one giving a direct impression of the sky, showing just stars, the other with constellations and lines of celestial coordinate systems added (fig. 155). Despite all the variability in map elements, we can nonetheless identify further patterns in, and the development through time of, particular elements of star maps over the course of the eighteenth century. Enlightenment star maps fall into two categories: general and detailed. General star maps, almost always circular in form and often called “planispheres” in the Enlightenment, depicted large portions of the heavens to show the general arrangement of constellations. More particularly, hemispheres depicted precisely half of the heavens (as fig. 154 above) and could be issued in pairs; planispheres per se depicted the northern celestial hemisphere plus much of the southern sky in order to show the constellations and stars revealed by the tilt of the earth’s axis and recorded by Ptolemy. Planispheres

were properly drawn on an azimuthal stereographic (conformal) projection (Friedman Herlihy 2007, 105n26). Hemispheres, however, could also be drawn on an azimuthal equidistant projection; there is no clear chronological pattern in the respective use of the two projections, and both were used throughout the long Enlightenment. On occasion, the band of the zodiac was mapped with a simple rectangular projection: by John Seller and Augustin Royer, both in 1679; John Senex in 1718; Pierre-Charles Le Monnier in 1755 (fig. 156); and Samuel Dunn in 1772 (Warner 1979, 233–37, 213–16, 239–44, 159–62, 68–70). All of these works appeared in association with attempts to elucidate the determination of longitude at sea by lunar distances; indeed, Tobias Mayer in 1756 completed a new catalog of zodiacal stars as part of his work on lunar tables for the longitude prize and finally published in 1775 in his Opera inedita. Detailed celestial maps delineated individual constellations or groups of constellations in a manner analogous to maps of countries or regions in terrestrial atlases. Bayer had mapped each constellation on a trapezoidal projection of the same sort used for regional maps; Hevelius and Bevis would follow suit. For his Globi coelestis, published posthumously in 1674, Ignace-Gaston Pardies, SJ, used the gnomonic projection to remap the night sky in six large sections (fig.  157). Two polar-aspect and four equatorial-aspect maps each extended 45° from their center (Warner 1979, 196–98). In the text panels explaining the maps, Pardies asserted that this arrangement adequately reproduced the proportions of the figures of each constellation as seen by an earthbound viewer. Yet it seems as though the real reason that Pardies used the gnomonic projection was to test whether the paths of comets did indeed form great circles, as Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) had maintained (Pardies 1674, maps 2 and 4). For his sectional maps, Flamsteed argued against the adoption of projections used for terrestrial maps and instead modified Nicolas Sanson’s sinusoidal projection—with longitudes spaced along each straight parallel “proportionate to the sines of their distances to the [nearest] Pole” on either side of the central hour circle, forming sine curves—in order to maintain the shape of each constellation without significantly distorting its size (see fig. 152); this “SansonFlamsteed” projection would of course be used in the

(facing page) Fig. 155. REPRESENTING THE NIGHT SKY DIRECTLY: WHITE-ON-BLACK STAR MAPS. Christian Friedrich Goldbach, “Steinbock [Capricorn] Wassermann [Aquarius],” in his Neuester Himmels-Atlas (Weimar, 1799), map 21, without (above) and with (below) the constellation figures and graticule. The two images have often been thought to be from the same plate, with impressions being pulled before and after the

addition of constellations; but the plate pairs are often of different sizes, so two sets of plates were used. Mezzotint was used to capture the subtle light patterns of nebulae. Size of the originals: both 19 × 23 cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

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Fig. 156. DETAIL OF AQUARIUS ON A ZODIACAL MAP. This map located the primary stars and their magnitudes within each regular sign of the zodiac (each 0° to 30° celestial longitude) and within 10° latitude north and south of the ecliptic (the graduated horizontal line). The dashed, diagonal grid indicates equatorial coordinates. The constellation of Aquarius actually rests on the boundary between the signs of Aquarius (left of the 30° line) and Capricorn (to the right).

Some impressions lack the constellation figures overprinted in red. Guillaume Dheulland prepared this map, Nouveau zodiaque, qui contient les positions des etoiles fixes, que la lune et les planetes doivent rencontrer en parcourant leurs orbites (Paris, 1755), for Pierre-Charles Le Monnier. Size of the entire original: 53.5 × 86.0 cm; size of detail: ca. 15.5 × 22.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [44 B]).

several derivatives of Flamsteed’s atlas (as fig. 155). For the polar regions, however, Flamsteed continued to use the azimuthal stereographic (Flamsteed 1982, 159–60). Projecting the celestial sphere onto plane paper was complicated by astronomers’ use of two stellar coordinate systems; star maps were constructed on one set of coordinates with the other usually being superimposed, often with thinner or dashed lines. Ecliptic (or celestial) coordinates of stellar latitude and longitude were determined with respect to the plane of the ecliptic, i.e., the path of the sun’s apparent motion against the celestial sphere; the equivalent equatorial coordinates, determined with respect to the celestial equator, were of declination and right ascension. The zero for both longitude and right ascension was the point where the sun, on the ecliptic, crosses the equator at the spring equinox

(see fig. 157) although counting varied: celestial longitude was often expressed by angular degrees within each zodiacal sign (which did not precisely match the actual constellation; see figs. 151 and 156), right ascensions by time (hours and minutes) or by degrees around the full circle. The continual movement (precession) of the spring equinox against the backdrop of the stars, caused by the wobble of the earth’s axis, requires astronomers to adjust longitudes by a constant (ca. 1/72°) for each year distant from the epoch of their coordinate data; precession is irrelevant for stellar latitudes. Precession affects both declinations and right ascensions by annual amounts that vary according to each star’s location. Tables permitted easy translation of one coordinate system to the other. Early star catalogs generally listed only ecliptic co-

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ordinates, reflecting the manner of taking and reducing observations of the stars. Astronomers determined stellar latitudes and longitudes by a method of distances: a moveable sextant was used to measure the angular separation of each star from its neighbors, conceptually turning the celestial sphere into a mesh of triangles from which stars’ coordinates could be calculated (Volkoff, Franzgrote, and Larsen 1971, 23–30). These calculations were simplified by reference to the ecliptic; in particular, no correction needed to be applied to celestial latitudes. Moreover, most planetary motions occurred within, or close to, the plane of the ecliptic, so it made sense for astronomers to work in such coordinates. Early

star maps were constructed accordingly. The maps in Bayer’s Uranometria were all constructed with reference to the ecliptic, with lines of declination and right ascension superimposed. The same was true for Halley in the 1670s, Hevelius in 1690, and for the few eighteenth-century zodiacal maps (see figs. 153, 154, and 156). Some early astronomers did map the heavens according to equatorial coordinates. Perhaps the first was Isaac Habrecht II, who made a pair of celestial hemispheres in 1628 that would be reprinted several times between 1650 and 1666 (Warner 1979, 104–5), and in 1674 Pardies projected his gnomonic maps with equatorial coordinates and then superimposed lines of stel-

Fig. 157. ONE-SIXTH OF THE NIGHT SKY, CENTERED ON THE POINT OF THE SPRING EQUINOX. IgnaceGaston Pardies, Globi coelestis (1674), pl. 2; the constellation of Aquarius is at center right. Pardies used the gnomonic projection to map each portion of the celestial sphere; each map extended for 45° from its center, here the vernal intersection of the equator (horizontal graduated line) and the ecliptic (diagonal graduated line), which also served as the origin for both ecliptic and equatorial stellar coordinates. Pardies included comet paths; for example, the 1585 comet observed by Tycho

Brahe can be seen here, passing at left through Aries toward the ecliptic. Separately printed explanatory text, in both Latin and French, was pasted onto the sides of each map. Derivatives of these maps were published throughout the eighteenth century; the 1693 edition of Pardies’s work included Halley’s constellations for the southern hemisphere (see fig. 154). Size of the original: ca 49.5 × 71.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City.

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lar latitude and longitude. The subsequent wholesale shift in structuring star maps by equatorial coordinates stemmed from the adoption of new methods of stellar observation using circles fixed vertically in the plane of the observatory’s meridian and the new pendulum clocks invented by Christiaan Huygens in 1656. Such instruments made it easy to measure stellar positions by subtracting or adding a series of corrections to the observed altitude of a star, for declination, and of the time at which the star passed through the meridian, for right ascension. Flamsteed pioneered this technique (explained by Baily 1835, 267, 371–72) once he had acquired the right instruments: one of the new pendulum clocks and, in 1689, a large 140° circle with a telescope to which he added a micrometer for reading minutes of arc. (These observational techniques and instruments would be steadily refined throughout the eighteenth century.) Flamsteed inevitably framed the maps in his Atlas coelestis by equatorial coordinates and added lines of stellar latitude and longitude. By the 1740s, new star maps used equatorial coordinates “almost exclusively” (Ashworth 1981, 63). A further complicating factor in projecting star maps was the perspective adopted in depicting the stars, whether from the earth (geocentric, or sky view) or from outside the celestial sphere (external, or globe view). Note that the adoption of a “geocentric” perspective does not mean that the astronomers adhered  to a Ptolemaic, geocentric cosmology (Friedman Herlihy 2007, 102n16). The two perspectives were mirror images. For example, in figure 152, constructed by Flamsteed from a geocentric perspective, the head of Pisces is to the left of Aquarius, but in figure 153, constructed by Hevelius from an external perspective, the head of Pisces is to the right. In adopting the external perspective, early makers of star maps perhaps sought to permit their maps to be compared directly to celestial globes, for which the perspective is innate, rather than to the night sky. Objections had already been raised in the seventeenth century—Flamsteed (1982, 158–59) cited Wilhelm Schickard’s Astroscopium (1623) in arguing that the external perspective can only confuse casual viewers of the night sky—and the external perspective seems after 1700 to have been limited to commercial works intended for the public. The issue of perspective also affected the drawing of the constellation figures. In principle, constellations should be drawn as if facing down on the earthbound observer (as in fig. 152); an external observer would see their backs (as in fig. 153). Bayer, however, had confused the principle by drawing most of his constellations from the rear, but with a geocentric perspective. This practice seemed to make a mockery of the Ptolemaic system for naming and locating stars: the star that Tycho’s catalog

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placed in the left shoulder of Aquarius now appeared in the right, and vice versa, so that the astronomer was guaranteed to be led to the wrong star. Bayer had corrected for this problem by identifying, for the first time, each star within a constellation according to its magnitude as listed by Ptolemy: α for the brightest, β for the next, and so on. These labels superseded the Ptolemaic labels and ensured the utility of Bayer’s maps. Flamsteed (1982, 157–58) would complain about Bayer’s seeming contravention of basic principles and argued that Bayer had been confused by incorrect translations of Ptolemy’s names for each star. Flamsteed nonetheless adopted Bayer’s new system of labeling stars (Hevelius did not). Subsequently, astronomers followed Flamsteed’s perspective—geocentric with constellations shown from the front—as they further adapted his catalog and atlas. Also, with the proliferation of the number of known, located stars, they used the sequence of stars in his catalog to define “Flamsteed numbers” to label each star within a constellation; while this innovation was credited to Lalande in his Éphémérides (1783), it had certainly been implemented previously by Bode in the anonymous Sammlung astronomischer Tafeln of 1776 and perhaps even earlier by Bevis in his abortive atlas, ca. 1750 (Kilburn, Pasachoff, and Gingerich 2003, 137–38). A final variable element within Enlightenment star maps was the depiction of celestial features other than the fixed stars. Underlying stellar astronomy throughout the early modern era, distinct from the establishment of a fixed reference system for analysis of planetary movements, was the growing realization that the stars were not necessarily fixed and unchanging (Hoskin 1982). Many novas—new stars, even if short-lived—had been observed since Tycho had recorded that of 1572. Other stars seemed to vary in magnitude. Still others, when examined in telescopes, stubbornly remained vague and nebulous; after 1758, Charles Messier cataloged 110 nebulae so that he could eliminate them from consideration during his search for comets; he published his first catalog in 1784. Flamsteed, working strictly to solve the problem of longitude at sea, mapped only the fixed stars and ignored both nebulae and novae. But subsequent astronomers progressively included them in their star maps. Star catalogs and atlases were therefore also historical works, as astronomers sought to bring older catalogs into alignment with the new in order to discern changes. Astronomers had to adhere to long-standing traditions in the naming of constellations and stars to maintain the retrospective view (Flamsteed 1982, 29–109, 156–57). The search for comparative data extended to China: Min Mingwo (the Chinese name of Philippe-Marie Grimaldi, SJ) published in Beijing in 1711 a nine-sheet atlas de-

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rived from Pardies’s maps, which indicated traditional Chinese constellations; this work served as the basis for the hemispheres of Western and Chinese constellations that were published by Chrétien-Louis-Joseph de Guignes in 1785 specifically to enable Western astronomers to interpret Chinese astronomical data (Warner 1979, 102–3). In addition to mapping the location of the moon, planets, and comets against the stars, early modern astronomers also studied those objects themselves. A burst of activity in the first half of the seventeenth century, after the introduction of the telescope, led to comprehensive mapping of the moon. This effort was in part driven by the idea of using the passage of the earth’s shadow across the moon during a lunar eclipse to determine terrestrial longitudes: to time the eclipse, observers would need to be able to refer to precise locations on the moon’s surface. By 1647, Hevelius could publish his first major work, the Selenographia, sive lvnæ descriptio, with comprehensive maps of the moon as seen in different phases and taking into account the moon’s slight “nodding” motion (libration). While Hevelius’s map remained the dominant image of the moon for the next 150 years, his nomenclature was quickly displaced by that provided in the popular Almagestvm novvm of 1651 by Giovanni Battista Riccioli, SJ (Whitaker 1999, 47–68; Van Gent and Van Helden 2007). Interest in moon mapping continued through the end of the seventeenth century. Ewen A. Whitaker (1999, 71–85) identified the new maps published by several astronomers, many of which were subsequently degraded by being repeatedly copied in popular works after 1700: Geminiano Montanari in 1662; the friar Chérubin d’Orléans (i.e., Michel Lasséré) in 1671; Cassini I in 1679 (large, 54  cm diameter, and rare) and 1692 (small, in anticipation of a total eclipse); Georg Christoph Eimmart in 1694; and Philippe de La Hire in 1702. Interest in mapping the moon was far more sporadic after 1700, perhaps because observations of the eclipses of Jupiter’s satellites had become the preferred technique for determining longitude on land. Prompted by a lunar eclipse in August 1748, Tobias Mayer thought to resurrect the idea of using lunar eclipses for precise longitude determination, but he found both Hevelius’s and Riccioli’s maps to be inadequate. Seeking to measure libration precisely, he carefully determined the locations of key features by their angular separation from the moon’s northern and western limbs, effectively imposing a graticule of selenographic latitude and longitude (Forbes 1980, 43–53). From these observations, he made a lunar map, making explicit the orthographic projection that earlier maps had deployed. The map would not, however, be published until 1775 (fig. 158); by contrast, he did not complete preparation of his lunar globe. (This

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Fig. 158. TOBIAS MAYER’S LUNAR MAP. Originally prepared by Mayer in about 1750, it was eventually published in his Opera inedita (1775), vol. 1, map plate; the editor, Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, added the digits for selenographic latitude and longitude. Size of the original: 21 × 21 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City.

work complemented Mayer’s observations of lunar motion for determining longitude at sea.) Johann Heinrich Lambert also measured some precise locations on the moon’s surface, but the map accompanying their publication in 1776 was small and imprecise (Whitaker 1999, 82–85). Mapping of the sun and planets followed a similar pattern as moon mapping: an initial enthusiasm in the seventeenth century fueled by the invention of the telescope, undertaken by many of the same observers, followed by sporadic interest for most of the eighteenth century. Early observations were limited by the quality of telescopes, and each observer recorded different aspects of the sun and each planet (fig. 159). Once Giacomo Filippo Maraldi had in 1719 duplicated Cassini I’s 1666 determination of the rotational period of Mars, interest in Mars waned (Sheehan 1996, 16–41). Venus offered very few features, although this did not stop Francesco Bianchini from preparing manuscript globes of Venus in 1727. Athanasius Kircher’s map of the surface of the sun, in the second book of his Mundus subterraneus (1664–65), would be echoed by Cassini I in 1671 and then throughout the eighteenth century by astronomers seeking to understand the phenomenon of sun spots. In 1781, William Herschel observed what he thought

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Fig. 159. EARLY PLANETARY MAPS, CA. 1700. Keen amateur astronomer Maria Clara Eimmart, daughter of the Nuremberg cartographer and engraver Georg Christoph Eimmart, painted summaries of the aspects of the planets, including Mars (left) and Jupiter (right), as they had been observed by various seventeenth-century astronomers. These images, pastel on blue cardboard, are from a collection of twelve dia-

grams. She also made some 350 drawings of the moon’s phases on blue paper between 1693 and 1698. Width of the originals: ca. 52 cm. Museo della Specola, Department of Physics and Astronomy and University Museum System, Alma Mater Studiorum–University of Bologna (Inv. MdS-124h, Inv. MdS-124i).

was a comet but which turned out to be a new planet, Uranus. This led to a new enthusiasm for detailed observations of the planets. Johann Hieronymus Schröter created an observatory specifically for planetary observation, and in about 1787 he began a systematic program of observation. He was the first to sketch aspects of Mercury, and he remapped the moon, building on Mayer’s work and publishing seventy-five detailed maps in his Selenographische Fragmente (2 vols., 1791–1801), all indexed to a reprint of Mayer’s map (Whitaker 1999, 98–109). What did hold the attention of astronomers throughout the eighteenth century were comets. In popular culture, comets were seen as harbingers of doom and disaster. Stanisław Lubieniecki undertook an exhaus-

tive review of the past appearances of comets in his two-volume Theatrum cometicum (1666–68), which included a number of maps of comets similar to figure 150 and also naturalistic sketches of the comets and their tails, and he concluded that comets had no correlation to disasters on earth. This had little effect on popular prognosticators, however, who were especially motivated by the extra-bright comet of 1680 to raise alarms (Hughes 1990, 328–30). But for astronomers, comets posed a challenge, not least to determine their orbits and so their nature as part of the ongoing effort to understand the structure of the solar system. The first task for astronomers was to convert the path of the comet as it was tracked across the celestial sphere into the parameters of its actual orbit, taking into account the earth’s

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own orbital motion between observations (fig. 160, left side). In particular, Hevelius included complex diagrams of comet orbits together with maps of their paths against the stars in both his Prodromus cometicus (1665) and Cometographia (1668), while Pardies graphically tested Cassini I’s claim that comets moved as great circles. By the 1670s, micrometer-equipped telescopes permitted astronomers to precisely measure the parallax of

comets—the apparent change in their location against the stars when observed from different places at the same time—and so determine their distance from the earth, which in turn permitted more precise determination of their orbits. Flamsteed could thus determine that the comets of November and December 1680 were actually one and the same; his observations gave Isaac Newton the evidence he needed to prove that comets moved in

Fig. 160. THE THEORY OF COMETS. Theoria cometarvm, in Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr, Atlas novvs coelestis (Nuremberg: Homann Heirs, 1742), pl. 26. The spandrels of this multipart diagram, constructed like a double-hemisphere world map, presented models of cometary motion as proposed by Kepler, Hevelius, Pierre Petit, and Cassini I. The main figures present, in two dimensions, maps of cometary orbits according to Newtonian theory: left, how observations of the comet of 1680 from the moving earth (“Orbita Terræ,” in blue) were

converted into a long, parabolic orbit (uncolored) that extended out past the planets (see fig. 161); right, known comet orbits, i.e., the twenty-four calculated by Halley (1705) plus the comet of 1723. This complex diagram followed Doppelmayr’s reprinting of Pardies’s six sectional star maps (see fig.  157), updated with still more comet paths. Size of the original: ca. 54 × 63 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (SM-1742-3).

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the same kinds of orbits as planets, albeit with great eccentricity (fig. 161), and thereby refute René Descartes’s mechanistic model of the cosmos (Heidarzadeh 2008, 53–124). When Halley later recalculated the parameters of twenty-four comets on the basis of Newton’s model, publishing the results in 1705, he famously discovered that the comets of 1531, 1607, and 1682 shared remarkably similar orbits and were likely the same comet that would return in about December 1758 (Hughes 1990, 335–64; Heidarzadeh 2008, 132–34). Halley demonstrated how precise parameters could represent each comet’s orbit; thereafter, the continuing production of maps of comet paths against the stars and in cosmological diagrams (fig. 160, right side) were intended more for popular readers of astronomy, cosmology, and geography, especially in advance of the predicted return of Halley’s comet (Waff 1990). A large proportion of the celestial maps printed during the Enlightenment—whether star maps, moon maps, or cosmological diagrams—were intended for consumption by the growing public. As Deborah Jean Warner’s 1979 catalog suggests (also Kanas 2012, 191–223), no geographical atlas worth its name was complete without at least a plate explaining globes and armillary spheres and celestial hemispheres, often presented in the same format as double-hemisphere world maps

(fig. 162). Hemispheres and cosmological diagrams also appeared in the spandrels of world maps (see fig. 951); such marginal imagery sustained the decorative qualities of world maps, even as the high baroque decoration of seventeenth-century dedicated star atlases steadily became plain through the eighteenth century (Burnham 2005, 12). Copied from whatever sources were at hand, these images form consistent elements: diagrams of the pre-Newtonian cosmological systems by Ptolemy, Copernicus, and Tycho; images of the moon, sun, and planets, mostly from pre-1650 sources; comet diagrams; and explanations of celestial geometries (lunar and solar eclipses, phases of the moon, seasons, etc.). Overall, such imagery was formulaic, rarely innovative, and prettified for the public by the use of color. Some celestial imagery intended for popular audiences was brought together in dedicated atlases. In addition to Seller’s Atlas cœlestis (1680) and Samuel Dunn’s A New Atlas of the Mundane System (1774) (Warner 1979, 236–37, 70; Kanas 2012, 204–5, 212–14), two atlases were of special note. Andreas Cellarius’s ornate Harmonia macrocosmica (1660) provided a historical introduction to cosmology; it appeared as the cosmological supplement to Johannes Janssonius’s multivolume Atlas novus, with extensive Latin text accompanying the twenty-nine plates (Van Gent 2006). Johann Gabriel

Fig. 161. ISAAC NEWTON’S MAP OF THE COMET OF 1680. From book 3 (“system of the world”) of his Philosophiæ naturalis principia mathematica (London, 1687), between 496 and 497. This diagram shows the location of the comet and the size and orientation of its tail as seen in November 1680 as it approached the sun (“sol” at far left) and then in December 1680 through March 1681 as it retreated. The transverse arc

shows not the earth’s orbit but its projection onto the plane of the comet’s trajectory; that is, this is a two-dimensional rendition of a three-dimensional relationship. Size of the original: 13.0 × 29.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

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Fig. 162. THE HEAVENS IN TWO HEMISPHERES. Le globe celeste en deux plans hemispheres from Georges-Louis Le Rouge, Atlas nouveau portatif, 2 vols. (Paris, 1756–59), vol. 1, pl. 3. Le Rouge copied these small planispheres from those by La Hire of 1719, who had constructed them from images in Bayer’s Uranometria (1603). The wide margins are filled with

small cosmological illustrations, including views of the planets and explanations of summer, winter, and the moon’s phases. Size of the original: 21.4 × 28.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge FF 823 [t. 1]).

Doppelmayr made a number of cosmological maps for Johann Baptist Homann, with the first two appearing in Homann’s Neuer Atlas (1707), specifically an ornate diagram of the heliocentric cosmos and a copy of Hevelius’s moon map. Doppelmayr’s plates grew less ornate, and more text heavy (see fig. 160), and were combined in 1742 by the Homann Heirs into the Atlas novvs coelestis (Warner 1979, 64–67; Kanas 2012, 191–94, 209–11, 502–3). These atlases and other celestial images were, at heart, didactic. Cheaper plates, or sets of plates, were prepared for atlases and separate sale, such as those published in Amsterdam, each constituting a “single-sheet astronomy course” (Warner 1979, 166). Placed in conjunction with geographical maps and atlases, the general star maps

and diagrams reinforced the interconnection of astronomy and geography and especially the manner in which astronomical observations underpinned the intellectual structure of Enlightenment geography (Edney 1994). Together with celestial globes, the popular hemispheres perpetuated the confusion of constellation figures and map perspective, but then they were not intended as graphic indexes to the heavens; their presence was symbolic rather than instrumental. Matt h ew H . Edney See also: Astronomical Models; Constellations, Representation of; Cosmographical Map; Eclipse Map, Solar; Flamsteed, John; Globe: (1) Celestial Globe, (2) Lunar Globe; Hevelius, Johannes; Longitude and Latitude; Mayer, Tobias; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Pardies, Ignace-Gaston

274 Bibliograp hy Ashworth, William B. 1981. “John Bevis and His Uranographia (ca. 1750).” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 125: 52–73. ———. 2007. Out of This World: The Golden Age of the Celestial Atlas, An Exhibition of Rare Books from the Collection of the Linda Hall Library. Rev. ed. Kansas City: Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology. The content of this exhibition, originally mounted in 1995, remains available online through the library’s website, where detailed images of many astronomical atlases can be readily consulted. Baily, Francis. 1835. An Account of the Revd. John Flamsteed, the First Astronomer-Royal. London: William Clowes and Sons. Bennett, J. A. 1992. “The English Quadrant in Europe: Instruments and the Growth of Consensus in Practical Astronomy.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 23:1–14. Burnham, Patricia M. 2005. “Celestial Images: An Overview.” In Celestial Images: Antiquarian Astronomical Charts and Maps from the Mendillo Collection, by Michael Medillo et al., 11–15. Boston: Boston University Art Gallery. Dekker, Elly. 1987. “On the Dispersal of Knowledge of the Southern Celestial Sky.” Der Globusfreund, nos. 35–37:211–30. Edney, Matthew H. 1994. “Mathematical Cosmography and the Social Ideology of British Cartography, 1780–1820.” Imago Mundi 46:101–16. Flamsteed, John. 1982. The Preface to John Flamsteed’s Historia coelestis Britannica or British Catalogue of the Heavens (1725). Ed. Allan Chapman. Trans. Alison Dione Johnson. London: Trustees of the National Maritime Museum. Forbes, Eric G. 1980. Tobias Mayer (1723–62): Pioneer of Enlightened Science in Germany. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Friedman Herlihy, Anna. 2007. “Renaissance Star Charts.” In HC 3:99–122. Gent, Robert H. van. 2006. Andreas Cellarius, Harmonia Macrocosmica of 1660: The Finest Atlas of the Heavens = Der prächtigste Himmelsatlas = L’Atlas céleste le plus admirable. Cologne: Taschen. Gent, Robert H. van, and Albert Van Helden. 2007. “Lunar, Solar, and Planetary Representations to 1650.” In HC 3:123–34. Halley, Edmond. 1705. Astronomiæ cometicæ synopsis. [Oxford: e Theatro Sheldoniano]. Also published as “Astronomiæ cometicæ synopsis.” Philosophical Transactions 24 (1705): 1882–99. In English, A Synopsis of the Astronomy of Comets. London, 1705. Heidarzadeh, Tofigh. 2008. A History of Physical Theories of Comets, from Aristotle to Whipple. New York: Springer. Hoskin, Michael A. 1982. Stellar Astronomy: Historical Studies. Chalfont St. Giles: Science History Publications. Hughes, David W. 1990. “Edmond Halley: His Interest in Comets.” In Standing on the Shoulders of Giants: A Longer View of Newton and Halley, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 324–72. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kanas, Nick. 2012. Star Maps: History, Artistry, and Cartography. 2d ed. New York: Springer. Kilburn, Kevin J., Jay M. Pasachoff, and Owen Gingerich. 2003. “The Forgotten Star Atlas: John Bevis’s Uranographia Britannica.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 34:125–44. Pardies, Ignace-Gaston. 1674. Globi coelestis in tabulas planas redacti descriptio. Paris: Sebastian Mabre-Cramoisy. The 1693 edition can be consulted online at the Bibliothèque nationale de France’s Gallica website. Sheehan, William. 1996. The Planet Mars: A History of Observation & Discovery. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Targosz, Karolina. 1988. “Firmamentum Sobiescianum—The Magnificent Baroque Atlas of the Sky.” Organon, no. 24:151–79. Volkoff, Ivan, Ernest Franzgrote, and A. Dean Larsen. 1971. Johannes

Celestial Mapping Hevelius and His Catalog of Stars: The Millionth-Volume Acquisition, the J. Reuben Clark, Jr. Library. Provo: Brigham Young University Press. Waff, Craig B. 1990. “The First International Halley Watch: Guiding the Worldwide Search for Comet Halley, 1755–1759.” In Standing on the Shoulders of Giants: A Longer View of Newton and Halley, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 373–411. Berkeley: University of California Press. Warner, Deborah Jean. 1979. The Sky Explored: Celestial Cartography, 1500–1800. New York: Alan R. Liss. Whitaker, Ewen A. 1999. Mapping and Naming the Moon: A History of Lunar Cartography and Nomenclature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Celestial Mapping by Denmark and Norway. In the late sixteenth century, Tycho Brahe was by far the most important astronomer in the kingdom of DenmarkNorway (Friedman Herlihy 2007, 101). At his observatory on the island of Hven, he determined anew accurate star positions that were rapidly adopted for celestial globes and charts across Europe. Tycho’s star catalog did not, however, initiate any Danish-Norwegian production of celestial maps and globes as it did elsewhere in Northern and Western Europe. Denmark simply imported cartographers and engravers from other countries, and the celestial maps and globes found in Danish museums and collections are, with few exceptions, made by foreign craftsmen. One explanation for this may be found in the fact that no Danish astronomer after Tycho made accurate observations of stars that could have led to a zeal for having these observations published on maps or globes. In 1706, Ole Rømer made very accurate star observations, but he never had the time to have them reduced and made public. The Danish kings and Duke Frederik III of HolsteinGottorp had globes made not so much for astronomical purposes but more to add to their own reputation as supporters of the arts. Thus in 1650–64, Andreas Bösch from Limburg made the large Gottorp globe under the direction of Adam Olearius, a librarian and mathematician serving the duke. The outer surface was a terrestrial globe, while inside the globe up to ten people at a time could see the stars depicted on its inner surface (fig. 163). The big stars were made of silver and the smaller ones were gilt, being placed in accordance with Tycho’s catalog. The whole globe could rotate around its axis, driven by a water mill. It was placed in the duke’s amusement garden. It was later given to Czar Peter I and is now in St. Petersburg (Kejlbo 1995, 83–90; Lühning 1997). A similar globe was ordered by the Danish king Christian V and constructed by Erhard Weigel from Pfalz (Palatinate). Its diameter was ten feet, and it was shown to the royal party when it arrived at the king’s summer residence on 4 October 1696. The Hauch Physiske Cabinet in Sorø, Denmark, has

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Fig. 163. STARRY SKY, INTERIOR OF THE GOTTORP GLOBE, 1654–64. The globe was restored ca. 1747. Diameter of the original: 3.1 m. From the collection of the Peter the Great Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography

(Kunstkamera), Russian Academy of Sciences (Rossiyskaya Akademiya nauk), St. Petersburg (MЛ-2663-1).

several celestial globes. The collection served as a research laboratory, and as such its founder, Adam Wilhelm Hauch, purchased many scientific instruments; among these were celestial globes that are still preserved in the museum (Kejlbo 1995, cat. nos. 11–13, 41–42, 101). The Kongelige Bibliotek in Copenhagen has a ce-

lestial globe from 1758 made by the Swiss mathematician Thomas Spleiss (Kejlbo 1995, cat. no. 81). At that time a grand survey of Denmark began, and many terrestrial maps were produced, but celestial mapping in Denmark-Norway was not at the forefront. Kurt Mø ller Pedersen

276 See also: Denmark and Norway Bibliograp hy Friedman Herlihy, Anna. 2007. “Renaissance Star Charts.” In HC 3:99–122. Kejlbo, Ib Rønne. 1995. Rare Globes: A Cultural-Historical Exposition of Selected Terrestrial and Celestial Globes Made before 1850—Especially Connected with Denmark. Copenhagen: Munksgaard/Rosinante. Lühning, Felix. 1997. Der Gottorfer Globus und das Globushaus im “Newen Werck.” Vol. 4 of Gottorf im Glanz des Barock: Kunst und Kultur am Schleswiger Hof, 1544–1713. Schleswig: SchleswigHolsteinisches Landesmuseum.

Celestial Mapping by France. The period of 1650 to 1800 in France corresponds to the considerable development of both astronomy itself and the French production of maps of the heavens for many reasons: the appearance in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries of a number of significant comets; the continuous improvement of observational instruments, which allowed an increased number of stars to be seen; the improved precision of timekeepers for measuring the course of sidereal movement; and the multiplication of long-distance voyages, which brought back observations of stars heretofore unknown to Europeans or of stars previously badly positioned on European star charts. Overall, these developments in France owed much to the creation of the Académie des sciences and the Paris Observatory, due to the influence of Jean-Baptiste Colbert, minister of state to Louis XIV. To participate in the observatory, the king brought the Italian astronomer Jean-Dominique Cassini  (I) to France in 1669. Although the goal, as Philippe de La Hire pointed out, was first to employ the celestial observations as the necessary means for secure navigation and to create a sound base for geodesy (La Hire 1704, 46), the astronomers and institutions also stimulated French map production. Two types of celestial map developed in France: smallscale heavenly planispheres and globes, both of which represent the totality of constellations; and mediumscale maps of specific celestial regions, made in order to study the route of a comet or some other celestial phenomenon. Examples of each type are described here. Small-scale maps of the heavens (celestial planispheres) were published by the astronomers themselves; they combined precision with a particularly decorative character, as for example those of La Hire, published in 1705 by Nicolas de Fer in L’Atlas curieux. The planispheres of the cartographer Didier Robert de Vaugondy (Hémisphère céleste arctique, Hémisphère céleste antarctique, 1764) comprised a grid-like band that encompassed the regions of the zodiac, allowing the observer to find the daily position of the planets. The atlas Globi coelestis in tabulas planas redacti descriptio by Ignace-Gaston Pardies (1674), included six maps presenting a portion of the celestial vault with

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constellations and stars and also visible comets that traversed the sky (see fig. 157). A second edition of 1690 integrated Halley’s comet, observed by Cassini I in 1682. Pardies’s maps, complete with new comets, were republished by Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr in 1742. Celestial globes, like their terrestrial counterparts, also multiplied. Vincenzo Coronelli used the astronomical works of Augustin Royer, published in 1679, for his very large (4 m diameter) globes created in Paris between 1681–83 for Louis XIV. Didier Robert de Vaugondy also constructed a celestial globe of 18 inches (ca. 45 cm) in 1751 for the use of the Navy (Pedley 1992, 43–47), and Jean Lattré followed suit with a 31-centimeter globe in 1775, based on the work of Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande. Older than the Robert de Vaugondy and Lattré globes, a celestial globe by the abbé Jean Antoine Nollet (fig. 164) used a darker color, which made the fig-

Fig. 164. ABBÉ NOLLET, GLOBE CELESTE CALCULÉ POUR L’ANNÉE 1730, PARIS AVEC PRIVILEGE DU ROY, 1730. Jean Antoine Nollet, well known for his public experiments in physics, electricity, and magnetism, constructed this globe in the fashion of the time, with anthropomorphic figures representing the constellations, which he had deeply colored in order to highlight the stars, thus allowing the observer to more easily see the constellations in their natural state. Engraved sheets with illumination of blue-green and added gold to highlight stars and added silver for the great circles. Diameter of the original: 32.5 cm (46.0 cm with the horizon table); height: 55.0 cm (in a footed tripod of turned and sculpted wood). Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Ge A 1742 RÉS).

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ures of the constellations less obtrusive, privileging the position of the stars to facilitate observation. Nollet’s globes showed “the natural state of the heavens” and began a trend toward showing only the stars, which would continue to the end of the century (Dahl and Gauvain 2000, 162–66).

Medium-scale maps of celestial regions emphasized new stars, comets, and the moon. The Cœlum australe stelliferum (1763) by Nicolas-Louis de La Caille incorporated an augmented catalog of stars of the Southern Hemisphere, a result of his sojourn at the Cape of Good Hope from 1751 to 1753 (fig. 165). The new constella-

Fig. 165. NICOLAS-LOUIS DE LA CAILLE, CŒLUM AUSTRALE, PARIS, 1763. La Caille’s Cœlum australe stelliferum, published in 1763, the year after his death at age forty-nine, includes only a small portion of his southern observations, made en route to South Africa. During the voyage, to test the lunar

distance method of determining longitude, he noted the positions of about 10,000 stars using a very large sextant. Size of the original: ca. 20.5 × 20.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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tions bore the names of scientific instruments (the Pneumatic Machine, the Compass, the Clock, etc.), replacing the Greco-Roman names from ancient mythology (see fig. 183). Charles Messier observed comets with a mural half-circle in the observatory in the Hôtel de Cluny to produce comet maps from 1765 to 1790. The moon occupied Cassini I, who presented his Carte de la lune to the Académie des science in 1679 and published it in 1680. His map remained the basic reference lunar map until the nineteenth century and the early use of photography. The style of the representation of the constellations changed over the course of the century. A sober approach with stars symbolized by increasing magnitude and constellations drawn with simple lines distinguished a graphic style that facilitated scientific work. It gradually replaced the sumptuous anthropomorphic representations so richly displayed in the work of Coronelli and his followers. H élèn e Rich ard See also: Cassini Family: Cassini (I), Jean-Dominique; France; La Caille, Nicolas-Louis de; Paris Observatory (France) Bibliograp hy Boistel, Guy. 2003. L’astronomie nautique au XVIIIème siècle en France: Tables de la lune et longitudes en mer. 2 vols. Lille: Atelier National de Reproduction des Thèses. Brouzeng, Paul, and Suzanne Débarbat, eds. 2001. Sur les traces des Cassini: Astronomes et observatoires du sud de la France, Actes du 121e Congrès national des Sociétés historiques et scientifiques, Nice, Octobre 1996. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Dahl, Edward H., and Jean François Gauvin. 2000. Sphæræ mundi: Early Globes at the Stewart Museum. Esp. 149–89. [Sillery]: Septentrion; [Montreal]: McGill–Queen’s University Press. Dekker, Elly, et al. 1999. Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Hofmann, Catherine, and Hélène Richard, eds. 2012. Les globes de Louis XIV: Étude artistique, historique et matérielle. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. La Hire, Philippe de. 1704. Description et explication des globes qui sont placés dans les pavillons du château de Marly. Paris: L. V. Thiboust. Lachiéze-Rey, Marc, and Jean-Pierre Luminet. 1998. Figures du Ciel: De l’harmonie des sphères à la conquête spaciale. Paris: Seuil/ Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et Utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications.

Celestial Mapping by Great Britain. During the period from 1650 to 1800, celestial cartography in Great Britain reflected the scientific curiosity of the Enlightenment as well as the need for accurate printed star maps to assist with the problems of determining longitude at sea and navigating in the Southern Hemisphere. To create an accurate star catalog that would meet the needs of the maritime and scientific communities, Charles II cre-

ated the Greenwich Observatory with John Flamsteed as the first astronomer royal in 1675. But other English scientists contributed to celestial cartography as well. In 1676 Edmond Halley undertook a voyage to the island of St. Helena, where he made the first telescopic observations of 341 southern stars. The resulting catalog, Catalogus stellarum australium (1674), was used for many subsequent star atlases. He also produced maps of the celestial hemispheres that were unconventionally centered on the north and south ecliptic poles. The southern map (see fig. 154) introduced the now-obsolete constellation Robur Carolinium, which depicted the oak tree in which Charles II had hidden from Oliver Cromwell’s soldiers in 1651. Flamsteed directly influenced John Hill, a physician, naturalist, apothecary, and scientific writer who worked in London. Hill’s Urania: Or, a Compleat View of the Heavens (1754) contained thirteen celestial plates, including a hemisphere of the southern skies. He derived his constellations mainly from Flamsteed, but a number were of his own invention, being taken from the animal world, such as a scaly lizard, a black snail, a leech, and different kinds of shellfish. One of the more interesting and tragic stories in celestial cartography during this period involved John Bevis. Although trained as a physician, Bevis pursued his interest in astronomy until it became a full-time occupation. In 1731, he was the first European to record the Crab Nebula, and on 28 May 1737 he made the first recorded observation of the occultation of one planet by another (Venus eclipsing Mercury). From 1746 to 1750, Bevis worked on a new star atlas that he hoped would surpass that of Flamsteed. Originally called “Uranographia Britannica,” it was patterned after Johannes Bayer’s famous atlas of 1603, but with improvements: there were additional stars from the catalogs of Johannes Hevelius, Flamsteed, Halley, and Bevis himself; there were more constellations; and for the first time in any star atlas, a number of deep sky objects were depicted (including the Crab Nebula and the Andromeda Galaxy). Some of Bevis’s accurate and beautiful star charts began to be printed in 1749. However, the next year John Neale, his main financial backer, went bankrupt, and the atlas copperplates were sold off as scrap. Fortunately, bound sets of Bevis’s maps began appearing on the market in 1786 under the title Atlas celeste, probably from charts sold at an estate auction in 1785 (fig. 166). Other English cartographers and mapsellers were notable for producing and selling celestial globes and maps derived from these scientists’ works, even though a few had scientific aspirations as well. John Seller established a shop near the Tower of London that sold nautical charts, terrestrial and celestial maps and globes, and instruments. In 1671, he was appointed hydrographer

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Fig. 166. THE CONSTELLATION LIBRA FROM JOHN BEVIS’S ATLAS CELESTE, [1786], PL. XXVIII. Note the central grid that represents the zodiac and the dedication at the bottom to the Dean of Christ Church, Oxford, one of the financial contributors to the atlas.

Size of the original: 26.8 cm × 36.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Nick and Carolynn Kanas Collection.

to Charles II. This gave him a monopoly on publishing nautical atlases, such as his famous Atlas Maritimus, or the Sea-Atlas, first appearing in 1675. Several celestial charts were bound into various editions of this composite atlas, including a copy of Halley’s southern celestial hemisphere and Halley’s 1679 chart designated as the first published map of the zodiac (Warner 1979, 233, 235). In 1680, Seller produced a small atlas titled Atlas cœlestis: Containing the Systems and Theoryes of the Planet, which was one of the first “pocket” astronomical atlases. It contained several maps of the heavens, including thirty-one double-page constellation images and a plate depicting the two celestial hemispheres (fig. 167). Joseph Moxon, like Seller, was hydrographer to

Charles II and a fellow of the Royal Society, as well as a distinguished globe- and instrumentmaker. He published several celestial hemispheres including those in A Tutor to Astronomy and Geography (3d ed., 1674). Francis Lamb was another London engraver and cartographer who produced celestial hemispheres, some of which included insets of various cosmological systems and maps of the earth and moon. The mapseller, globemaker, and instrumentmaker Philip Lea copied two of Lamb’s 1673 hemispheres but added data from Halley’s work in his southern map. Another important celestial cartographer and mapseller was John Senex. Also a fellow of the Royal Society, he had a successful career as an engraver and as a map

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Fig. 167. TWO CELESTIAL HEMISPHERES FROM JOHN SELLER’S ATLAS CŒLESTIS, 1680. Note the traditional constellation images, the signs of the zodiac circling the images, and the outlines of the planets with their symbols at the bottom.

Diameter of each hemisphere: ca. 7 cm. Image courtesy of Jonathan Potter Limited, London.

and book publisher in London. Being interested in astronomy, he collaborated with leading scientists, including Halley. There was no reliable and extensive star atlas in England during the first quarter of the eighteenth century, since Seller’s charts were not conducive to highquality astronomical work and Flamsteed had not yet published his great atlas. Senex produced a number of celestial maps that helped fill this void, including a chart of the zodiac constellations in 1718, two celestial hemispheres ca. 1721, and a northern celestial planisphere in 1746 that was used by Charles Messier to map the path of Halley’s comet in 1758–59. Finally, mention should be made of Samuel Dunn,

who worked as a school principal in Devon before moving to London (Brown 1932, 52). From the 1750s to the early 1790s, he authored several books and maps. One of his most popular works was A New Atlas of the Mundane System, printed in 1774. This book had six celestial charts: four cosmographical diagrams and a northern and a southern celestial hemisphere indicating the constellations but without figures. The maps were used to illustrate the article on astronomy in the Encylopaedia Britannica, both the third British edition (1797) and the first American edition (1798) (Warner 1979, 70). Thus, there was great activity in celestial cartography in Great Britain from 1650 to 1800, often through as-

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sociation with the Royal Society. Advances were made in the accuracy of star placements, new stars were plotted in the Southern Hemisphere, and constellations were added to depictions of the sky. Cartographers, mapsellers, and globemakers produced and sold their celestial images to navigators as well as to the general public. It is clear that the scientists and mapsellers assisted each other in producing and popularizing celestial maps with the new discoveries for the benefit of the interested general public as well as for the specialist professionals. N ic k Kanas See also: Flamsteed, John; Great Britain; Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain); Halley, Edmond B i bliogra p hy Brown, Basil. 1932. Astronomical Atlases, Maps & Charts: An Historical & General Guide. London: Search Publishing. Kanas, Nick. 2012. Star Maps: History, Artistry, and Cartography. 2d ed. New York: Springer. Warner, Deborah Jean. 1979. The Sky Explored: Celestial Cartography, 1500–1800. New York: Alan R. Liss.

Celestial Mapping by the Italian States. Observations

made with the telescope led to the discovery of new celestial bodies and unexpected details of known ones. Therefore, the desire to record star positions on planispheres and globes joined the desire to produce maps of the moon’s surface and the planets. Galileo Galilei was the first to respond in 1610 with his Sidereus nuncius, which included engravings of star fields and the moon as seen through a telescope (Friedman Herlihy 2007, 121–22, 126). His work circulated throughout the Italian states: from the Venetian Republic to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, from the Papal States to the Kingdom of Naples. Celestial cartography, as an established tradition, was slow to incorporate the results of telescopic observations. Two additional factors explain Italian reluctance to revise celestial planispheres and globes. First, Galileo’s condemnation by the Inquisition limited the circulation of Copernican ideas. Therefore, star maps representing the celestial sphere as seen from the exterior (the convex view) were preferred to those representing it from the interior (the concave view). Indeed, the latter representation would insinuate that the terrestrial viewpoint took precedence since stars that are not placed on a crystalline sphere cannot be seen from the exterior. The concave view was rejected especially in works commissioned by those whose political or social power was supported by the Roman Catholic Church. Second, the introduction of telescopic sights into graduated instruments improved the establishment of star coordinates only from the mid-eighteenth century on (Chapman 1990, 12). Consequently, the traditional 1,028 entries of the Ptolemaic star catalog, comprising stars observable

with naked-eye graduated instruments only, dominated star cartography. The effect of Church dogma and the slow dissemination of telescopic observations influenced the production of Italian manuscript celestial globes, usually made by members of monastic orders: Carlo Benci, Amanzio Moroncelli, Giovanni Battista da Cassine, and Pietro Maria da Vinchio (Fiorini 1899, 305–448). Both factors also influenced printed products made for a larger public. For example, in 1687 in Rome, Francesco Brunacci published Planisfero del globo celeste, with a convex representation of the constellations and the stars classified in the six Ptolemaic magnitudes. After he made manuscript globes for the duke of Parma in 1679 and the king of France in 1681–83, Vincenzo Coronelli prepared three editions of celestial globes (108  cm diameter), printed in Paris in 1688 and in Venice in 1692 and in 1699. The second edition (1692) displays the constellations in concave view, revealing that at the apogee of his career Coronelli tried to modify traditional star cartography (Dekker 2004, 178–81). His Epitome cosmografica (1693) confirms this modification with its concave planispheres of the northern and southern sky. Nonetheless, Coronelli resurrected the convex representation in the third edition of his globes of 108 centimeters (1699) and in his smaller globe (46 cm) dedicated to William III (1696). As to the stars themselves, Coronelli accepted 73 constellations and 1,880 stars distributed in the six naked-eye magnitudes. Coronelli’s followers revived traditional celestial cartography, for example the globe (35 cm) printed in Rome by Giovanni Maria Cassini in 1792. Despite its influence on cosmology, the Church’s condemnation of Galileo did not end telescopic observation. The shape and features of the moon and of the planets were discussed in scientific and aristocratic circles, both secular and religious, and were the subject of artistic representation, as, for example, the Osservazioni astronomiche (1711) painted by Donato Creti (Bedini 1994, xvii–xxiii; Galluzzi 2009, 358–59). Italian opticians felt it a point of honor to make telescopes that permitted faithful observation of celestial bodies. In 1646 in Naples, Francesco Fontana published the Novae cœlestium terrestrivmq[ue] rervm observationes, offering the astronomical results achieved with his own telescope, and including a detailed lunar map (Fontana 1646, 56–57). Moreover, the rivalry between the instrumentmakers Eustachio Divini and Giuseppe Campani led to the publication of broadsheets that included the representation of the planets based on telescopic observations. Divini’s sheet of 1649 shows a carefully engraved lunar map that was reused by Athanasius Kircher in his Mundus subterraneus (Kircher 1664–65, 62–63).

Fig. 168. GORES FOR A GLOBE OF VENUS, PREPARED BY BIANCHINI AND DEDICATED TO KING JOÃO V OF PORTUGAL. The various “seas” are visible across the gores. From Francesco Bianchini, Hesperi et Phosphori nova phaenomena (Rome: Joannem Mariam Salvioni, 1728), pl. 10. Realizations of the globe are in the Bibliothèque nationale de

France (GE A-295 [RÉS]) and the Osservatorio Astronomico di Bologna. Size of the original: 55 × 32 cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

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Because of its earth-like appearance, the moon played a singular role in Italian planetary cartography. Brunacci’s 1687 Planisfero included images of the planets and a lunar map that synthesized the cartographies of several astronomers, including Giovanni Battista Riccioli and Jean-Dominique (Giovanni Domenico) Cassini  (I). In particular, Riccioli’s Almagestvm novvm (1651) and his Astronomiae reformatae tomi dvo (1665) included two noteworthy lunar maps prepared by his assistant Francesco Maria Grimaldi. The first reproduces the morphology of the moon’s surface; the second established lunar toponymy still in use (Riccioli 1651, 204–4b, pls.; 1665, 168–69, pls.). Cassini prepared his own celebrated lunar map between 1671 and 1679 based on observations carried out in Paris with Campani’s telescopes. This map, engraved by Jean Patigny, was presented to the Académie des sciences in 1679; it was reissued in 1787 and titled Carte de la lune (Galluzzi 2009, 373). Although the cartography of the moon predominated, constant attention was paid to the sun and the planets, until their earthlike appearance was partially discarded. An unusual contribution to this aspect of celestial cartography appears in the Hesperi et Phosphori nova Phaenomena (1728) by Francesco Bianchini, which provided instructions for making a small globe showing the surface of Venus as seen through a Campani telescope (fig. 168). G io r g io S trano See also: Coronelli, Vincenzo; Italian States B i bliogra p hy Bedini, Silvio A. 1994. “Introduction: The Vatican’s Astronomical Paintings and the Institute of Science of Bologna.” In Science and Instruments in Seventeenth-Century Italy, by Silvio A. Bedini, xiii– xxxiii. Aldershot: Variorum. Cassini, Giovanni Maria. 1792. Globo celeste: Calcolato per il corrente anno sulle osservazioni de’ Sigg. Flamsteed, e de la Caille. Rome: Calcografia Camerale. Chapman, Allan. 1990. Dividing the Circle: The Development of Critical Angular Measurement in Astronomy, 1500–1850. New York: Ellis Horwood. Dekker, Elly. 2004. Catalogue of Orbs, Spheres and Globes. Florence: Giunti. Fiorini, Matteo. 1899. Sfere terrestri e celesti di autore italiano oppure fatte o conservate in Italia. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Fontana, Francesco. 1646. Novae cœlestivm terrestrivmq[ue] rervm observationes. Naples: Gaffarum. Friedman Herlihy, Anna. 2007. “Renaissance Star Charts.” In HC 3: 99–122. Galluzzi, Paolo, ed. 2009. Galileo: Images of the Universe from Antiquity to the Telescope. Florence: Giunti. Kircher, Athanasius. 1664–65. Mundus subterraneus, in XII libros digestus. Amsterdam: Joannem Janssonium & Elizeum Weyerstraten. Riccioli, Giovanni Battista. 1651. Almagestvm novvm astronomiam veterem novamqve complectens. Bologna: Typographia Haeredis Victorij Benatij. ———. 1665. Astronomiae reformatae tomi dvo. Bologna: Typographia Haeredis Victorij Benatij.

Celestial Mapping by Portugal. Celestial mapping by

Portuguese authors very much drew upon astronomical activities and research carried out in Portugal in this period. By the middle of the seventeenth century, Portugal, the population of which scarcely exceeded two million, had acquired a vast empire with an economy largely dependent on intercontinental trade. For this reason, training naval personnel was a major concern of the Portuguese authorities. The Aula da Esfera was the main training course for naval cadets. Created around 1574 at the request of King Sebastião and made public in 1590, the classes were taught in the Jesuit Colégio de Santo Antão in Lisbon and covered mainly cosmography, navigation, and geography. As astronomical navigation was an essential tool for successful navigation in the open sea, celestial mapping was frequently discussed by the professors of the Aula da Esfera. In general, these professors focused on describing celestial constellations but rarely used any cartographic representation of them. Professional astronomers provided a more detailed representation of the arrangement of celestial bodies, especially when comets appeared. As the seventeenth century progressed, astronomical observations and reports by Portuguese astronomers became more accurate, as they increasingly recognized the celestial position and heavenly nature of comets. In addition to locating comets by celestial coordinates, astronomers began to represent the motion of comets using the constellations as a reference system. Though this sort of cartographic representation varied greatly in detail, some reports provided a comprehensive illustration of a comet’s motion and the arrangement of celestial bodies. For example, Valentin Stansel, a Bohemian Jesuit in northeast Brazil, represented the comet of 1689 moving south through the constellations of Lupus and Centaurus, away from Scorpius (fig. 169). Such examples of celestial mapping are generally found in manuscript reports of comet observations. As far as the organization and nature of the heavens was concerned, by the mid-seventeenth century, Portuguese university philosophers largely agreed on the division of the cosmos into three “heavens,” the most widespread conception being the caelum aethereum, caelum stellatum, and caelum empyreum. The caelum aethereum was conceived as the area between the earth and the supreme boundary of the region where the planets move, the caelum stellatum as the heaven comprising the fixed stars, and the caelum empyreum as the place of the Blessed. Because the caelum aethereum consisted of an aura aetherea it was regarded as a fluid heaven. The two remaining heavens were conceived mainly as solid heavens. Jesuit Francisco Soares presented this view in his Cursus philosophicus (1651), and the major philosophers followed, including Jesuit António Cordeiro, author of a Cursus philosophicus conimbricensis (1714).

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Fig. 169. REPRESENTATION OF THE PATH OF THE COMET OF 1689 BY VALENTIN STANSEL, USING CONSTELLATIONS AS A REFERENCE SYSTEM.

Size of the original: ca. 29.5 × 40.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, Lisbon (Manuscritos Reservados, PBA 484, fols. 171v–172r).

Yet the tripartite division was most likely introduced in Portugal by the Italian Jesuit Cristoforo Borri, a professor of mathematics in Coimbra and Lisbon in the late 1620s. In his Collecta astronomica, ex doctrina (1631), Borri divided the heavens into aereum, sidereum (containing planets and fixed stars), and empyreum. In most cases, celestial maps are absent from these philosophical textbooks. Although Borri associated the tripartite division of heavens with the defense of the astronomical system of Tycho Brahe, university professors of philosophy avoided discussing technical aspects of astronomical models. In the second half of the seventeenth century, they conceived of the earth as immobile in the center of the universe. Most of these philosophers agreed with the Tychonic theory that planets revolved around the sun (and the sun around the earth). As the eighteenth century advanced, philosophers became more receptive to the

heliocentric model. Though there is no evidence that a Portuguese philosopher explicitly defended the Copernican system during the eighteenth century, from the mid1750s onward, chief philosophers agreed that the heliocentric system, as Newton conceived it, was superior on mathematical and physical grounds. Nonetheless, they held to the terms of the Inquisition, and considered the heliocentric model only for purposes of calculation and as a theoretical hypothesis. This was the position held by the Jesuit mathematician Inácio Monteiro in his Compendio dos elementos de matematica (1754–56) and Philosophia libera seu eclectica rationalis (1766–78), and by the Oratorian Teodoro de Almeida, author of Recreação filosofica, an encyclopedia of natural philosophy published in ten volumes between 1751 and 1800. Monteiros’s books supply a set of diagrams representing astronomical systems and other information. Luís Mi guel Carolino

Celestial Mapping See also: Portugal B i bliogra p hy Baldini, Ugo. 2004. “The Teaching of Mathematics in the Jesuit Colleges of Portugal from 1640 to Pombal.” In The Practice of Mathematics in Portugal (Papers from the International Meeting Held at Óbidos, 16–18 November 2000), ed. Luís Saraiva and Henrique de Sousa Leitão, 293–465. Coimbra: por ordem da Universidade. Camenietzki, Carlos Ziller. 2004. “Baroque Science between the Old and the New World: Father Kircher and His Colleague Valentin Stansel (1621–1705),” trans. Paula Findlen and Derrick Allums. In Athanasius Kircher: The Last Man Who Knew Everything, ed. Paula Findlen, 311–28. New York: Routledge. Carolino, Luís Miguel. 2008. “The Making of a Tychonic Cosmology: Cristoforo Borri and the Development of Tycho Brahe’s Astronomical System.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 39:313–44. Carvalho, Rómulo de. 1985. A astronomia em Portugal no século XVIII. Lisbon: Instituto de Cultura e Lingua Portuguesa, Ministério da Educações. ———. 1997. “A aceitação, em Portugal, da Filosofia Newtoniana.” In Colectânea de estudos históricos (1953–1994), 271–88. Évora: Universidade de Évora. Randles, W. G. L. 1999. The Unmaking of the Medieval Christian Cosmos, 1500–1760: From Solid Heavens to Boundless Æther. Aldershot: Ashgate.

Celestial Mapping by Spain. Spanish astronomy in the period of the Enlightenment was marked by the partici-

Fig. 170. DETAIL FROM THE RECTANGULAR CELESTIAL MAP BY JOSEPH GARRIGA Y BAUCÍS. Prepared as an illustration for the Uranografía (1793), engraving on copperplate. Garriga makes use of the classical allegories of the constellations, especially along the zodiac, but he also includes the geometrical shapes of the constellations that provide a more universal identification. The indisputable artistic value

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pation of Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa in the geodetic expedition to the Viceroyalty of Peru. At Juan’s subsequent suggestion, Carlos III encouraged the creation of an astronomical observatory in Madrid similar to those in other European capitals. It was built in 1790 on a little hill in the Parque del Retiro under the direction of the architect Juan de Villanueva. At the same time, a royal decree (19 August 1796) founded a school annexed to the observatory where future astronomers were to be educated, as detailed in royal ordinances published six years later. This novel institution was directed by Salvador Jiménez Coronado, a Piarist abbot who had acquired his scientific knowledge at the foremost European observatories. However, the ambitions of this initial impulse were frustrated by the French invasion in 1808, during which the library, buildings, and equipment were destroyed and the staff dispersed. The damage was irreparable and astronomical activity was not renewed until 1845. Joseph Garriga y Baucís, a distinguished alumnus of the school, who later became its professor of meteorology, held the chair of Astronomía Syntética del Cuerpo de Ingenieros Cosmógrafos. Soon after his appointment

of the work owes to the prestige of the engravers, the brothers López Enguídanos. Size of the entire original: ca. 46.5 × 103.0 cm; size of detail: ca. 28 × 52 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Calcografía Nacional, Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid.

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he prepared a booklet to complement his classes, Uranografía, ó Descripcion del Cielo (1793), inspired by the earlier work of Charles-François Dupuis, a student of the French astronomer Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande and Guillaume Le Gentil, himself a student of Jacques Cassini. Garriga’s work advanced some elementary notions of spherical astronomy and analyzed in detail the mythological origin of the classical constellations (especially the figures of the zodiac) and the appearance of the most modern ones. He also drew upon the work of Nicolas-Louis de La Caille for the Southern Hemisphere and adopted the methods of Chrysologue de Gy and Alexandre Ruelle for his graphic presentation of constellations. However, the most striking aspect of the publication was the inclusion of three celestial maps—probably the only Spanish contribution to celestial mapping in the entire eighteenth century. Garriga designed two circular planispheres, one for each hemisphere (each 59 × 49 cm), and a rectangular image centered on the celestial equator, underscoring the position of the zodiacal constellations (fig. 170). The constellations of the three maps were exquisitely engraved by the brothers Vicente and Tomás López Enguídanos, among the most prestigious Spanish engravers of the period. The maps were not bound in the book, a circumstance explaining their rarity, even in public libraries that possess the book. All three maps are beautifully decorated: the planispheres have circular borders, and the border of the rectangular zodiac map gives prominent position to the royal coat of arms. Garriga arranges the allegorical figures of the hemispheres along a celestial diameter, adding lines to join the stars of each constellation into geometrical shapes, a system that Garriga felt might be easier for the viewer to understand. The legends found in the margins of the maps comprise six symbols for stars of varying magnitude, plus a seventh symbol added for the nebulae. Garriga gave his planispheres a universal character: one could interpret the appearance of the heavens at any given time and place, thanks to the graduated and concentric circles that he placed along the edge of each of them. Ma r io R u iz Mo rales See also: Spain Bibliograp hy Garriga y Baucís, Joseph. 1793. Uranografía, ó Descripcion del Cielo. Madrid: Imprenta Real.

Celestial Mapping by Sweden-Finland. In Saami astral

mythology, the night sky reveals hunters on skis who chase a wild reindeer (depending on the tribe, the animal may also be an elk, or have golden antlers). This constellation, called Sarva, was composed of Cassiopeia, Perseus, and part of the constellation of Auriga and was sometimes included in the decoration of Saami drums,

which typically have cosmological significance (for an illustration of a Saami drum with a reindeer in the “upper world,” see Okladnikova 1998, fig. 8.11). The first largescale introduction to the ethnography of the Saami was the 1673 publication of Lapponia, by Johannes Schefferus, a work that included illustrations of Saami drums. The French expedition of 1736–37 to Sweden’s Torne Valley, led by Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, brought astronomers into contact with the Saami people. One of the participants in the expedition, Pierre-Charles Le Monnier, was inspired to add a reindeer (“le Réene”) to the traditional Western canon of constellations in a star chart he published in his La theorie des cometes (1743). Le Monnier’s reindeer was a small and faint asterism between Cassiopeia and Camelopardalis, and not the huge conglomeration that represented Sarva, but it was quickly adopted by Swedish and other astronomers. In 1758 a cosmographical society, the Kosmografiska sällskapet, was founded in Uppsala with the goal of publishing treatises and starting the manufacture of globes. Three volumes were eventually published by the society, under the general title Werldsbeskrifning (1766–72), including the Allmänn eller mathematisk beskrifning om jordklotet, by the astronomer Fredric Mallet and the Physisk beskrifning öfver jord-klotet, by the astronomer and geographer Torbern Bergman. In 1762, Mallet published a booklet on globes in which he alluded to the use that Maupertuis’s expedition had made of reindeer. Mallet endorsed the idea, from Le Monnier, of adding a reindeer constellation to the firmament stating that “the docile reindeer of the natives were worthy of a place in the heavens between the Little Bear, Cepheus, Cassiopeia, and the Camelopard” (Mallet 1762, 3n.c). The Kosmografiska sällskapet’s books contained no maps, but as early as 1759, Anders Åkerman, another member of the cosmographical society and the copper engraver for the Kungliga Vetenskaps-Societeten i Uppsala, produced a pair of globes (the first to be published in Sweden) with a diameter of thirty centimeters. The celestial globe proudly showed the new reindeer constellation, now named “Reno.” Åkerman also produced a pair of globes with a diameter of fifty-nine centimeters in 1766 and a pocket globe of eleven centimeters diameter was sold in 1762 (fig. 171). Åkerman’s Uppsala workshop suffered a fire in 1766, after which it moved to Stockholm. After Åkerman’s death in 1778, globes continued to be manufactured under his name up to 1824. The reindeer constellation was accepted by John Flamsteed in 1776 and by Johann Elert Bode in 1782, and it appeared in the latter’s celestial atlas. Although it continued to be shown on some celestial maps in the nineteenth century (and even into the twentieth century, e.g., Seth Zetterstrand and Karl D. P. Rosén, Nordisk världsatlas, 1926]), the Finnish astrono-

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Chabert, Joseph-Bernard, marquis de.

Fig. 171. DETAIL FROM ANDERS ÅKERMAN, COPPERENGRAVED GORES FOR A CELESTIAL GLOBE, 1762. Segments of the Southern and Northern Hemispheres with a reindeer (“Reno”) at the top of the third gore from the left. Size of the entire original: 15 × 36 cm; size of detail: 10.4 × 8.8 cm; each gore: 8.5 × 2.9 cm. Image courtesy of Kungliga biblioteket, Stockholm (KoB S Qv Br 29 HG 1762 11 cm).

mer Fredrik Wilhelm August Argelander omitted it from his authoritative catalog of constellations (Uranometria nova, 1843). U l l a Eh r ensvärd See also: Sweden-Finland B i bliogra p hy Bratt, Einar. 1968. En krönika om svenska glober: Anders Åkerman och hans efterföljare jämte en inventering av historiska glober i Sverige. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Kulonen, Ulla-Maija, Irja Seurujärvi-Kari, and Risto Pulkkinen, eds. 2005. The Saami: A Cultural Encyclopaedia. [Helsinki:] Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Mallet, Fredric. 1762. Kort beskrifning om globers nytta och bruk. Uppsala. Nordenmark, N. V. E. 1945. “En svensk stjärnbild och dess öden.” Populär Astronomisk Tidskrift 26:55–59. Okladnikova, Elena. 1998. “Traditional Cartography in Arctic and Subarctic Eurasia.” In HC 2.3:329–49. Widmalm, Sven. 1988. “Gravören och docenterna: Cosmographiska sällskapet i Uppsala, 1758–1778.” In Kunskapens trädgårdar: Om institutioner och institutionaliseringar i vetenskapen och livet, ed. Gunnar Broberg, Gunnar Eriksson, and Karin Johannisson, 78– 106. Stockholm: Atlantis.

JosephBernard, marquis de Chabert, was born in Toulon on 28  February 1724. Having entered the gardes-marine in July 1741, he participated in numerous campaigns and  attained the rank of enseigne de vaisseau in April 1748. Interested very early in nautical science, he was sent in 1750 to the northeast coast of North America on  an astronomical and cartographic mission; the published results established his scientific reputation (fig. 172) (Chabert 1753). His publication was the first work to receive the approbation of the Académie de marine, founded the previous year (1752) and of which Chabert was a member. Lieutenant de vaisseau in February 1756, he held command in the engagement before Port Mahon (Minorca) on 20 May of that year, before being elected on 3 September 1758 to the Académie royale des sciences. He was named inspecteur adjoint of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine on 20 October 1758. From 1753, he had planned to produce a second volume of Le Neptune françois, presenting his plans to the Académie des sciences in 1759 (published, 1766), but this project remained incomplete. Because of the Seven Years’ War, Chabert could not conduct his first full Mediterranean cartographic mission until May 1764, although he had made observations in Spain and the eastern Mediterranean from 1753. He was promoted to capitaine de frégate in October 1764, then capitaine de vaisseau in November 1771. He divided his time between the Dépôt and the Mediterranean until 1778, but hydrography was secondary during these navigations, which were concerned mostly with war and protecting commerce. Under these conditions, he was never able to complete any surveys with triangulation on land, despite his interest. He contented himself with measures of longitude by marine clock, an instrument Chabert thought fewer than ten officers were capable of using for hydrography (i.e., less than one percent of those active around 1775) (Chapuis 1999, 306). During the American Revolutionary War, in which he commanded warships (1778–82), he was responsible for calculating the longitude of the squadron with marine clocks. His text on the subject prefigures modern pedagogy regarding astronomical navigation (Chabert 1785, 4–5; Chapuis 1999, 306). He also authored the arrêt (decision) of the Conseil du Roi on 5 October 1773 that established true supervision over hydrographic production and the principle of transparency of sources. He was promoted to inspecteur (or director) of the Dépôt on 10 May 1776. Although the marquis was, from 1748, a true precursor of the new methods of calculating longitude, a faithful promoter of marine clock making (Chabert 1785), and the head of the Dépôt (albeit with a mixed record, having failed in the effort to launch the project for a “Nouveau neptune françois”), he tended to oversim-

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Fig. 172. JOSEPH-BERNARD, MARQUIS DE CHABERT, CARTE RÉDUITE DES COSTES DE L’ACADIE, DE L’ISLE ROYALE, ET DE LA PARTIE MERIDIONALE DE L’ISLE DE TERRE-NEUVE (PARIS, 1751). First edition, engraved map in one sheet, ca. 1:3,000,000. On an astronomical and cartographic mission in 1750 along the northeast coast of North America, Chabert established his scientific reputation by using the land-based technique of triangulation, combined

with compass bearings, marine clocks that were in the process of being verified, and lunar distances. He emphasized notably the differences in longitude positions of up to nine degrees for the east coast of Newfoundland as against those found on contemporary European maps. Size of the original: ca. 32.5 × 58.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [8596]).

plify the problems of hydrography by reducing them to a matter of nautical astronomy only. His personal cartographic work was thus very limited: of the 127 maps engraved under the supervision of the Dépôt between 1737 and 1772, he himself prepared only one. Created vice-amiral on 1 January 1792, Chabert emigrated to England a few months later, and did not return to France until 1802, when he immediately retired with a pension until his death in Paris on 1 December 1805.

& la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne.

O liv ier Ch apuis See also: Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France); Longitude and Latitude; Marine Charting: France Bibliograp hy Chabert, Joseph-Bernard, marquis de. 1753. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1750 et 1751, dans l’Amérique septentrionale, pour rectifier les cartes des côtes de l’Acadie, de l’Isle Royale & de l’Isle de TerreNeuve; et pour en fixer les principaux points par des observations astronomiques. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. ———. 1785. Sur l’usage des horloges marines, relativement à la navigation, & sur-tout à la géographie. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré

Chart. See Marine Chart Circumferentor. See Instruments for Angle Measuring: Circumferentor Cities and Cartography. In considering the graphic visualization of the city in the period of the Enlightenment, one might argue that the eighteenth century closed rather sooner than chronological dates would suggest. The period witnessed an anxious struggle to resist the demands of scientific topography and to oppose the demise of the traditional city view. The iconography of urban depiction from ca. 1650 to the end of the eighteenth century elicits a number of themes. Along with city views clearly intended for celebration, other concurrent urban images were increas-

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ingly concerned with the quality of topographical depiction. All the major cities of Europe produced such maps for military, fiscal, and urban-planning purposes. The first surveys of urban topography were performed with scientific instruments whose use was standardized in contemporary treatises. The political and ideological aims behind these images pushed them to be as extensive and as complete as possible, hence the choice of special points of view from which it was possible to capture the full spectacular potential of the forma urbis, as has been fully treated in The History of Cartography, volume 3. In the later sixteenth and early seventeenth century many cities were the subject of large multisheet engraved urban views. The centers of production for such works emerged in Amsterdam, Lyons, Paris, Rome, Venice, Frankfurt, Basel, and Cologne, to name a few. The Italian lead in this field was beginning to wane, as dynamic schools of topography grew in the Low Countries and in many German-speaking cities. But whether painted or engraved, the urban view was the fruit of interaction between a simplified visual code and a graphic language specific to figurative culture. Each view—especially those engraved on copperplates—was accompanied by various texts: dedications, titles, subtitles, indices of monuments or topographical features, and explanatory captions of varying length. Some maps indicated only the mirabilia of the city, while others covered both the most noteworthy structures as well as streets, squares, districts, seats of power, manufacturing facilities, services, and infrastructures. Many sixteenth- and seventeenth-century urban views were accompanied by brief accounts of the city’s history, a feature totally absent from fifteenth- and eighteenth-century views. Often decorated with mythological or allegorical figures, the sheets also contained compass indications and notation of scale. During the course of the seventeenth century, dedications and explanatory texts lengthened and grew more detailed, sometimes including not only the names of those who commissioned, drew, engraved, and printed the map, but also describing its purposes. Occasionally they contained information about the time required to make the map and the methods used. For quality, size, and engraving technique, one of the most interesting such iconographical documents dating from the end of the sixteenth century is the large Recens provt hodie iacet almæ vrbis Romæ cvm omnibvs viis ædificiisqve prospectvs accvratissime delineatvs (1593) drawn by the Florentine painter Antonio Tempesta. The view celebrates the Rome of Sixtus V, even though it is dedicated to his successor Clement VIII. Tempesta’s plan records all the building projects and urban plan reforms realized during the pontificate of Sixtus V by the architect Domenico Fontana. He constructed a rather

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complex perspective view of the city, seen from an ideal point located a long way above the Janiculum Hill. However, the contractions and distortions in his rendering of the core of the city are so obvious that one must consider this point of view as only one among many used constructing Tempesta’s Prospectvs. In all probability, Tempesta took Leonardo Bufalini’s 1551 map as a starting point, though he used this frame of reference so freely that he compromises its topographical accuracy. Tempesta’s view, in fact, so distorts the length and width of the major streets that topographical precision is undermined. As Daniela Stroffolino has shown, in such cases the use of such “shortcuts” is the result of— in some way, the inevitable result of—the complexity of the urban morphology (Stroffolino 1999). The two main approaches to the depiction of cities in our period were the perspective or urban view and the urban plan. City views of Amsterdam reveal a constant striving for an effective blend of apparently contradictory features of urban representation: the combination of the figurative and the abstract, the scientific and the artistic, the practical and the celebratory. Two types of depiction dominate: the perspective plan (a ground map with an axonometric elevation) and the profile view of urban fabric (particularly appropriate for a city like Amsterdam whose genius loci is the reflection of buildings in water). During the early seventeenth century the number of large-scale profiles of the city as seen from the sea increased. Amstelodami emporii totius orbis celeberrimi, published in 1618 by Pieter van den Keere, offers an excellent example of the all-embracing and extensive view of the city which was, of course, impossible in real life. The artist assembled the final version of the image in his studio, basing his work on partial views taken on site, his mobile viewpoint from a boat moving slowly along the coast. Dutch artists and cartographers combined the precision of a measured survey with a high level figurative effect, as revealed by the work of Amsterdam artist and printer Claes Jansz. Visscher. His isometric view of Amsterdam presents an image of the city simultaneously viewed from all sides, made possible by skillfully combining isometric elevation—a document that records the contemporary plan for massive urban expansion—and a flat profile illustration, complete with views into the urban fabric of the city (fig. 173). This unusual combination of plan and city view was known in Dutch as a caert figuratief (figurative map) and would enjoy great success in other cities of North Europe, offering a sort of visual encyclopedia—or, better “an encyclopedic image of the city” (Bakker 1996, 88). The distance between descriptions and maps with axonometric elevations would increase through the seventeenth century, just as the divide grew between painted

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Fig. 173. CLAES JANSZ. VISSCHER, AMSTELODAMUM CELEBRE EMPORIUM FORMÂ PLANÂ, CA. 1623. Visscher’s axonometric view of Amsterdam incorporates both a profile view of the city with elevations of important civic buildings: the Council house, the Bourse, and the two buildings of

the Dutch Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC), built in 1606 and 1623. Scale 1:7,250. Size of the original: 47.5 × 57 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 655 [137] RÉS).

(or drawn) city views and engravings inspired by topographic survey. However, the latter approach did not establish the model for the depiction of a city. In Naples, for example, the relation between painting and topography was inverted: Alessandro Baratta’s monumental Fidelissimæ vrbis Neapolitanæ cvm omnibvs viis accvrata et nova delineatio (first edition, 1627) established a model that would only later be given more popular expression by the talented artist Didier Barra, whose most important painting of the city dates from 1647. Baratta’s view constituted an iconographic prototype of exceptional importance for European urban iconography, variously replicated until the end of the eighteenth century. In this

case, the preparatory designs have come to light: a circumstance as unique as it is rare, which provides us with precious information on the technical means by which Baratta produced the view (Baratta 1986). England contributed much less to the iconography of urban representation, lacking independent city-states eager to advertise and celebrate their glories in “selfportraits.” However, the trend changed in the wake of engraved views published in neighboring Netherlands, which led to a boom in urban depiction within the Anglo-Saxon world. As in Holland, two methods of urban representation developed: the urban plan and the urban view.

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Clearly, the seventeenth-century city portraits of the Renaissance were constructed using the central, bipolar, and multipolar perspective models that were part of the renovated concept of non-Euclidean space. However, in tracing the history of the city portrait one cannot ignore the innovative contribution of both landscape painting and scientific topography. These twin influences were at work during the seventeenth century, with the heightened tension between them ultimately being resolved during the eighteenth century by the irreconcilable divorce between art and science. The eighteenth century itself was the period when topography became a science of observation and measurement with its own increasingly specialist literature; at the same time, much of this literature taught the artistic skills of rendering landscape and three-dimensional shapes onto the two-dimensional plane. Comprising twenty plates forming a whole measuring more than 3 × 2 meters, the Plan de Paris (1739) is in

many ways the view of Paris par excellence (fig. 174). A portrait of one of the world’s most beautiful cities during a flourishing period in its history, the work employed a full range of technical and artistic means to achieve its extraordinary evocative power. The most seductive of all cartographic representations of Paris, it could be read and by one and all, enabling each one of us to “visit” the city. In effect, Louis Bretez, the artist-topographer who created it, did more than merely meet the requirements of the—perhaps perfect—city plan. He offered us a perspective view that enables the eye to wander enjoyably around the city’s monuments, gardens, squares, boulevards, suburbs, churches, and hôtels particuliers. In the first decades of the eighteenth century, Paris still did not have perspective views that could rival those that had depicted Venice, Genoa, Rome, and Naples in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But if Paris was a latecomer to city portraiture, it made up splendidly for lost time. Like all the great city views, that of Paris

Fig. 174. LOUIS BRETEZ, PLAN DE PARIS, 1739, SHEET 6. The perspective plan of Paris was surveyed and compiled by Bretez, engraved by Claude Lucas, and printed on twenty sheets, creating an imposing wall map. Bretez surveyed the city under the orders of Michel Étienne Turgot, provost of the merchants’ council in Paris.

Size of the sheet: ca. 51.0 × 79.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Stephen S. Clark Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (G 5834.P3A3 B6 1739).

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was inspired by the desire to celebrate the city, to glorify its beauty and prosperity; such was clearly the aim of Michel Étienne Turgot, head of the city’s council of merchants and sponsor of the Plan de Paris. The Bretez perspective view was preceded in 1716 by the Plan de la ville et fauxbourgs de Paris by Guillaume Delisle, who, as an astronomer and geographer, was interested less in the celebration of the city than in determining its precise size and dimensions on the face of the earth (see fig. 893). His use of triangulation techniques on the ground along the Paris Observatory’s meridian and his compilation methods in the office produced a geometric plan based on observed fixed points (Boutier 2008). Starting from a geometrical plan, Bretez set about drawing axonometric depictions of all the buildings and structures that made up what was then the largest and most populous city in the West. Having pieced together this puzzle, he then passed on to the engraving phase, commissioning a team of specialists who would magnificently reproduce the drawings in etched copperplates. By the middle of the eighteenth century, the abovementioned split between science and art had become an irreconcilable divorce. Evidence of this can be seen in Giovanni Battista Nolli’s monumental Nuova pianta di Roma (1748), which incorporated a series of urban views drawn and engraved by Giovanni Battista Piranesi (see fig. 609). It was, apparently, no longer possible to depict the contemporary city from a (perhaps mobile) point of view in space, even if this ambition would lead to the emergence of the panoramic view toward the end of the century. However, before the advent of such panoramas—the ultimate act of homage to the city portrait—the European city had become fragmented into various parts. Giovanni Carafa, duca di Noja, is a typical representative of a culture that would appear to have moved beyond the old dichotomy between humanism and science. His analysis is scientific in nature and character, just as the solution that he offers arises from a method proper to the sciences: he sought to measure the real size of the city and to create a topographical record of the geology and natural features of the terrain running from Mount Vesuvius to the Phlegraean Fields. He had kept apace with recent topographical techniques, and his skill was well demonstrated in the monumental Mappa topografica della città di Napoli, to which he would dedicate twenty-five years of work, printed on thirty-five sheets in 1775 (see fig. 880). The topographical plan offers a basis for reordering of the city as an indispensable instrument for restoring the proper and effective administration of justice and maintaining public order. In short, it is essential for implementing a range of projects, including sewers and the provision of water supplies.

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Given its truly unusually large size (4.85 × 2.20 m), the quality of its engraving, and the accurate detail of its topography, Giovanni Carafa’s map may be considered one of the most important cartographic undertakings of the century. Its inclusion of the veduta scenografica, a skillful rendering of the city nestled within the bay, also gives this document exceptional historical interest. The work may be said to be the magnificent final achievement of eighteenth-century vedutismo at the same time as it marks the advent of the new tradition of scientific topography. The eighteenth century was the century during which topography was confirmed as a science: geographers, topographers, and astronomers developed working methods ever more specialized and used ever more sophisticated techniques. The great cartographic enterprises begun by Felipe II and Louis XIV during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries did not yet see the divorce between the art of the view and the science of topography; only in the course of the century of the Enlightenment was this separation consummated in a clear and definitive way. There naturally remained an ambiguous territory that art and science continued to cohabit: thus the view makers used topographical instruments, and topographical and astronomical geographers did not forsake completely using the charm of the view (De Seta and Stroffolino 2001, 11–56). Cesare De Seta See also: Administrative Cartography; Nolli, Giovanni Battista; Urban Map; Urban Mapping; Urban Planning and Cartography Bibliography Bakker, Boudewijn. 1996. “Amsterdam nell’immagine degli artisti e dei cartografi, 1550–1700.” In Città d’Europa: Iconografia e vedutismo dal XV al XVIII secolo, ed. Cesare De Seta, 86–100. Naples: Electa Napoli. Baratta, Alessandro. 1986. Fidelissimae urbis Neapolitanae cum omnibus viis accurata et nova delineatio. Ed. Cesare De Seta and Gaetana Cantone. Naples: Electa Napoli. Barber, Peter. 2012. London: A History in Maps. London: London Topographical Society in association with the British Library. Bevilacqua, Mario. 1998. Roma nel secolo dei Lumi: Architettura erudizione scienza nella pianta di G. B. Nolli “celebre geometra.” Naples: Electa Napoli. ———, ed. 2004. Nolli, Vasi, Piranesi: Immagine di Roma antica e moderna. Rome: Artemide. Borsi, Stefano. 1986. Roma di Sisto V: La pianta di Antonio Tempesta, 1593. Rome: Officina Edizioni. Boutier, Jean. 2007. Les plans de Paris, des origins (1493) à la fin du XVIIIe siècle: Étude, carto-bibliographie et catalogue collectif. Reedition. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. ———. 2008. “La cartografia urbana degli astronomi-geografi: Guillaume Delisle e la pianta di Parigi (1716).” In La città dei cartografi: Studi e ricerche di storia urbana, ed. Cesare De Seta and Brigitte Marin, 25–32. Naples: Electa Napoli. De Seta, Cesare. 1969. Cartografia della città di Napoli: Lineamenti dell’evoluzione urbana. 3 vols. Naples: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane.

Colbert, Jean-Baptiste ———, ed. 1996. Città d’Europa: Iconografia e vedutismo dal XV al XVIII secolo. Naples: Electa Napoli. ———. 1997. Napoli fra Rinascimento e Illuminismo. 2d ed. Naples: Electa Napoli. ———, ed. 2004. Tra oriente e occidente: Città e iconografia dal XV al XIX secolo. Naples: Electa Napoli. ———. 2011. Ritratti di città: Dal Rinascimento al secolo XVIII. Turin: Einaudi. De Seta, Cesare, and Daniela Stroffolino, eds. 2001. L’Europa moderna: Cartografia urbana e vedutismo. Naples: Electa Napoli. Fierro, Alfred, and Jean-Yves Sarazin. 2005. Le Paris des Lumières d’apres le plan de Turgot (1734–1739). Paris: Éditions de la Réunion des Musées Nationaux. Hyde, Ralph. 1994. A Prospect of Britain: The Town Panoramas of Samuel and Nathaniel Buck. London: Pavilion.

Fig. 175. DETAIL FROM VINCENZO CORONELLI’S TERRESTRIAL GLOBE PREPARED FOR LOUIS XIV, PRODUCED FOR THE MOST PART BETWEEN 1681 AND 1683. Paint on cloth about four meters in diameter. The area shown is between 30° and 60° south latitude, with representations of the four parts of the world: on the left, Europe discov-

293 Nuti, Lucia. 1996. Ritratti di città: Visione e memoria tra Medioevo e Settecento. Venice: Marsilio. Stroffolino, Daniela. 1999. La città misurata: Tecniche e strumenti di rilevamento nei trattati a stampa del Cinquecento. Rome: Salerno Editrice.

Climate Map. See Thematic Map: Climate Map

Colbert, Jean-Baptiste. Born in Reims in August 1619, Jean-Baptiste Colbert belonged to a long line of successful merchants. He attended the Jesuit college in Reims before his father, Nicolas Colbert de Vandières, left the

ers America; in the middle, a rich and receptive Asia awaits French vessels; on the right, Africa accompanied by animals evokes the labors of the Académie des sciences. Size of the detail: ca. 230 × 275 cm. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France (Cartes et plans, Ge A 500 RÉS).

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fabric trade to move to Paris. Jean-Baptiste Colbert learned law and finance by working. As commissaire ordinaire des guerres in 1640, he gained an appreciation of terrain and probably a taste for maps as he supervised the quartering of troops. In 1661, he began to serve Louis XIV. Over the years, he became—to adopt modern terminology—minister of finance, industry, and commerce; minister of culture; and minister of the navy and colonies and thus kept the king informed of all state business. He played a major role in the transformation of Paris, where he died on 6 September 1683. During 1663–64, Colbert planned to collect all existing maps of France and have them corrected in order to know precisely the boundaries of all its administrative divisions (Trénard 1975, 69–82). This project has to be linked to the partially completed investigation of the economic state of France; it encouraged the 1665 memoir attributed to Nicolas Sanson (Pastoureau 1982, 152–53). Colbert was the moving force in the creation of the Académie des sciences, whose founders assembled in his library in June 1666. The Académie began to study the methods used for cartographic surveys, and in 1668 Colbert charged them with determining the best methods. It was to Colbert that abbé Jean Picard submitted the plan for the general triangulation of France (not completed until 1744), which Picard deemed indispensable for the execution of all cartographic works and for the exact knowledge of the dimensions of the globe. Without waiting for the results of these scholarly efforts, Colbert used maps to execute the reforms he had taken up: manuscript plans for improving the administration of the royal forests (Hervé 1960) and marine maps, partially edited in Le Neptune françois (1693), to assure the security of the renaissante navy. Although Colbert’s projects were vast, he closely supervised them. For example, in 1671, he demanded that one of the ingénieurs of Le Neptune françois accompany his cartographic surveys with certificates drawn up by the pilots, mariners, and principal officers of the places mapped (Colbert 1983, 107–8). The interest shown by Colbert in cartography and the maritime expansion of France certainly involved him in the construction of the great globes of Vincenzo Coronelli (fig. 175), destined originally for the château of Versailles and still testimony to the “old” cartography that the Académie des sciences was about to renew (Pelletier 2012, 26–33). Mon iq u e Pelletier See also: Academies of Science: Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France); Administrative Cartography: France; Economy, Cartography and the; France Bibliograp hy Colbert, 1619–1683. 1983. Exhibition, Hôtel de la Monnaie, Paris, 4 October–30 November 1983. [Paris]: Ministère de la Culture. Hervé, Roger. 1960. “Les plans de forêts de la grande réformation

colbertienne, 1661–1690.” Bulletin de la Section de Géographie 73:143–71. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1982. “Les Sanson: Cent ans de cartographie française (1630–1730).” Thesis, Université de Paris IV. Pelletier, Monique. 2012. “La géographie du roi sous le règne de Louis XIV.” In Les globes de Louis XIV: Étude artistique, historique et matérielle, ed. Catherine Hofmann and Hélène Richard, 16–33. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Trénard, Louis. 1975. Les mémoires des intendants pour l’instruction du duc de Bourgogne (1698): Introduction générale. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale.

Color and Cartography. Color has long played a significant role in cartography (Woodward 2007, 602–6). Manuscript mapmaking has a long history of including color as one of its basic tools in the form of pigments, leads, and inks, all of which lend meaning and clarity to the map. Printed maps have used added color to decorate, emphasize, and identify; experiments with color printing have furthered these trends. This essay explores the relationship between color applied to the more familiar printed maps (usually medium- to smallscale geographic maps prepared for a commercial market) and color on manuscript maps (usually prepared at large scale for property delineation, military objectives, or administrative projects). The study of color on printed maps between 1650 and 1800 reveals three patterns. The first is a shift from a clear domination of printed Dutch cartography in the seventeenth century to the dissemination of a more generally European cartographic production in which Germany, France, and Great Britain played increasingly important roles. Testifying to this shift are the copying and sales of maps by French mapmakers such as the Sanson family, Alexis-Hubert Jaillot, Nicolas de Fer, and Guillaume Delisle and the establishment of solid editorial houses like Seutter and Homann in Germany (Hofmann 1998). The second pattern was the technical innovation of copperplate engraving, which uses both the engraving burin and etching needle. While woodcut printing ensured a large diffusion of maps, engraving on copper allowed for an even larger number of impressions that usually left the printer’s shop in black and white. Except for the few experiments in color printing with copper, in most cases color was applied by hand after printing. The third pattern involving color centered on the evolution of the aesthetics of the map. Slowly the Dutch aesthetic, which emphasized decoration and iconography, was succeeded by a more spare aesthetic reflecting exactitude and verifiability as seen through the transition from the monster-filled map to the blank spaces on maps (Jean-Loup Rivière in Cartes et figures de la terre 1980, 135). In the middle of the seventeenth century two styles of coloring, or illumination, on printed maps existed side by side. The first, typical of the Flemish style, used

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pigments mixed with white lead in order to obtain an opaque color, resulting in lively shades, sometimes varnished, but that risked covering up printed details of the maps and did not age well. The second method, characteristic of Dutch maps (à la manière hollandaise) used less pigment and no white in order to achieve a transparent color with delicate shades that allowed the engraving detail to show through the color (Hofmann 1999, 37). During the eighteenth century there developed two methods of applying color to maps: illumination (enluminure) and watercolor wash (lavis). Illumination was used to emphasize a preexisting design already printed on the map (fig. 176), while watercolor washes were employed to add information to the plan or the map. However, this distinction was very theoretical, and in practice these two types of map coloring rested on national traditions. Full color on maps corresponded to German practices consisting of coloring in full the various zones of a map such as administrative regions, religious areas, countries, or empires (fig. 177). This principle may have been fixed by the introduction to the Museum geographicum (1726) of Johann Hübner. Hübner specified out-

Fig. 176. DIDIER ROBERT DE VAUGONDY, TURQUIE D’ASIE, ARABIE, PERSE, TARTARIE INDEPENDANTE, 1761. Map showing outline enluminure, a light application of color added to emphasize the existing boundaries printed on the map, typical of most French and English printed cartography of the eighteenth century. From the Nouvel atlas portatif (Paris, 1762), number 35. Size of the original: 24.3 × 22.0 cm. Private collection.

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right that the use of color should be limited to significant elements on the map, explicitly excluding the cartouches and other ornaments (Hofmann 1998, 91). Coloring along lines, very much in the French tradition, consisted of avoiding any color in full and only outlining the limits or boundaries with color of various widths. These distinctions, though useful for making general statements, were not always clear among the mapmakers of the day, yet they provided the vocabulary necessary to discuss and advertise maps when they were produced. The cost of coloring may be discerned from the price of colored maps. The 1662–65 Latin edition of Joan Blaeu’s Atlas Maior, comprising eleven volumes and 593 maps, one of the most expensive printed works of the seventeenth century, was offered in black and white for 350 guilders and in color for 450, reflecting a 30 percent markup in price. One hundred years later, Le Petit atlas maritime of Jacques-Nicolas Bellin (1764) sold for ninety-six livres unbound and uncolored, 120 livres half bound with the seas in full wash, or a 25 percent increase (Pedley 2005, 69). For atlases and books, the difference between black and white and color depended on what constituted a beautiful book and the quality of its binding. Thus in 1762, Jean Lattré, a geographic engraver and publisher, sold an Atlas maritime, which he offered “bound in Morocco leather and watercolored, 15 livres; bound in calf, without color, 9 livres” (Mercure de France, July 1762, 1:159–61). Similarly, in Amsterdam ca. 1705, the firm of Covens & Mortier offered its Atlas nouveau comprising 166 Sanson and Jaillot maps in the following range: uncolored, 103 florins; illuminated, 117 florins; doubly illuminated, 130 florins; with cartouches and ornaments illuminated, 164 florins; very beautifully illuminated with additional gold, 195 florins (Van Egmond 2009, 229). For single maps, contemporary advertising detailed the price differences between color and black and white. Georges-Louis Le Rouge in Paris increased the price of maps 40–50 percent for added color (lavée) (Hofmann 1999, 43). There were other variables in the materiality of the map that also explain these differences: the application of color could require a different sort of paper. In 1749, a map titled Attaques, plan & environs de la ville d’Ypres sold for “35 sous printed on paper prepared and beaten for watercolor wash . . . 30 sous on ordinary paper” (Mercure de France, September 1749, 173). Beaten paper allowed the owner to apply color. The price differences between the printed map with and without the application of color emphasizes two separate phases of production. Coloring was carried out by an enlumineur or a laveur (colorist) who was not necessarily specifically trained but was connected to the map or print trade and often female (Le Bitouzé 1986, 51–53). As with the illumination of art engravings, cer-

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Fig. 177. MATTHÄUS SEUTTER, MAPPA GEOGRAPHÆ NATURALIS SIVE TABELLA SYNOPTICA, CA. 1730. Scale: ca. 1:850,000 (hypothetical, since no real place is depicted). The map employs a light watercolor wash applied over the printed area. This method was used extensively by

the two German publishing houses of Seutter (Augsburg) and Homann (Nuremberg). Size of the original: 47 × 55 cm. Image courtesy of the E. D. Chase Pictorial Collection, Harvard Map Collection Digital Maps.

tain authors perceived the coloring of maps as an amateur activity, as demonstrated by A Book of Dravving, Limning, VVashing or Colouring of Maps and Prints, and the Art of Painting (1660). The Ecole de la mignatvre (1673 and regularly reedited until 1817), described illumination as carried out by nuns or “persons of quality” (nonprofessionals of independent means) living far from the capital and desiring a useful activity (Boutet 1673, vi). Its translation into Dutch by P. J. Verly in 1744 contained a supplement regarding the illumination of

plans that the first French edition did not contain: “De manier van de plans te wasschen” (Verly 1744, 130–38; Bosters et al. 1989, 107–8), giving specific instructions for map coloring. Such manuals were aimed at a genteel market. John Smith similarly added a chapter for map coloring, “A Discovery of the Mystery of Back Painting Maps or Prints” to his popular book, The Art of Painting in Oyl (1687, 2d ed.). The art of limning, or illuminating by outline and color, encouraged a continuous flow of instruction manuals throughout the long eighteenth cen-

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tury, with titles such as William Salmon’s Polygraphice; or, The Art of Drawing, Engraving, Etching, Limning, Painting, Washing, Varnishing, Colouring, and Dying (1672), and Willem Goeree’s Verligterie-kunde of Regt gebruik der water-verven (1668; reedited 1670, 1697, 1705), which attributes a color to every sort of object to be represented on the map (Bosters et al. 1989, 105–6). All these books bolstered amateur practice in map and print coloring. Not all maps were colored by members of the reclusive gentry. The Homann firm in Nuremberg employed as many as thirty colorists to illuminate their map products, which were rarely sold uncolored (Heinz 2002, 102). In London, the mapmaker Thomas Jefferys’s apprentice, John Lodge, established himself specifically as a map print colorist (Public Advertiser, 20 October 1761), an occupation otherwise filled by fansellers as well as printers and engravers (Clayton 1997, 130). Even in North America, some specialization in map coloring was apparent from the accounts of Philadelphia-based mapmaker Mathew Carey, who employed colorists for his cartographic productions (Bosse 2012, 32). Thus the business of color varied in nature and price from place to place. The separation between engraving and the application of color could lead to a loss of control by the author of a map; after the map was sold, they could only complain about the results. These complaints reflect the tension between the techniques of lavis and enluminure. Pierre Duval, nephew of Nicolas Sanson, denounced illuminators “who divide the maps according to the dotted lines that they find on them and who often place the color against the rules of geography, as when they sometimes don’t find any dotted lines but paint their brushes along the widest rivers or follow their own caprice and thus distribute large and small regions to sovereigns of state based on their own whim” (Duval 1672, 59). Errors could also come from a bad choice of colors, as specified by Robert Dossie (1758, 329–30): “There is indeed one thing in particular [that] should be always avoided: it is, the laying those colours, that [are similar], close to each other: for by an error in this particular, they will be rendered much less effectual with respect to the purpose they are to serve; . . . more difficult to the eye, to distinguish the limits and bounds they are intended to mark out: and indeed, besides, for want of due apposition, the diversification of the colours is made less pleasing, when they are seen at a distance, and considered only with respect to their ornamental appearance.” Such difficulty was not just hypothetical; two years earlier a discussion was published on the errors of John Mitchell’s A Map of the British and French Dominions in North America (1755): “We observe that you have drawn a line from Rockland in latitude 40 deg. on Hud-

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son’s river to the mouth of the Lecba branch of Delaware river in the latitude of 40 d. 37 m. and call it Limits claimed by New York. This line is put upon an equal footing with the line called in your map, Limits claimed by New Jersey. Nay, if regard be had to the colouring of your map, greater credit is given to the line to the Lecba than to the latter line” (Johnston 1756, 287). The numerous manuals of the period attempted to limit these difficulties as well as respond to the demand of “persons of quality.” However, for a more detailed account of the preparation and costs of color, a deeper appreciation of how color could create meaning on a map, one turns to the instruction manuals written for the large-scale mapmakers. Parallel with the growth of manuals and instructions for map coloring in the printed commercial market was the publication of written directions for large-scale mapmaking, for both private audiences (property mapping, architectural drawing, civil engineering) and specialized public audiences (military and administrative mapping), in terms of coloring maps that often remained in manuscript. These manuals may be divided into two types: those that emphasize technique as much as the choice of colors and those that attempt to standardize the use of color in order to simplify and clarify map use. An example of those concentrating on the technical aspects of coloring may be found in the work of Thomas Breaks, with instructions for manuscript large-scale estate plans: “Having the Plan of a Gentleman’s Estate, &c. to wash, first begin with one of the Fields, and dipping your Pencil in the Colour you design to use, draw it along on the Inside of the Lines, making the coloured Part of an equal Breadth; you may make it either broader or narrower, according to the Size of the Field; then dip a clean Pencil in fair Water, and draw it along on the Inside of the coloured Part, washing down the Edge that the Colour may fade or die away down to the Paper, and appear strong next the Lines. It is customary with Surveyors to wash each Field with one intire Colour: This is left to the Discretion of the Surveyor” (Breaks 1771, 446). The second type of manual generally concerned manuscript maps and plans and offered instruction for the coloring of three types: the plans-terriers (cadastral or property maps), military maps, and large-scale maps prepared for engineering projects. The rule here was: “When time allows one to make an accurate drawing, one should use colors to render the objects [of the map] more distinct” (Brühl 1770, 9). The manuals also often provided instructions for fabricating colors. The manuals written for military personnel multiplied the methods of color fabrication while taking into account the conditions of the terrain (Lowengard 2007). Most importantly, these manuals aimed to codify the use of color.

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In both the printed and manuscript instruction manuals aimed at military engineers, two important principles established certain typologies. One was the principle of imitation of an idealized nature, which cartography helped to delineate. The other was the principle of normalization and codification of color in order to lock its meaning into the map and avoid the dangers of misinterpretation. The process of simplification by looking for the ideal color, which would sacrifice variability to the advantage of standardization, allowed the establishment of a limited spectrum of colors within which each hue signified a particular meaning. Thus Nicolas Buchotte, ingénieur ordinaire du roi, proposed to imitate “natural color as much as possible, both in military and civil architecture, that is, the grassy areas in greenish-brown; water in sky blue; sandy areas in reddish-yellow; framework structures the color of wood; tile roofs, red tinged with yellow; slate, a grey with a slight blue element” (Buchotte 1754, 45). Yet at the same time, a more abstract codification was becoming equally apparent, one which defined certain colors, like red and yellow, with specific roles. In his 1680 mémoire concerning the duties of officers designing fortifications, Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, specified that “the engineer will prepare at the end of the year a rather large plan on which all the elements that compose it can be clearly distinguished: on this plan he will make sure to color with red all those projects that have been completed. Elements that remain only projected and for which work has not yet begun, will be colored with yellow, in order to distinguish them from the other, and the elements of the old plan or the old works which will be effaced by the new design, will be simply represented by dotted lines. This is a rule that one must follow exactly in order to avoid confusion that can be caused when the coloring of plans is done indifferently, with all sorts of colors, and one color could be taken to mean something else” (quoted in Sanger 1999, 50). Buchotte’s work, first published in 1721, was followed by that of Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson in 1750, which reinforced the idea that repetition can become a rule: “It is not enough to know how to set down a line on plans and maps to have tried to manage the paintbrush, one must understand the colors and what it is agreed that they signify in terms of the different parts of a fortification, a landscape, etc.” (Dupain de Montesson 1750, 95). So again the color vermillion red (facing page) Fig. 178. PIERRE PANSERON, ETUDE POUR LE LAVIS, CA. 1781. Panseron, professor of design and architecture at the École royale militaire in Paris, published this broadsheet, which followed Dupain de Montesson’s recommendation of using colors that displayed a realistic representation of all the colors and the natural and man-made forms of the country-

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was used for constructed buildings; “works projected or newly made are colored with gomme gutte or another shade of yellow,” with each color being distinct enough to tell one color from another (Dupain de Montesson 1750, 104–5). These texts also offered in the form of a dictionary the link between an object to be represented on the map and the color to be associated with it, as in this example: Abbaye . . . Color the bell tower blue and the roof of the church in red with vermillion . . . Arbre de remarque. Draw it a little larger than the others, observing its actual shape more precisely and give it a little brush of greenish-brown with the brush on the side of the shadow and with clear yellowish green on the side of the light . . . Bourg. Design it in plan and color it with carmine, such as it will be and fill in any buildings with a halfshade, making sure to put a little cross on the church. (Buchotte 1754, 173)

In this same edition Buchotte also supplied the prices of colors and offered advice on where to purchase them (193–96). Dupain de Montesson went further in Le Spectacle de la Campagne (1775), offering a work in which all the colors and the natural and man-made forms they represented were displayed, an approach adopted by professors of fortification (fig. 178). The growing role of these dictionaries and manuals extended beyond the domain of military engineers to the civil engineers of the corps des Ponts et Chaussées in France, marking the route toward standardization. The contrôleur général Philibert Orry, who helped establish the corps, reiterated in his “Mémoire instructif sur la réparation des Chemins” of 13 June 1738: “the parts of the roads that are paved should be colored in red, those that are metaled with stones in yellow, those of loose gravel in gray, and the parts of the natural terrain that have been left untouched by roadworks should be left blank, whether these latter sections have been aligned or not. The copy of this map thus colored, with titles, legends, and the usual significations, will be remitted to the intendants and sent on by them” (reproduced in Vignon 1862–80, vol. 3, Pièces justificatives, 6). Property mapping efforts throughout Europe similarly worked toward a codification of color. In northern Europe from the early seventeenth century, the question

side and city. The sheet also explains the mixing of colors to achieve the natural look. Size of the original: 39.0 × 22.8 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 8-N-1781 Pa).

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of color was considered important enough that in 1636, surveyors were given instructions for standardizing colors: “Cultivated fields were to be colored gray, meadows green, mosses yellow, fences black, lakes light blue, rivers dark blue, boundaries red, forests dark green, and stony slopes white” (Kain and Baigent 1992, 52). In Great Britain, where property surveyors were producing plans from the end of the sixteenth century, the same sort of codification was being set in place, as demonstrated by Albert Durer Revived (1697, 11): “Red-lead is the nearest to an Orange Colour, and putting a little Yellow Berries into some of it, it will make a perfect Orange Colour, but if you mean to make Flesh-Colour of it you must put no Yellow, but only then when you would make an Orange Colour. This Colour is used for the Colouring of Buildings, or High-ways in Landskips, being mixed with a little White.” By the eighteenth century, the standardization of color became normal practice in the creation of large-scale manuscript maps made for specific purposes. Codified color increased legibility and understanding for the map reader and thus facilitated decision making and planning. Color, in its tangible forms of pigments, water, and brush, was a technical tool for the mapmaker along with paper, pencil, pen, and ink, and brush and water for gray washes. Each tool was employed to create meaning for every element of the map. By contrast, the printed map, which was dominated by maps created at medium to small scale and designed to meet the needs of a much more general audience, did not employ color as part of the mapmaking process, but rather as an additional enhancement of meaning already signified by the use of font, line (dotted, solid, stippled), and symbol—all of which were engraved on the copperplate with burin or needle, inked with black, and printed on white paper. Color served essentially to highlight printed meaning until the last quarter of the eighteenth century, when thematic mapping made greater demands on the palette. Attempts to print in color appeared in the early sixteenth century and continued into the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but the requirements of careful registration of blocks or plates and a fine understanding of printing pigments meant that printed color was always less common than printing with black ink. The eighteenth century closed with two paradoxical developments relating to color and printed maps: an increasing use of color on thematic maps and an absence of color on printed military maps. Only during the latter part of the eighteenth century, when various forms of thematic mapping became more common with the growing interest in the distribution of natural and manmade phenomena in space, was color employed in a way to signify something beyond what was already printed. This use of color was also helped by early experimenta-

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tion in color printing. In general, thematic maps printed in the last quarter of the century continued to add color to the black and white outline of the map, often according to printed keys or legends. Around 1778, Marie Le Masson Le Golft used color to imitate nature by coloring different regions of the world according to the skin color of the inhabitants. Leaving areas white on the map did not indicate a lack of information, as on earlier maps, but reflected the color of the skin of European inhabitants, thus giving white a “natural” meaning (see fig. 234). Similar maps employing added color to emphasize spatial distribution of phenomena may be found in other European map publications, as in Italy for the distribution of doctors around Pavia (Topographia agroiatrica mediolanensi, 1782, Giuseppe Cicognini), and in Austria for the distribution of ethnic groups and language (1791, Johann Matthias Korabinsky, Novissima Regni Hungariae potamographica et telluris productorum tabula). Color could dramatize political themes and

Fig. 179. DETAIL FROM THE SOCIETY OF ANTI-GALLICANS, A NEW AND ACCURATE MAP OF THE ENGLISH EMPIRE IN NORTH AMERICA (LONDON: WILLIAM HERBERT & ROBERT SAYER, DECEMBER, 1755). Scale, 1:7,000,000; scales of insets vary. This detail from the map of the British claims in North America shows the “encroachments of the French,” i.e., with white to contrast with the pink/ rose background of British claims in this cartographic prelude to the Seven Years’ War. Size of the entire original: 43.5 × 81.3 cm; size of detail: ca. 14.5 × 14.0 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 2-K-1755 So).

Color and Cartography

nationalist aspirations, as with the 1755 multicolored map of the English empire in North America, which displayed the French forts as white pockmarks on the vividly hued English claims (fig. 179). Growing interest in geology and the spatial distribution of rock formations also focused attention on color and its deployment as a meaningful cartographic symbol. Initially, the principle of imitation of nature was used in the earliest of geological maps, produced primarily in the German states, on which colors signified types of rock by imitating the shade of the rock itself. Professor Abraham Gottlob Werner of the Bergakademie Freiberg produced an unpublished “Farben Tafel” (table of colors) for his students to use based on imitation; it contrasted with the more theoretical proposal of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, whose amateur enthusiasm for geology led him to develop a theory of color (Farbenlehre) that was not based on the rocks’ appearance but on their origins and the harmonic arrangement of colors, thus pointing toward a stratigraphic color scheme based on age. Goethe’s theoretical work strongly influenced the coloring on Christian Keferstein’s General Charte von Teutschland (1821) (Schäfer-Weiss and Versemann 2005). In contrast to both the use of thematic color added to printed maps and to the long tradition of color on manuscript military maps, especially in France, color did not play a role on the large-scale printed military maps known as the carte de l’État-Major. The Commission de topographie of 1802 oversaw the production of this new map of France and ruled out color as an element on it. The debates concerning this question were published and the argument is clear: “They say that colors make clear what lines leave in doubt. Is color necessary? The line alone is insufficient; it deceives [the eye]: missing color allows the error to stand. The horizontal line, by contrast, done in full [solid] or dotted never deceives the eye: it is sufficient for rendering escarpments, for the overhangs of routes through hollows, for ravines” (“Topographie” 1803, 29). The relationship of color to cartography permeated different aspects of map production throughout the period of the Enlightenment from the most material aspects of the map (paper, manuscript tools, engraving procedures, costs, workshops, and artisans) to the consideration of colors themselves, what they represent and their standardization to the construction of the meaning of white or blank space as nothing (a lack of information) or something (significant information for which no color is required). In the Encyclopédie, Jean Le Rond d’Alembert hierarchized two aspects of what he called the corps: shape, which offers “the most general and the most abstract point of view that we can envisage,” and color, which, when associated with shape, allows one to distinguish

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bodies from the depths of space. In fact, he considered shape to be necessary for this distinction, since it was “easier to consider shape in a mass without color than to consider color without shape, whether finally because shape allows different parts of space to be fixed more easily and in a less vague way” (d’Alembert 1751, 1:v). Color therefore would only be an accessory in the perception of shapes. This view is found in most of the manuals of cartography from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, which put the addition of color in second place, after the question of shapes and outlines has been settled. Moreover, these reflections concerned the variability of color, whether due to questions of physics or optics, since the question of color was most often linked to the portrayal of landscape and, beyond this, to topographical views (Verdier 2010). However, Denis Diderot went further, in the manner of Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, by making color the primary element, asserting that drawing gives form to beings, but color “gives them life” (Diderot 1795, 15). In this way, the Encyclopédie approached the definition given for the word coloris: “color is what renders objects visible” (Landois 1753). This dichotomy, while constructed within the context of painting, found its full force in the cartographic production of the Enlightenment; caught between the necessities of shape and the power of colors. Nico las Verd ier and J ea n- M arc Besse See also: Art and Design of Maps; Reproduction of Maps: Color Printing; Signs, Cartographic; Thematic Mapping Bibliography Albert Durer Revived: Or, a Book of Drawing, Limning, Washing, or Colouring of Maps and Prints. 1697. London: Printed by I. Dawks, for John Garrett. Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. 1751. “Discours préliminaire des editeurs.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 1:[i]–xlv. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Bosse, David. 2012. “‘To Give a Strong and Pleasing Effect’: Color on Early Maps and Prints.” Historic Deerfield 13:32–37. Bosters, Cassandra, et al. 1989. Kunst in kaart: Decoratieve aspecten van de cartografie. Ed. J. F. Heijbroek and Marijn Schapelhouman. Utrecht: H&S, HES Uitgevers. Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine. 1995. “De la ‘peinture géométrale’ à la carte topographique: Évolution de l’héritage classique au cours du XVIIIe siècle.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 93–106. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Boutet, Claude. 1673. Ecole de la mignatvre, dans laquelle on peut aisément apprendre à peindre sans maître. Paris. Breaks, Thomas. 1771. A Complete System of Land-Surveying, Both in Theory and Practice. Newcastle upon Tyne: Printed by T. Saint for W. Charnley, and J. Murray in London. Brühl, John Maurice, trans. 1770. École de l’Officier. Paris: ClaudeAntoine Jombert. Buchotte, Nicolas. 1754. Les regles de dessein et du lavis. New ed. Paris: Ch.-Ant. Jombert. Cartes et figures de la Terre. 1980. Paris: Centre Georges Pompidou.

302 Clayton, Tim. 1997. The English Print: 1688–1802. New Haven: Yale University Press. Diderot, Denis. 1795. Essais sur la peinture. Paris: Fr. Buisson. Dossie, Robert. 1758. The Handmaid to the Arts, Teaching. 2 vols. London: Printed for J. Nourse. Dupain de Montesson, Louis Charles. 1750. Le dessinateur au cabinet et a l’armée. In his La science des ombres, par rapport au dessein, [93]–168. Paris: Charles-Antoine Jombert. Duval, Pierre. 1672. Traité de geographie. Paris: l’Auteur. Egmond, Marco van. 2009. Covens & Mortier: A Map Publishing House in Amsterdam, 1685–1866. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 1987. “Color in Cartography: A Historical Survey.” In Art and Cartography: Six Historical Essays, ed. David Woodward, 123–46. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Heinz, Markus. 2002. “Von der Kupferplatte zum Atlas: Der technische Herstellungsprozess.” In “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848, ed. Michael Diefenbacher, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, 90–105. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Hofmann, Catherine. 1998. “La couleur en quête de sens: L’édition cartographique en France et en Allemagne (1650–fin XVIIIe siècle).” In Couleurs de la Terre: Des mappemondes médiévales aux images satellitales, ed. Monique Pelletier, 86–91. Paris: Seuil/Bibliothèque Nationale de France. ———. 1999. “L’enluminure des cartes et des atlas imprimés, XVIe– XVIIIe siècle.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 159: 35–47. Johnston, Andrew. 1756. Letter to Dr. Mitchell. The Gentleman’s Magazine, and Historical Chronicle 26:287–88. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Landois, Paul. 1753. “Coloris. (Peinture).” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 3:658. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Le Bitouzé, Corinne. 1986. “Le commerce de l’estampe à Paris dans la première moitié du XVIIIe siècle.” Thèse, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Lowengard, Sarah. 2007. The Creation of Color in Eighteenth-Century Europe. New York: Columbia University Press. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sanger, Victoria. 1999. “Vauban et la topographie des places fortes: Brest et Longwy.” In Le paysage des cartes: Genèse d’une codification, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 49–63. Paris: Musée des Plans-Reliefs. Schäfer-Weiss, Dorothea, and Jens Versemann. 2005. “The Influence of Goethe’s Farbenlehre on Early Geological Map Colouring: Goethe’s Contribution to Christian Keferstein’s General Charte von Teutschland (1821).” Imago Mundi 57:164–84. “Topographie: Procès-verbal des Conférences de la Commission chargée par les différens services publics intéressés à la perfection de la Topographie.” 1803. Mémorial Topographique et Militaire, rédigé au Dépôt Général de la Guerre, 5:1–64. Verdier, Nicolas. 2010. “Cartes et Paysages: Tenter la médiation au XVIIIe siècle.” Les carnets du paysage 20:12–29. Verly, P. J. 1744. Verhandeling van de schilderkonst in miniatuur: Om gemakkelyk te leeren schilderen zonder meester. Utrecht: Arnoldus Lobedanius. Vignon, E. J. M. 1862–80. Études historiques sur l’administration des voies publiques en France aux dix-septième et dix-huitième siècles. 4 vols. Paris: Dunod.

Commission topographique of 1802 Woodward, David. 2007. “Techniques of Map Engraving, Printing, and Coloring in the European Renaissance.” In HC 3:591–610.

Color Printing. See Reproduction of Maps: Color Printing

Commission topographique of 1802. Convened from 15 September to 15 November 1802 in order to “simplify and standardize the signs and conventions in use on maps, plans, and topographic drawings,” the Commission topographique was composed of twentyone specialists from various bodies: fifteen military representatives (Dépôt de la Guerre, Corps du Génie, and ingénieurs géographes), two from the Ponts et Chaussées, two from the Corps des Mines, one from the Service de la Marine, and one from the Administration des forêts (“Topographie” 1803, 1–3). During the French Revolutionary Wars, an enormous amount of cartographic material from topographical offices and conquered countries flooded the Dépôt de la Guerre, established in Paris in 1791. First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte wanted to have the maps printed immediately and distributed to military staff headquarters. From the Directoire, he supported large cartographic undertakings (Egypt 1798, Swabia 1800, départements réunis 1801). Aided by his chief of staff, Louis-Alexandre Berthier (named minister of war in 1799), Napoleon formed an office for cartography directed by Louis Albert Guislain Bacler d’Albe. The geodetic network established by Jean-BaptisteJoseph Delambre and Pierre-François-André Méchain provided a consistent metric grid and made the future emperor aware of the need for a universal system of cartographic conventions. To that end, the commission adopted (1) the metric system and the decimal scale, (2) a north orientation, (3)  the level of the lowest seas as the base for surveying, (4) a system of codified hachures and the horizontal projection, and (5) conventional signs and standardized lettering adapted to the scale and to the needs of users. Combining different representations on a single map (plan, profile, perspective) was forbidden. The only exception was on navigational charts, which retained their helpful coastal profiles. The debates within the Commission demonstrated the difficulty of reconciling specialists’ habits with the universal expectations of the Commission. The representation of relief prompted long discussion: could a map be both immediately readable (graphically evocative) and precise (i.e., measurements could be made based on it)? Contour lines won unanimous support, but they were abandoned because of the rigorous level of surveying required. Finally, after weighing the drawbacks of using color, the Commission opted for a system of lines

Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France)

whose thickness varied according to “the steepest slope” (the imaginary path of water down a slope) (“Topographie” 1803, 37). At smaller scales, these hachures, underlined by shading (with the light coming from the northwest), would become a conventional sign, varying by type of slope (“Topographie” 1803, 42). Spot heights would signify the various altitudes of landscape features that would be colored to imitate nature (“Topographie” 1803, 44). The Commission produced a vast array of conventional signs for chorography, hydrography, mineralogy, and military and naval requirements. With set rules for mixing colors, the commission prescribed a rigorous color code for manuscript draft maps based on classifications of a map’s features. It provided a graph with heights of letters according to a hierarchy of nomenclature and to the scale of the map (“Topographie” 1803, 51–55, pls. 1, 2, 14). Despite its simplified calculations and scale transposition, the newly created metric system was very poorly received. As a true product of political willingness to embody the principles of the French Revolution (universalism and progress), the Commission topographique of 1802 created a new science: topography. In Pluviôse, year XI (January 1803), the Commission chose the Bonne projection. In 1803, Bacler d’Albe completed the Commission’s work with a tutorial on map engraving. The report of the Commission was published with Bacler d’Albe’s tutorial in 1803 and critically republished in 1831, laying the groundwork for the carte de l’État-Major. C at h e r i n e B o u sq uet-B r es s o lier See also: Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Relief Depiction; Military Cartography: France; Topographical Survey Map; Topographical Surveying: France B i bliogra p hy Bacler d’Albe, Louis Albert Guislain. 1803. “Gravure: Notice sur la gravure topographique et géographique.” Mémorial Topographique et Militaire, rédigé au Dépôt Général de la Guerre, no. 5:65–91. Bret, Patrice. 2008. “Le moment révolutionnaire: Du terrain à la commission topographique de 1802.” In Les usages des cartes (XVIIe– XIXe siècle): Pour une approche pragmatique des productions cartographiques, ed. Isabelle Laboulais, 81–97. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg. “Topographie: Procès-verbal des Conférences de la Commission chargée par les différens services publics intéressés à la perfection de la Topographie.” 1803. Mémorial Topographique et Militaire, rédigé au Dépôt Général de la Guerre, no. 5:1–64.

Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France). The history of the Compagnie des Indes may be traced to two earlier seventeenth-century companies formed as a French response to European exploitation of the Americas and the Far East. France had never recognized the Treaty of Tordesillas (1494) that divided the New World between Spain and Portugal, and sixteenthcentury French merchants, following the English and

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Dutch, engaged in commerce on the coasts of Canada and Florida, as well as on a number of Caribbean islands. In 1627 the minister Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu, created the Compagnie de Cent Associés to invest in the development and population of the Canadian colony. This company, organized on the English and Dutch models but with the state as the principal investor, enjoyed a royal concession for commercial monopoly and landownership in exchange for its commitment to populate and administer the colony. In the Antilles, the Compagnie de Saint-Christophe (1626) became the Compagnie des Isles d’Amérique (1635) after the colonization of Guadeloupe and Martinique. These first French companies proved to be, on the whole, ineffective as instruments for an economic organization of the colonies that permitted a division of roles between the king (army, justice) and any organisms of commercial and demographic administration. The companies were not able to produce sufficient investment in territories where they found fierce competition with the Dutch and English, nor could they motivate sufficient emigration to the colonies. Thus, they were content to trade with rival powers, an activity that accounted for the bulk of their maritime traffic. Company directors sought rapid profits, while the ship owners in French ports involved in Atlantic commerce (Bordeaux, Nantes, Saint-Malo, Le Havre) strongly disapproved of any form of monopoly or price control. The state, which held the majority of shares in the companies, soon took direct control of the colonies, allowing commerce to organize itself freely. Finally, by the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, commercial companies of merchants and ship owners linked to an Atlantic or Channel port largely replaced these earlier companies in French colonial traffic. In 1664 Jean-Baptiste Colbert encouraged Louis XIV to replace the Cent Associés with a new commercial company capable of competing with the Dutch and the English. The Compagnie des Indes was divided into geographic sectors: the Indes orientales (Madagascar, the Indies, China, and the East) and the Indes occidentales (the Americas and the concession for the trade in African slaves). The capital required for the company included investments by the king and royal family with 45 percent (15 million livres); the nobility and ministers of court, 19.5 percent; merchants, 16 percent; and private financiers, who were strongly encouraged by the administration, 8.5 percent (Haudrère 1989, 1:26). The initiative was supported by the king’s considerable efforts to create a powerful navy that would allow France to establish and defend autonomous commerce with its colonies. In 1666 the Compagnie des Indes created its own port in Brittany, symbolically christened “L’Orient” (Lorient), and it supported efforts to populate the colo-

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Fig. 180. ISAAC ROBELIN, “PLAN DU BOURG ET PORT DE LORIENT,” 1708. Manuscript map designed by the chief engineer of Brest. Son of an engineer, Robelin was named engineer in Rennes after the great fire of 1720. Louis Pierre Le Blond de la Tour, the chief engineer of colonial Louisiana, was

his nephew. The plan uses the military color scheme of yellow for proposed new streets and three other colors for the buildings, depending on the materials used. Size of the original: 36.0 × 50.1 cm. © Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (1 V H 982, pièce 14).

nies, even if the king made the inadvisable decision to deny the Huguenots a colonial refuge (fig. 180). In Lorient were deposited the muster rolls, registries of trade, logbooks of the vessels, and maps, frequently Portuguese or Dutch, the vagueness of which was a source of numerous complaints from the navigators who used them. The Compagnie des Indes occidentales, established in 1664 with the absorption of two other companies (serving the slave trade from Guinea and Senegal), lasted only ten years. It was ill-supported by the colonists, who lost their freedom of commerce because of it, and the Franco-English wars ruined its fleet of forty-five vessels. At its demise in 1674 the Crown once again assumed administration of the colonies in America. One year after the Treaty of Ryswick (1697), the Compagnie de Saint-Domingue was founded, but beginning in 1701 the War of the Spanish Succession interrupted

commerce. In 1712 the banker Antoine Crozat created a new company for commerce named Compagnie de la Louisiane, but the ruinous enterprise was abandoned five years later. In 1717 John Law created the Compagnie d’occident for the development of Louisiana. After the bankruptcy of Law’s enterprise, the Compagnie perpetuelle des Indes was formed in 1719, combining all the French commercial companies of both east and west. This structure would survive the bankruptcy of its bank in 1720, but from 1731 it abandoned the unprofitable Louisiana to the control of the king. During the period of its greatest prosperity (1750–55), the Compagnie des Indes had sales totaling about twenty million livres, equal to those of its English rival and scarcely inferior to that of the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) and the West-Indische Compagnie (WIC). During this same period, the activity of the com-

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pany generated a significant renewal of cartography. The company’s hydrographer, Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette, concentrated on general and detailed charts of the coasts and water routes from West Africa to the East Indies, where he had traveled; none were devoted to North America or the Caribbean, which he did not know. The company contributed funding to the first publication of his famous Le Neptune oriental in 1745 but never sought to produce equivalent maps or charts for the western routes and colonies, although several naval officers who served in the Compagnie as well as other marine officers contributed important observations and navigational information on sea routes to company outposts in the Indian Ocean and East Indies. As the number of documents and need for order grew, an official archive, the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Compagnie des Indes, was finally created in 1762 with d’Après de Mannevillette as director, who continued to amass information from navigators and the unofficial depots of the company on the Île-de-France (Filliozat 2003). Ruined in part by the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) and the consequent loss of its colonies by the terms of the Treaty of Paris (1763), the Compagnie des Indes went bankrupt in 1770. A symbol of its power, the arsenal of Lorient, a city of 15,000 inhabitants, was yielded back to the king. The company reappeared only very briefly under Louis XVI (1785) before disappearing definitively during the Revolution (1792) (Haudrère 1989, 4:1146). The contents of its map collections were transferred in 1780 to the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine and are housed in the Archives nationales de France, Paris. G i l l e s-A n to in e Langlo is See also: French East Indies; Marine Charting: France; Neptune oriental, Le B i bliogra p hy Brown, Craig, ed. 1987. The Illustrated History of Canada. Toronto: Lester & Orpen Dennys. In French, Histoire générale du Canada. Ed. Paul-André Linteau. Trans. Michel Buttiens et al. Montreal: Éditions du Boréal, 1988. Conrad, Glenn R., ed. 1995. The French Experience in Louisiana. Vol.  1 of The Louisiana Purchase Bicentennial Series in Louisiana History. Lafayette: Center for Louisiana Studies, University of Southwestern Louisiana. Emmanuelli, François-Xavier. 1992. État et pouvoirs dans la France des XVIe–XVIIIe siècles: La métamorphose inachevée. Paris: Nathan. Estienne, René. 1996. Les armements au long cours de la deuxième Compagnie des Indes (1717–1773). [Vincennes]: Service Historique de la Marine. Filliozat, Manonmani. 2003. “J.-B. d’Après de Mannevillette et la cartographie de la nouvelle route des Indes.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 175:6–16. Giraud, Marcel. 1953–2012. Histoire de la Louisiane française. 5 vols. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France (vols. 1–4); L’Hartmattan (vol. 5). In English, A History of French Louisiana. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1974–. Haudrère, Philippe. 1989. La Compagnie française des Indes au XVIIIe siècle (1719–1795). 4 vols. Paris: Librairie de l’Inde Éditeur.

Havard, Gilles, and Cécile Vidal. 2003. Histoire de l’Amérique française. Paris: Flammarion. Langlois, Gilles-Antoine. 2003. Des villes pour la Louisiane française: Théorie et pratique de l’urbanistique coloniale au 18e siècle. Paris: L’Harmattan. Legrand, A. 1913. “Inventaire des archives de la Compagnie des Indes.” Bulletin de la Section de Géographie 28:160–91. Pouliquen, Monique, ed. 1992. Voyage aux îles d’Amérique. Paris: Archives Nationales. Vidal, Laurent, and Émilie d’Orgeix, eds. 1999. Les villes françaises du Nouveau Monde: Des premiers fondateurs aux ingénieurs du roi (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles). Paris: Somogy Éditions d’Art.

Compass, Marine. See Instruments for Angle Measuring: Marine Compass Compass, Surveyor’s. See Instruments for Angle Measuring: Circumferentor

Composite Atlas. See Atlas: Composite Atlas Connoissance des temps. Although astronomical almanacs had been privately published in France and Europe since the Middle Ages, Louis XIV and his minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert left their mark in the domain of astronomy by establishing the Paris Observatory, begun in 1667 with the main construction completed by 1672 (the interior was finished about ten years later). Yet it was private initiative that prompted the appearance of the first edition of Connoissance des temps in 1679, generally attributed to the astronomer Joachim d’Alencé, who supervised publication through the 1684 edition (Boistel 2001, 1:178), before he became a secret agent. Jean Le Fèvre took over publication in 1685. From 1690, the Connoissance des temps included tables predicting the immersion and emersion of satellites of Jupiter, which Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) had published in his Ephemerides Bononienses mediceorvm sydervm from 1668. These data were used to calculate longitude by comparing the predicted time for an astronomical event at the meridian of origin (printed in advance for this reference meridian) with the local time of the phenomenon’s observation. This procedure allowed the observer to determine the hour (and, therefore, the angle) of longitude at the place of observation. Jean Picard and Philippe de La Hire, astronomers at the Académie des sciences, made wide use of this method for their map of France, presented to the Académie in February 1684 and published in 1693 (see fig. 625); longitude information also benefited Le Neptune françois (Chapuis 1999, 102). Following a conflict between La Hire and Le Fèvre, the Académie des sciences received the privilege to publish the Connoissance des temps in January 1701 (Boistel 2001, 1:180–87). A series of astronomers, members of the Académie, directed successive redactions and edi-

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tions: Jacques Lieutaud from 1702 to 1729, Louis Godin from 1730 to 1734, Giovanni Domenico Maraldi from 1735 to 1758, Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande from 1759 to 1775 (under the title Connoissance des mouvemens célestes, 1762–67), Edme-Sébastien Jeaurat from 1776 to 1787, and Pierre-François-André Méchain until 1794. Publication privilege passed to the Bureau des longitudes (established 25 June 1795) with the edition of September 1795 (with spelling modernized to Connaissance des temps). Although he did not hold the longest tenure as director of the Connoissance des temps, Lalande’s leadership marked a decisive stage in its history. Encouraged by the Académie de marine, he began including data allowing the calculation of longitude at sea, transforming the work into a veritable nautical ephemeris. In the 1760 edition, Lalande explained the method of lunar distances, whereby one would measure and correct the true distance from a star to the moon and then look for this same angular value in the tables of the almanac to learn at what time the same observation took place at the meridian of origin. The difference in time between the place of observation and that of the place of origin would correspond to the longitude. In England The Nautical Almanac (1766 for 1767) gave, for the first time, the angular distances between the moon and the sun (as well as seven other stars) every three hours at Greenwich. Conscious of Great Britain’s progress in determining lunar distances, the Académie de marine convinced Lalande to integrate English data for lunar distances into the Connoissance des temps, starting with the 1772 (for 1774) publication (fig. 181). This edition of the Connoissance (appearing six years after The Nautical Almanac) gave the distance from the moon’s center to the sun’s center and to the brightest stars at three-hour intervals for every day of the month (Chapuis 1999, 70). These distances were given relative to the Paris meridian beginning only in the 1786 edition (for 1789), two years after the ministre de la Marine sought to increase the work’s circulation by asking the Académie de sciences for a new design that would make the work affordable for officers of the merchant marine. His goal was to motivate these officers to use lunar distances, as officers of the Marine (whose elite also possessed clocks) were already doing. While of great potential benefit to all sailors, the challenge lay in convincing them to accept a work conceived originally for astronomers. Tables for lunar distances in the Connaissance des temps disappeared only in the 1905 edition (for 1908). Ultimately, although the work did not contain all the points determined astronomically, its publication reveals the evolution of applied astronomical knowledge in the course of the eighteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 26–27). O liv ier Ch apuis

Fig. 181. PAGE FROM THE CONNOISSANCE DES TEMPS FOR JANUARY 1774. The result of an intense debate between the Académie de marine, the Académie des sciences, and Lalande, this edition is the first publication of a French almanac containing English data for lunar distances. The reproduction here shows the distance from the center of the moon to the center of the sun and to the brightest stars for each day of the month at three hour intervals. From Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande, ed., Connoissance des temps, pour l’année commune 1774 (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1772), 12. Size of the original: ca. 17 × 11 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

See also: Longitude and Latitude; Marine Chart; Marine Charting; Navigation and Cartography; Paris Observatory (France) Bibliography Boistel, Guy. 2001. L’astronomie nautique au XVIIIème siècle en France: Tables de la lune et longitudes en mer. 2 vols. Lille: Atelier National de Reproduction des Thèses. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Lalande, Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de. 1803. Bibliographie astronomique; avec l’histoire de l’astronomie depuis 1781 jusqu’à 1802. Paris: Imprimerie de la République.

Constellations, Representation of

Constellations, Representation of. Constellations were introduced in antiquity as an aid for marking and memorizing individual stars in the sky. The relative positions of the stars could then be presented in terms of the head, shoulders, arms, or legs of the constellation. During the Enlightenment, constellations progressively declined as a useful cartographic concept. The application of the telescope and the proliferation of observatories in conjunction with Europe’s global endeavors dramatically expanded the number of stars cataloged. Thus, whereas Johannes Hevelius in 1690 cataloged 1,888 stars visible with the naked eye, in 1801 the German astronomer Johann Elert Bode listed 17,240 mostly telescopic stars in his star atlas Uranographia (Warner 1979, 39). For such an abundance of stars it no longer made sense to specify the position of individual stars within constellation figures, since too many stars would now fit the same description. The shifting status of constellations can be seen in the increasing violation of the rule formulated by Hipparchus in ca. 128 b.c. (Toomer 1984, 15), stipulating that when the apparent sphere of the fixed stars is mapped on a concave surface, with the stars as they are seen in the sky, constellations are properly depicted facing the reader. Conversely, when the stars are mapped on a convex surface, showing the stars as they are seen on a globe, constellations are properly depicted from the rear, facing into the sphere, with their backs to the reader. In this way, agreement could be maintained between the maps and star catalogs; a star in, say, the left hand of a constellation remains in the left hand. The first Renaissance mapmaker to ignore this rule was Johannes Bayer. The maps in his star atlas Uranometria (1603) were constructed as if seen in the sky, yet many of the constellations are shown from the rear; his motive remains unclear (Dekker 2004, 55–57; Friedman Herlihy 2007, 115–17). The first Western globemaker to ignore the rule was Vincenzo Coronelli, who used forward-facing constellations on the grand celestial globe he made for Louis XIV (fig. 182) (Dekker 2012, 144–48). He continued this practice for the printed gores for his convex celestial globes; moreover, he perpetuated the incongruity when preparing gores for the concave inner surface of open spheres by simply mirroring the constellation figures, together with the star configurations, so as to keep them face-forward (Dekker 2004, 61–62). Didier Robert de Vaugondy followed Coronelli’s example on his celestial hemisphere of 1764, with the result that the star labeled “le Jambe gauche” is placed on the right leg (Warner 1979, 210). A somewhat different example is the celestial sphere on the concave side of the Gottorp globe (see fig. 163): the artist simply drew the constellations as the mirror image of the correctly oriented constellations on a globe, creating a concave presentation with human figures seen from behind (Lühning 1997,

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80–81). Similar mirrored images are seen on the concave sides of the cases of many pocket globes. Such developments did not go unnoticed by astronomers: in particular, Flamsteed strongly criticized Bayer for having placed the stars in his Uranometria contrary to the Ptolemaic description (Warner 1979, 81–82). The decline in the functional utility of constellations did not prevent the introduction of new constellations during the Enlightenment (Warner 1979; Dekker 1992). The first extensive additions to the classical Ptolemaic constellations date from the turn of the sixteenth century, especially in southern skies (Friedman Herlihy 2007, 102–4, 117–18). Some attempts to replace the classical constellations were undertaken in the seventeen century. The German globemaker Erhard Weigel designed heraldic globes in which both conventional and his own new constellations were depicted using heraldic imagery. But such innovations did not last: the classi-

Fig. 182. HERCULES ON THE GRAND CELESTIAL GLOBE BY VINCENZO CORONELLI, 1681–83. Diameter of the original: 390 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge A 499 RÉS).

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cal constellations were too deeply rooted in European culture. Thereafter, astronomers were generally content to add new non-Ptolemaic constellations for newly recorded stars, although not all inventions were accepted by the astronomical communities. The newly invented constellations can be divided into several groups (Warner 1979, xi–xiii; also the chronological survey in Dekker et al. 1999, 559–60). In the late seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries, the leaders of European states induced a number of political constellations. The English physician Sir Charles Scarborough proposed Cor Caroli Regis Martyris in 1673 in honor of the beheaded English monarch Charles I, and the astronomer Edmond Halley introduced Robur Carolinum in 1678 for the royal oak tree at Boscobel that saved Charles II from the Republicans. The French astronomer Ignace-Gaston Pardies paid tribute to Louis XIV by replacing the constellation Vespa (introduced by Jacob Bartsch, who in turn had replaced an earlier constellation Apes introduced by Petrus Plancius around 1600) by Lilium (1674), and the French architect Augustin Royer added Sceptrum et Manus Justitiae (1679) in the zenith of Paris. The Polish astronomer Johannes Hevelius introduced Scutum Sobiescianum (1684) to commemorate Jan III Sobieski, whereas the German astronomer Gottfried Kirch introduced Gladii Electorales Saxonici (the swords of the electors of Saxony, 1684), Ponum Imperiale (the orb of the German emperor Leopold, 1688), and Sceptrum Brandenburgicum (the scepter of Friedrich Wilhelm elector of Brandenburg, 1688). In the eighteenth century Corbinianus Thomas, a professor of mathematics at Salzburg, renamed the classical Corona Borealis as Corona Firmiana vulgo septentrionalis (1730) to pay homage to the archbishop of Salzburg; the astronomer Marcin Poczobutt-Odlanicki honored Stanisław August Poniatowski of Poland with Taurus Poniatovii (1775); the Mannheim astronomer Karl-Joseph König added the initials of the Elector Palatine Carolus Theodorus and his wife Elisabeth Augusta (C, T, E, A), as well as an imperial lion Leo Palatinus (1785); the German astronomer Johann Elert Bode converted the French Sceptrum into Honores Friderici for Friedrich II of Prussia (1787); whereas with Psalterium Georgianum (1789), Maximilian Hell, director of the Vienna observatory, saluted George III, the patron of the English astronomer of Hanoverian background William Herschel. Charles Messier was the only commoner to be honored with a constellation; French astronomer Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande named Custos Messianum after him in 1775 in appreciation for his contributions to astronomy. A second major group of new constellations were of various animals. Hevelius introduced ten animal constellations in his star atlas, Firmamentum Sobiescianum,

Constellations, Representation of

sive Uranographia (1690), including Lynx as a reminder that one has to have eyes as sharp as a lynx’s to be a good observer. (Hevelius was the last of the astronomers who did not use a telescope to measure the stellar positions.) John Hill introduced another set of thirteen new constellations in his Urania (1754); his inventions are small singular creatures that were not noticed by others. Two more animals were mapped by Pierre-Charles Le Monnier: the reindeer (Rangifer, 1743) to commemorate the French expedition to measure the length of a degree in Lapland, and for no clear reason a tropical bird (Turdus Solitarius, 1776). A considerable extension of the number of constellations came about from the work of the French astronomer abbé Nicolas-Louis de La Caille. In 1751–52 he cataloged 9,800 southern stars, mostly invisible to the naked eye, from his observatory at the Cape of Good Hope. La Caille presented a large manuscript map to the Académie de sciences in 1754, showing the 1,930 brightest ones grouped in fourteen newly invented constellations dedicated to the triumph of science by showing new tools like the pendulum clock (Horologium) (fig. 183). In his star catalog La Caille also subdivided the constellation Argo into four separate constellations, the keel (Carina), the stern (Puppis), the sail (Vela), and the mast (Malus). The first three of them were depicted in a map of Robert de Vaugondy (1764) and would later replace the Ptolemaic constellation Argo. More scientific instruments were added to the sky at the turn of the eighteenth century by Lalande (Quadrans Muralis and Globus Aerostatica), Bode (Officina Typographica, Lochium Funis, and the Machina Electrica), Hell (Tubus Herschelii Major and Minor), and Thomas Young (Battery of Volta). By 1800 the number of constellations had risen in this rather haphazard way from the forty-eight Ptolemaic constellations to about 108. However, the needs of celestial cartography could not be met by drawing more and more constellations. On his maps, Robert de Vaugondy surrounded each constellation by lines that are “apparently the first instance of these now common boundary lines” (Warner 1979, 210). Robert de Vaugondy’s example was followed by Bode in his influential maps and atlases (after 1768) and became an accepted element of celestial cartography. Among the globe firms who responded to the decreasing importance of constellations was that of the Cary family. Early in the nineteenth century, this firm offered two versions of their celestial globes for sale: one conventional globe with fully drawn constellations and another with only the outlines of the area covered by each constellation (Dekker and Van der Krogt 1993, 122–23 [pls. 37 and 38]). The International Astronomical Union completed the processes of rationalization in 1930, when it defined eighty-eight regu-

Consumption of Maps

309 ———. 2012. “Le globe céleste: Un pont entre la science et les arts.” In Les globes de Louis XIV: Étude artistique, historique et matérielle, ed. Catherine Hofmann and Hélène Richard, 130–51. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Dekker, Elly, and Peter van der Krogt. 1993. Globes from the Western World. London: Zwemmer. Dekker, Elly, et al. 1999. Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Friedman Herlihy, Anna. 2007. “Renaissance Star Charts.” In HC 3: 99–122. Lühning, Felix. 1997. Der Gottorfer Globus und das Globushaus im “Newen Werck.” Vol. 4 of Gottorf im Glanz des Barock: Kunst und Kultur am Schleswiger Hof, 1544–1713. Schleswig: SchleswigHolsteinisches Landesmuseum. Toomer, G. J., trans. and anno. 1984. Ptolemy’s Almagest. London: Duckworth. Warner, Deborah Jean. 1979. The Sky Explored: Celestial Cartography, 1500–1800. New York: Alan R. Liss.

Fig. 183. DETAIL OF L’HORLOGE (HOROLOGIUM) AND OTHER NEW CONSTELLATIONS IN LA CAILLE’S MAP OF THE SOUTHERN SKY. From Nicolas-Louis de La Caille, “Table des ascensions droites et des déclinaisons apparentes,” Memoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1752 (1756): 539–92, pl. 20. Size of the entire original: 20.3 × 20.3 cm; size of detail: ca. 13.0 × 8.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

lar portions of the sky, each associated with the name of a constellation it had once enclosed (Dekker 2002, 76–79). Elly D ekker See also: Celestial Mapping; Globe: Celestial Globe; Hevelius, Johannes; La Caille, Nicolas-Louis de B i bliogra p hy Dekker, Elly. 1992. “Der Himmelsglobus—Eine Welt für sich.” In Focus Behaim Globus, 2 vols., 1:89–100. Nuremberg: Germanisches Nationalmuseum. ———. 2002. “Innovations in the Making of Celestial Globes.” Globe Studies (English version of Der Globusfreund) 49–50:61–79. ———. 2004. Catalogue of Orbs, Spheres and Globes. Florence: Giunti.

Consumption of Maps. This term speaks to the widespread and differing use made of maps by a rapidly growing literate and wealthy public. The rise in the use of maps in the eighteenth century in turn contributed to and reflected increases in map production, expansion in the map trade, and global changes in print culture. For Mary Sponberg Pedley, “The world of printed maps in the eighteenth century included everything from maps used as illustrations in books and periodicals to largescale estate and town plans, military maps, regional maps, small-scale geographical maps, wall maps, atlases, and globes. All were available in printed form during a period that saw a dramatic increase in the quantity and quality of consumer goods and an equally dramatic increase in the spending power not only of the wealthy, but also of the middling and even working classes” (Pedley 2005, 1). Map consumption was thus part of much wider and more diverse cultures of consumption. Contemporaries experienced these developments as the consequence of financial wealth gained through trade and manufacturing and realized their greater spending power in many different forms of material possession: fine art, buildings, houses, fashion, and landscape gardens as well as maps. Some commentators were critical of the rise in luxury, seeing in its ostentatious display not new status symbols but enduring social vices and invitations to moral corruption. For modern historians, the consumption of goods, both necessary items and luxury objects, was so marked during the eighteenth century, especially in the later decades, that they have spoken of a “consumer revolution,” a “necessary analogue to the industrial revolution, the necessary convulsion on the demand side of the equation to match the convulsion on the supply side” (McKendrick 1982, 9). To understand

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consumption is to see it as a social, cultural, and geographical phenomenon within an emergent public world as well as an economic issue: “The history of consumption must include analysis of demand, and therefore of the structuring of needs, the classification of consumers, the circuits of distribution and the spatial organisation of supply” (Roche 2000, 14). The fact that map consumption was part of the wider consumption of print culture, and that consumption in general was closely connected with production— “Consumption is the sole end and purpose of all production” as Adam Smith put it in his 1776 An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (quoted in McKendrick 1982, 15)—makes it important to see map use in terms of social, economic, cultural, and technical relationships rather than in isolation. One heuristic helpful in this respect is Robert Darnton’s diagram of a communications circuit (fig. 184). This was proposed as part of the then-emerging field of book history to help understand the ways in which printed books pass from the author to the publisher (if the bookseller does not assume that role) to the printer, the shipper, the bookseller, and the reader. With the reader, the circuit is complete since, argued Darnton, it is the reader who influences the author both before and after the act of composition. Later work on the nature of the book in general (Johns 1998) and on the history of reading

Fig. 184. THE COMMUNICATIONS CIRCUIT. After Darnton 1982, 68 (fig. 1).

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in particular (Darnton 1991) has further complicated terms such as “reader,” “author,” and “audience.” Yet in its attention to social and technical connections in print culture, Darnton’s 1982 book history model has much to offer students of map history, especially with respect to the connections between consumption and production and for map consumption as a social process. The trade in maps reflected an increase in production geared toward new levels of consumption. In London and in Paris, the growth in the map trade was apparent from the late seventeenth century. There were six mapand chartselling establishments in London by 1660, and about sixteen by 1690. In both cities, the changing location of mapsellers resulted from a general increase in consumers’ purchasing power, new opportunities consequent upon the national and civic wealth then flowing in and through what were Europe’s two leading scientific cities, and particular local influences upon the market for maps. In London in the 1680s, several mapsellers set up stalls in Westminster Hall to sell to the crowds associated with the Parliamentary sessions, and there was a notable east-west movement within London’s map trade between 1660 and 1720 in order to be near customers: “As the suburbs moved westwards the map-sellers, after a suitable time-lag, followed” (Tyacke 1978, xxiv). In Paris, mapmakers concentrated around the quai de l’Horloge on the Île de la Cité in the city center, with

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mapsellers located along the rue St. Jacques on the Left Bank of the Seine. This distribution, which remained largely unchanged between the mid-seventeenth century and the 1790s, was the result of city laws, trade restrictions, and the desire to be near instrumentmakers, other associated trades, and the customers frequenting the university and the law courts. The business and social world that revolved around the shop on the quai de l’Horloge of the leading mapmakers Gilles Robert Vaugondy and Didier Robert de Vaugondy was, like that of their many counterparts, one of engravers and printers on the move, of customers perusing and purchasing, of manuscript maps, half-finished copperplates, and unbound atlas pages circulating the Parisian streets (Pedley 1981, 1992). There was also a growing trade in maps between London and Paris and between other urban centers of consumption, indicating international networks of map exchange and use. Letters written by European mapsellers to the London firm of Thomas Jefferys and William Faden between 1773 and 1783 show the import rate of maps into London to be much greater than the export rate, a reflection of customer demand and of “the desire of London map makers to own foreign maps as resources for their own production” (Pedley 2000, 2). Mapsellers’ shops were thus local nodes in international circuits of consumption: simultaneously places to view the latest maps, sites for conversation and sociability, spaces for the exchange of information as well as of money, and production sites where, behind the scenes, new maps were being drawn up or others’ work assessed. Mapsellers’ catalogs and, increasingly importantly throughout the eighteenth century, newspaper advertisements, would indicate what was available. For example, publisher and mapseller Pieter van der Aa’s 1715 Catalogue de livres, de cartes geographiques listed new maps published in France, Germany, England, and elsewhere just arrived in his Leiden shop, detailed the different map sizes or the weight of paper on which they were produced, and, for some items, emphasized ornamental value rather than accuracy—all in order to appeal to different sectors of the market. So readily available were maps at the beginning of the eighteenth century that the German-speaking market was even provided with a kind of reader’s guide to help them choose among the offerings (Gregorii 1713). Recognizing in general that “by the eighteenth century, maps and globes had become a regular feature in the life of the literate” (Pedley 2005, 6), it is also possible to see different types of maps in use in different ways in different places and circumstances and, from this, to note social and geographical particularities in the consumption of maps. Maps for use in military campaigns, for example, needed to be accurate in their depiction of

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the country and suited to outdoor use by an army on the move. The American Military Pocket Atlas of 1776— subtitled “being An approved Collection of Correct Maps, both general and particular, of The British Colonies; Especially those which now are, or probably may be The Theatre of War”—was known colloquially as “The Holster Atlas” since it was, as its “advertisement” made clear, designed to suit military uniforms (and budgets): “Surveys and Topographical Charts being fit only for a Library, such Maps as an Officer may take with him into the Field have been much wanted. The following Collection forms a Portable Atlas of North America, calculated in its Bulk and Price to suit the Pockets of Officers of all Ranks” (vii). The appearance of maps in periodicals, after 1731 in the case of the London-based Gentleman’s Magazine, meant that the public could follow military campaigns at a distance and even learn of the work of the Frenchled geodetic expeditions in Peru (Reitan 1985). Later in the century, maps of the world appeared, “exhibiting the track of several modern Navigators” (Gentleman’s Magazine 1773, 43:590). In such ways, the reading public could locate current affairs in a rapidly changing global context. In colonial British North America, the leading mapmaker Lewis Evans marketed different impressions of his maps to suit a range of customers and uses. His A General Map of the Middle British Colonies of 1755 was one of the most important printed maps covering that region because of its contribution to new knowledge and because of the military, commercial, and political use made of it and the many pirated editions (see fig. 235). Earlier, Evans had advertised the second edition of his 1749 Map of Pensilvania, New-Jersey, New-York, and the Three Delaware Counties at different prices and qualities, even allowing users of earlier or damaged maps to exchange old for new: “The Price of the Plain Maps is One Spanish Dollar; of the colour’d Ones, on superfine Writing-paper, Two Dollars; and there are a few on fine Calico, at a Dollar and a Half each. In Justice to the Buyers of the former Impression, their colour’d Maps, tho’ torn or defaced, will be exchanged for the new Edition at Five Shillings, and their plain Ones at Two Shillings and Six-pence” (New-York Gazette Revived in the Weekly Post-Boy, 17 August 1752). A study of the consumption of cartographic products in eighteenthcentury North America reveals that maps were owned not only by attorneys, clergymen, mariners, and merchants, but also by artists, brickmakers, tailors, and even tavern keepers (Bosse 2007). Map and globe use was extensive in schools, universities, private academies, and teaching at home. Most books of geography and instructional guides in navigation and astronomy began with a section on the use of maps and globes in order to understand geography as a

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science and its relationships to cosmography and chorography, the practice of regional description. The consumption of maps in an educational context, in schools or in map use and teaching at home, was thus commonly associated with the use of texts and instruments, notably celestial and terrestrial globes but also the armillary sphere or orrery (fig. 185; and see fig. 188). Maps were used to teach civil history, mathematics, astronomy, and ancient and modern geography and to locate natural phenomena such as trade winds, ocean currents, major rivers, and topography. Map drawing—making and us-

Fig. 185. MAP USE IN AN EDUCATIONAL SETTING. Frontispiece to volume 1 of Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy, Méthode pour étudier la géographie, 3d ed., 7 vols. (Paris: Rollin Fils, Debure l’Aîné, 1741–42). Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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ing one’s own map—was less common, although map preparation was taught in public geography classes and at some universities as a form of practical mathematics. In more specialist institutions such as naval and military academies, topographic maps and plans were used to teach the theory of fortifications, as a means to “read” the landscape from a military point of view and to instruct trainee officers and military engineers in the particular color conventions associated with military mapping. To an extent, then, it is possible to discern gender differences in map use, or at least differences in exposure to maps in given social settings. Map use in some contexts—military engineering, canal building, and hydrography, for example—was a wholly male preserve. But in teaching geography in schools and, in the home, using embroidery, for example, to stitch map outlines and so learn about a nation’s outline (Tyner 2015) or in reading maps in periodical literature and there following the affairs of the time, women had occasion to use maps in several ways, if not always in the same social spaces as men. The use of maps—and even their misuse—in association with text and instrument use was a form of literacy as well as of technical competence. Students in the University of Edinburgh in the 1690s, for example, prepared maps of local buildings while being instructed in Newtonian mathematics by leading mathematician David Gregory. These student maps were later displayed in the library. In June 1698, the University librarian was chastised by the authorities for letting students remove a volume of Willem Jansz. Blaeu’s Atlas maior and damage the maps of Scotland in doing so (Withers 2005, 300–301). Maps, then, could be used in teaching, for the purposes of display and, in Edinburgh at least, could become public objects through the negligence of librarians. We should not straightforwardly assume, however, that maps or atlases were understood and used simply to reflect the world exactly or unambiguously. The leading London mapseller Faden addressed exactly this problem intrinsic to map use in his Geographical Exercises (1777). Faden noted how pupils were taught to begin the study of geography with “the Use of the Globes, and then they proceed to that of Geographical Maps.” While no globe could have illustrated the issue, Faden wanted his readers to be aware of the continuing debate about the shape of the world: “that abstruse Problem respecting the spherical Form of the Earth” (Faden 1777, preface). A further difficulty was the fact then that no single prime meridian had yet been settled upon for all maps: “But in order to ascertain and determine Longitude exactly, it has been necessary to adopt a primitive Meridian, from whence is computed the difference of the distance between one place and another. . . . Each Nation having chosen its first Meridian, has occa-

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sioned no small confusion in Geography” (Faden 1777, 1–2). Despite these difficulties, “the Maps contained in this Work may be laid successively before the Pupil, at the same time requiring him to draw upon the Sheets corresponding to each Map, the Subject of the Lesson assigned him by the Master, or proposed by himself” (Faden 1777, preface). Although map consumption reflected broader patterns of consumer consumption driven by heightened individual purchasing power and national mercantile and industrial wealth, we should not think of map use only or even principally in economic terms. “Use,” “usefulness,” and, in this period particularly, “utility” were terms associated with private and individual betterment and with sociability rather than with notions of exchange value and economic return alone. Maps were used to educate and to train, but they were also used to amuse and to instruct through play. Similarly, the combined use of maps and instruments did not always mean that they were understood as scientific devices. Maps in the form of needlework samplers encouraged female dexterity and proper comportment as they provided geographical instruction. A heightened attention to map use in local history and in the study of ancient geography underlay a rise in map collecting: use not in a functional economic sense but as part of an emergent antiquarianism. Maps were a major part of the many geographical games popular in the eighteenth century. In the abbé Gaultier’s A Complete Course of Geography, by Means of Instructive Games (2d ed., 1795), geography was taught using “common maps” (that is, annotated), “plain maps” (with outlines only), and sets of counters with the names of kingdoms, provinces, islands, seas, and rivers marked on them that the student, from memory of the common maps, placed on the plain maps. A popular form of instructional geographical game and a particular form of map use involved the geographical jigsaw, or, as John Spilsbury, the leading maker in England, described them, “dissected maps.” Spilsbury, self-styled as “Engraver and Map Dissector in Wood, in Order to Facilitate the Teaching of Geography” and apprenticed to Jefferys in London between 1753 and 1760, died at age thirty in 1769. He was nevertheless an influential producer of “dissected maps” and other geographical games through whose use, in the home and at play, the countries of the world could be shown to fit together (Shefrin 1999, 7–8). Map use in its many forms provided the basis for what may be thought of as “cartographic literacy,” an increased exposure to and an understanding of the nature of maps, of what they could do as textual documents, and of mapping as an intellectual, technical, and social process. Cartographic literacy varied by social rank and by need. It reflected access to maps and print

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culture in general since although maps as commodities were more commonplace later in the eighteenth century than earlier, not everyone could afford to buy them, knew how to read them, or understood their symbolic language. A pair of globes, celestial and terrestrial, may have been useful alongside maps for teaching astronomy or in tracing the routes of oceanic navigators, but they were costly items: what was a necessity in one context (in navigational training, for example) was a luxury in another (globes as objects of domestic display and cultural status). The expanded use of maps for administrative purposes both reflected and directed the growth of nationstate politics and, for those European countries with overseas dependencies, the use of maps as forms of territorial surveillance was essential to successful colonial governance. The use of estate maps and cadastral plans in law and in local politics helped delineate social and physical boundaries. The idea and the result of the mapas-survey brought together the overview of terrestrial space as property with the authority of the mapmaker and the viewer to inscribe that space (and, simultaneously, to exclude items from representation on the map) and thus further established connections between people and place and between map use and geographical identity. Martin Brückner stresses these interrelationships between map use, cartographic literacy, and what we may think of as a “geographic culture of letters” in tracing the emergence of national identity in the early United States. For Brückner, map use—taking that term to mean preparing and working with maps and “plats” (plots) of colonial land, reading maps in books of geography such as Jedidiah Morse’s Geography Made Easy (1784), and more influentially his The American Geography: Or, A View of the Present Situation of the United States of America (1789), and mapping as a form of narrative placement—was critical to the emergence of a single national identity. Using maps in these ways allowed the people of a nascent America to chart themselves as a nation, to delimit their relationship to frontiers both natural and political, and to see where they stood in regard to native peoples (Brückner 2006). Map history perhaps privileges the production of maps over their consumption, seeing in the former a narrative combining the intellectual mastery of geographical and celestial space, affiliation between trades and progressive technical accomplishment, and treating maps’ existence rather more than their use as reasons to study them. We must recognize that the two terms must be seen in relation one to another and not as separate; the consumption of maps is part of diverse social and cultural histories more than it is of scientific and technical histories. Map use was borne of greater familiarity with maps as objects in everyday life: at home, in the class-

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room, on the walls of financial institutions and trading companies, in the pockets of engineers and soldiers, and in the rooms, corridors, and administrative imagination of institutions of government. The meaning of a map could be transformed by the different needs of its consuming audiences and by the different social spaces in which it was read and used. Lines and symbols on sheets of paper prompted plans for action. Consumption of a map commonly led map readers, and mapmakers, to inscribe and describe one’s world anew.

Tyacke, Sarah. 1978. London Map-Sellers, 1660–1720: A Collection of Advertisements for Maps Placed in the London Gazette, 1668– 1719, with Biographical Notes on the Map-Sellers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. Tyner, Judith A. 2015. Stitching the World: Embroidered Maps and Women’s Geographical Education. Farnham: Ashgate. Withers, Charles W. J. 2005. “Working with Old Maps: Charting the Reception and Legacy of Blaeu’s 1654 Atlas Novus.” Scottish Geographical Journal 121:297–310.

C ha r les W. J . With ers

Cook, James. James Cook was born 27 October 1728,

See also: Allegorical and Satirical Maps; Atlas; Education and Cartography; Games, Cartographic; Geography and Cartography; Globe; Household Artifacts, Maps on; Map Collecting; Map Trade; Property Map: Estate Plan; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Wall Map; Women and Cartography Bibliograp hy American Military Pocket Atlas; Being an Approved Collection of Correct Maps, both General and Particular, of the British Colonies, The. 1776. London: Printed for R. Sayer and J. Bennet, Map and Print-Sellers. Bosse, David. 2007. “Maps in the Marketplace: Cartographic Vendors and Their Customers in Eighteenth-Century America.” Cartographica 42:1–51. Brückner, Martin. 2006. The Geographic Revolution in Early America: Maps, Literacy, and National Identity. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Darnton, Robert. 1982. “What Is the History of Books?” Dædalus 111, no. 3:65–83. ———. 1991. “History of Reading.” In New Perspectives on Historical Writing, ed. Peter Burke, 140–67. Cambridge: Polity Press. Faden, William. 1777. Geographical Exercises; Calculated to Facilitate the Study of Geography. London: Printed for the Proprietor. Gregorii, Johann Gottfried. 1713. Curieuse Gedancken von den vornehmsten und accuratesten Alt- und Neuen Land-Charten nach ihrem ersten Ursprunge Erfindung Auctoribus und Sculptoribus, Gebrauch und Nutzen entworffen. Frankfurt: Ritschel. Johns, Adrian. 1998. The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. McKendrick, Neil. 1982. “The Consumer Revolution of EighteenthCentury England.” In The Birth of a Consumer Society: The Commercialization of Eighteenth-Century England, by Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J. H. Plumb, 9–33. London: Europa Publications. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1981. “The Map Trade in Paris, 1650–1825.” Imago Mundi 33:33–45. ———. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. ———, ed. 2000. The Map Trade in the Late Eighteenth Century: Letters to the London Map Sellers Jefferys and Faden. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. ———. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Reitan, E. A. 1985. “Expanding Horizons: Maps in the Gentleman’s Magazine, 1731–1754.” Imago Mundi 37:54–62. Roche, Daniel. 2000. A History of Everyday Things: The Birth of Consumption in France, 1600–1800. Trans. Brian Pearce. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shefrin, Jill. 1999. Neatly Dissected for the Instruction of Young Ladies and Gentlemen in the Knowledge of Geography: John Spilsbury and Early Dissected Puzzles. Los Angeles: Cotsen Occasional Press.

Marton-in-Cleveland, North Yorkshire, England, and married Elizabeth Batts 21 December 1762 (six children); he was killed 14 February 1779 at Kealakekua Bay, Hawaii. Cook is “still commonly regarded as the greatest sea explorer of all time” (Thomas 2003, xx), albeit one who has also been viewed as an agent of empire as well as a brilliant navigator and “great dispeller of [geographical] illusion” (Beaglehole in Cook 1955–74, 4:698). He made a significant contribution to the cartography of the Enlightenment. As a result of his three Pacific voyages between 1768 and 1780, he redrew the map of the Pacific Ocean much as it remains today. He sailed with teams of specialists—astronomers, surveyors and chartmakers, artists, and civilian naturalists (most notably Joseph Banks and Johann Reinhold Forster)— and their collective story was disseminated throughout Europe in official voyage narratives that were based on Cook’s record of events. These publications were regarded as seminal events of the Enlightenment, having a significant impact on European art and aesthetics, literature, and science. They posited a new era of scientific travel and writings based on ideals and practices of firsthand and impartial observation, precise measurement, descriptive realism, and comparison and classification. Cook first went to sea in 1747, serving nine years in the North Sea coal trade in the employ of Whitby merchant John Walker, thus gaining valuable experience in seamanship and navigation. In 1755, when about to be given command of one of Walker’s ships, Cook surprisingly enlisted in the Royal Navy as an able seaman. In 1757 he passed the Trinity House examination for master, which put him in charge of ship navigation and the daily routine. Cook spent most of the Seven Years’ War in eastern Canada, where his interest in hydrographic surveying was fostered. Together with Samuel Holland, he constructed a chart of the Saint Lawrence River that enabled the British to reach Quebec in 1759. Between 1763 and 1767 he undertook a detailed survey of the coasts of Newfoundland and published the charts privately; in 1775 they were included in the North American Pilot (Skelton 1965). In 1767, an expedition to the Pacific Ocean was planned by the Royal Society to observe the transit of Venus across the face of the sun and

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thus calculate more accurately the distance between the earth and the sun. The society selected Alexander Dalrymple, but he would only go if given command of the ship, to which the Admiralty was implacably opposed. Between 5 and 12 April 1768 the remarkable decision was made to appoint Cook, who at that time was only a master in the Royal Navy—all previous voyages to the Pacific had been commanded by a post captain (Beaglehole in Cook 1955–74, 4:126–27). Cook sailed for the newly discovered island of Tahiti and, having completed the observations, as further instructed, he sailed to 40°S in search of the supposed southern continent, or terra australis incognita—a continent thought to balance the landmasses of the Northern Hemisphere. This speculative idea had been revived during the mid-eighteenth century, notably by Dalrymple and Charles de Brosses. When Cook failed to sight land he sailed south and then west to the land (now New Zealand) sighted by Abel Tasman in 1642 to ascertain whether it was part of the southern continent. Having made a running survey of the coastlines of New Zealand, Cook then surveyed the whole of the unknown east coast of New Holland (now Australia) and sailed through the Torres Strait, which confirmed the separation of Australia from New Guinea. Cook realized he still had not clarified the existence or otherwise of the southern continent, but his second voyage (1772–75) produced a clearer outcome. After three ice-edge cruises that took him to 71°10ʹS, he wrote that he had voyaged “not only farther than any other man has been before me, but as far as I think it possible for man to go” (Cook 1955–74, 2:322). He was satisfied that no land existed at that latitude, although this outcome did not prevent further exploration. He charted numerous islands and coasts along the way, including New Caledonia, the New Hebrides/Vanuatu, the Tongan Islands, Society Islands, Marquesas Islands, and Easter Island. Cook himself recognized that there were close links between his exploration and empire (Cook 1955–74, 2:322). Indeed, he was instructed to take possession of favorably positioned and apparently vacant lands and to suggest new avenues of trade. One major cartographic conundrum still existed. Cook’s third voyage (1776–79), for which he was recalled from semiretirement, was to confirm or disprove the long-supposed existence of the Northwest Passage, a sea route connecting the North Pacific and the North Atlantic; the Pacific entrance was placed by French and Russian maps around 65°N. After calling at New Zealand, Tonga, and Tahiti, Cook sailed into the North Pacific and in January 1778 became the first known European discoverer of the Hawaiian Islands, the scene of his dramatic death later in 1779. He then headed for the northwest coast of America, exploring Nootka Sound,

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Prince William Sound, and Cook Inlet. He consulted maps he had on board by Gerhard Friedrich Müller and Jacob von Stählin depicting the earlier Russian discoveries but found them highly erroneous. In August 1778 he passed north through Bering Strait but was forced back from further exploration eastward and westward by the ice. Cook wrote remarkably little about his methods of surveying and chart construction, and, as Andrew David (1988–97) shows, drew far fewer of the surviving voyage charts and coastal views than, until recently, was commonly thought. He frequently delegated this essential task (including the production of fair copies of his draft charts) to officers he trained and trusted, such as Isaac Smith, William Bligh, and Henry Roberts. Depending on the nature of the coasts concerned and the task to be done, Cook decided and oversaw the surveying: this might be running surveys of long coastal stretches (e.g., New Zealand, the eastern Australian coast, and the northwest coast of North America; fig. 186) in which observations of prominent coastal features were made largely from the ship (ship stations), and distances traveled along coastlines were measured by a log line. These observations were entered on daily (noon to noon) survey sheets and incorporated into compilation sheets to scale that were usually drawn on a Mercator projection. Others were sketch surveys of islands, atolls, harbors, rivers, and anchorages. In some cases astronomical observatories were set up on shore and a greater range of survey equipment deployed, which produced charts that were usually on the plane projection, ungraduated, and at a variety of scales down to 1 inch to 1 mile (1:63,360); these showed a greater range of topographical and nautical information (David 1988–97, 1:xxvii– xxxiii, 2:xxix, 3:xxvi). The basis for these methods was probably the most commonly available manual, John Robertson’s Elements of Navigation (1754), which ran into many editions throughout the century. Cook’s teams also proved the utility of the use of chronometers for the calculation of longitude on the second and third voyages. This practice, together with the astronomical method of establishing lunar distance using the astronomer royal Nevil Maskelyne’s yearly Nautical Almanac (first published for 1767), meant that Cook’s surveying and mapping were very accurate as to both latitude and longitude. D a ni el Clayton See also: Marine Charting: Great Britain; Northwest Passage; Pacific Voyages Bibliography Cook, James. 1955–74. The Journals of Captain James Cook on His Voyages of Discovery. 4 vols. in 5 plus atlas (incl. J. C. Beaglehole, The Life of Captain James Cook, vol. 4). Ed. J. C. Beaglehole. Cambridge: For the Hakluyt Society at the University Press.

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Fig. 186. JAMES COOK, “CHART OF PART OF THE NW COAST OF AMERICA, EXPLORED BY CAPT. J. COOK IN 1778.” Cook enclosed this manuscript chart in his letter of 20  October 1778 from Unalaska to the secretary of the Admiralty in London, where it was received 6 March 1780. The

map shows the track of the Resolution and Discovery from their first landfall on North America (7 March) to Cook’s return to Unalaska in the Aleutian Isles (3 October). Size of the original: 30.0 × 45.5 cm. Image courtesy of The National Archives of the U.K. (TNA), Kew (MPI 1/83).

David, Andrew, ed. 1988–97. The Charts & Coastal Views of Captain Cook’s Voyages. 3 vols. London: Hakluyt Society. Joppien, Rüdiger, and Bernard Smith. 1985–88. The Art of Captain Cook’s Voyages. 3 vols. New Haven: Yale University Press. Skelton, R. A. 1965. “James Cook: Surveyor of Newfoundland.” In James Cook, Surveyor of Newfoundland: Being a Collection of Charts of the Coasts of Newfoundland and Labradore, &., 5–32. San Francisco: David Magee. Thomas, Nicholas. 2003. Cook: The Extraordinary Voyages of Captain James Cook. New York: Walker. Williams, Glyndwr, ed. 2004. Captain Cook: Explorations and Reassessments. Woodbridge: Boydell Press.

celestial maps, atlases, globes, and illustrated books. A favorite of Pope Innocent XII, he was elected superior general of his order in 1701, but in 1704, Pope Clement XI removed him from office because of his poor relations with fellow friars, resulting from accusations of misused funds. After that, Coronelli lived in the Venetian Convento dei Frari, where he established a small engraving and printing house and sold guides of Venice and reprints of maps and views; he also tried to reinvent himself as an expert in hydraulics. When he died, 9 December 1718, all his copperplates were sold for roofing and drain pipes to pay his publishing firm’s many debts. Born in Venice on 15 August 1650 into a family of poor artisans and baptized Vincenzo Matteo Coronelli, he studied in his order’s school in Venice and graduated in theology at the Franciscan college of San Bonaventura in Rome. Later, in Venice, he trained as a mathematical practitioner. In 1679 he prepared a pair of large globes for the duke of Parma, about which we know nothing.

Copyright. See Privilege and Copyright Coronelli, Vincenzo. A Franciscan Conventual friar, Vincenzo Coronelli became well known for building a pair of giant globes for King Louis XIV (1681–83), later exhibited in the royal palace of Marly (1704). Having returned to Venice in 1683, he published terrestrial and

Coronelli, Vincenzo

Yet when the French representative to the Vatican, Cardinal César d’Estrées, saw them, he invited Coronelli to Paris. There Coronelli executed the famous globes for Louis XIV: two spheres, four meters in diameter, built and prepared by a highly skilled team of Venetian carpenters and draftsmen. These globes constituted a remarkable compilation of the latest astronomical and geographical information based on Dutch and French models of the mid-seventeenth century, further enriched by important new information gleaned from the archives of the French ministries and the Académie des sciences. The splendidly original figures of the constellations painted in the usual convex form on the celestial globe were the work of Jean-Baptiste Corneille, Arnould de Vouez, and other members of the atélier of the king’s painter Charles Le Brun (see figs. 175 and 182). Profiting from the privilege granted him by the French king, Coronelli continued to reproduce the design and contents of the king’s globes up to 1698. Though beautiful, these later works suffered from poor engraving, hasty editing, and the lack of relevant astronomical or geographical updating. Coronelli’s publishing career in Venice began with printed maps of Dalmatia (1684–89) and what might be called instant news books about places where Venice was then fighting the Turks, illustrated with crude engravings of sometimes outdated maps and fortress plans. In 1685, to support his intended publication of an atlante veneto (Venetian atlas), the Senate gave him the title of cosmografo della Repubblica, a pension, and later a public teaching chair in Venice. In 1690 he published the first volume of the Atlante veneto, modeled on Joan Blaeu’s Atlas maior (1662), containing cosmography, maps of the continents, and hydrography (maps of oceans and great rivers and drawings of ships and boats). He planned the subsequent volumes in the same Dutch style—maps of all the countries of the world coupled with texts. These never appeared. Instead, using the same general overarching title Atlante veneto, Coronelli published two volumes of his geographical and chorographical maps in the French style with no text (Corso geografico universale, 1692); a two-volume atlas of islands (Isolario dell’Atlante veneto, 1696–97); and a marine atlas (Specchio del mare, 1698), printed from the plates and the text of the Genoese edition of a Dutch prototype. From 1697, he also sold the printed gores of his globes in atlas format under the titles Globi del P. Coronelli and, after 1705, Palestra litteraria (fig. 187). He prepared custom-made atlases of city and fortress plans (Città e fortezze, 1693), portraits of patrons and members of his subscription list (the Accademia Cosmografica degli Argonauti), and plates of ships and boats taken from the first volume of the Atlante (and published as Navi o vascelli, 1697). He put all these publica-

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tions on the market as a part of the Atlante veneto. By 1698 the Atlante veneto boasted thirteen volumes, but only 250 of its large copperplates were original. In 1686 Coronelli began to produce reduced versions (108 cm diameter) of the Paris globes. The terrestrial globe was made in Venice between 1685 and 1688 and never changed except for its dedicatory cartouche. However, after 1701 its extra-large copperplates were cut in two. The gores for the celestial globe were entrusted to the Parisian engraver Jean-Baptiste Nolin (1686), but the plates, probably not paid for, were never returned to Italy. In 1693 Nolin published the celestial globe in Paris (globe of the “Societas Gallica,” which paid for its printing). Meanwhile Coronelli marketed a novel 108-centimeter celestial globe, engraved in Venice (1692). It was advertised, somewhat incorrectly, as a “sky view,” or concave, globe, although the gores were pasted on the exterior surface of the sphere, not the interior, as would be expected. This is written on a cartouche on the 1692 globe: “Dear reader, this globe represents the constellations of the firmament as we see them with our eyes, not as on the other globes, because to understand them we must imagine that we are at their center.” Moreover, the figures of the constellations are shown in mirror image: the human figures continue to turn their backs to the spectator, but their poses and gestures are reversed, left to right, as in a mirror. To accompany the globe, Coronelli published the Epitome cosmografica (1693), containing a star catalog and rudiments of astronomy, geography, astrology, and globe use. In 1699 he published another celestial globe of the same size, in convex form (known as the globo Ottoboni). Both Venetian globes imitate the Nolin engravings but with errors and omissions. Coronelli also reproduced the original globe pair in ever-smaller sizes (ca. 46, possibly 33, 15, 10, and 5 cm diameter). In 1701 he published the first volume of a forty-volume encyclopedia (Biblioteca universale sacro-profana, anticomoderna), but its enormous cost stopped production at volume seven in 1708, definitively ending his career as an international publisher. For more than twenty years, Coronelli’s globes and maps sold well to princes, aristocrats, and high-ranking ecclesiastics, mainly in Italy and Germany. Nevertheless, his work did not win praise from active members of Europe’s scientific academies, whose names are notably absent from the Accademia degli Argonauti. By the time of his death Coronelli was almost forgotten. His works were rediscovered only around 1940; the tercentennial of his birth in 1950 began a revival, sometimes bordering on a cult, accompanied by overabundant literature, which was not always based on correct or firsthand information. Coronelli’s career relied on the patronage of princes,

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Fig. 187. DETAIL FROM CORONELLI’S PRINTED TERRESTRIAL GLOBE, VENICE 1688. From Coronelli’s Palestra litteraria (Venice, after 1701), pl. 50. Copper engraving on paper. Later state, after 1705 (the copperplate of the half gore is cut along the Tropic). The reference to Venetian voyagers and writers was added in the printed globe to flatter the pride of the Republic.

Diameter of the original: 108.0 cm; size of detail: 21.7 × 27.7 (top) 25.0 (bottom) cm. Image courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University, Providence.

to whom he offered not only globes and maps, but also designs for weapons, mud-dredgers, breakwaters, floodways, and church façades. He was a mathematical practitioner in the style of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and not one of the best: his main skills were in empirical mechanics; his science was secondhand and derivative. As a publisher, he was short-lived. He owed his success mainly to the strenuous pursuit of the favor of princes, to tenacious self-advertisement, and to the prevailing culture of curiosity. His large globes in particular were curiosities because of their royal origins and their outsized dimensions, unusual for printed globes. Moreover, they responded to fashionable curiosity about

nature and man, and they sold at reasonable prices. Coronelli was a master of the mechanics of globemaking and at ease with the necessary standard geographical and astronomical knowledge, but his work displayed no innovation. Instead he placed new information in a beautiful but increasingly outmoded framework. Mari ca M ilanesi See also: Celestial Mapping: Italian States; Constellations, Representation of; Globe; Map Trade: Italian States Bibliography Domini, Donatino, and Marica Milanesi, eds. 1998. Vincenzo Coronelli e l’imago mundi. Ravenna: Longo Editore. Hofmann, Catherine, and Hélène Richard, eds. 2012. Les globes de

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Cosmographical Map. A learned natural philosopher is lecturing on the orrery to illustrate the positions and

motions of the planets in the solar system (fig. 188). His audience is in contemplation of the miracle of modern science and the wonders of the universe. A man is taking notes. Other figures, including a woman and three children, follow the demonstration, gazing at the mechanical device. A lamp, hidden behind the boy in the foreground, represents the sun in the center of the solar system. The flame of the candle plays over the faces in the picture, seemingly to demonstrate the main phases of the moon. Joseph Wright of Derby, the author of this canvas, has been described as the first painter to express the spirit of the Industrial Revolution. This provincial artist was also witnessing around him the Scientific Revolution. Like many in the age of the European Enlightenment, Wright believed in progress, was thrilled by the exploration of the unknown, and trusted that men could be made better through education. Orreries were three-dimensional counterparts of cosmographical maps. Cosmography, according to many encyclopedia and dictionary entries, describes the gen-

Fig. 188. JOSEPH WRIGHT, A PHILOSOPHER GIVING A LECTURE ON THE ORRERY (1766).

Size of the original: ca. 147 × 203 cm. Bridgeman-Griaudon/ Art Resource, New York.

Louis XIV: Étude artistique, historique et matérielle. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Milanesi, Marica. 1999. “Coronelli’s Large Celestial Printed Globes: A Complicated History = Coronellis grosse gedruckte Himmelsgloben: Eine komplizierte Geschichte.” Der Globusfreund 47–48: 143–69. ———. 2016. Vincenzo Coronelli Cosmographer (1650–1718). Turnhout: Brepols. ———, ed. 2018. “Vincenzo Coronelli (1650–1718): L’immagine del mundo / The Image of the World / Das Bild der Welt.” Globe Studies 63:3–231. Pelletier, Monique. 1982. “Les globes de Louis XIV: Les sources françaises de l’oeuvre de Coronelli.” Imago Mundi 34:72–89. Sartori, Antonio. 1983–89. “Il P. M. Vincenzo Coronelli e la sua attività.” In Archivio Sartori: Documenti di storia e arte francescana, 4 vols., ed. Giovanni Luisetto, vol. 3, pt. 2:1018–1261. Padua: Biblioteca Antoniana, Basilica del Santo. Schmidt, Rudolf. 1995. “Zur Arbeitsweise Vincenzo Coronellis” (with English summary). Der Globusfreund 43–44:151–70.

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eral features and disposition of the universe, including heaven and earth. Cosmographical maps portray the spatial organization of the material universe, allowing a perspective similar to God’s. By Wright’s time, however, an entirely new image of the cosmos had replaced the traditional conception created in ancient Greece, incorporated into Christian lore, and dominant in the West until a century earlier. Aristotelian-Ptolemaic cosmography affirmed the existence of a finite, spherical cosmos centered on an immovable earth. Nicolaus Copernicus’s heliocentrism, Johannes Kepler’s laws of planetary motion, Isaac Newton’s theory of universal attraction, Giordano Bruno’s speculations about the infinity of space, Galileo Galilei’s use of the telescope to observe the stars and his attempt to apply mathematics to the study of movement had all brought about a new conceptualization of the universe, fitting for the Age of Enlightenment. The Aristotelian division between the sublunary and the superlunary spheres (altogether different in nature) was abandoned on the assumption that celestial and terrestrial phenomena were subject to the same laws of nature. Between 1650 and 1800 scientists developed an interest in these laws and tried to obtain reliable data and precise measurements. Cosmographical societies and scientific academies, often with royal patronage, were founded throughout Europe, and museums of science began to emerge. Contemporary maps presented the universe as a system of celestial mechanics, showing the complexity of planetary motion. The scientific study of the earth’s shape and size and the mapping of geographical data increasingly depended on astronomical observations and calculations, as is shown by the most prominent scientific issue of the eighteenth century: the determination of longitude. Maps displayed the world in its astronomical context, conveying the articulation of the boundaries of modern knowledge. Maps of the earth, for instance, were drawn with a scientific (rather than artistic) purpose: the borders of maps of the world drawn as double hemispheres were often filled with scientific information (texts or charts) about the heavens or about various natural and celestial phenomena, setting the earth within its context in the solar system (for example, maps by John Seller [1673], Frederick de Wit [1705–6], and Adam Friedrich Zürner [1710]). Personifications were adopted to indicate the four seasons, as in a number of double-hemisphere lateseventeenth-century maps by de Wit and Gerard Valk. The invention of the telescope allowed detailed lunar maps. Mapmaking in the Enlightenment merged astronomy and geography in a new fashion, producing an intellectual construction that has been described by historians of cartography as “mathematical cosmography” (Edney 1994). It was based on the belief in the cosmo-

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logical unity of the earth and the heavens. Moreover, in tune with the scientism of the period, cartography was seen as a progressive and objective activity. The process of democratization opened new markets for maps as improved standards of mapmaking supported the mapmaker’s ambition to produce scientific documents. Yet not all maps of the cosmos were secular in character. Some displayed a strong religious element. The borders of A Map of All the Earth and How after the Flood It Was Divided among the Sons of Noah, designed by Joseph Moxon in the late seventeenth century, for example, were illustrated with biblical scenes, a confirmation that cosmography could include chronology, structuring not only space but also time. Some of the new scientists were committed Christians, believing in the universe as a designed mechanism and in God as its designer. There were a number of different “enlightenments” and differences among European nations, and “cosmography” meant different things to different people. Alessandro Scafi See also: Astronomical Models; Celestial Mapping; World Map Bibliography Cosgrove, Denis E. 2001. Apollo’s Eye: A Cartographic Genealogy of the Earth in the Western Imagination. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Dupré, Sven, and Fernand Hallyn, eds. 2009. Early Modern Cosmography. Conference proceedings, Archives Internationales d’Histoire des Sciences 59:419–735. Edney, Matthew H. 1994. “Mathematical Cosmography and the Social Ideology of British Cartography, 1780–1820.” Imago Mundi 46:101–16. Nicolson, Benedict. 1968. Joseph Wright of Derby: Painter of Light. 2 vols. London: Paul Mellon Foundation for British Art. Withers, Charles W. J. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Covens & Mortier (Netherlands). In the eighteenth and first half of the nineteenth centuries Covens & Mortier, 1685–1866, was the most important Dutch publishing house in the field of commercial cartography and possibly the biggest contemporary map-trading house worldwide (Van Egmond 2009). Pieter Mortier founded the company in Amsterdam first as a bookseller but soon began publishing voluminous atlases. In 1706 he had a new home built on the Vijgendam, where, for over a century, the major trade activities were conducted. Pieter was succeeded by his widow, Amelia ’s-Gravesande, and by his brother David Mortier. From 1721 Pieter Mortier’s son Cornelis ran the firm together with his brother-in-law Johannes Covens. Later firm members were Johannes Covens Jr., Cornelis Covens, and Cornelis Joannes Covens. Under the last owner the firm moved to the Nieuwendijk in 1828 and to Rusland

Fig. 189. ROMEYN DE HOOGHE, CARTE NOUVELLE DES COSTES DE HOLLANDE, ZEELANDE, FLANDRE, PICARDIE, & NORMANDIE, PUBLISHED BY COVENS & MORTIER IN LE NEPTUNE FRANÇOIS. This Dutch edition was titled De Fransche neptunus, ed. Charles Pène (Amsterdam: Pieter Mortier, 1693).

Size of the original: 58 × 95 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam (Bijzondere Collecties, OTM: HB-KZL V 9 X 10[1], chart 31).

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Street in 1857. In late 1866 Cornelis Joannes finally sold off his stock to the Amsterdam bookseller G. van Tijen & Zonen. The firm of Covens & Mortier published books, prints, music, games, and ephemera such as booklets, bills, and invitations for music concerts, but the main focus was on maps. All sorts of cartographic material left the printing office, including wall maps, town plans, globes, town profiles, and geographical puzzles and games. The publishing of atlases formed, however, the major focus of cartographic activities. World atlases, for instance, were issued by Covens & Mortier in various formats, among them the big Atlas nouveau (1692– ca. 1790) after Nicolas Sanson and the Atlas françois (1695–ca. 1790) after Alexis-Hubert Jaillot. In addition, two historical atlases, a celestial atlas, the large sea atlas Le Neptune françois after the Académie des sciences and the Marine (fig.  189), a number of town atlases, and some pocket atlases and regional atlases were published (Van Egmond 2009, 93–139). Most atlases and maps published by Covens & Mortier were copies of foreign works or reprints of earlier, often seventeenth-century, Dutch copperplates. Only a handful of atlases and about 150 maps stem from original material, but most were of European and especially Dutch areas. The firm was not very selective in determining what to publish. Initially, Pieter Mortier offered a varied and rather balanced selection of atlases and wall maps. The procurement of copperplates from other publishers, which started around 1705, led to a more arbitrary composition of the publisher’s stock. The rather aggressive takeover policy of the firm seems to have originated from the desire to monopolize map production whenever possible. Wholesale trade with domestic colleagues made for the larger part of the sales of Covens & Mortier. The firm began to act as a central Dutch map store, especially during the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Covens & Mortier made optimal use of the new system of trade on a commission basis—the desired, unsolicited shipment of commission products with the right of return—that replaced the old system of exchange. The well-stocked cartographic portfolio also catered to a market far in excess of domestic boundaries. Proven trade relations existed, for example, with English, German, Swiss, French, Italian, Polish, and Russian trade partners, and included David Mortier, Henry Overton and Philip Overton, and the firm of Jefferys & Faden in England and the Homann firm in Germany. By the end of the eighteenth century, however, the international sales of Covens & Mortier were diminishing considerably. The domestic market, on the other hand, was on the increase. Around 1800 Covens & Mortier finally monopolized the Dutch map trade. When the total production

Cruquius, Nicolaas Samuelsz.

process is looked at in its entirety, from the collection of the base material until an atlas had been bound, at least twenty-five and at most forty-five employees must have been present in the firm’s heyday. During the decline of the publishing house, from the second quarter of the nineteenth century onward, no more than five to ten people were at work in the houses at the Nieuwendijk and Rusland (Van Egmond 2009, 242). No academic editors were employed on a regular basis. Commerce prevailed over quality of content and beating the competition over innovation. The firm was not, however, completely devoid of innovation. In addition to developing a new construction for a pair of globes and producing an improved topographical map image of Dutch regions, the firm was influential in other cartographic areas. For example, it introduced modern foreign map material on a large scale into the Netherlands. Furthermore, it produced Le Neptune françois and the Atlas nouveau in elephant folio format, which had never been used before for Dutch atlases. It also marketed in the first half of the eighteenth century a new systematic form of cartography—multisheet maps of areas where wars were taking place—the so-called theater of war series. With its huge and diverse cartographic stock of about 4,000 items printed from about 5,000 copperplates, the firm acted as a driving force for the popularization of map use in Europe at the time. Most users of Covens & Mortier’s maps must have had a general interest in geography and bought the maps for their personal use. Since the types of maps offered were a broad assortment and competitively priced (in part facilitated by the practice of copying), both wealthy and not-so-wealthy people could afford them, so that Covens & Mortier entered new European markets as more and more sections of the population became map owners. Cartographic material was no longer mainly restricted to a relatively small group of well-to-do citizens: in the eighteenth century it became a standard consumer product. Marco van Egm ond See also: Map Trade: Netherlands Bibliography Egmond, Marco van. 2009. Covens & Mortier: A Map Publishing House in Amsterdam, 1685–1866. Houten: HES & De Graaf.

Cruquius, Nicolaas Samuelsz. Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius (Kruchius, Kruikius, Krukius, Kruik), who occasionally used his initials to stand for the Latin phrase neminem scientia cruciat (knowledge tortures no one), is considered the most significant reformer of Dutch administrative cartography of the eighteenth century, with an influence that reaches far into the nineteenth century. Born on the Dutch isle of West-Vlieland on 2  Decem-

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Fig. 190. DETAIL FROM NICOLAAS SAMUELSZ. CRUQUIUS, HET EYLANDT WEST-VOORN OF GOEDEREEDE MET DE DIEPTENS EN DE DROOGTENS RONDS-OMME (1733), 1:54,000. Detail from Cruquius’s map of the island of Goeree and surrounding waters showing the insets depicting the endangered coast (with normal high tides and the inundations of 1717 and 1732), the pattern of

the ebb and flow of the tide (measured in July 1731), and magnetic variation (measured in 1729). At right, the line arcing over the northern edge of the island indicates the coastline as it had been surveyed in 1606. Size of the entire original: 65 × 55 cm; size of detail: ca. 24.5 × 48.5 cm. By permission of Pusey Map Library, Harvard University, Cambridge (G6002 G6 1733 C7).

ber 1678, he was raised in the city of Delft, where he worked from 1698 as a surveyor, cartographer, and meteorologist both on a private basis as well as in longterm employment with the Hoogheemraadschap van Delfland and the provincial administration of Holland. From 1733 until his death on 5 February 1754 he was stationed in the Dutch village of Spaarndam as a technical consultant to the Hoogheemraadschap van Rijnland. Cruquius earned a bachelor’s degree in medicine at the University of Leiden. He was a member of the Royal Society in London and the Hollandsche Maatschappij der Wetenschappen in Haarlem in appreciation of his meteorological, astronomical, and hydrographical work, as well as for his tireless efforts to popularize experimental physics. Cruquius’s career received a great boost in 1701 when he and his brother Jacob Cruquius were entrusted with the surveying and mapping of the territory of the Hoogheemraadschap van Delfland, a commission that took

over ten years to complete. The result was a grandiose wall map in twenty-five sheets at ca. 1:10,000 published by the waterschap as T Hooge Heemraed-Schap van Delflant (1712), in which he depicted the complex symmetry of these wetlands at an unparalleled large scale with a detailed display of ownership and landscape. Cruquius’s desire to eliminate decorative elements may be seen in the individual sheets that make up the whole. However, the board of the Hoogheemraadschap van Delfland insisted on the sumptuous decoration in the borders surrounding the map as assembled. Thus, from a conceptual point of view the map probably reflected only part of Cruquius’s original intent, but his patrons did not want to go along with his plan to use the map in formulating a research agenda that, in the long term, could resolve the water-related problems of Delfland and the province of Holland. By 1705 Cruquius had already started meteorological and astronomical observations, a series of measure-

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ments that he continued until his death. Through this research, Cruquius was befriended by the famous Leiden physician Herman Boerhaave. Through Boerhaave’s intercession, Cruquius was invited as an observer to the international meteorological network of the Royal Society of London, which convinced him even more that systematic observations would lead to the discovery of surprising astrometeorological connections. Between 1725 and 1727 this idea formed the focus point of a well-defined research proposal to the provincial administration of Holland to construct “a systematic scientific framework to observe the movement and changes of the air and the water” (Van den Brink 1998, 14–24, 203–9; quote on 203). Combined with an accurate topographical map, these observations were of vital importance for proper water management in Holland. While his proposal was considered too costly, Cruquius was invited to elaborate his wide-ranging perceptions in devising solutions for some key hydrographical problems in the Dutch river delta. This resulted in two imposing maps (1729–33), one of the Merwede River (see fig. 33) and one of the island of Goeree (fig. 190), in which he introduced several new cartographic concepts in depicting the dynamics of the river landscape, namely one of the first systematic uses of isobaths to indicate depths and endangered sea banks and river banks, the introduction of new symbols for identifying land use, as well as the induction of the results of meteorological, astronomical, and hydraulic investigation within the framework of the map. After 1734 Cruquius led a reclusive existence as a technical consultant of the Hoogheemraadschap van Rijnland at Spaarndam, near the town of Haarlem. Although a serious eye disease increasingly limited his work, he continued to study the complex interactions between climate and landscape. The results of these examinations were worked out in a number of short articles that he shared and discussed with a small group of friends and pupils in Haarlem. P aul va n d en Brink See also: Administrative Cartography: Netherlands; Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Isobath; Thematic Mapping: Netherlands Bibliograp hy Brink, Paul van den. 1998. “In een opslag van het oog”: De Hollandse rivierkartografie en waterstaatszorg in opkomst, 1725–1754. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto/Repro-Holland. ———. 2000. “River Landscapes: The Origin and Development of the Printed River Map in the Netherlands, 1725–1795.” Imago Mundi 52:66–78. Jeurgens, Charles. 2003. “Het weer in Rijnland: Beschrijven of meten: Een wereld van verschil.” Tijdschrift voor Waterstaatsgeschiedenis 12:79–88. Zuidervaart, Huib J. 2005. “An Eighteenth-Century MedicalMeteorological Society in the Netherlands: An Investigation of Early Organization, Instrumentation and Quantification, Part 1.” British Journal for the History of Science 38:379–410.

Customs Administration Map. Customs administration maps illustrate customs structures and rules of a region or a specific territory. This type of map is especially prevalent in southern Germany. Similar to post-route maps, customs administration maps depict the network of roads reserved for the transportation of goods subject to duty as well as the customs offices and their branches. Typical examples include Matthäus Ferdinand Cnopf’s Geographischer Entwurf der . . . Zoll-Staette (1763), Johann Franz Kohlbrenner’s Geographische MauthCharte von Bayern (1764, 1768), and Johann Baptist Seitz’s Comercial Zoll und Maut Karte vom Königreich Baiern (1807) (Maut was a standard term for customs in early modern southern Germany). The literature refers to them as Mautkarten (Schaup 2000, 311–14; Schlögl 2000, 2002), Maut- und Zollkarten (Kupcˇík 1995, 17– 18, 118), Mautstraßenkarten (Leidel 2006, 281), or customs maps (Schlögl 1997). The most important customs administration maps were published in the electorate of Bavaria between 1764 and 1769 (Schlögl 2002, 139–70). The example by Cnopf from 1763 that shows trade routes, boundaries, and customs offices around the imperial city of Nuremberg is not linked to them (Kupcˇík 1995, 17; Fleischmann 2000, 365). The Bavarian customs administration maps, published by the Augsburg firm of Tobias Conrad Lotter, were official, legally binding governmental publications. Whereas Cnopf designed his map to illustrate a regional customs situation in dispute, the Bavarian maps resulted from a fundamental renewal of the customs system in the context of late absolutist reform policy that emerged after 1745 to overcome the electorate’s financial crisis. In 1765, a law established a centralized, uniform customs system in the country for the first time. In conjunction with the customs regulations and tariff tables, maps were used to illustrate all the spatial aspects of the customs system. Publicity and transparency were essential in the new customs law. Contrary to the earlier situation with locally differing and secret tariffs, the publicity of the improved system was intended to enable merchants to calculate in advance the amount of duties for which they would be liable. Additionally, the transparency of all rules was intended to ensure correct customs clearance and to protect travelers from arbitrary treatment by officials and thereby help to quickly establish the new system. The customs map from 1764 was designed by civil servant Kohlbrenner, who later became well known as a leading representative of the Enlightenment in Bavaria, and was published in two formats for the quarto-print and the secundo-print editions of the customs law. The larger and more richly decorated of the two was probably also displayed in offices (fig. 191). The maps had similar contents, with a simplified geographical depic-

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tion based on the tradition of Philipp Apian on which were delineated both the rivers suitable for transport and the network of official trade routes drawn abstractly as straight lines. All customs offices are shown on the maps and listed in the left margin; the larger edition additionally contains information about transport capacities on the rivers. Road sections that had been developed to a particular paving standard (chaussée, or high road) were marked with short cross lines, and users of high roads had to pay a road usage fee in addition to customs tolls. The number of cross lines marking the relevant road sec-

tion signified the amount of the road usage fee. In 1768, updated editions of both versions showing recently built high roads were printed by editing the old copperplates. In 1769, a new customs system following the Bavarian model was adopted in the Upper Palatinate, a territory that was also ruled by the Bavarian elector but was still independent under constitutional law. Appropriate to the diverse territorial structure of the region, Kohlbrenner designed the customs administration map of the Upper Palatinate using a larger scale in order to give a more detailed depiction of boundary lines and to better

Fig. 191. JOHANN FRANZ KOHLBRENNER, GEOGRAPHISCHE MAUTH-CHARTE VON BAYERN: VORSTELLEND ALLE ZU WASSER UND ZU LAND HERGEBRACHTE MAUTH-STATIONEN U. ACCIS-AEMTER SAMT DENEN DAHIN-FÜHRENDEN COMMERCIALU. LAND-STRASSEN (AUGSBURG 1764). Large edition,

copper engraving, ca. 1:650,000. The map visualizes all spatial aspects of the improved Bavarian customs system established in 1765. Size of the original: 65 × 54 cm. Image courtesy of the Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv, Munich (Kartensammlung 226).

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distinguish the courses of trade routes (Commercialstraßen) from those of local roads (Vicinalstraßen). A clear idea of the government’s intentions to use maps as a medium to publish legal regulations emerges from the customs laws and orders and from the process of their development. As Franz Xaver von Stubenrauch, a leading Bavarian state economist who had conceived the new customs system, argued in advance, “a MauthCharte modeled after post-route maps or sea charts. . . . would show every trader or carter the required terminum a quo, & ad quem at only one glance . . . instead of reading multileaved descriptions. . . . Additionally, by means of this map the public would also gain insight into how far we have come in usefulness for the commerce with our roadwork. And incidentally, this delightful insight serves as the rule of how much toll has to be paid at each passage. In a word, we inform everyone with only one sheet what could hardly be explained understandably and clearly enough on ten sheets” ([Stubenrauch] 1792, 121–22). The Bavarian customs administration maps are both a method and a result of enlightened reform policy and its economic program. Due to their legally binding nature, the maps formed an official depiction of the main road network and had to keep up with road improvements. Furthermore, they impacted roadwork administration, since the actual high road conditions had to meet the cartographically fixed state of a chaussée to prevent subjects and travelers from complaining against unjustified claims of toll. However, this dynamic process had not been foreseen, and the late absolutist Bavarian state was not strong enough financially and organizationally to

Customs Administration Map

sustain it. Plans to establish a close coordination of customs and roadwork administrations from 1769 onward were not realized. No further customs administration map was published until 1807, when Bavaria became a kingdom. D ani el Schlögl See also: Administrative Cartography: Enlightenment; Thematic Mapping: German States; Transportation and Cartography: Road Map Bibliography Fleischmann, Peter. 2000. “Politik—Propaganda—Kommerz? Die umstrittene Karte des Nürnberger Gebiets von Matthäus Ferdinand Cnopf (1764/66) aus der Offizin Homanns Erben.” Jahrbuch für Fränkische Landesforschung 60:361–80. Kupcˇík, Ivan. 1995. Mappæ Bavariæ: Thematische Karten von Bayern bis zum Jahr 1900, Sonderausstellung des Deutschen Museums München. Weißenhorn: Anton H. Konrad. Leidel, Gerhard. 2006. Von der gemalten Landschaft zum vermessenen Land: Eine Ausstellung des Bayerischen Hauptstaatsarchivs zur Geschichte der handgezeichneten Karte in Bayern. Munich: Generaldirektion der Staatlichen Archive Bayerns. Schaup, Wilhelm. 2000. Salzburg auf alten Landkarten, 1551– 1866/67. Salzburg: Stadtgemeinde. Schlögl, Daniel. 1997. “Cartography in the Service of Reform Policy in Late Absolutist Bavaria, c. 1750–1777.” Imago Mundi 49:116–28. ———. 2000. “Die bayerischen Mautkarten, 1764–1769.” In 8. Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium Bern, 3.–5. Oktober 1996: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe, 33–40. Murten: Cartographica Helvetica. ———. 2002. Der planvolle Staat: Raumerfassung und Reformen in Bayern, 1750–1800. Munich: C. H. Beck. [Stubenrauch, Franz Xaver von]. 1792. Systematischer Plan zur gesetzmäßigen Benutzung des Zoll-Regals deutscher Länder besonders im Churfürstenthum Baiern, entworfen auf landesherrlichen höchsten Befehl im Jahr 1762. N.p.

D Dalrymple, Alexander. Alexander Dalrymple (1737– 1808), hydrographer to the East India Company and to the Admiralty, began his career as an East India Company writer posted to Madras in 1753. His geographical and surveying knowledge developed during voyages from Madras to Borneo, the Philippines, and China in the early 1760s, from which manuscripts of his running coast surveys and measured port plans survive. In London after 1765 he continued research into the counterpoise theory of a great southern continent, resulting in An Historical Collection of the Several Voyages and Discoveries in the South Pacific Ocean, published in 1769–71. He was nominated by the Royal Society in 1768 to lead the Transit of Venus expedition, but, after a misunderstanding between the Royal Society and the Admiralty over command of the ship, declined to take second place under a naval officer. James Cook was subsequently appointed both commander and Royal Society observer. Between 1769 and 1771 Dalrymple published charts and navigational memoirs from his 1760s voyages; he maintained a technical correspondence with the French hydrographer Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette over evidence for the positions of Indian Ocean islands from 1767 until the latter’s death in 1780; and in 1774 and 1775 he issued a series of Plans of Ports in the East Indies from his own collection of manuscripts. His use of a borrowed John Arnold chronometer on his 1775 voyage to Madras showed him the value of accumulating coherent series of longitude observations at sea for recommending best tracks to follow at different seasons and for constructing accurate charts. He advocated a complex form of chronometer log-keeping with tables of winds and weather and consistently recommended Arnold’s chronometers for use at sea. He later transmitted the wind scale he derived from John

Smeaton’s calibration of windmill sails to the young Francis Beaufort, who subsequently adopted it once he had succeeded Dalrymple as hydrographer. In April 1779 Dalrymple offered himself “for examining the Ships’ Journals” accumulating in East India House, proposing to publish charts and nautical instructions (quoted in Cook 1992, 1:104). He held this responsibility on an annual retainer of £500 for the rest of his life. He devised a scheme of coastal charts intended to run from the Mozambique Channel to the China Sea and during fifteen years published almost 600 plans of ports, coastal surveys, and views for incorporation in that scheme (fig. 192). Difficulties in reconciling observations in earlier deduced-reckoning journals, and the lack of reliable longitude data, brought to a standstill his efforts to draw accurate charts of the Indian Ocean. An active member of the Royal Society and its affiliated dining club, and increasingly geographical advisor to government officials on such matters as George Vancouver’s voyage, supply routes to Nootka Sound, Charles Cathcart’s embassy to China, the southern whale fishery, and the Hudson’s Bay Company project to export sea otter pelts to China, Dalrymple was appointed hydrographer to the Admiralty in 1795. The post, which he held in parallel with his East India Company responsibility, was created for him, ostensibly to organize an accumulation of manuscript charts and plans but in reality to give official status to the advice he was providing to the government. In 1800 he introduced engravers and a proofing press to the Admiralty, producing, among 150 copperplates, two series of proof charts for the south coast of England but without either budget or resources to publish them. Meanwhile he continued his East India Company charts and nautical directions, culminating in 1806 with Collection of Nautical Memoirs and Journals. In the fourth (1806) edition of Essay on Nautical Surveying he issued for the first time much material intended for his unfinished 1780s manual “Practical Navigation.” The controversy that marred Dalrymple’s last years, leading to his dismissal from the Admiralty and perhaps hastening his death in 1808, arose from changes in the Admiralty’s expectations for the office of hydrographer

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Fig. 192. ALEXANDER DALRYMPLE, CHART FROM PADANG TO BOONGAS BAY ON THE WEST COAST OF SUMATRA (LONDON, 1788). Printed chart, scale ca. 1:25,000. This chart exemplifies the manuscript source material (port plans and detailed coast surveys) that Dalrymple gathered and published to contribute to his effort to produce

charts of the coasts from the Mozambique Channel to the Red Sea and represents his demanding standards for quality of engraving, with particular emphasis on the topography of the coastal view. Size of the original: 28 × 45 cm. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh (EMW.b.2.13[265]).

and from his intransigence in deflecting them. Tasked in 1807 to compile “a compleat set of all Charts published in England,” he declined the supplementary request to evaluate them because, as commercial charts, they generally lacked authorities, and because he was unfamiliar with the coasts they covered (Cook 2008). He recommended a committee of naval officers to advise on charts for fleet use, and this Chart Committee began to regulate more closely his activities, particularly the prioritization of charts for engraving. The issue chosen by the committee to ease Dalrymple into retirement was that of the security copies he had made in 1795 of charts from Joseph-Antoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux’s voyage: he consistently refused to relinquish them to the committee on grounds of confidentiality and was dismissed on 28 May 1808. He died three weeks later, probably of a heart attack induced by his fierce reaction to dismissal. Dalrymple’s library of geographical works, his nautical papers, and his published charts, plans, and memoirs

were his tangible legacy and went by his will to form the core of the Admiralty Library and Hydrographic Office collections. The East India Company declined the copperplates of his charts and plans, almost four hundred of which were later reissued by the Admiralty. Though versed in navigation and survey, Dalrymple’s importance is as an accumulator, compiler, editor, and publisher of charts and nautical memoirs, both for the East India Company and the Admiralty’s nascent Hydrographical Office. And rew S. Cook See also: East India Company (Great Britain); Hydrographical Office, Admiralty (Great Britain); Marine Chart; Marine Charting: Great Britain; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation Bibliography Cook, Andrew S. 1992. “Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808), Hydrographer to the East India Company and to the Admiralty, as Publisher: A Catalogue of Books and Charts.” 3 vols. PhD diss., University of St. Andrews. ———. 2002. “Establishing the Sea Routes to India and China: Stages in the Development of Hydrographical Knowledge.” In The Worlds

Danish West Indies of the East India Company, ed. H. V. Bowen, Margarette Lincoln, and Nigel Rigby, 119–36. Woodbridge: Boydell Press. ———. 2008. “Dalrymple, Alexander (1737–1808).” In Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Online edition. Fry, Howard T. 1970. Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808) and the Expansion of British Trade. London: Frank Cass.

Danish West Indies. The Danish West Indies (now the U.S. Virgin Islands) were the colonial apex of Denmark’s Atlantic triangular trade. The Vestindisk-guineisk Kompagni (Danish West India and Guinea Company, 1671– 1754) settled St. Thomas in 1671 and St. John in 1718. In 1733 it purchased St. Croix, the largest of the islands, from France. Its shareholders were promised plantation land on St. Croix in return for their obligatory reinvestment. The land was to be distributed by lottery, so the directors ordered the division of the best land into lots not only of uniform dimensions but of equal value. Cartographically inexperienced local officials attempted to comply with these requirements as expeditiously and with as few survey lines as possible; the result was a strikingly regular grid of rectangular properties. The grid was easy to visualize and draw, so the earliest maps amounted to little more than arrangements of largely blank rectangles representing plantation lots. Actual topographic survey was neglected. The origins of this system thus shared none of the grandly rationalistic and geographical vision of the rectangular survey systems subsequently adopted in the United States and elsewhere (Hopkins 1992a, 70; 1992b; 1992c, 168–69; 1993a, 101–2). St. Croix’s eighty square miles proved surprisingly difficult to map. A succession of officers worked on the cadastral survey, but the first Danish map of the entire island was not completed until 1750 (fig. 193). This was mainly the work of Lieutenant Johann Cronenberg. It is an extraordinarily informative map, far more so than any other contemporary agricultural record for the island: besides topography and hydrography, it purports to show every major structure in rural areas, including slave dwellings, and the outlines of individual fields of sugar cane and cotton. Cronenberg’s uncertain rendering of the northwestern coast confirms that he constructed his map from the inside out, building on the plantation grid. Where no plantations had yet been taken up, in the steep hills of the Northside quarters, there were no lines of access along plantation boundaries, no traverses, and thus no standard geometric blocks to work with. Cronenberg’s depiction of the harbor approaches was quite detailed, and it appears that his map was passed to the Danish nautical charts authority and then forgotten. It survives only in a single manuscript copy (Hopkins 1989). A much simpler map of St. Croix, Tilforladelig kort

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over eylandet St. Croix udi America by Jens Michelsen Beck, was published in Copenhagen in 1754, just when the Danish Crown dissolved the company and took over the administration of the colony. Beck’s map showed neither relief nor land use; indeed, its main element was the rectangular survey system. This simple line engraving proved useful for cadastral purposes: a number of prints survive, with manuscript annotations and color depicting changing patterns of landownership (Hopkins 1993a). Crown officials apparently referred to Beck’s map in the course of an audit of landownership on St. Croix in 1759 (Hopkins 1992a, 73). A military engineer, Peter Lotharius Oxholm, was sent to survey the defensive works on all three islands in the unsettled international climate of the American Revolutionary War. He produced plans and perspectives of the fortifications and large-scale maps of the towns. In 1794, Oxholm, by that time a wealthy planter, while working on a highly remarkable agricultural census in the administrative context of Denmark’s abolition of its Atlantic slave trade, completed a new topographic map of St. Croix. Like Cronenberg and Beck, he relied extensively on the regular geometric framework supplied by the original plantation survey, although he personally knew it to be rife with inconsistency. The Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab, declined to publish the map in its national topographic series because its fine detail made it prohibitively expensive to engrave. Oxholm published it himself in 1799 (Hopkins 1993b; Hopkins, Morgan, and Roberts 2011, 92–94). Oxholm also mapped the more sparsely populated St. John in 1779 and 1780; he published this map, too, in 1800. He did not map St. Thomas, of which a map of unknown provenance, published by Gerard van Keulen in 1719, was found serviceable throughout the eighteenth century (Hopkins 1993b, 31, 41–43, 53). The most important map of the territory around the Danish slaving forts on the Guinea Coast near Accra was compiled in 1802 by Peter Thonning, a natural historian of typically catholic eighteenth-century geographical interests. He was sent there shortly before Denmark’s abolition of the Atlantic slave trade took effect to assess the potential of the territory for large-scale plantation agriculture on the West Indian model. Earlier depictions of the Danish position in West Africa had amounted to no more than strings of named dots along a straight line representing the coast. At least sixteen manuscript versions of the map survive, the last dated 1847, evidence of Thonning’s reliance on the repeatedly updated map in advocating a major new African colonial endeavor within the Danish central administration. However, Denmark’s African colonial plans never really recovered from the economic and territorial devastation of the

Fig. 193. JOHANN CRONENBERG AND JOHANN CHRISTOPH VON JÆGERSBERG, “CHARTE OVER EILANDET ST. CROIX UDI AMERICA,” 1750. Pen-and-ink and watercolor copy by C. v. Holten, 1:32,000. The map displays the island’s topography, the cadastral grid, the names of plantation owners or tenants, plantation buildings, slave dwellings, and

cultivated fields (sugar cane in yellow, cotton in pale blue, and provision grounds or pasture in grey stipple), as well as woods and bush (in green). Size of the original: 101.5 × 144.5 cm. Rigsarkivet, Copenhagen (Søkort-Arkivet, Map A18/049). Image courtesy of Geodatastyrelsen, Nørresundby.

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Napoleonic Wars. When the African forts were sold to Great Britain in 1850, an annotated copy of Thonning’s map was attached to an English governor’s report of his tour of this new addition to the British imperial atlas (Hopkins 1998, 2013). Da n iel H o pkins See also: Denmark and Norway; Property Mapping B i bliogra p hy Hopkins, Daniel. 1989. “An Extraordinary Eighteenth-Century Map of the Danish Sugar-Plantation Island St. Croix.” Imago Mundi 41: 44–58. ———. 1992a. “An 18th-Century Cadastral Audit in the Danish West Indies.” Cartography and Geographic Information Systems 19:69–79. ———. 1992b. “An Early Map and the Cadastral Survey of St. Croix, Danish West Indies, 1734–41/A Cartographic Cul-de-Sac.” Cartographica 29, nos. 3 and 4:1–19. ———. 1992c. “The Eighteenth-Century Invention of a Measure in the Caribbean: The Danish Acre of St Croix.” Journal of Historical Geography 18:158–73. ———. 1993a. “Jens Michelsen Beck’s Map of a Danish West Indian Sugar-Plantation Island: Eighteenth-Century Colonial Cartography, Land Administration, Speculation, and Fraud.” Terrae Incognitae 25:99–114. ———. 1993b. “Peter Lotharius Oxholm and Late EighteenthCentury Danish West Indian Cartography.” In The Danish Presence and Legacy in the Virgin Islands, ed. Svend E. Holsoe and John H. McCollum, 29–56. Frederiksted: St. Croix Landmarks Society. ———. 1998. “Peter Thonning’s Map of Danish Guinea and Its Use in Colonial Administration and Atlantic Diplomacy, 1801–1890.” In Cartography and Statecraft: Studies in Governmental Mapmaking in Modern Europe and Its Colonies, ed. James R. Akerman, Monograph 52, Cartographica 35, nos. 3 and 4:99–122. ———. 2013. Peter Thonning and Denmark’s Guinea Commission: A Study in Nineteenth-Century African Colonial Geography. Leiden: Brill. Hopkins, Daniel, Philip Morgan, and Justin Roberts. 2011. “The Application of GIS to the Reconstruction of the Slave-Plantation Economy of St. Croix, Danish West Indies.” Historical Geography 39:85–104.

De Brahm, William Gerard. William Gerard De Brahm was born on 20 August 1718, in Koblenz, Germany, where his father was a court musician to the Elector of Triers. Nothing is known of his education, but from his accomplishments and writings it must have been appropriate to his social station, following the educational precepts of the Enlightenment. After a successful period of service in the imperial army, where he rose to the rank of captain engineer, De Brahm surrendered his commission and renounced his Roman Catholic faith in order to marry. In 1751, with a new wife, De Brahm was placed in charge of a large contingent of displaced German Lutherans being transported to the colony of Georgia in America. Having arrived, De Brahm’s talents as a military engineer and surveyor soon brought him to the attention

of colonial administrators in Georgia and neighboring South Carolina. In 1752 he was summoned to South Carolina and commissioned to design and oversee the construction of a comprehensive system of fortifications for Charleston. Later he would serve as an interim surveyor general in South Carolina’s colonial government. In 1756 he journeyed deep into the Cherokee heartland to design and direct the construction of historic Fort Loudoun in what is now eastern Tennessee. When the Georgia Trusteeship’s government ended and a royal government was established in 1754, De Brahm was appointed as one of the colony’s two “Surveyors of Land,” or surveyors general (De Brahm 1971, 15). De Brahm played a key role in designing schemes of defense and building fortifications in Georgia, where he had acquired large landholdings. Many of the maps and plans he drew for these and his other projects are extant and reveal his considerable ability as an engineer and surveyor-cartographer. De Brahm’s finest hour was in early 1764, when he received commissions to serve in two newly created offices, of surveyor general of lands for the colony of East Florida and surveyor general for the Southern District of North America. In the latter position he was responsible for the surveying and mapping of Britain’s colonial empire extending from the Potomac River in the north to the Florida Keys in the south. The publication by Thomas Jefferys in 1757 of De Brahm’s much-lauded A Map of South Carolina and a Part of Georgia (fig. 194) did much to commend De Brahm as qualified for this important imperial post. Taking up residence in St. Augustine, De Brahm produced a truly impressive collection of maps and reports that were forwarded to London during the period 1765– 71. Late twentieth-century researchers who employed them in historical ecological reconstructions found De Brahm’s maps to be amazingly accurate and thorough and not improved upon until the coming of the U.S. Coast Survey a century later. While conducting hydrographic surveys along Florida’s eastern coast, De Brahm became impressed with the strength of the Gulf Stream. Regrettably the outbreak of the American Revolution interrupted his indepth research on the current and saw him made a prisoner-at-large upon landing in Charleston. De Brahm was allowed to return to England, where he suffered an extended period of ill-health, before finally returning to America, where he settled outside Philadelphia in 1791. After De Brahm died there in 1799, his scientific and navigation instruments were sold. Thomas Jefferson was pleased to purchase De Brahm’s universal equatorial telescope for his own use in 1792. Lo ui s D e Vorsey

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Fig. 194. DETAIL (ROTATED) OF THE BOUNDARY BETWEEN NORTH CAROLINA AND SOUTH CAROLINA ON DE BRAHM’S A MAP OF SOUTH CAROLINA AND A PART OF GEORGIA, 1757. This careful delineation of the course of the Little River exemplifies De Brahm’s concern for delineating landscapes.

Size of the entire original: 135 × 122 cm; size of detail: ca. 17.1 × 33.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3910 1757 D4).

See also: Administrative Cartography: British America; Atlantic Neptune, The; British America; Gulf Stream; Topographical Surveying: British America; Trade and Plantations, Board of (Great Britain) Bibliograp hy De Brahm, William Gerard. 1971. De Brahm’s Report of the General Survey in the Southern District of North America. Ed. Louis De Vorsey. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. ———. 1974. The Atlantic Pilot: A Facsimile Reproduction of the 1772 Edition. Ed., intro., and index by Louis De Vorsey. Gainesville: University Presses of Florida. De Vorsey, Louis. 1976. “Pioneer Charting of the Gulf Stream: The Contributions of Benjamin Franklin and William Gerard De Brahm.” Imago Mundi 28:105–20.

MacArdell to engrave his likeness (fig. 195). Like many subjects of eighteenth-century portraitists, Dobbs was shown with props that reflected his interests and his significant lifetime achievements as surveyor general and as governor of North Carolina. Thus, he was posed with a globe in the background, holding a protractor in one hand, signifying a worldview appropriate to his station. The map held in his other hand has been identified as being of North Carolina, subtly implying his firm grasp on his authority as governor vested in him by the Board of Trade. Maps and globes were also used as a symbolic device in two-dimensional art to represent gender. The painting of the Thomas Bateson family (1762) features Bateson’s daughters holding objects associated with their gender: music and flowers. The Bateson sons, on the other hand, are portrayed actively studying the globe; one of the sons points to the globe while the other holds a map in his hands (fig. 196). Maps, charts, atlases, and globes were considered important symbols of the enlightened gentleman. As important as they were for documenting new discoveries, promoting settlement, and recording boundaries, they were equally regarded for the intellectual aura that they invoked. The display of maps on walls visually distinguished learned men from those less

Decoration, Maps as. The role of maps as decorative devices in domestic and public interiors in Europe is touched upon throughout this volume, particularly in those instances where public display was part of a map’s raison d’être, as was often the case with urban mapping, property mapping, and administrative cartography. The following essay considers examples largely found in British settings, evoking parallels certainly to be found in other regions. Shortly after Arthur Dobbs, surveyor general of Ireland, was appointed to the post of governor of North Carolina in January 1753, he commissioned James

Decoration, Maps as

Fig. 195. HIS EXCELLENCY ARTHUR DOBBS ESQR, CA. 1753–65. Engraved by James MacArdell after a painting by William Hoare, London; black-and-white mezzotint. Size of the original: ca. 35 × 25 cm. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Museum Purchase (accession #1995-205).

well educated. Just as maps were included as symbolic representations on an artist’s canvas or an engraver’s plate, they were used expressively on the walls of public and domestic spaces with full appreciation of the ideas and associations they embodied. Household inventories, private correspondence, newspaper advertisements, and visual sources provide clues for where and how maps were hung. In 1720, London printseller Thomas Bowles advertised “large Mapps upon Cloath for Halls &c.” Several decades later, Peter Griffin advertised that he also sold “all sorts of Maps both Foreign and English” and “fitteth up Gent. halls, or Large Rooms wth Maps or Prints on Rolers” (Clayton 1997, 23, 110). Both advertisements document the preference for hanging large maps mounted on cloth and rollers in the hall. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, halls generally served as the primary space for dining, entertaining, and socializing. They were generally large and often were the first space that most visi-

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tors encountered. Not only did Griffin suggest that this was a suitable location in which to display his wares but by characterizing them as “Gent. halls,” he recognized them as a masculine space within the house. American colonists, eager to adopt English trends in architecture, fashion, and furnishings, also subscribed to the notion of the hall as a masculine space. In 1737, Edward Moseley’s map of North Carolina was advertised in the Virginia Gazette as “a very large Map, (being Five Feet long, and Four Feet broad, on Two Sheets of Elephant Paper) it’s not only Useful, but Ornamental, for Gentlemans Halls, Parlours, or Stair-cases” (9–16 September 1737, 4; Brückner 2011, 420). The high visibility of these spaces provided gentlemen with an opportunity to display objects that reflected their station in society. Maps were less frequently hung in rooms associated with female activities. By the first decades of the eighteenth century, separate rooms for dining became an essential element of domestic architecture in England and the American colonies. Virtually from their inception, dining rooms assumed a masculine character while parlors, on the other hand, were considered more feminine spaces (Girouard 1978, 203–6, 233). Masculine associations were implied in dining rooms by the choice of architectural appointments and the use of simplified, less-embellished household furnishings, such as the Doric order, favored by Thomas Jefferson at Monticello, and likened to “a certain masculine and natural beauty” (Fréart 1664, 10). Household inventories that listed the contents room-by-room frequently recorded maps in this location. In many cases maps were itemized immediately before or after fireplace tools, suggesting that they hung over the mantle, usually the primary focal wall of a room. In 1679, London mapseller John Garrett described a map on rollers as “a fit ornament for a chimney piece” (quoted in Barber 1990, 2). In the inventory of household goods taken at the death of Norborne Berkeley, fourth baron de Botetourt, royal governor of Virginia from 1768 to 1770, John Henry’s A New and Accurate Map of Virginia of 1770 was listed in the dining room of the governor’s palace, immediately after the fireplace equipment and ceramic figurines located on the mantle shelf. Since two desks and a writing table were also included among the furnishings of the room, it is likely that in addition to dining in this location, the governor conducted business there as well. The prominent position that this map assumed in the room that likely served as the cultural and intellectual center of the Palace is significant given that the mapmaker’s son, Patrick Henry, was one of the driving forces behind the resolves against the Stamp Act. It is likely that by choosing to hang Henry’s map in such an important location, the governor was attempting a diplomatic show of support for the Virginia colonists.

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Fig. 196. THE FAMILY OF THOMAS BATESON, ESQ.,  1762. Attributed to Strickland Lowry, Belfast; oil on canvas.

Size of the original: 163.7 × 264.0 cm. Collection Ulster Museum, © National Museums Northern Ireland, Belfast (BELUM.U1664).

Walls of libraries and studies, where men retreated to pursue their intellectual interests, were also frequently hung with large maps (fig. 197). In 1701, Virginian William Fitzhugh left the family portraits and “the Large Mapp in my Study” to his eldest son (Fitzhugh 1963, 379). As typified in the wording of Fitzhugh’s will, most colonial American inventories and wills rarely identified maps by their actual title, therefore it is difficult to determine whether specific geographic regions or types of maps were preferred for more private spaces, such as libraries, over those that were chosen to be displayed in more visible locations. One notable exception to this was the previously mentioned household inventory of Virginia’s governor, Baron de Botetourt. In addition to making a significant political statement by hanging Henry’s map of Virginia in the dining room of the governor’s palace, the other maps that the governor chose to hang in the public rooms of the house were geographically relevant to the colony, while the map described hanging in Botetourt’s library was simply identified as a “Map of North and South America” (Botetourt Papers, Virginia State Library and Archives, Richmond, Virginia). Botetourt’s library provided him with a venue in which to privately study

and reflect upon his personal interests, thus it is likely that he chose to hang a map that included a broader geographical range than those selected for the public rooms in the palace. Large wall maps were necessary for shops and government offices to conduct business and administer policy, and for teaching purposes in academic buildings. In his 1790 catalog, Carington Bowles noted that his “FOUR-SHEET MAPS .  .  . are very useful ornaments for halls, entries, stair-cases, compting-houses, publicoffices, academies, &c.” (Bowles 1790, 11). Though Bowles listed the titles of the maps that he considered suitable to hang in these locations, it is far more difficult to document the presence of specific maps in nondomestic interiors than for domestic spaces since inventories and orders for goods rarely survive for them. In these instances, visual sources provide the primary resource. The interior of a Dutch shipping merchant’s establishment depicts maps possibly useful to the business nailed directly to the wall (fig. 198). One is a world map, and the other appears to be a depiction of the Mediterranean, perhaps an area in which this firm traded. Though the geography depicted on the rolled maps over the fireplace in the board room of the Admiralty (fig. 199) is

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Fig. 197. THE LIBRARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS’S HOUSE, BUCKINGHAM STREET, LONDON, CA. 1693. Attributed to Sutton Nicholls, London; watercolor on paper. Pepys decorated his study with the Nvova pianta et alzata della citta di Roma (1676) by Giovanni Battista Falda.

Size of the original: 33.3 × 48.6 cm. By permission of the Pepys Library, Magdalene College, Cambridge.

unknown, this view provides an invaluable suggestion for how maps were hung in British government offices. The publication in 1733 of Henry Popple’s monumental A Map of the British Empire in America offered a colonial opportunity for public display of maps. The commissioners of the Board of Trade instructed that copies be sent to each of the colonial capitals in America, with the likely intent that they be used in capitol buildings or state houses. In 1749, Benjamin Franklin ordered two copies of Popple’s map, adding “there must be some other large Map of the whole World, or of Asia, or Africa, or Europe, of equal Size with Popple’s to match it; they being to be hung, one on each side the Door in the Assembly Room; if none can be had of equal Size, send some Prospects of principal Cities, or the like, to be pasted on the Sides, to make up the Bigness” (Franklin 1959–, 3:77). Franklin’s desire to surround a smaller map with additional views to complement the large size

of Popple’s map emphasized the functional and decorative role of the wall map (Brückner 2017, 127–35). Margaret Be ck Pri tchard See also: Household Artifacts, Maps on; Iconography, Ornamentation, and Cartography; Map Collecting; Medals, Maps on; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Wall Map; Women and Cartography Bibliography Barber, Peter. 1990. “Necessary and Ornamental: Map Use in England under the Later Stuarts, 1660–1714.” Eighteenth Century Life 14, no. 3:1–28. Bowles, Carington. 1790. Carington Bowles’s New and Enlarged Catalogue of Accurate and Useful Maps, Plans and Prints of Various Sorts. London. Brückner, Martin. 2011. “The Spectacle of Maps in British America, 1750–1800.” In Early American Cartographies, ed. Martin Brückner, 389–441. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. ———. 2017. The Social Life of Maps in America, 1750–1860. Williamsburg: Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

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Fig. 198. INTERIOR OF A SHIPPING MERCHANT’S ESTABLISHMENT, PAINTED BY AUGUST CHRISTIAN HAUCK, 1783. Probably Rotterdam, watercolor on paper.

Size of the original: ca. 30 × 39 cm. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Museum Purchase (accession #1991-32).

Clayton, Tim. 1997. The English Print: 1688–1802. New Haven: Yale University Press. Fitzhugh, William. 1963. William Fitzhugh and His Chesapeake World, 1676–1701: The Fitzhugh Letters and Other Documents. Ed. Richard Beale Davis. Chapel Hill: For the Virginia Historical Society by the University of North Carolina Press. Franklin, Benjamin. 1959–. The Papers of Benjamin Franklin. Ed. Leonard Woods Labaree et al. New Haven: Yale University Press. Fréart, Roland. 1664. A Parallel of the Antient Architecture with the Modern. Trans. John Evelyn. London: Printed by Tho. Roycroft. Girouard, Mark. 1978. Life in the English Country House: A Social and Architectural History. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Flanders (1722), Defoe turned to writing and journalism after earlier failures as a merchant venturer. A strong formative influence on Defoe was his education at the progressive academy near London of the nonconformist minister Charles Morton, whose curriculum included the new scientific approach of experiment and observation. When Robert Harley, speaker of the House of Commons, hired Defoe in 1704 to travel incognito around England polling public opinion, he consciously became a scientific observer of human geography. Vickers notes that Defoe described himself as “a walking map” (1996, 58). During the same journeys he also observed trade moving along routes to and from London, the city at the heart of the nation. In the 1720s Defoe would describe that vital circulation of commerce in nonfiction books, chiefly the Tour thro’ the Whole Island of Great Britain (1724–26).

Defoe, Daniel. Daniel Defoe (1660–1731) includes a lengthy discussion about making and using world maps in his political satire disguised as a fantastic voyage to the moon, The Consolidator (1705). Much better known for his novels, Robinson Crusoe (1719) and Moll

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Fig. 199. BOARD ROOM OF THE ADMIRALTY, 1808. Engraved by John Hill and published by Rudolph Ackermann, London; hand-colored aquatint. See previous entry, p. 334.

Size of the original: ca. 23.5 × 28.5 cm. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, Museum Purchase (accession #1991–10).

However, he had already employed the idea of mapping the living human landscape in 1705 in The Consolidator. By then, ancient beliefs that the moon mirrored earth had evolved into a conventional literary vehicle for veiled criticism of life on earth. Defoe’s narrator recounts how he recently visited China, voyaged in a rocket ship to the moon, and encountered the technologically advanced civilization of Lunarians. They showed him magnifying glasses they used to view earth’s constantly changing phenomena—such as war, state policy, and social inequity—as animated world maps. Defoe has the Lunarians debate the best projection for such maps and choose a double-hemisphere globular projection that

allows an all-encompassing overview. They also decide that these complex human activities should be mapped on a series of single-theme maps rather than confusingly intermingled on one map. Defoe’s sources for his imaginings about Lunarian mapmakers can be surmised. His London intellectual environment included the Royal Society, publisher of a map by Edmond Halley showing scientific measurements of terrestrial magnetism as a visible geographical pattern (1701; see fig. 348). Halley had also captured the trade winds (1686; see fig. 776) and the tides (probably 1702) on maps (Thrower 1969). Defoe himself may well have looked through a microscope at the teeming

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Fig. 200. A MAP OF THE WORLD, ON WCH IS DELINEATED THE VOYAGES OF ROBINSON CRUSO, 1719. This double-hemisphere world map showing Crusoe’s fictional voyages mimics the maps engraved by Defoe’s friend, Herman Moll, for nonfiction travel books and has been attributed to

Moll. From Daniel Defoe, The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (London: Printed for W. Taylor, 1719). Size of the original: ca. 17.5 × 31.0 cm. Courtesy of Special Collections, Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas Libraries, Lawrence.

miniature world in a droplet of water, an image that had been published in Micrographia; or, Some Physiological Descriptions of Minute Bodies Made by Magnifying Glasses with Observations and Inquiries Thereupon (1665) by Robert Hooke, the scientist curator of experiments at the Royal Society since 1662. Micrographia also discusses the use of telescopes in astronomical observation. Defoe was also friends with a leading London geographer, Herman Moll, who provided the map illustration for The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (fig. 200). Although not a mapmaker himself, Defoe incorporated his observations of the emerging science of cartography in his books. He was a firsthand witness who presciently imagined how maps, along with other new scientific technology like the microscope and telescope, could extend human vision and empower their users to visualize natural and social environmental processes in action.

Bibliography Defoe, Daniel. 1705. The Consolidator; Or, Memoirs of Sundry Transactions from the World in the Moon. London: Benj. Bragg. Parkes, Christopher. 1995. “‘A True Survey of the Ground’: Defoe’s Tour and the Rise of Thematic Cartography.” Philological Quarterly 74:395–414. Thrower, Norman J. W. 1969. “Edmond Halley as a Thematic GeoCartographer.” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 59:652–76. Vickers, Ilse. 1996. Defoe and the New Sciences. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

K a r e n S ev erud Co o k See also: Halley, Edmond; Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages; Travel and Cartography

Delisle Family. Claude Delisle and his three sons, Guillaume, Louis, and Joseph-Nicolas—as well as Guillaume’s son-in-law Philippe Buache—renewed the importance of map compilation by employing and perfecting methods developed in France. “By always pairing astronomical position with reports on voyages on sea and land and comparing the result found by these two means with the details afforded by the history and particular descriptions of the countries, [Guillaume] made very great progress in very short time” (Fréret 1726, 475). Claude had taught Guillaume the practice of scholarly history

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through the rigorous critique of sources. Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) initiated Guillaume in the use of astronomical observations as demonstrated in Guillaume’s 1700 Mappe-monde (fig. 201). While he did not carry out observations himself, Guillaume’s brothers, Joseph-Nicolas and Louis (called Delisle de La Croyère), did. The systematic collection of data, both current and ancient, characterized the work of the Delisles and allows one to follow the stages of their labor. Several scholars have successfully described these stages: Marie-Anne Chabin for Russia (1983), Lucie Lagarde for the Sea of the West and, more broadly, for North America (1989 and 1995), Nelson-Martin Dawson also for North America (2000), and Monique Pelletier for the Gulf of Mexico (2002). The Delisles interviewed travelers to complement written information: “Whenever [Guillaume] would meet a Syrian or an Armenian in Paris, he would question him and take him home to question him further; and as long as he was able to learn more about a single route or the distance and position of  a few villages, he considered the time consumed in these conversations well spent” (Fréret 1726, 486). Philippe Buache continued the Delisles’ cartographic work and methods; for example, Guillaume’s interest in the Mediterranean Sea resulted in a map by Buache published in 1737 by the Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine. The link from Europe and Asia to North America and an understanding of Russia also preoccupied this famous family. Claude and Guillaume Delisle Son of a doctor from Lorraine, Claude Delisle was born at Vaucouleurs (Meuse) on 5 November 1644. He studied at the Jesuit college in Pont-à-Mousson. Though licensed in law, he preferred history and geography and left Champagne in 1674 to become a much-esteemed professor in Paris. He wrote his own lessons and adapted them to the capabilities of his pupils, among whom was Philippe I, duc d’Orléans, brother of Louis XIV, later Regent of France (Dawson 2000, 21–25). In 1674, Claude married Marie Malaine, who bore Guillaume Delisle and his brother Simon-Claude, a historian, and who died ca. 1683–84. Claude then married Charlotte Nicole Millet de La Croyère, daughter of an avocat in the Parlement and mother of Louis and Joseph-Nicolas Delisle. They lived on the rue des Canettes, near the church and seminary of Saint-Sulpice (Chabin 1983, 13–14; Dawson 2000, 21, 23, 27). Of Claude’s numerous children, only five reached adulthood. Claude instructed his three sons who became geographers that a geographer should not only know longitudes and latitudes, climates, and the paths of rivers, but also understand the foundations of political organization in the countries he studied (Chabin 1983, 16). He died in 1720.

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Claude and Guillaume (b. Paris, 28 February 1675) worked together, as documents preserved in the Archives nationales de France attest. From 1700, Guillaume signed the printed maps compiled and published in the Delisle workshop. He began by drawing up general maps, “outlines of the representation of the earth,” and completed them with more detailed maps “whose subject is growing when it is examined more closely” (Fontenelle 1728, 80). Guillaume entered the Académie des sciences as a student astronomer in 1702 and became associate astronomer in 1718 (his son-in-law, Philippe Buache, later held the post of geographer), and he used the observations assembled by the Académie for his geographical work. The scientific character and originality of Guillaume’s work manifested itself in a lawsuit pitting Claude and Guillaume against Jean-Baptiste Nolin. In 1700 Nolin had published a large world map titled Le globe terrestre representé en deux plans-hemispheres, which copied elements unique to a manuscript globe given by the Delisles in 1697 to chancellor of France Louis Boucherat; among these elements was the Sea of the West, a large gulf in Northwest America open to the Pacific (see fig. 746). Guillaume had sketched its contours on the “Carte de la Nouvelle France,” which remained in manuscript (fig. 202). Dawson suggests that the Delisles remained discreet about the pseudo-discovery because they were not completely certain about it (Dawson 2000, 118–30), while Lagarde speculates that they wished above all to protect what they considered a state secret (Lagarde 1989, 25). To these hypotheses must be added the Delisles’ jealousy toward Vincenzo Coronelli, who had produced the large globes for Louis XIV, and his engraver Nolin. Claude Delisle placed his thirty years of practicing geography against Nolin’s forty years of engraving experience. The experts appointed for the lawsuit, Joseph Sauveur and François Chevalier, members of the Académie des sciences, distinguished between common geographic knowledge shared by all (based notably on data published by the Académie) and original geographic interpretation (based on collected heterogeneous documents). The latter interpretative work was unique to a cartographer and belonged to him alone (Broc 1970; Dawson 2000, 30–37). In 1706 the Conseil du Roi ordered Nolin to destroy his copperplates, but Delisle agreed to have only particular geographical elements erased (Lagarde 1989, 25); as shown on the impression kept by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (Département des cartes et plans, Ge AA 1259 Res), only the attractive décor remained untouched. Guillaume Delisle’s reputation was further enhanced when he was named premier géographe, reinforcing his family’s connection with power. Louis XIV had asked him to prepare a list of maps for the education  of the

Fig. 201. GUILLAUME DELISLE, MAPPE-MONDE DRESSÉE SUR LES OBSERVATIONS DE MRS. DE L’ACADEMIE ROYALE DES SCIENCES ET QUELQUES AUTRES ET SUR LES MEMOIRES LES PLUS RECENS (PARIS, 1700).

Size of the original: 43 × 66 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [84 B]).

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Fig. 202. GUILLAUME DELISLE, “CARTE DE LA NOUVELLE FRANCE ET DES PAŸS VOISINS,” 1696. The outline of the Mer de l’ouest (Sea of the West) may be seen.

Size of the original: 48.8 × 64.0 cm. © Archives nationales (France) (Map/6/JJ/75/A/130/1).

dauphin, the future Louis XV. After the young monarch’s accession to the throne in September 1715, Guillaume became his official geography tutor. “His work so pleased the king [then eight years old], that he rewarded him—by royal warrant on 24 August 1718—with the position of premier géographe [a new position], with a salary of 1,200 livres” (Fréret 1726, 484). Guillaume henceforth noted on his maps that they were intended first and foremost “for the king’s use.” In the twenty-seven years between 1700 and 1726, Guillaume Delisle published about 120 maps, either as separates or as illustrations of other works. He produced about 20 historical maps; some concerning France and intended for the king’s education remained unpublished (Goffart 2003, 240–42). In 1720 Guillaume stressed the original elements he had introduced in his maps: new contours for most of the world’s coasts, the position of

the Île de Fer in relation to the Paris meridian, and the improved layout of the northern portions of the globe. He also mapped the dioceses and provinces of France, using the work of the Académie and without conducting new surveys himself; as with his mapping of the world, he remained a compiler. Half of his work focused on Europe and half of his European maps concerned France. America in particular captured his attention: the location of the mouth of the Mississippi and the cartography of that great river; the representation of California, which resumed a peninsular shape in 1700; the cartography of the Gulf of Mexico in 1703; and a map of Louisiana in 1718. This work followed the evolution of relations between France and Spain, all the while serving France’s colonial ambitions. Like his father and his brother Joseph-Nicolas, Guillaume was interested in the Russian Empire; he

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published maps of Moscovy and Tartary in 1706. Czar Peter I saw the map of Muscovy on his visit to France and on 17  January 1717 met Guillaume, to whom he showed some manuscript maps. In 1720 and 1721, the scholar received from the czar two maps of the Caspian Sea, on which he presented a report to the Académie in December 1721 (Chabin 1983, 58–65). Peter  I and Guillaume died one year apart, in 1725 and 1726. Joseph-Nicolas Delisle and Louis Delisle de La Croyère Born in Paris on 4 April 1688, JosephNicolas developed an interest in astronomy after seeing the total eclipse of the sun on 12 March 1706. He first practiced astronomy at the Paris Observatory with Jacques Cassini (II) and then under the cupola of the Palais du Luxembourg, though he was forced to leave at the end of 1715 (Isnard 1915, 35–36). JosephNicolas became a student astronomer at the Académie des sciences in 1714, adjunct astronomer in 1716, and associate astronomer in 1719, having also obtained in 1718 the chair of mathematics at the Collège royal. He regularly communicated the results of his observations to the Académie. Like Guillaume, Joseph-Nicolas was interested in the future of Russian geography. In 1721 he was officially invited to Russia by Peter I. He agreed, but confirmation was delayed and the corresponding contract was not signed until 25 June 1725 (after Peter I’s death). Joseph-Nicolas was to establish an observatory in St. Petersburg and to work for that city’s academy of science, Akademiya nauk, as a liaison to its Parisian counterpart. Arriving in St. Petersburg on 5 March 1726, he became the first professor in astronomy at the Russian academy, to which other foreigners (mainly Germans) belonged (Chabin 1983, 66–76). Joseph-Nicolas carried out numerous on-site observations, and he attempted to participate in the debate on the shape of the earth. His principal task was to establish a general map of the Russian Empire using the Delisle method of matching astronomical observations with measurements from travelers. He succeeded in assembling (not without difficulty) maps and reports by Russian geodesists sent into the field by Peter I. In 1730, Joseph-Nicolas received from Vitus Bering the results of the explorer’s first expedition. Delisle prepared materials for the second expedition, in which his elder brother Louis Delisle de La Croyère (b. ca. 1685?) participated; Louis had accompanied Joseph-Nicolas to St. Petersburg. Before his stay in Russia, Louis had visited Canada in 1718–19 and been named adjunct astronomer at the French Académie des sciences in 1725. During a voyage in 1727–30 through northern Russia, Louis made meteorological and astronomical observations that resulted in fairly accurate determinations of

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latitude and less dependable calculations of longitude (Klein 2001, 67–103). Louis joined Bering’s second expedition, which departed in August 1733. He criss-crossed Siberia for seven years and married a Russian woman in August 1736 (Chabin 1983, 104–7; Dawson 2000, 23). After meeting Bering in Kamachatka, he set out for the Alaskan coast under the command of Bering’s lieutenant Aleksey Il’ich Chirikov without disembarking. Louis died on the return to Kamchatka in the autumn of 1741. Joseph-Nicolas rarely traveled in Russia. Nevertheless, in 1740 he made a trip to Siberia, having lost effective direction of the map of the Russian Empire in 1739. He tried to accelerate the completion of his cartographic work, and the Akademiya nauk published the Atlas Rossiyskoy (Atlas Rvssicvs = Atlas Russien) in 1745, which included a general map of Russia (see fig. 316) and nineteen specific maps. However, Joseph-Nicolas was accused of having delayed the production of the general map and of allowing confidential documents to reach France. He was permitted to leave St. Petersburg in 1747 and to bring some documents with him, but not all of the map copies he had made. Once back in Paris, the astronomer continued his observations at the Palais du Luxembourg. On 8 April 1750, he delivered a paper on the “Nouvelles découvertes au nord de la mer du Sud” to the Académie des sciences, which published it in 1752, accompanied by a map designed by Buache (see fig. 390). This map showed a strait linking the northern Pacific to the Arctic Ocean based on Joseph-Nicolas’s Russian documentation. But the astronomer used a document whose authenticity he wrongly failed to question: the report of the putative 1640 expedition directed by a Spanish admiral whose very existence is questionable, Bartholomew Fonte (de Fuente). This expedition was supposed to have crossed a vast region situated west of Hudson Bay and Baffin Bay and north of the Sea of the West—the previous chimera of the Delisles (Académie royale des sciences 1754). Joseph-Nicolas’s final major publication was the Carte générale de la Géorgie et de l’Arménie in 1766 (Allen 1956, 145–49). He retired in 1763 to the abbey of Sainte-Geneviève in Paris, where he died on 11 September 1768. The reputation of the elder members of the Delisle family made the Russian adventures of the younger members possible. The cartographic work of Guillaume, upon which this reputation was largely founded, spread widely, thanks to the reprints by Buache beginning in 1745 and the editions produced throughout Europe: at Amsterdam by Covens & Mortier, Ottens, and Schenk; at Nuremberg by Homann; at Augsburg by Seutter and Lotter. Mo ni q ue Pelletier See also: Academies of Science: Akademiya nauk (Academy of Sciences; Russia); Bering Expeditions to Northeast Asia; Geographical Mapping: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France, (3) Russia; Imaginary

Denmark and Norway Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages; Map Trade: France; Sea of the West B i bliogra p hy Académie royale des sciences. 1754. “Géographie.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1750: 142–52. Allen, W. E. D. 1956. “The Sources for G. Delisle’s ‘Carte des pays voisins de la mer Caspiene’ of 1723.” Imago Mundi 13:137–50. Broc, Numa. 1970. “Une affaire de plagiat cartographique sous Louis XIV: Le procès Delisle-Nolin.” Revue d’Histoire des Sciences et de Leurs Applications 23:141–53. Chabin, Marie-Anne. 1983. “Les Français et la Russie dans la première moitié du XVIIIe siècle: La famille Delisle et les milieux savants.” Thèse, l’École nationale des chartes, Paris. Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillery: Septentrion. Fontenelle, Bernard Le Bouyer de. 1728. “Eloge de M. Delisle.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1726: 75–84. Fréret, Nicolas. 1726. “Lettre à M. de L. R. sur les ouvrages geographiques de M. De Lisle.” Mercure de France, mars, 468–91. Goffart, Walter. 2003. Historical Atlases: The First Three Hundred Years, 1570–1870. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Isnard, Albert. 1915. “Joseph-Nicolas Delisle, sa biographie et sa collection de cartes géographiques à la Bibliothèque nationale.” Bulletin de la Section de Géographie 30:34–161. Klein, Olivier. 2001. “Un voyage scientifique au XVIIIe siècle, le voyage dans le nord de la Russie de Louis Delisle de La Croyère (1727–1730).” Université de Paris 7—Denis Diderot, mémoire de maîtrise d’histoire. Lagarde, Lucie. 1989. “Le Passage du Nord-Ouest et la Mer de l’Ouest dans la cartographie française du 18e siècle, contribution à l’étude de l’oeuvre des Delisle et Buache.” Imago Mundi 41:19–43. ———. 1995. “Un cartographe face à ses sources: Guillaume Delisle (1675–1726) et l’Amérique du Nord.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 129–45. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Pelletier, Monique. 2002. “The Working-Method of the New Cartographers: The Gulf of Mexico and Spanish Sources, 1696–1718.” Terrae Incognitae 34:60–72. Petrella, Marco. 2009. “Guillaume Delisle’s Carte du Duché de Bourgogne: The Role of Central and Peripheral Authorities in the Construction of a Provincial Territory in France in the Early 18th Century.” Journal of Map and Geography Libraries 5:17–39.

Denmark and Norway. After 1382, the kingdoms of Denmark and Norway were joined in a personal union. However, the imposition of Protestantism on Norway in 1536 significantly reduced the autonomy of the northern kingdom, a status reinforced in 1660 by the adoption of absolute rule by Frederik III; Norway would eventually be ceded to Sweden by the Treaty of Kiel (1814). To the south, the kings of Denmark were also dukes of both Slesvig (Schleswig), considered to be part of Denmark, and Holstein, an estate within the Holy Roman Empire; Prussia would eventually annex the duchies in 1864. Furthermore, Denmark and Norway also encompassed Iceland, the Faroe Islands, Greenland, the Danish West Indies (Virgin Islands), and Fort Tranquebar in India (from 1620). These diffuse territories could not sustain a coherent

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Danish-Norwegian mapping tradition, and the historical literature is understandably fragmented. Each territory within the state was a distinct political entity. In particular, and despite its subordination to Denmark, Norway possessed its own political institutions and means of action and retained a degree of independence, certainly with respect to mapping. The two primary countries also offered quite different environments to be mapped: Denmark is relatively small and highly populated, with all areas lying close to sea level, whereas Norway is much longer, much less densely populated, and very mountainous. The establishment of absolutism in 1660—a response to the failures in the government and military that had led to the loss to Sweden in 1658 of the three Scanian provinces and their substantial tax revenues—meant that authority for most mapping projects lay with the Crown. But each king had his own particular interest, or lack thereof, in the sciences, arts, and cartography, so that no consistent cartographic policy could develop. The institutional weakness of the Danish Crown is evident from the ability of Johann Friedrich Struensee, the Germanborn personal physician to the mentally infirm Christian VII, to become de facto regent for thirteen months before being overthrown and executed in 1772. Through the seventeenth century and to the end of the Great Northern War (1700–1721), Denmark waged a series of generally disastrous and financially ruinous wars with Sweden. State institutions were accordingly too weak to permit institutionally organized mapping endeavors. Most mapping projects across the state’s diffuse territories were undertaken by individuals with little support; each project ceased when the surveyors died or got new jobs. In addition, map printing was discouraged because of a desire for secrecy during the many wars. Early cartographic activities in Denmark and Norway thus circulated in manuscript, not only detailed plans of property and fortifications but also the more general maps promoted by individuals and the state. Grand plans repeatedly fell through. The royal mathematician Johannes Mejer made a general map of Denmark for the king in 1650, but his plans for an atlas of Scandinavia were derailed by the defeat to Sweden in 1658; only his maps of Slesvig were ever printed. In Norway, the Dutch engineer Isaac van Geelkerck made numerous fortification plans, but his regional mapping of Norway is known only from a manuscript map of the entire realm probably prepared by Gottfried Hoffmann in about 1660 (fig. 203). The same situation applied to the Danish chartmaker Jens Sørensen, who, from 1687 to 1723, produced hundreds of high-quality maps not only of Danish waters but also of other Scandinavian areas; none of his maps was printed. The need to increase tax revenues led to the organization of a national cadastre for Denmark in 1688. The

Fig. 203. THE DANISH-NORWEGIAN REALM. Gottfried Hoffmann, “Daniæ et Norvegiæ tabvla,” 1660, dedicated to Frederik III (1658–60), also called the “Dano Norvego kortet.” The text on the map and a comparison with other maps confirms that Hoffmann’s map is based on Johannes Mejer’s 1650 map of Denmark and Isaac van Geelkerck’s map of Norway.

Manuscript with hand-printed lettering formed from metal type. Size of the original: 231 × 141 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Copenhagen (KBK 1110-0-1650).

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Fig. 204. MAP OF ICELAND. Þórður Þorláksson, “Islandia iuxta obsfrvationes [sic] longitudinum et latitudinum,” 1668.

Size of the original: 33.8 × 49.7 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Copenhagen (NKS 1088b, 1a,2 folio).

original plan called for the cadastre to be based on detailed maps, but this was prevented by the lack of money and surveyors. All that could be accomplished, starting in the 1720s, was a series of surveys of the king’s own properties to rationalize his tenants’ supply of horses. These maps were only in manuscript. The introduction of copperplate printing at the university in Copenhagen encouraged Peder Hansen Resen to attempt a grand detailed topography of Denmark, Atlas Danicus. Planned as multiple volumes with many maps, Resen had insufficient funds in 1677 to print more than five sets, each different, of 115 maps and urban plans. In the 1740s, Erik Pontoppidan’s attempts to create Den Danske Atlas were more successful, but his maps were just poor copies of old Mejer maps and other older works with no new surveying and no new information. But as a long period of peace set in after 1721, the state had the opportunity to invest in new institutions and endeavors. After 1750, mapping activities in Den-

mark and Norway steadily increased and became more organized. In Denmark, the key institution was the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab. Founded in 1742, the academy started systematic mapping of the country in 1761 and published detailed maps from 1772 to 1841; it remained the national mapping agency until 1842. In Norway, the border dispute with Sweden eventually caused a military survey to be founded under the name Norges Grændsers Opmaaling (later, Norges Geografiske Opmåling) in 1793. At about the same time in Denmark, the army began to be involved in topographical surveying and mapping, since they could not accept the slow pace and inadequate terrain depiction of the civil surveyors, while the navy established a hydrographic office in 1784. Maps of Iceland were for a long time based on the work of the Lutheran bishop of Hólar, Guðbrandur þorláksson (Gudbrandur Thorlaksson) who had in about 1600 made the first map of Iceland used in Abraham Ortelius’s atlases (Ehrensvärd 2006, 167–68). His grand-

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son Þórður Þorláksson (Thordur Thorlaksson), also a churchman, made several maps of Iceland and northern regions in 1666–70 (fig. 204), but these remained in manuscript and little known. The Danish state commissioned a new survey from Magnús Arason, which was completed in 1730–35 by the military engineer Thomas Hans Heinrich Knoff; Knoff’s final maps were decreed state secrets and remained unpublished. Greenland was very different, although part of Denmark. The first attempts to reach the country were not made until 1606 and later in 1650, but the voyagers stayed in the country for only a few days. In 1721 Hans Egede settled in the country, and then mapping activities started. Egede made two surveying trips on the west coast in 1723 and 1724 (Ehrensvärd 2006, 178). In his 1737 manuscript map, the western part was made by observation, while the eastern part was made from pure guesswork and information from the sagas. Not until 1907 was the coastline finally drawn. H en r ik D upo nt See also: Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying; Celestial Mapping; Danish West Indies; Geodetic Surveying; Geographical Mapping; Map Collecting; Map Trade; Marine Charting; Military Cartography; Property Mapping; Thematic Mapping; Urban Mapping; Videnskabernes Selskabs kort (Academy of Sciences and Letters map series; Denmark) Bibliograp hy Bramsen, Bo. 1997. Gamle Danmarkskort: En historisk oversigt med bibliografiske noter for perioden 1570–1770. 4th ed. Copenhagen: Politikens Antikvariat. Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 2006. The History of the Nordic Map: From Myths to Reality. Helsinki: John Nurminen Foundation. Ginsberg, William B. 2009. Maps and Mapping of Norway, 1602– 1855. New York: Septentrionalium Press. Haraldur Sigurðsson. 1971. Kortasaga Íslands frá öndverðu til loka 16. aldar. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa Menningarsjóðs og þjóðvinafélagsins.

Dépôt de la Guerre (Depository of the War Office; France). The Dépôt de la Guerre, archival service of the secrétariat d’État de la Guerre, was created at the end of the seventeenth century. No original document exists with the precise date of its inception (Sarmant 2001, 21), but the date most commonly given is 1688, when François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois, was minister of war (Mémoire de l’armée 1988, 8). Although the exact date may be relatively unimportant, it is helpful to situate its creation within the general history of the ministerial département de la Guerre. Rather than an institution created ex nihilo, the Dépôt de la Guerre emerged slowly over the course of the seventeenth century as an organizational evolution of an archival function (Sarmant 2001, 18–20). In this way, the Dépôt within the ministry of war is emblematic of the administrative history of France under the Ancien Régime: archival sections appeared at the end of a mat-

uration process, accompanying the structuring and organization of ministries. From the end of the sixteenth century, the secrétariats d’État had become distinct entities, their functional and geographic purviews gradually established with greater precision. The offices of the département de la Guerre became more specialized with expanded staffs, progressively centralized power, and increased jurisdiction during the reigns of Louis XIII and, still more, of Louis XIV (Devos 1986). Louis XIV’s wars, together with the activity of the Le Tellier family (Michel Le Tellier; his son Louvois; and his grandson Louis-François-Marie Le Tellier, marquis de Barbézieux, successive ministers of war between 1643 and 1701), continuously augmented the offices in the war ministry. Thus grew the need for a section dedicated especially to preserving the ministry’s archives. The Dépôt de la Guerre was charged with receiving, classifying, ordering, and preserving the documents produced by the ministry itself or sent by generals in the field. Initially, a simple office under a single deputy installed in the Hôtel de Louvois answering directly to the minister, the archives de la Guerre were moved in 1701 to the Hôtel des Invalides by order of the new minister, Michel Chamillart (Sarmant 2001, 24). This move physically separated offices charged with maintaining archives from those treating current affairs, complementary, though distinct, functions heretofore closely linked. The true birth of the Dépôt de la Guerre can therefore be dated to the relocation of the archives (Gibiat 2001, 95n22). Between the end of the seventeenth century and the beginning of the French Revolution, the role of the Dépôt de la Guerre evolved. To the traditional functions already described were added, little by little, new and notably cartographic activities. However, these activities only appeared later, at least in any official capacity. In fact, the Dépôt des cartes, previously dependent on the Bureau des fortifications, was joined to the Dépôt de la Guerre only around 1761. Before this time, the relations between the ingénieurs géographes in the field and the offices of the ministry of war were more direct and did not necessarily pass through the administrative structure of the Dépôt de la Guerre. The works of the Dépôt contributed substantially to improvements in methods of topographic representation. Then, during the Revolution and the Empire, profound changes occurred at its core, due notably to the context of permanent war and the activity of the former ingénieur géographe militaire Etienne-Nicolas Calon. Calon was director of the Dépôt from 1793 to 1797 (Ract 2000, 99–128), when the Dépôt’s mission focused on cartographic activities, with archival work becoming secondary. Originally conceived as a depository for the archives of the ministry, the Dépôt de la Guerre witnessed grad-

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ual diversification of its activities. Relying on the original documents it held, it became responsible for composing historical memoirs that recorded details of wars fought in past reigns and becoming, in a way, the official historian of the military campaigns of Louis XIV and Louis XV (Sarmant 2001, 24). Moreover, the Dépôt was given other responsibilities apparently far removed from its initial missions. From the early eighteenth century, a separate depository existed for the maps and plans of the minister of war. The relocation of the archives in 1701 joined it to the Dépôt de la Guerre. By 1760 all the offices and services of the ministry of war were gathered together at Versailles in a purpose-built hôtel designed and constructed by the ingénieur géographe Jean-Baptiste Berthier (Ract

2002, 21–24; Baudez, Maisonnier, and Pénicaut 2010) (fig. 205). This unification of offices contributed to a distinct evolution in the activities of the Dépôt: the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Guerre was henceforth the essential complement to the more traditional archives of dossiers and memoirs. Another rapprochement of the 1760s was institutionalized in 1772: the ingénieurs géographes des camps et armées du roi were officially attached to the Dépôt de la Guerre (Ract 2002, 55). From this moment, the Dépôt was not only the repository of the ministerial archives and of the maps produced or purchased by the Dépôt des cartes et plans, but also the workshop (atelier) that produced numerous military maps. In this atelier, ingénieurs géographes refined their methods of topographic

Fig. 205. DESIGN OF THE HÔTEL DE LA GUERRE, MARINE ET AFFAIRES ÉTRANGÈRES. This is plate 24, one of twenty-seven plates engraved by Pierre Charles Ingouf the Elder around 1776 for a collection of Plans, coupes et élévations des Hôtels des Départements de la Guerre, des Affaires étrangères et de la Marine, gathered by Jean-Baptiste Berthier. The handwritten title describes the cross section of the Hôtel de la Guerre, telling us where the Dépôt de la Guerre and its archive of maps and plans were located on the third floor. Life inside the Hôtel de la Guerre in the 1770s is clearly visible, showing administrative offices cheek by jowl with technical offices of three

ministries: the Dépôt de la Guerre, foreign affairs, and the Marine. Their staff included ingénieurs géographes, interpreters, even astronomers. The print depicts the veritable administrative and technological city in the Hôtel, with reception salons for visiting ministers located just above the basement storage area of models of weapons, canons, and other machines of war and an attic filled with letter presses for typographic printing and roller presses for the copperplates for maps. Size of the original: 49.5 × 67.0 cm. © Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (Section iconographique, cote: GR 7 M D 148, planche 24).

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surveying. Thus the eighteenth century, especially the second half, saw the Dépôt progressively add significant cartographic activity to its initial mission. This coincided with the moment when maps were becoming the essential documents for decision making in mobile warfare, for which in-depth knowledge of a theater of operations was gleaned from a combination of officers’ reports and surveys of terrain produced by engineers. The significance assumed by military topography during the reign of Louis XV coincided with the growing activity of the ingénieurs géographes des camps et armées du roi (Berthaut 1902; Ract 2002). When the Dépôt emerged at the end of the seventeenth century, some military engineers were attached to the minister of war and engaged to prepare maps of the theaters of military operations. This small group numbered fewer than ten during the first half of the century: small in number and aging in this period, they did not enjoy a major role during the Wars of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) or the Austrian Succession (1740–48). But the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) provided a veritable turning point, both for the Dépôt and its cartographic activity and for the ingénieurs géographes. Their chief, Berthier, was also the keeper of the maps and war plans in the Dépôt. He reorganized and renewed the corps of ingénieurs géographes, which reached its greatest strength under his leadership (there were around forty active ingénieurs géographes during the Seven Years’ War). In the decade that followed the war (1763–72), he reinforced his control over the engineers, planning their work and going as far as demanding their personal allegiance. Protected by Étienne-François, duc de Choiseul, the nearly omnipotent minister of Louis XV during the 1760s, Berthier took orders from no one, not even the director of the Dépôt de la Guerre (Ract 2002, 17–56). The increase to eighty-five ingénieurs géographes active during the second half of the century was due to Berthier’s impetus and his incessant labor. Between the Treaty of Paris (1763) and the French Revolution, without a war to occupy them, the ingénieurs géographes des camps et armées du roi were nonetheless kept active by their involvement in the survey of the coasts and borders of France and in their contribution to formalizing topographical surveying methods (Ract 2002, 191–234). The maps and descriptive memoirs of territories surveyed by the Dépôt’s ingénieurs géographes naturally enriched the holdings of the Dépôt de la Guerre. Ironically, because a large part of their cartographic production occurred in peacetime, between 1763 and 1791, the ingénieurs géographes des camps et armées found it increasingly difficult to justify their existence within the département de la Guerre. Their numbers were deliberately not maintained: the sums allocated to the Bureau des ingénieurs géographes continued to diminish

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from the early 1770s until the Revolution. Posts vacated by retirement were not filled with new recruits, and it was difficult to justify supporting a corps of ingénieurs géographes militaires in peacetime when the corps of ingénieurs du Génie, trained in the prestigious École du Génie de Mézières, was also performing topographical surveys. All these conspired in the de facto extinction of the corps of ingénieurs géographes militaires. Even a new name, ingénieurs géographes militaires, granted by an ordinance of 26 February 1777 (Corvisier-de Villèle and Ponnou 2002, XXVIII–XXIX), could not reinvigorate it. Although officially suppressed in August 1791, these engineers would take up service once again during the wars of the Revolution and the Empire. It was then that their methods of topographic survey and representation of territory elaborated and perfected during the second half of the eighteenth century would finally triumph. Indeed, the Dépôt de la Guerre and the heirs of the ingénieurs géographes of the Ancien Régime were the mainsprings of the Commission topographique of 1802, which codified cartographic representation of territory. Although the cartographic production of the Dépôt de la Guerre in the eighteenth century was mainly that of the ingénieurs géographes des camps et armées, the Dépôt also conserved maps prepared by other branches of the military, which may be considered in two categories. First are the maps surveyed during war (Ract 2002, 149–80). These include reconnaissance of enemy terrain carried out in advance of armies, plans of troop camps and battlefields, and the representation of army movements during combat. This group also encompasses smaller-scale maps of regions traversed by armies. Engineers most often prepared these maps in urgent circumstances, sometimes under enemy fire. They were essential documents in a century in which siege warfare was ceding to mobile warfare, for which detailed knowledge of terrain was decisive. The second group of maps in the Dépôt provided topographic coverage of the frontiers of France, mostly drawn up by its ingénieurs géographes or by general officers (Corvisier-de Villèle and Ponnou 2002, 116–228). Thus, by the end of the century, the ministry of war had at its disposal in the Dépôt very precise maps of frontier regions and coasts, most at a scale of 1:14,400, encircling the kingdom with topographic maps: from the frontiers in the north and in Flanders surveyed by the Naudin family at the beginning of the century (Corvisier-de Villèle 1995) to the Pyrenees in the south mapped by Jean-François de La Blottière around 1720; from the Dauphiné surveyed by Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet between 1748 and 1760 (Limacher 1963) to frontiers of the northeast; and finally, from the west coasts of Brittany and Normandy surveyed by the ingénieurs géographes militaires between 1771 and 1785

Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France)

(Ract 2002, 181–234) to the frontiers of the Jura, the Franche-Comté, and Alsace mapped under the direction of the ingénieur du Génie Jean-Claude-Eléonor Le Michaud d’Arçon. Working in parallel, Cassini’s civil engineers simultaneously mapped France at a scale of 1:86,400. However, it was the officers of the ÉtatMajor, distant heirs of the ingénieurs géographes militaires of the Dépôt de la Guerre, who were chosen in the next century to execute the map of France to replace that of Cassini. Several factors influenced this decision: the perceived preeminence of military cartographers in perfecting the geometry and aesthetics of map production; the renown they acquired during the wars of the Revolution and the Empire, both actively in armies as well as in the commissions entrusted with cartographic normalization and rationalization; and finally their fitness to maintain the secrecy that surrounded the details of frontiers. The cartographic work of the Dépôt de la Guerre is just one aspect of this multifarious institution. Because of its numerous functions during the eighteenth century, it became a hybrid organism, serving as the archives of the ministry, as the workshop for production and conservation of maps, as the office for production of memoirs and military reports intended for the minister or the king concerning military operations in war or defensive adjustments in time of peace, and, finally, as the promoter of projects to improve communication in the frontier provinces, which continued to be a prerogative of the ministry of war at the end of the Ancien Régime (Ract 2002, 59–62). This dichotomy between archival function and cartographic production was exacerbated at certain moments in the history of the Dépôt, notably when François Eugène de Vault was the director (1761–90) while the ingénieurs géographes remained (until 1772) under the direct command of their chief, Berthier. This tension ultimately led to a reorganization adopted in the year IX [1802], when the topographical and historical departments were clearly separated. Already renamed in 1795 as the Dépôt Général de la Guerre, the Dépôt became, for nearly all the nineteenth century, an institution devoted essentially to the production of military maps. Patr ice Ract See also: Administrative Cartography: France; Engineers and Topographical Surveys; Map Collecting: France; Military Cartography: France B i bliogra p hy Baudez, Basile, Élisabeth Maisonnier, and Emmanuel Pénicaut, eds. 2010. Les Hôtels de la Guerre et des Affaires étrangères à Versailles: Deux ministères et une bibliothèque municipale du XVIIIe au XXIe siècle. Paris: N. Chaudun. Berthaut, Henri Marie Auguste. 1902. Les ingénieurs géographes militaires, 1624–1831: Étude historique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Service Géographique.

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Corvisier-de Villèle, Marie-Anne. 1995. “Les Naudin et la cartographie militaire française de 1688 à 1744.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 147–73. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Corvisier-de Villèle, Marie-Anne, and Claude Ponnou. 2002. La France vue par les militaires: Catalogue des cartes de France du Dépôt de la Guerre, tome premier. Vincennes: Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre. Devos, Jean-Claude. 1986. “Le secrétariat d’État à la Guerre et ses bureaux.” Revue Historique des Armées 162:88–98. Gibiat, Samuel. 2001. “Dépôt de la Guerre et Dépôt des Fortifications: Deux fonds d’archives techniques à vocation historique.” In Portefeuilles de plans: Projets et dessins d’ingénieurs militaires en Europe du XVIe au XIXe siècle, ed. Vincent Maroteaux and Émilie d’Orgeix, 93–105. Bourges: Conseil Général du Cher. Limacher, Pierrette. 1963. “Le Général Bourcet et la géographie des Alpes, 1748–1760.” Thèse diplôme d’archiviste paléographe, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Mémoire de l’armée, 1688–1988: Tricentenaire de la création du “Dépôt de la Guerre.” 1988. Vincennes: Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre. Ract, Patrice. 2000. “Etienne Nicolas Calon, sa vie, son œuvre.” Mémoire pour le Diplôme d’études approfondies, École pratique des hautes études, Paris. Unpublished. ———. 2002. “Les ingénieurs géographes des camps et armées du Roi, de la guerre de Sept Ans à la Révolution (1756–1791): Étude institutionnelle, prosopographique et sociale.” Thèse diplôme d’archiviste paléographe, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Sarmant, Thierry. 2001. “Du Dépôt de la guerre au Service historique de l’armée de terre.” In Guide des archives et de la bibliothèque, ed. Jean-Claude Devos and Marie-Anne Corvisier-de Villèle, 2d ed., rev. and enl., ed. Thierry Sarmant and Samuel Gibiat, 18–32. Vincennes: Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre.

Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France). France was the first European state to establish an official hydrographic service, such as exists today in nearly all maritime nations. On 22 September 1676, JeanBaptiste Colbert, secrétaire d’État à la Marine from 1669, decided to assemble all extant maritime charts and their accompanying memoirs, entrusting the task to his son, Jean-Baptiste-Antoine Colbert, marquis de Seignelay (Chapuis 1999, 159). In 1681 an ordinance required captains to hand over their logbooks to the state in order to assemble geographic data for use in commerce or naval warfare. From 1699, all these nautical documents became part of the archives de la Marine, located in the Augustinian convent of the Petits pères near the Place des Victoires in Paris. Enriched in 1701 by the map collection of the ingénieur géographe Charles Pène, who oversaw production of Le Neptune françois, these hydrographic holdings rapidly increased. Finally, an arrêt from the Conseil de Marine (19 November 1720) created the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine. A high-ranking naval officer was to be responsible for its administration (Chapuis 1999, 160). The capitaine de vaisseau Charles-Hercule

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Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France)

d’Albert de Luynes was the first named to this position on 19 November 1720. The Dépôt’s principal objective was to maintain the mass of manuscript documents and to ensure that they did not fall into the hands of competitors or enemies. To meet the needs of the Marine, the Dépôt also copied manuscript and printed maps (whether French or foreign) and kept their published cartography (mostly from Holland) up-to-date with the help of logbooks. JacquesNicolas Bellin was the first to assume this responsibility, becoming ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine on 1 August 1741. This appointment made him the de facto hydrographer or hydrographic engineer-in-chief, that is the head scientist of the Dépôt, although he never officially received the title of ingénieur hydrographe en chef despite soliciting it on numerous occasions. As was common in the first half of the eighteenth century, Bellin worked in the manner of a géographe de cabinet: instead of surveying waters himself, he compiled data received from sailors and travelers, creating maps on a medium to small scale, with few details. The first map printed by the Dépôt did not appear until 1737, at which time the Dépôt only employed three people. It was a route map for the Mediterranean Sea (fig. 206) that incorporated longitude corrections effected between 1689 and 1700 by Jean-Mathieu de Chazelles, a principal author of the Le Neptune françois (Chapuis 1999, 170; 2007, 116–18). Other corrections from reliable sources were also included, synthesized by Philippe Buache from January 1735 on a manuscript map of the Mediterranean Sea on the Mercator projection (Pelletier 2007, 573–75). French reliance on foreign maps in wartime also motivated the Dépôt to prepare original French maps and thus assure national independence in hydrography. So from 1756, Bellin compiled increasing numbers of maps for successive versions of the Hydrographie françoise. The Dépôt had already printed forty-eight maps (in fifty-seven plates) between 1737 and 1758 (Chapuis 1999, 165), and the French collection of marine maps grew steadily. After sixty-three years in the limited confines of the Augustinian convent, the Dépôt moved in 1762 to a separate building at Versailles, the Hôtel de la Marine, de la Guerre et des Affaires étrangères. The building, which had housed the Dépôt de la Guerre since 1761, had just been completed for ministre Étienne-François, duc de Choiseul (see fig. 205). This sojourn at Versailles would last only thirteen years. The Dépôt returned to Paris on 1 April 1775 (completing the move in June), into the royal priory of Saint-Louis de la Culture, rue Saint-Antoine (on the present site of the Lycée Charlemagne), remaining there until 1794, when it relocated to the Place Vendôme (Chapuis 1999, 166, 222, 492). When Jacques-Nicolas Bellin died at Versailles (21

Fig. 206. DETAIL FROM JACQUES-NICOLAS BELLIN, CARTE REDUITE DE LA MER MEDITERRANÉE POUR SERVIR AUX VAISSEAUX DU ROY ([PARIS], 1737). First edition, engraved in three sheets, 1:2,740,000. This is the northeastern section of the first sheet of the first engraved map to appear from the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine. Stars mark the places where latitude and longitude were determined by well-known astronomers. A simple cross signifies where a single latitude was calculated by the same astronomers; a rare double cross marks where the latitude was determined by the observation of skilled navigators. (Examples of all three can be seen on the island of Corsica at Calvi, Porto Vecchio, and Cap de Corse.) This principle of symbolizing a hierarchy of sources was a positive step forward in the compilation process, unusual in the hands of Bellin. Size of the entire original: ca. 63 × 54 cm; size of detail: ca. 16 × 15 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [9645 B]).

March 1772), the Dépôt recovered all the nautical documents kept by his widow. The day after his death, Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni was appointed as ingénieur géographe et hydrographe de la Marine and remained ingénieur hydrographe en chef until the end of 1775. His valuable knowledge of geodesy and trigonometry did not truly benefit hydrography. From the perspective of the Crown and the Marine, much more strategic were the posts of inspecteur (director) and garde (administrative and financial director), who were responsible for protecting the Dépôt’s valuable documents (Chapuis 1999, 167–68). The post of inspecteur was filled by a succession of high-ranking naval officers who assumed the administrative direction of the Dépôt in addition to their com-

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bat obligations. An exception was Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, lieutenant de vaisseau, named inspecteur adjoint on 20 October 1758, and who, in fact, directed the Dépôt. He became inspecteur du Dépôt on 10 May 1776, five days before Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu became inspecteur adjoint. These two men would constitute the driving force of the Dépôt until the Revolution, with Fleurieu replacing Chabert whenever the latter went to sea (Chapuis 1999, 315–17, 222–23). After a vacancy in the directorship beginning in summer 1792, owing to Chabert’s emigration and the general disorganization afflicting other cartographic institutions, François-Étienne de Rosily became director and inspecteur général on 23  August 1795 until 1 January 1827. As competent officiers savants, Chabert and Fleurieu not only administered the Dépôt but also became deeply involved in hydrographic questions. At the end of Louis XV’s reign (1774), there were sixteen employees at the Dépôt, of whom seven were hydrographic engineers (in addition to the inspecteur, the inspecteur adjoint, the hydrographe, the astronome, and the garde) directly responsible for producing navigational maps. This was less than one-third of the Dépôt’s total manpower, a ridiculously small proportion compared to the engineering corps who worked on topography or the Corps du Génie and the Marine (Chapuis 1999, 218–19). All of them, save two, were recruited in the year after Bellin’s death. In the absence of any formal training structure, the principal avenues for recruitment were through family connections and patronage (Chapuis 1999, 220–21). While the inspecteur and his adjoint concentrated chiefly on matters concerning the Dépôt and the state— especially scientific and technical questions, but not limited to hydrography—the true administrative and financial manager of the establishment was henceforth the garde, François-Pierre Le Moyne, whose adjoint from May 1780 was Jean-Nicolas Buache. Buache became the premier ingénieur hydrographe (the title used in those years for the ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine, the scientific director) from 1 October 1779. However, his nomination was kept secret for ten years, until 1 April 1789, out of consideration for Rigobert Bonne, who had received the title earlier (1 July 1776) but was perpetually in conflict with Chabert and Fleurieu (Chapuis 1999, 280). From a technical perspective, Pierre-FrançoisAndré Méchain, astronome hydrographe in the Dépôt from 1772, is the staff member who stands out during the reign of Louis XVI. Dispatched on 26 May 1792 to join the project to measure the meridian between Dunkirk and Barcelona, he would not reassume his post at the Dépôt until February 1799. Méchain was the only individual at the Dépôt truly competent to conduct in-

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depth surveys in the field for the “Nouveau neptune françois,” a production unfortunately soon interrupted and never completed (Chapuis 1999, 257–62). In the overseas colonies, officers of the Marine were responsible for hydrography, although it was claimed that only one percent of them were truly capable of using hydrographic instruments and of employing methods that incorporated the best standards of the period (Chapuis 1999, 306). As for the great scientific expeditions, neither that of Louis-Antoine de Bougainville (1766–69) nor that of Jean-François de Lapérouse (1785–88) would choose their mapmakers from among the Dépôt’s hydrographic engineers (Chapuis 1999, 262–64), which speaks to their lack of experience in practical surveying at sea. Not until the expedition of Joseph-AntoineRaymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux (1791–93) would an expedition leader turn to the Dépôt, when CharlesFrançois Beautemps-Beaupré was chosen. Except for two survey expeditions for the “Nouveau neptune françois,” members of the Dépôt no longer frequented the coasts of France. The rare maps based on actual surveys along the coast or at sea were the fruit of local initiatives by the Marine or individuals, not the Dépôt, as compilation de cabinet remained the Dépôt’s primary method of mapmaking (Chapuis 1999, 309–12). Bellin oversaw the engraving of an average of 3.29 plates per year between 1737 and 1772, and the Dépôt produced an average of 3.67 plates per year between 1773 and 1791. Considering the Dépôt’s recruitment of hydrographic engineers in 1772 and 1773 and a Marine-funded budget that contained no incentive for profitability, this quasi-stagnation of map production was disappointing at a time when England’s Alexander Dalrymple, hydrographer of the East India Company, was supervising the engraving of an average of 18 plates per year between 1765 and 1790 (Chapuis 1999, 194, 316). Nevertheless, the quality of the maps produced by the Dépôt after 1773 surpassed those of Bellin. Even if they resulted from compilation methods, the post-1773 charts were based on more verified and reliable data than Bellin’s work. In December 1791 the Dépôt’s collections included a total of 14,735 maps and plans in many forms and media (originals, duplicates, printed, manuscript, on thin tracing paper, on laid rag paper, mounted on linen); this figure did not include the printed charts intended for the Marine and for-sale or written works (Chapuis 1999, 313). The demand for reliable sea charts came not only from the Marine. From the early eighteenth century, French maritime commerce had developed considerably. The Compagnie des Indes, established in 1719, was slow to create its own hydrographic service (1762), which it maintained for only eight years before its bankruptcy in January 1770. This service was directed by

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Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France)

Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette, author of the Le Neptune oriental (1745), and strengthened by very active officers. In this period, the Dépôt was responding to growing demand for nautical documents for sale and fighting against private productions, the rigor of which left much to be desired. France became the first country to regulate the production and diffusion of marine maps. An arrêt of 5 October 1773 instituted effective supervision of hydrographic production under the sole direction of the Dépôt (Chapuis 1999, 190–91), an arrêt that still remains in force, defining one of the present missions of the French hydrographic service. Every private publication would henceforth require the Dépôt’s prior authorization. The principle of transparency of sources was also instituted, as still exists today under the supervision of the International Hydrographic Organization. The Dépôt also received an exclusive privilege (18 August 1775) for the engraving and printing of maps, with the authorization to have counterfeit plates and exemplars seized. Finally, an ordinance of 28 October 1775 organized the commercial structure within the Dépôt, consisting of a central establishment that could supervise and provide maps to commissioned local agents for sale at guaranteed low prices throughout the country (Chapuis 1999, 192–94). From its creation (30  September 1776), this Entrepôt général was entrusted to Jean-Nicolas Buache, who sold it, along with his own geographical stock, in 1780 to Jean-Claude Dezauche; this was a complicated negotiation, and the part of it concerning the Entrepôt was completed in 1781. The extraordinary cost of hydrographic missions at sea—together with the conservation and production of maps and their distribution to the Marine, the marine de commerce, and the commercial market—could be sustained only by a government unconcerned with prof-

itability. This understanding gave birth to the first notion of a public hydrographic service. Titled the Dépôt général de la Marine for several decades from 1800, the Dépôt became the Service hydrographique de la Marine in 1886. In 1971 it became the Service hydrographique et océanographique de la Marine (SHOM), the oldest active hydrographic service with juridical continuity. O li vi er Chapuis See also: Académie de marine (Academy of Naval Affairs; France); Map Trade: France; Marine Chart; Marine Charting: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France Bibliography Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. ———. 2007. Cartes des côtes de France: Histoire de la cartographie marine et terrestre du littoral. Douarnenez: Chasse-Marée. Le Guisquet, Bernard. 1999. “Le Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine sous l’Ancien Régime (1720–1789).” Neptunia 214:3–21. Pelletier, Monique. 2007. “Buache et le Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine: Les débuts d’une institution, le départ d’une carrière, 1721–1737.” In Mappæ Antiquæ: Liber Amicorum Günter Schilder, ed. Paula van Gestel–van het Schip and Peter van der Krogt, 563–78. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. [Service hydrographique de la Marine]. 1914. “Notice sur le Service hydrographique de la Marine.” Annales Hydrographiques, 2d ser., 34:1–49.

Design, Map. See Art and Design of Maps Down Survey. See Irish Plantation Surveys Dutch East India Company. See Verenigde OostIndische Compagnie (VOC; United East India Company; Netherlands) Dutch West India Company. See West-Indische Compagnie (WIC; West India Company; Netherlands)

E Earth, Size and Shape of. See Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth

East India Company (Great Britain). The English East India Company of the seventeenth century originated as a coalition of London merchants with trading ventures to the East Indies. In the eighteenth century it evolved into the United Company of Merchants of London trading to the East Indies (or United East India Company), a joint-stock investment company whose stockholders’ income depended on investment in the continuous and reliable import and export of commodities by ships’ voyages to and from India, the East Indies, and China. To render these voyages safe, profitable, and repeatable, the directors of the Company, its officials overseas, and the commanders of the ships it chartered had to develop an understanding of the oceans they crossed and of the geography and relative topography of the coasts they reached, the settlements at which they anchored or docked, and the hinterland from which their agents or factors attracted to the coastal factories the bulk commodities for export. The East India Company’s outsourcing of its transport requirements left the owners, and consequently the commanders, of the ships it chartered responsible for providing ships’ equipment, including charts, atlases, and sailing directions. The Thames (or Drapers’) School of chartmakers had grown up during the seventeenth century, and by 1700 a manuscript-copying industry on the banks of the Thames was supplying sets of coastal charts from the Persian Gulf to the Bay of Bengal and from the Andaman Sea to Macao and Amoy, derived primarily from Dutch manuscript sources but also using French and English information. John Thornton’s 1703 reissue of John Seller’s 1675 The English Pilot, the

Third Book . . . the Oriental Navigation brought many of the Thames School manuscript charts into print for the first time, though manuscript copying, particularly of voyage crux points such as the Strait of Singapore, the approaches to Macao, and the Strait of Bab el Mandeb (fig. 207), continued well into the 1730s. Although The English Pilot, the Third Book, continued to be revised and reprinted until 1761, it was not without competition. In 1753, the release of the previously restricted sixth volume of Johannes van Keulen’s De nieuwe groote lichtende zee-fakkel updated Dutch cartographic knowledge of the East Indies. In 1745 Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette’s Le Neptune oriental appeared; an atlas of sea charts and sailing directions of the East Indies created for the Compagnie des Indes, it soon overtook Thornton’s work. An English translation of Le Neptune oriental, published as A New Directory for the East Indies by William Herbert and Samuel Dunn from 1758 in several editions, kept French cartography of the Indian Ocean at the front of British mariners’ minds. Alexander Dalrymple’s dissatisfaction with the lack of revision of the coastal charts in the second (1775) edition of Le Neptune oriental contributed to his plan, on his appointment by the East India Company in 1779 “for examining the Ships Journals” (Cook 2006, 83), for his own series of Indian Ocean coastal charts. The lack of accurately observed reciprocal longitudes of known places in the East Indies inhibited Dalrymple’s plan, much as it had restricted earlier chartmakers, and Dalrymple’s legacy, before the advent of significant numbers of chronometer runs, was a large contributory collection of manuscript and engraved plans of ports, harbors, and coastal details. Apart from trade to China (Canton) for tea, Sumatra (Bencoolen) for pepper, and the Persian Gulf, the Company’s increasing concerns in the eighteenth century with factories in India were not at first mirrored in cartography. Guillaume Delisle’s Carte des Indes et de la Chine (1705) and the two maps of India in Herman Moll’s Atlas Geographus: or, A Compleat System of Geography, Ancient and Modern (1711–17) were the next significant developments in the depiction of India after William Baffin’s 1619 map from Thomas Roe’s

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East India Company (Great Britain)

Fig. 207. JOHN FRIEND, STRAIT OF BAB EL MANDEB, 1714. Manuscript.

Size of the original: 66.0 × 87.2 cm. India Office Records. © The British Library Board, London (IOR/X/10308).

embassy. The rudimentary state of East India Company geographical knowledge is exemplified by the manuscript map of southern India sent home from Madras in 1705, setting out the Company officials’ understanding of the relationship among settlements and territories (fig. 208). Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville’s Carte de l’Inde, published in Paris in three sheets in 1752 with accompanying Éclaircissemens géographiques sur la carte de l’Inde, and reissued in London by Herbert in 1759 with his translation A Geographical Illustration of the Map of India, represented, for both French and British, the next significant advance in the cartography of India. D’Anville’s map, despite its many blank areas and its dependence on travelers’ routes, formed the basis for French and British small-scale mapping of India for the campaigns of the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) and the twenty years following. From the early eighteenth century, the East India Com-

pany focused the administration of its factories in India on the three presidencies of Calcutta (Fort William), Madras (Fort St. George), and Bombay. This developed the three presidency cities by midcentury as administrative headquarters, each with a military presence and an increasing responsibility for administering surrounding territory. Public buildings and defenses brought military engineers and surveyors to produce town and fortification plans, many of which remained in manuscript, particularly those from the military campaigns in southern India. Some were eventually published, such as Thomas Kitchin’s Territory of Calcutta MDCCLVII and the Plan of Bombay in the third edition of John Henry Grose’s A Voyage to the East Indies (1772). Territorial administration required communications and routes to be mapped. After the cession of the territory of Twenty-four Parganas in Bengal to the East India Company in 1757 following the Battle of Plassey, and

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the addition of Chittagong, Burdwan, and Midnapore in 1760, Hugh Cameron served as surveyor. On Cameron’s death in 1764, James Rennell was appointed “a Surveyor of the New Lands” and ordered to survey the Ganges River for the shortest perennially navigable creek leading south to Calcutta and the Hugli (Cook 1978, 6–7). In 1765 Rennell turned to producing a general map of Bengal, which he completed in 1768. He occupied the next nine years (from 1767 as surveyor general) in supervising army officers in chain-and-compass surveys in Bengal, which resulted in a series of five-miles-to-an-inch (1:316,800) manuscript maps and in his A Bengal Atlas, published in London in 1780 and 1781 (see fig. 708). Rennell also oversaw the preparation of maps from the surveys by John Ritchie, marine surveyor in Bengal, of the treacherous sands at the mouth of the Hugli and of the coasts of the Bay of Bengal. At the same time, Thomas Barnard in Madras was ordered in 1767 to sur-

vey the Jaghir, the territory later known as Chingleput District ceded by the Nawab of Arcot to the Company for the upkeep of the Madras settlement. Barnard’s map was published in 1772 and reissued by Dalrymple in 1779 as A Map of the East India Company’s Lands on the Coast of Choromandel (see fig. 702). Information from Rennell’s maps, from his 1768 map of Bengal onward, was incorporated into successive editions of Thomas Jefferys’s The East Indies, with the Roads (fig. 209), which served as the standard map of India until Rennell himself, in retirement in London, published his map Hindoostan in 1782 with the accompanying Memoir of a Map of Hindoostan. Rennell revised and reissued his map and Memoir in 1788. Meanwhile in India his successor as surveyor general, Thomas Call, was preparing his own atlas of India on twenty sheets, including new surveys and routes. Mark Wood continued the work after Call’s appointment as chief engineer,

Fig. 208. “MAPP OF THE MALLABAR COAST AND OF THE COSTA DI PESCARIA,” 1705. Manuscript.

India Office Records. © The British Library Board, London (IOR/X/331).

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East India Company (Great Britain)

Fig. 209. DETAIL FROM THOMAS JEFFERYS, THE EAST INDIES, WITH THE ROADS, 1768. Detail of Bengal.

Size of the entire original: 107 × 138 cm; size of detail: ca. 54.5 × 70.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

and it was eventually abandoned on Rennell’s advice in London in 1791. Charles Reynolds, surveyor in Bombay, and Robert Hyde Colebrooke, surveyor general in the 1790s, each attempted a fresh general map of India, neither of which saw publication. Lacking memoirs of their construction, the maps made after Rennell’s could not be accurately revised in light of the many new linear route surveys that resulted from the increasing penetration of India by military expeditions. Thomas Goddard’s march from Kalpi to Surat in 1778, Thomas Deane Pearse’s expeditions southward from Midnapore along the east coast in the 1780s, and Reynolds’s political mission from Surat to Gwalior and Cawnpore in 1785 are early examples of route surveys crossing India between presidencies, enabling the correction of earlier maps. Military campaigns, particularly those against Tipu Sultan in southern India in the 1790s, dictated the thrust of

survey activity. Surveys were carried out separately by Colebrooke in Calcutta, Reynolds in Bombay, and Michael Topping in Madras. Colebrooke produced a map of Mysore in 1792 (Phillimore 1945, 112–13), while Reynolds and the surveyors of the Bombay Army ran lines of survey from Poona to Seringapatam and from the Malabar Coast into Mysore. Topping, employed initially on coast and harbor surveys in the Northern Circars, surveyed the Kistna and Godavari Rivers in 1793. On Topping’s death in 1796, Colin Mackenzie, surveyor to the army now based in Hyderabad, sought the post of surveyor general in Madras on the basis of his continuing surveys of the Hyderabad and Mysore territories. Political missions, such as those of William Kirkpatrick to Nepal in 1793 and Michael Symes to Ava in 1795, resulted in surveys that only emphasized the uncertainty of geographical knowledge of border regions. At sea the

Eclipse Map, Solar

safety of communications between the presidencies had to be secured: John McCluer spent the 1780s surveying the Malabar Coast and the navigation to the Persian Gulf on Company orders from London, while Archibald Blair and Alexander Kyd successively surveyed the Andaman Islands and Penang. In the 1790s, India was thus being explored in all directions from the three military centers of Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay, even though a central geodetic framework to connect the results of many separate operations had yet to be established. From the 1750s, the East India Company in London increasingly required geographical information to enable it to understand reports and plans about political and military commitments undertaken by the three presidency administrations. Exasperation overflowed in the directors’ letters to Calcutta in the 1760s about the lack of transmission to London of the surveys of the “new lands” in Bengal. It was natural that junior army officers charged with survey tasks would submit and dedicate their fair copies of manuscript maps to senior officers, and equally clear that these political and military officials would retain such maps first for their own use. Robert Clive’s private collection of Rennell’s maps far exceeded, in quantity and quality, the maps first sent back officially to London. Rennell brought his fair manuscripts to London from Calcutta in 1777, and Colin Mackenzie was later to do the same. Rennell latterly had the freedom to use Company geographical materials in London and frequently instigated requests to India for maps in the 1780s and 1790s (he had applied from India in 1776 to be put in charge of the geographical materials at India House). Copying for London was intermittently undertaken, and there developed, from the 1790s, separate collections of fair copies of maps in the surveyor general’s office in Calcutta, the survey office in Madras, the quartermaster general’s office in Bombay, and India House in London. The collections in India were brought together by the Survey of India in the nineteenth century and are largely found in the National Archives of India, while the London collections of the East India Company are administered by the British Library as part of the India Office Records. The apparent reluctance and delay in sending maps and manuscript surveys from India to England stemmed partly from perceptions of confidentiality, partly from pride on the part of successive surveyors each wishing to create his own general map of India, and partly from problems in copying. The directors in 1784 required all geographical documents to be copied in triplicate for London; in 1786 they sent oil paper for this to be done; and in 1788 they required all original documents to be sent to London, “reserving a copy in India to prevent accident” (Phillimore 1945, 252). The copying of complex surveys was laborious for draftsmen, so that

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Wood suggested in 1792 that only certain categories of maps merited being sent to London in original or copy (Phillimore 1945, 252). From the 1760s the East India Company had reserved the right to authorize engraving and printing of maps of India. Rennell’s maps of Bengal, Bihar, Delhi, Agra, Oudh, and Allahabad, sent home in 1773, were first sent for engraving by Andrew Dury in London in 1776 and 1777. The Company in London effectively controlled the printing of maps of India for as long as large-format copperplate engraving and printing (the only viable print medium) remained undeveloped in India. Letterpress printing was commonplace in India, but it is thought that the climatic conditions that necessitated modification of ink recipes also inhibited the damping and drying of paper necessary for the engravedplate rolling press. Small-format copperplate printing was practiced, but the earliest known engraved maps to be printed in Calcutta were William Baillie’s 1791 reduction of Wood’s 1786 plan of Calcutta and Aaron Upjohn’s Map of Calcutta and its Environs (1794). The copious effort that the East India Company put into mapping India in the eighteenth century is undeniable, but it inevitably remained uncoordinated until the development of a reliable geodetic framework for surveys, and rapid lithographic printing of their results, in the early nineteenth century. And rew S. Cook See also: Administrative Cartography: Great Britain; Dalrymple, Alexander; Marine Charting: Great Britain; Rennell, James Bibliography Cook, Andrew S. 1978. “Major James Rennell and A Bengal Atlas (1780 and 1781).” In India Office Library and Records Report for the Year 1976, 5–42. London: Foreign and Commonwealth Office. ———. 2006. “Surveying the Seas: Establishing the Sea Routes to the East Indies.” In Cartographies of Travel and Navigation, ed. James R. Akerman, 69–96. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Edney, Matthew H. 1997. Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765–1843. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gole, Susan, comp. 1980. A Series of Early Printed Maps of India in Facsimile. New Delhi: Jayaprints. ———. 1983. India within the Ganges. New Delhi: Jayaprints. Lahiri, Manosi. 2012. Mapping India. New Delhi: Niyogi Books. Madan, P. L., comp. 1982. Catalogue of the MRIO [Map Record and Issue Office]—Miscellaneous Maps of the Survey of India (1742– 1872). New Delhi: National Archives of India. ———. 1997. Indian Cartography: A Historical Perspective. New Delhi: Manohar. Markham, Clements R. 1878. A Memoir on the Indian Surveys. 2d ed. London: [India Office]. Phillimore, R. H. 1945. Historical Records of the Survey of India, vol. 1. Dehra Dun: Survey of India. Prasad, S. N., ed. 1975. Catalogue of the Historical Maps of the Survey of India (1700–1900). New Delhi: National Archives of India.

Eclipse Map, Solar. The mapping of the track across the earth’s surface of the shadow (“umbra”) made by a

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solar eclipse was an innovation of the Enlightenment. The idea seems to have occurred first to Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) in conjunction with his development of a new technique to determine longitude from solar eclipses. In particular, he used an ingenious application of the isoline to help understand the extent and spatial variation of the eclipse of 23 September 1699. The contemporary measure for the degree to which the sun appears to be eclipsed by the moon from a given location was the “digit” (or “doit”), with twelve digits indicating total eclipse; Cassini accordingly calculated and plotted the lines for twelve digits (the line of centrality, or center point of the moving umbra), and also those on either side for six digits, on a very small-scale map of Eurasia (fig. 210). His son, Jacques Cassini (II), followed a simi-

lar procedure for the eclipse of 12 May 1706 although without publishing his map (Van Gent 2005, 105–10). Retrospective eclipse maps remained a feature of the astronomical literature, such as those made after 1706 by Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr and published by the Homann company within his various astronomical atlases and texts. Doppelmayr’s particular innovation of combining map and explanatory diagram within the margins of other maps was subsequently copied by several other commercial publishers (Van Gent 2005, 113–27). The first predictive eclipse map probably appeared in Symon van de Moolen’s Meet-konstig afbeeldsel van een verduystering in de zon (1705), a sixteen-page pamphlet on the phenomenon of solar eclipses with special

Fig. 210. CASSINI I’S UNTITLED MAP OF THE SOLAR ECLIPSE OF 23  SEPTEMBER 1699. From sunrise to sunset, Cassini mapped lines of centrality (twelve digits), partial eclipse (six digits), and the limits of the eclipse. The projection is a normal aspect azimuthal equidistant. From JeanDominique Cassini, “Reflexions sur l’eclipse du 23. Septembre

1699 par M. Cassini, qui ont été omises dans leur place,” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1699 (1732): 274–82, map opp. 282. Size of the original: 16.1 × 25.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

(facing page) Fig. 211. GEORGE WITCHELL, A MAP OF THE PASSAGE OF YE MOON’S SHADOW OVER ENGLAND &C. IN YE ANNULAR ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, WHICH WILL HAPPEN APRIL THE 1ST 1764 (London, 1764). State 1.

Size of the original: 56.2 × 40.8 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps K.Top. 1.84).

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reference to that predicted for 12 May 1706. Van de Moolen provided a very small-scale map of the Eastern Hemisphere on an oblique projection, with the path of the eclipse now shaded to show the extent of the umbra (Van Gent 2005, 111–12). The eclipse of 22 April 1715 prompted at least two predicative visualizations, by Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius (see fig. 802) and Edmond Halley. Halley’s was the first published map to show the eclipse path across a relatively small portion of the earth, specifically England and Wales (see fig. 793). At such a scale, the twelve-digit isolines lie wide apart, and between them Halley shaded the umbra itself (as it would extend in one particular moment) as a large oval disk; these he superimposed atop a common geographical map. Halley circulated the map to a number of correspondents with the request that they observe the timing of the eclipse in order to help him refine the tables of planetary motion. Subsequently, Halley reissued the map, having added the observed times of the eclipse (Pasachoff 1999). With no fewer than five total eclipses visible from parts of Britain in the course of the eighteenth century, London became something of a center for predictive eclipse map production (Armitage 1997; Walters 1999). Those authors that thought to explain the phenomenon to the educated public produced diagrams tracking the moon’s shadow around the globe. The first, by William Whiston, Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge, for the 1715 eclipse, was rather awkward and abstract but would later be emulated; the York mathematician and land surveyor George Smith constructed a compromise between the Whiston and Halley approaches by mapping the predicted path of the totality of the 18 February 1737 and 14 July 1748 eclipses on an ingeniously skewed oblique projection. Most of the British predictive maps, however, were made for a general audience and published by the commercial mapsellers, notably John Senex. These followed Halley’s model with some modifications, such as the addition of some further isolines as well as icons showing how the sun would look from specific locations at maximum eclipse (fig. 211). Several of these maps were reissued in pirated versions. Moreover, these were either broadsides or included in monthly periodicals and were accompanied by texts explaining how solar eclipses were natural occurrences and so were not occasions for religious or mystical interpretation (Van Gent 2005, 113–15). Less is known about eclipse maps published on the Continent during the course of the eighteenth century. In his predictive eclipse map, added to the 1752 posthumous edition of Doppelmayr’s Atlas coelestis (titled Atlas novvs coelestis), Georg Moritz Lowitz included a high density of isolines for the degree of eclipse at one-

Economy, Cartography and the

digit intervals. This innovation was followed by two French maps predicting the eclipse of 1 April 1764: the first by Nicole-Reine Étable de la Brière Lepaute, published by Jean Lattré (see fig. 950), and the second by Louis-Charles Desnos. A third map by Joseph Le Paute Dagelet, also published by Lattré, showed global coverage of the 24 June 1778 eclipse. These are also noteworthy as pioneering efforts in color printing (Armitage 1997, 22–23; 2005). Geo ff Arm itage See also: Celestial Mapping; Halley, Edmond; Isoline; Thematic Mapping: Great Britain Bibliography Armitage, Geoff. 1997. The Shadow of the Moon: British Solar Eclipse Mapping in the Eighteenth Century. Tring: Map Collector Publications. ———. 2005. “A Female Enterprise.” In The Map Book, ed. Peter Barber, 220–21. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Gent, Robert H. van. 2005. “Mapping the Lunar Shadow—the Earliest Solar Eclipse Maps.” In Development of Solar Research/Entwicklung der Sonnenforschung, ed. Axel D. Wittmann, Gudrum Wolfschmidt, and Hilmar W. Duerbeck, 103–27. Frankfurt: Verlag Harri Deutsch. Pasachoff, Jay M. 1999. “Halley as an Eclipse Pioneer: His Maps and Observations of the Total Solar Eclipses of 1715 and 1724.” Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage 2:39–54. Walters, Alice N. 1999. “Ephemeral Events: English Broadsides of Early Eighteenth-Century Solar Eclipses.” History of Science 37:1–43.

Economy, Cartography and the. In an age of European commercial and imperial expansion and rivalry, there were obvious connections between cartography and the economy. Valued, distant lands were frequently portrayed with their bounty tellingly emphasized. For example, the title cartouche to Henry Popple’s famous 1733 A Map of the British Empire in America, shows a native woman, whose nudity and child at her side emphasize her fertility, gesturing to a background scene of colonizing enterprise: four merchantmen, cargo being manhandled onshore, coopers hard at work, and the tilling of virgin soil. The clear beneficiaries of this distant enterprise are a group of five elegantly dressed gentlemen; a treasure chest lies prominently before them (fig. 212). Popple asserted on his map that it had the approbation of Britain’s Board of Trade and was based on “all the Maps, Charts, and Observations that could be found, especially the Authentick Records & Actual Surveys transmitted to their LORDSHIPS [of the Board], by the Governors of the British Plantations, and Others, to correct the many Errors committed in former Maps.” Its accuracy was accredited by Edmond Halley, a leading scientist of the period who, over thirty years before, had famously mapped trade winds (see fig. 776) and magnetic variation (see figs. 348 and 442).

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Fig. 212. THE VALUE OF COLONIAL ENTERPRISE. Title cartouche from Henry Popple, A Map of the British Empire in America with the French and Spanish Settlements Adjacent Thereto (London, 1733).

Size of the entire original: 49 × 48 cm; size of detail: ca. 10 × 17 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3300 1733 .P62).

Competition lay at the very heart of Popple’s map, which was a political statement in the struggle to define the limits of the rival British, French, and Spanish empires in North America. As such, it exemplified the emphasis various European states had put on overseas trade and empire since the sixteenth century. At a time when it was difficult to see ways of generating economic growth internally, it was easier to imagine that domestic prosperity could be significantly heightened by looking abroad for markets, raw materials, precious metals, and, not least, slaves to work new lands. That there was a nationalistic element to this economic competition between states, what some have called mercantilism, is undeniable, even though the main players might have been private traders, motivated more by profit than patriotism. But competition also operated within Popple’s map through its claims of superiority over its predecessors, even though it rested on no new surveys and depended heavily on French maps. This map was indeed a British answer to French territorial claims, exemplified in Guillaume Delisle’s Carte de la Louisiane et du cours du Mississipi (1718) (Schulten 2007). As such, it neatly symbolizes the fact that by the early eighteenth century, France and Britain were pre-

eminent in Europe in terms of their economies, empires, and cartography, and they accordingly provide the focus of this article. Yet Popple’s map also points to some of the limitations of cartography in representing economic life. An important aspect of this is that the concept of the “economy,” which seems so natural today, only began to take a firm hold in Europe after 1750. If the language of political economy slowly spread from its introduction in France in 1615, viewing the economy as a unified system was dramatically advanced by François Quesnay’s Tableau oeconomique in 1758 and by Adam Smith’s brilliant realization in 1776 of the operation of the “invisible hand” (Perrot 1992, 63–95; Hutchison 1988). Even today, however, mapping economies in their totality is problematic because it is impossible to capture the whole; the usual method of understanding economies entails multidimensional national income accounting. Rather it is the location of resources, outputs, infrastructure, and demand that tend to be mapped. In addition, economic matters are often best summarized quantitatively and, therefore, generally better expressed not in cartographic but in tabular, graphical, or algebraic forms. There were certainly important developments in this regard dur-

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ing this period, notably the development of “political arithmetic” in late seventeenth-century England and of “Statistik” in mid-eighteenth-century Germany. In 1786 William Playfair made a seminal breakthrough with the invention of several of the most important types of graphs, which he called “charts” and which he published as an “atlas” (Playfair 1786). Cartographers could do nothing to match it, and it is notable that many important reference works relating to economic matters paid scant regard to cartography, even while paying considerable regard to geography. Adam Anderson’s substantial history of commerce had only three maps, two of which were reproductions of early maps (see fig. 373), and Jacques Savary des Brûlons’s pioneering commercial dictionary none at all (Anderson 1764, vol. 1, opposite ii, xxxi, and 386; Savary des Brûlons 1723). Therefore, while geography—an acknowledged, if highly descriptive, science at the time—provided a very important frame for the consideration of economic matters, not least via environmental determinism, the relationship between cartography and the economy rested on the mapping of particular aspects, especially of valued economic locales or regions and the location of significant resources and infrastructures. An important dimension to this was the source of demand for such maps or charts. At the practical level it particularly included landowners (secular and ecclesiastical) concerned with property rights, as in enclosure and tithes; inland traders interested in markets, roads, and waterways; people with marine concerns (ship owners, captains, and merchants) looking for safe passage, good winds, and calm harbors; corporations using maps in their quest for funding or privileges; and states looking, as in Popple’s case, to establish or enhance their authority. Obviously the nature of the maps and charts these consumers commissioned or created depended fundamentally on the quality of the information at hand and the nature of the underlying survey (see below), but also on the extent to which their purpose was more or less persuasive, political, or propagandist. The financial motive often produced maps that, to modern eyes, were highly questionable in terms of their accuracy, veracity, or reliability as graphic representations of current knowledge. From the methodological point of view, one obvious way to link maps with economics is to look at not only what they tell, but also at what they do not tell (Harley 2001; Laboulais 2004; Surun 2003). Indeed, one of the problems that cartographers faced in representing economic matters was to obtain relevant knowledge; often the map just exhibited the level of their ignorance. There were different ways to show this gap of knowledge: through blank spaces or question marks or, more often, with a brief text explaining why uncertainty remained. On the same map, well-known information was often

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placed alongside pure conjecture. For example, Delisle’s Carte de l’Afrique françoise ou du Senegal (1727) of part of western Africa had statements such as “Tegazel or Tagaza Desert, where rock salt is extracted and carried by caravans from Timbuktu and Morocco,” sitting alongside statements such as “the French have not rowed above Goina Waterfalls, and their knowledge upstream relies only on local people’s reports.” A little later, Jacques-Nicolas Bellin’s Carte de l’isle de TerreNeuve (1744) of Newfoundland noted in the cartouche that “the rivers, the bottom of several bays, as well as the interior of the island, are completely unknown.” This raises the issue of how economic knowledge was obtained when correct information did appear on maps. The interiors of distant lands had been barely traveled by Europeans, let alone surveyed; European economic connections were usually with peripheries not heartlands. Geographical maps (medium to small scale) of Africa, for example, rarely had much detail beyond the coastlines, with depictions of the interior depending heavily on information provided by local people, information that might be accurate or inaccurate, mistranslated or misinterpreted. Many seventeenth- and eighteenth-century maps of Africa contain comments such as that found on the Carte de l’Afrique méridionale ou pays entre la ligne & le Cap de Bonne Esperance et l’isle de Madagascar (n.d., Elizabeth Visscher, widow of Nicolaas II Visscher): “The Negroes say that the River Cuabo flows from Lake Zambre, which is not quite certain.” Similarly, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville’s Carte de la partie occidentale de l’Afrique (1727) included an inset of the Niger region on his map of western Africa but explicitly warned against its accuracy. The channels through which economic elements were gathered were numerous: copying other maps, geographical dictionaries, or, more interestingly, reports from European travelers, traders, or officials, both military and civilian. Herman Moll’s A New and Exact Map of the Dominions of the King of Great Britain on ye Continent of North America (1715) (the “Beaver Map”) was indebted to “Cap.t T. Nearn and others” for the area of Louisiana. Previously employed at the Board of Trade, Popple cited his access to reports from colonial governors sent back to London. The reports and logs of André Brué, director of the French Compagnie du Sénégal from 1697 to 1702 and from 1714 to 1720, recorded his time spent in Africa and influenced maps of this area, including those by d’Anville that accompanied Jean-Baptiste Labat’s Nouvelle relation de l’Afrique occidentale (1728) about the European trading posts in western Africa (Broc 1975, 70–71 and n53). Thanks to Labat it is not only possible to understand how Europeans gathered information to draw their maps, but also to know the lacunae in their knowledge

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of Africa. Labat’s book also exemplified the debate that engaged European scientists of the eighteenth century, between the géographie de cabinet and géographie de terrain, between theoretical and empirical geography. According to Labat, because almost no European traveler had visited the interior of Africa, geographers had to rely on pilots’ reports or, more commonly, on local testimonies (Surun 2003, 45–52). To understand the path of the Gambia River, for example, one should embrace the “Negroes and Mandingue merchants” who traveled it daily and, “since [their] testimony is unanimous, . . . why should we not use their accounts, which cannot be suspected of deceit?” However, there remained still the big step in drawing a “geographical map of all these places”: Labat lamented the fact that the locals did not know how “to measure heights [i.e., latitudes], and even less longitudes,” and estimated distances in terms of walking days (Labat 1728, 2:161, 4:259–60). But his harshest criticisms were not directed against Africans but against geographers, who “often write without having seen” and “often mutilate the whole world” on their maps (Labat 1728, 2:253). This venomous attack expressed his inherent trust in the supremacy of practical experience over academic knowledge. Labat also regretted—quite paradoxically—that “trade was the ultimate goal of Companies,” which chose not to explore the interior of lands, thus depriving themselves of “very useful discoveries for Geography and Botany” (Labat 1728, 3:169; similarly Green 1717). Among the few maps that appeared in Labat’s book, one was based on a certain Compagnon’s travels in the “pays de Bamboucq,” what is now Sudan, in 1716 (Labat 1728, vol. 4, between 32 and 33). This employee of the Compagnie du Sénégal found favor with Labat because he had a properly enlightened sense of curiosity, utility, and duty. He designed the map himself—which to Labat heightened its value—and, as new discoveries were made, corrected and improved it (Labat 1728, 4:38–39). However, as a representation of economics, this document was quite crude; gold mines were indicated with a little cross, but where they were very numerous “we could not mark them on the map, because too many crosses would have been confusing” (Labat 1728, 4:50–51). The text, rather than the map, indicated where the mines were located. We might wonder why maps were so imprecise, even for locating wealth. A first explanation could be the fact that such thematic cartography was not well codified at the time, and the data required to accurately locate mineral wealth was not available, especially in unexplored or underexplored territory. Maps at a small scale could not show the exact locations of mines and minerals. But a second hypothesis might explore the real motive behind these maps: to publicize the wealth of these countries and to stimulate public and private investment

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into companies rather than locating exactly where this wealth was to be found. These maps then say something about the priorities of those who commissioned them or their perceived audience, or both. D’Anville’s 1727 map of Senegal marked only the roads or tracks that Europeans took, displaying little interest in the native routes. Similarly, maps of the Gulf of Guinea marked commercial territory important to European eyes either by clearly identifying regions as “grain coast,” “ivory coast,” “gold coast,” and “slave coast,” as in Moll’s New and Exact Map of Guinea in Willem Bosman’s 1705 account of the coast of Guinea, or by descriptive texts included on the maps themselves, as in d’Anville’s 1729 map of the Guinea coast (fig. 213). Such maps hinted at the nature of economic engagements between Europeans and non-European lands and countries. Slaves, for example, were bought on the coast by Europeans from Africans, not seized inland. Maps also reflect conflicts of interests inside European states or between them. First, as the Popple case shows, the economic competition between European powers to appropriate the world’s wealth could be mapped, especially in the Americas, western Africa, and East Asia, where Britain and France were the main competitors, while the Dutch Republic, Spain, and Portugal were more heavily involved in South America and Southeast Asia. Such maps were occasionally specific, as in depictions of fishing rights, which, at different times, involved rival claims from Dutch, English, French, and Scottish fishermen. Thus did William Doyle mark the allegedly well-stocked “Nymph Bank” off southeast Ireland on his A New Chart of the Sea Coast of Great Britain (1738, 30). Further afield, Herman Moll’s New and Exact Map (1715) summarized the piscine aspect of the Treaty of Utrecht that closed the War of the Spanish Succession in 1713: “The French by the Treaty . . . are allowed to catch Fish, and to dry them on land, in that Part only, and no other, of the Island of Newfound-Land.” Exceptionally, diplomats drew manuscript maps to illustrate specific economic claims. After the War of the Austrian Succession, for example, British and French commissaries discussed the number of maritime prizes each side would be allowed to keep after the signing of the peace treaty. Their claims, which were at odds with each other, were expressed cartographically (Morieux 2008, 160–61). More often though, European competition for distant economic resources or markets was depicted in general terms. That is, the maps showed the lands that were valued, but gave little indication as to the specific nature of their value. Their meaning in that regard was provided by common knowledge conveyed in an accompanying text or perhaps a “project” or “scheme.” For example, the South Sea Company was formed in Britain in 1711, in part, to try to gain access to some of the

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Fig. 213. EUROPEAN COMMERCE AND THE COAST OF WESTERN AFRICA. Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, Carte particuliere de la partie principale de la Guinée située entre Issini et Ardra (Paris, 1729). The map shows the native kingdoms and their boundaries along the Gold Coast, as well

as the coastal locations at which the Dutch (H), British (A), and Danes (D) traded for gold and slaves. Size of the original: 33.5 × 61.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 10864).

markets in Latin America then dominated by Spain and Portugal. Moll’s A View of the Coasts, Countries and Islands Within the Limits of the South-Sea-Company (1711) visualized that hope, although its general map provided no detail as to the region’s natural resources or value. That task was fulfilled in the accompanying text of two-hundred-plus pages in nine chapters. But Moll also knew that the great wealth of South America was a widely believed legend, indeed a myth. Could a map really counter the myth? Moll’s map shows that it was not necessary to reflect the true state of economic knowledge of a region; the map served more as a visual appendage than a documentation of reality. Its production was not stimulated by forces that desired to depict economic features, but principally by financial speculation and political maneuvering. Similarly Zacharias Châtelain’s map based on documents gathered for the establishment of the Compagnie du Mississippi in the 1710s only hinted at different aspects of the region’s value through some highly vague motifs: agriculture, livestock, the fertility of the land, and the way villages were built (fig. 214). As with the Moll map, the Châtelain map did not locate precisely where resources could be found, but created an encyclopedic display, in general and stylized terms, of the wealth of the region to stimulate investment. If maps played a role in attempts to gain exclusive

trading rights or to encourage people to invest in a project, they could also be used in the debates between holders of exclusive rights and independent traders. An anonymous French manuscript map of the west coast of Africa, from Cabo Blanco to the Sierra-Leone River, dating from the 1720s, expressed the criticisms of French trading interests against the monopoly of the French Compagnie des Indes, which forbade them from trading in regions it lacked the means to control. Trading beyond the Cape of Good Hope, with Madagascar or Arabia, was prohibited for French individuals and was said to be “contrary to French shipping, to the maritime power of the kingdom, and to the good of the state in general” (Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Ge B 1702). So far only general maps of far-flung lands have been cited. Even though they were not directly rooted in new surveys—and indeed were synthetic at best, mere copies at worst—they nonetheless reflected contemporary enthusiasm for the economic value of overseas commerce and empire. But of course most European economic activity was undertaken domestically, especially in agrarian communities. Even in England, probably the most developed economy in Europe in 1800, less than a third of the population lived in towns of more than 5,000 people. While industries were often located in mainly agricultural locales, working the soil was still clearly the

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dominant form of economic activity. Property ownership was therefore critically important, as reflected in largescale manuscript estate maps. For large estates, the plans might aid the management of tenancies, but they often functioned more as elegantly produced statements of ownership, which, like a portrait, could be handed down through the generations. However, where property rights were being redistributed or exchanged, new surveys were often needed, as in the thousands of enclosures or tithe commutations undertaken in England (Kain, Chapman, and Oliver 2004; Kain and Oliver 1995). From the seventeenth century onward, the sea became a key theater of war between European powers, and maritime concerns elicited repercussions on land. Britain, France, Spain, and Portugal, among others, sought to build powerful navies to compete with one another. To do so, a nation needed guaranteed and regular supplies of good-quality wood. Since the thirteenth century, French kings had passed laws to protect their forests and began to use maps for that purpose in the sixteenth century. Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s “Ordonnance . . . sur le fait des eaux et forêts” (1669) was the most important, as it systematized a policy of conservation and expansion of French forests, which were surveyed and mapped in considerable numbers around this time. It is important to point out that these documents were not only descriptive but also prospective, since sylviculture required advance planning for forty or fifty years; future felling areas were represented next to actual cuttings. Maps were therefore a tool for governing and managing the state’s resources, “to convince of the projects’ utility or to estimate the cost of the intended works” (Pelletier 2013, 37). As with woods and ships, so too with other maps of internal infrastructure; they might seem merely descriptive, but often contain underlying plans for financial and

economic enterprises. Andrew Yarranton’s undated map of England’s midland counties and rivers, for example, aimed to show “how farr the greate Rivers of England may be made Navigable, And there by serviceable one to the other, soe the carriage of Goods and Merchandize, made Easie and Cheape” (London, British Library, Add. MS 4473, f. 31; Yarranton 1677–81, 1:64–65) (fig. 215). Because of the property rights involved, maps were often needed to gain the legal authority to build housing, turnpikes, canals, weirs, or docks. For economic historians, the main interest of early modern maps is not what they appear to say about the economy, which was often demonstrably inaccurate, but, like any historical source, why they were produced, how they were drawn, and in what ways they were used. The material conditions in which the map was prepared inform the historian about power relationships in the context of empire, the building of the nation-state, or the rivalry between European powers, as well as notions of property and the means of increasing wealth. They can also testify to the major economic changes of the period—the Industrial Revolution and the conquest of the world by Europeans—from Popple’s map to Hanoverian engineer Johann Ludewig Hogrewe’s 1778 map of the Bridgewater Canal (see fig. 341), part of his general survey of the canal system in Great Britain. The relationship between cartography and the economy during the Enlightenment was indeed paradoxical. While the thinking about economy became increasingly elaborate, emphasizing its dynamism, cycles, and different interests, representing it on maps posed cartographers a challenge that they understandably failed to meet. Not until much better statistical data became available in the nineteenth century would it be possible to map economic flows with reasonable accuracy. The main goal of cartographers in relation to the economic

Fig. 214. IDEALIZED IMAGININGS OF NATIVE SOCIETY IN NORTH AMERICA. Detail from Zacharias Châtelain, Carte de la Nouvelle France (Amsterdam, 1719).

Size of the entire original: 50 × 55 cm; size of detail: ca. 6 × 18 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [8537 B]).

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Fig. 215. THE POTENTIAL FOR INFRASTRUCTURAL CHANGE. From Yarranton 1677–81, vol. 1, between 64 and 65.

Size of the original: 41 × 41 cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

sphere was, therefore, much the same in 1800 as it had been a century and a half before: to describe a particular reality as precisely as possible. Some of them, such as the Cassinis in France, were conscious that their maps could be nothing more than an image at a given time, a moment that might soon pass with the building of new canals or new roads. On the Carte de France, therefore, César-François Cassini (III) de Thury decided to limit his

project to elements of the landscape that were unlikely to change quickly, like church towers (Pelletier 2013, 147–48). However, another type of cartography also developed in the Enlightenment, whose relationship to the economy was very different; instead of focusing on economic facts that were already outdated by the time they were drawn, prospective maps could represent a view of the future, albeit a future often imagined in self-

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serving ways by the state, corporations, companies, and the propertied. J u l i a n H op p i t a n d R e n au d Mo rieux See also: Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography; Map Trade; Nationalism and Cartography; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Statistics and Cartography; Thematic Mapping: Enlightenment B i bliogra p hy Anderson, Adam. 1764. An Historical and Chronological Deduction of the Origin of Commerce. 2 vols. London: Printed for A. Millar et al. Broc, Numa. 1975. La géographie des philosophes: Géographes et voyageurs français au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Editions Ophrys. Doyle, William. 1738. Two Letters Wherein the Sovereignty of the British Seas, and That the Sole Right of Fishing in Them, Appertaineth to the King of Great-Britain, &c. is Demonstratively Maintain’d and Asserted. London: Printed for J. Brett. Green, John (Bradock Mead). 1717. The Construction of Maps and Globes. London: T. Horne et al. Harley, J. B. 2001. “Silences and Secrecy: The Hidden Agenda of Cartography in Early Modern Europe.” In The New Nature of Maps: Essays in the History of Cartography, by J. B. Harley, ed. Paul Laxton, 83–107. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Hutchison, T. W. 1998. Before Adam Smith: The Emergence of Political Economy, 1662–1776. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Kain, Roger J. P., and Richard Oliver. 1995. The Tithe Maps of England and Wales: A Cartographic Analysis and County-by-County Catalogue. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kain, Roger J. P., John Chapman, and Richard Oliver. 2004. The Enclosure Maps of England and Wales, 1595–1918: A Cartographic Analysis and Electronic Catalog. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Labat, Jean-Baptiste. 1728. Nouvelle relation de l’Afrique occidentale: Contenant une description exacte du Senegal & des païs situés entre le Cap-Blanc & la Rivieere de Serrelionne. 5 vols. Paris: Chez Guillaume Cavelier. Laboulais, Isabelle, ed. 2004. Combler les blancs de la carte: Modalités et enjeux de la construction des savoirs géographiques (XVIe –XXe siècle). Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg. Morieux, Renaud. 2008. Une mer pour deux royaumes: La Manche, frontière franco-anglaise, XVIIe –XVIIIe siècles. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Pelletier, Monique. 2013. Les cartes des Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Perrot, Jean-Claude. 1992. Une histoire intellectuelle de l’économie politique, XVIIe–XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Editions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Playfair, William. 1786. The Commercial and Political Atlas: Representing, by Means of Stained Copper-Plate Charts, the Exports, Imports, and General Trade of England, at a Single View. London: Printed for J. Debrett et al. Savary des Brûlons, Jacques. 1723. Dictionnaire universel de commerce: Contenant tout ce qui concerne le commerce qui se fait dans les quatre parties du monde. 2 vols. Paris: Jacques Estienne. Schulten, Susan. 2007. “Mapping American History.” In Maps: Finding Our Place in the World, ed. James R. Akerman and Robert W. Karrow, 159–205. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Surun, Isabelle. 2003. “Géographies de l’exploration: La carte, le terrain et le texte (Afrique occidentale, 1780–1880.” PhD thèse, École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris. Yarranton, Andrew. 1677–81. England’s Improvement by Sea and Land: To Out-do the Dutch without Fighting, to Pay Debts without Moneys. 2 vols. London: Printed by R. Everingham for the author.

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Education and Cartography. Mapmaking and map reading were central to consciously modern and progressive education, both military and civilian, during the Enlightenment. Geographical mapping in the eighteenth century was oriented markedly toward educational uses, so the most obvious aspects of education and cartography are discussed in the entries about geographical mapping. By contrast, this entry elucidates the less visible but equally pervasive support for education within the increasingly sophisticated public sphere. The theme is explored here in the specific context of Great Britain; this detailed analysis is intended not to exemplify educational encounters with maps across Enlightenment Europe, but to promote further analysis of this complex phenomenon in other parts of Europe. Instructions for making and using maps diffused widely in Enlightenment Britain with the production of affordable cartographic objects and images for a middle-class audience, of all ages and both sexes, curious to know about the land and life of places in their own country as well as those abroad, within and beyond the national imperium (Mayhew 1998). These products included mass-produced teaching aids, illustrations in magazines and guidebooks, and decorative, domestic fixtures such as firescreens, wallpaper, fans, and embroidery samplers, both manufactured and homemade (Shefrin 1999). Based on new surveys and expressed in skilled draftsmanship, the improvement of mapmaking was also central to the modern reform of military strategy throughout Europe, for planning operations in the field, and particularly for increasing mobility of tactics over a range of terrain. Cartography was also deployed for the commemoration as well as the conduct of warfare, for recording successful campaigns in artwork that combined plans, prospects, and vignettes, and placed the field of battle within a wider world and practice of conquest and pacification. Military Education From a position in the Drawing Room of the military’s Board of Ordnance at Edinburgh in the early 1740s and because of his prodigious graphic skills, Thomas Sandby was appointed draftsman to the commanding general, William Augustus, duke of Cumberland. He produced views of military sites, which also offered commentary on the conflict and its aftermath. His plan of the decisive 1746 Battle of Culloden, executed for Cumberland, is aligned with long-established traditions of military art, showing the strategic positioning of military units, but the sketch of the battle departs from tradition, in viewing it from the perspective of the enemy, with a group of Jacobites in the foreground advancing down the rise (Bonehill and Daniels 2009b, 80–81; Plax 2002) (figs. 216 and 217). Placing the sketch against the regular straight lines

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Fig. 216. THOMAS SANDBY, PLAN OF THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN, 1746.

Size of the original: 34.2 × 42.7 cm. Image courtesy of the Royal Collection Trust/© Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2018 (RL 17177).

formed by Cumberland’s troops, as seen in the plan, only serves to accentuate the disorder in the enemy ranks, the contrast of which is noted in an eyewitness account of the day’s events, which described the “great Beauty of Discipline and Order” of government lines in contrast with the “desperate Attack” made by the rebels, who “like Wildcats . . . came down in Swarms” and in “Fury” (Hughes 1746, 38, 41). In a further episode of Sandby’s pictorial narrative, an extensive prospect of the military camp at Fort Augustus foregrounds two kilted Jacobite soldiers as chained prisoners, accompanied by redcoats, with the encircling highland landscape under the watchful eye of British dominion (Charlesworth 1996; Bonehill and Daniels 2009b, 78–79) (fig. 218). Taken from a sketch by Paul Sandby, the highlanders are not portrayed (as so often in English representation)

as wild and scrawny, but in defeat display a resigned nobility, even a shapely elegance. This is evident in other commemorative images, notably the cartouches on John Elphinstone’s manuscript map of North Britain, an old convention of conferring worth on defeated adversaries as well as a sign of conciliation for a conflict that in Scotland and Britain fractured a complex matrix of loyalties, identities, and commitments (Anderson 2010; Barber and Harper 2010, 110–11) (fig. 219). Paul Sandby followed his elder brother to become chief draftsman of the Military Survey and a highly versatile view maker, accompanying surveying parties in the highlands and overseeing the making of the fair copy of the so-called Great Map in the Drawing Room of Edinburgh Castle (Christian 1990; Bermingham 2000, 78–83; Roy 2007; Bonehill and Daniels 2009b, 82–86).

Fig. 217. THOMAS SANDBY, A SKETCH OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE AT CULLODEN, 1746.

Size of the original: 29.2 × 53.1 cm. Image courtesy of the Royal Collection Trust/© Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2018 (RL 14722).

Fig. 218. THOMAS SANDBY, FORT AUGUSTUS, CA. 1746.

Image courtesy of the Royal Collection Trust/© Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2018 (RL 14725).

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Fig. 220. PAUL SANDBY, PLAN OF CASTLE TYRIM IN MUYDART, PLAN OF CASTLE DUIRT IN THE ISLAND OF MULL, 1748.

Size of the original: 32.7 × 52.6 cm. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh (MS 1648 Z.03/28e).

Sandby produced plans and views of strategically important castles as part of a report on their state of repair, including views from boats and showing familiarity with the tradition of maritime draftsmanship and its various types of sketching and delineation (Bonehill and Daniels 2009b, 92–93; David 1988, xxxviii–xli; Sands 1990; Driver and Martins 2002) (fig. 220). Sandby’s assemblage of plans and views, accommodating multiple perspectives in the same frame, conveys a good deal about the wider geography of the sites, demonstrating the exchange between traditions of maritime and military draftsmanship. Along with supervising the making of the Great Map, Sandby undertook a virtuoso style of terrain drawing in pen and wash, with aligned brushstrokes indicating the direction of slopes and the gradu-

ation of tones denoting steepness and height, contributing decisively to the artistic effect of the work. A small but highly sophisticated drawing by the younger Sandby preserved in the king’s topographical collection commemorates both projects (fig. 221). It shows in the background the relief of the mountains in the signature style of shading used on the fair copy of the Great Map and in the foreground a compositional device from classical style art, a Claudian-style tree, framing a surveying party at work near Kinloch Rannoch. One man takes a sighting through a circumferentor while two other men drag a chain across a remarkably level, empty space, a blank portion of the paper, reminding the viewer of the paper on which this new view of the land will be inscribed. This is, then, a picture

(facing page) Fig. 219. JOHN ELPHINSTONE, “A NEW MAP OF NORTH BRITAIN,” 1746. This manuscript map includes, among its several inset images, a reduced version of Thomas Sandby’s plan of the battle at Culloden (see fig. 216).

Size of the original: 146 × 108 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps K.Top.48.22).

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Fig. 221. PAUL SANDBY, SURVEYING PARTY BY KINLOCH RANNOCH, 1749.

Size of the original: 18.3 × 29.3 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps K.Top.50.83.2).

about viewing landscape and making images, about the practice and performance of various forms of spectatorship that make up the field of vision, including the acts of using instruments of observation and depiction. It also portrays the wider culture of topography and its capacity for social conciliation. The surveying party is not strictly the team of surveyors and soldiers who made up such parties in the field, but a varied and carefully staged group of figures, politely posed in the style of a group portrait, a conversation piece, with elements of a pastoral fête galante. On one side is a woman in a full gown, on the other a kilted highlander, taking a step, hand on hip, striking a heroic classical pose. Standing in the middle another highlander looks out, paired with a British officer looking back, along with another soldier holding a British flag toward the raised vantage point of the picture. The vignette stands as a small summary image for the making of the Great Map itself, like an unused frontispiece or cartouche. In 1768, the year he was made a founding member of the Royal Academy of Arts, Paul Sandby was appointed

chief drawing master of the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich (Bonehill, Daniels, and Alfrey 2009, 17–18; Sloan 2000, 107–8). Established in 1741 to train engineers and artillery officers, Woolwich was instrumental in promoting the idea of military education for a gentlemanly British culture suspicious of Continental models of instruction. It promoted the graphic arts more widely in civil society, as cadets and officers were proud to display their pictorial accomplishments. Under Sandby’s overall tutelage, officers took classes several mornings a week in landscapes and perspective alongside lessons on French, Latin, mathematics, and geography (Townshend 1776), with cadets making use of the local landscape and the buildings and grounds of the Academy itself. Students were taught “the best Method of describing the various Kinds of Ground, with its Inequalities, as necessary for the drawing of Plans” as well as “the taking of Views from Nature” (Townshend 1776, 19). This concern with the act of image making—the process of observation and drawing as well as the final product— was to understand the landscape spatially, as a network

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of landmarks and features, prospects and refuges, vantage points and lines of fire. Sandby designed the elaborate frontispiece for An Universal Military Dictionary (1779) to promote the virtues of the Academy’s military science; drum and standard, cannon and shot, are arranged around a collection of engineering and surveying instruments, while the gentlemanly status of the cadets trained at the Academy is indicated by the elegantly posed young officer with a telescope (Bonehill, Daniels, and Alfrey 2009, 17). The skills Sandby taught are demonstrated by the careful perspectival rendering of the Academy buildings. The lessons of field surveying and military drawing were widely used to describe potential battlefields and places of strategic importance at the margins of the British imperium, brought to bear on a range of unfamiliar places in the Americas, transforming them into subject territories and scenic landscapes (Robertson 1986; Sloan 2000, 139–40). The Military Survey of North Britain, as executed by William Roy and others, following the failure of the Jacobite rebellion, incorporated skilled draftsmanship from a variety of quarters—engineering, architecture, estate surveying, and fine art—producing a range of both official and off-duty imagery displaying the lay of the land and the degree of its physical and social improvement through loyal British governance (Roy 2007). These works also expressed, sometimes self-consciously, the expertise and virtuosity of image making, whether on the ground in sketching and surveying, in finished drawings and engravings, or in copying and adapting existing maps and views. The Sandby brothers made influential contributions to depicting this process topographically, focusing on fields of vision as well as the territory in view. Geographical Education Geographical education was often depicted in family portraiture, which  was, in the words of the professor of painting at the Royal Academy in 1799, Henry Fuseli, “fashionable furniture” in the sense that it was made to be displayed in fashionably furnished private houses and to show what he called “the mutual charities”—the affectionate relations of parents, children, and close relations. It was no longer the “exclusive property of princes,” but aided by the patronage of the royal family, a genre of highminded family portraiture extended to all households that could afford a painted likeness, paying tribute to generic virtues of “beauty, prowess, genius, talent” as well as their embodiment in real people and their affective relations (Fuseli 1831, 2:216–17). Family portraiture overlapped with genres in which particular identifiable individuals expressed general, often abstract ideas. In so-called fancy pictures, figures pose with familiar objects, especially children with toys

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or pets, to express moral or emotional sentiments. Conversation pieces portray older couples and the family circle (sometimes including close friends) in a domestic setting, inside or out; the figures are engaged in forms of polite recreation and instruction, from music, science, and literature to hunting, shooting, and fishing, along with the appropriate instruments or equipment. Forms of geographical knowledge were displayed in both genres of family portraiture: maps, atlases, globes, landscape pictures, and views of scenes on the family estate. Maps and globes might represent specific properties or commercial interests, personal and national, and could also function allegorically, as traditionally in artworks, as instruments of philosophical reflection (Sitwell 1936; Praz 1971; Quilley 1996; Walters 1997; Daniels 1999, 32–37; Retford 2006). Philippe Mercier’s painting Sight from his series of scenes of allegories on the senses (ca. 1744–47) shows a group of figures around a map holding optical instruments (fig. 222). A man appears to be giving a lesson holding a magnifying glass over a detail, while one sitting young woman points at the map with two spread fingers like a pair of compasses. Two other young women, with a close family resemblance, stand looking outward, one holding a telescope, the other holding a mirror. Women holding mirrors were traditional emblems of vanity in art, but this woman angles the mirror away from her face to reflect her companion pointing at the map, the image of geography in the phrase of the time, which “shows us, as in a Glass, the whole World; brings every Part of it to our view” (Morant 1742, iii). Maps also had a long history as vanitas emblems, but these figures are patriotically engaged in worldly knowledge, for this map shows a contemporary theater of war, the western Mediterranean around the coast of Spain, where Britain was battling its imperial rivals in Europe for ascendancy as the major global power. In Sight, geography is being used to illustrate John Locke’s visual epistemology, a picture theory of knowledge that offered art a philosophical basis for exploring the modes and meanings of observation, representation, and spectatorship. In Locke’s influential writings on education, in which children were likened to travelers in a new world, geography provided the framework for progressive reasoning. Family members, particularly mothers and elder siblings, were assigned a primary role in Locke’s domestic curriculum to develop “a Gentleman, or Man of Business in the World.” With due guidance, the young child could learn “which is the AEquator, which the Meridian, &c. which Europe and which England upon the Globes, as soon almost as he knows the Rooms of the House he lives in” (Locke 1705, 331), before progressing to more systematic reasoning as he moved, with the aid of a plan of the Copernican sys-

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Fig. 222. PHILIPPE MERCIER, THE SENSE OF SIGHT, CA. 1744–47.

Size of the original: 132.1 × 153.7 cm. Image courtesy of the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven (Paul Mellon Collection, acc. no. B1974.3.17).

tem, to survey the place and movement of the globe and planets orbiting the sun. “So proceeding by gentle and insensible steps, Children without Confusion and Amazement, will have their Understandings opened, and their Thoughts extended farther, than could have been expected” (Locke 1705, 329–30). The British royal family promoted education on Lockean principles as a matter of domestic virtue. Descriptive vignettes emphasized both their family feeling and their personal promotion of understanding the natural and political world and its improvement, for all ages and both sexes. Portraits putting the accomplishments of royal children on show include cartographic objects among the other signs of their progressive environ-

ment—model ships, bows and arrows, and gardens to roam in. In Allan Ramsay’s 1764 portrait, the queen is shown as a conspicuously modern parent with her sons, a copy of Locke’s treatise on education on the spinet next to her needlework (Shefrin 2003, 3). Geographical education was enlisted as a rational form of female accomplishment, a steadying influence on young women prone to received opinion, idle fantasy, and fashionable display. Dedicated to Queen Charlotte, The Young Lady’s Geography sought to rescue readers from “the tyranny of custom and prejudice” and the love of “the appearance of novelty,” being sufficiently attractive as a textbook to “entice from the hands of the Fair, obscene and ridiculous novels, (which serve only to vi-

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tiate their morals, inflame their passions, and eradicate the very seeds of virtue)” (The Young Lady’s Geography 1765, preface and dedication). Education might promote modern marriage. Some maintained that a young woman should cultivate “the same mental and social talents [as] enlightened men” to make her “instructive, amiable, and interesting” as a conversational partner (Malkin 1795, 284); a “man of sense” wanted a wife to be a “companion . . . not merely a creature who can paint, and play, and dress, and dance” (More 1799, 1:98). A portrait by David Allan of the children of Henry Dundas, first viscount Melville, positions geography centrally in their family life and education (fig. 223). The scene is a schoolroom, probably in the Dundas townhouse in Edinburgh, and the setting draws on idealized images of such rooms in educational texts. The three Dundas sisters are dressed in neoclassical style, echoing

other figures of cultivated women in contemporary art, including portraits and allegories by Angelica Kauffman, a leading member of the Royal Academy (Sloan 2000, 245–48). In Allan’s portrait the arts of drawing and measurement are counterbalanced. On the far left the eldest Dundas daughter Elizabeth draws at a table, posed with a portecrayon as she copies a drawing or print of a tree. A cast of a bust of Apollo stands on the table, another model artwork for her to copy and also a figure of global knowledge. At the center Anne Dundas is poised with a pair of compasses on the globe, striking the female figure of Geography in emblem books. She is portrayed as a domesticated figure, but dignified and self-possessed, imperious even, recalling regal figures like Queen Charlotte and Elizabeth I as well as the figure of Britannia herself, who adorned so many geographical images and texts of

Fig. 223. DAVID ALLAN, PORTRAIT OF THE CHILDREN OF HENRY DUNDAS, 1ST VISCOUNT MELVILLE, CA. 1785.

Size of the original: 122 × 151 cm. Private collection. Photograph courtesy of Sotheby’s Picture Library, London (JL3578).

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ain. He played a key role in the remaking of Britain as a political state, not only cementing the union with Scotland, but positioning Scottish interests at the center of its global commercial ambition. Dundas was satirized by James Gillray as a colossal figure astride the globe with one foot in the city of London and the other on the roof of India House in Bengal, part kilted Highlander, part turbaned oriental despot, commanding the sun and moon (Fry 1992, frontispiece). Dundas could not be shown in the portrait because he had scandalously divorced these children’s mother, but he is perhaps alluded to by the bust of Apollo. The Dundas dynasty was keenly committed to geography as a form of knowledge, patronizing mapping projects in Scotland and wider projects of remaking space, including neoclassical architectural schemes. We might also see this picture as affirming Edinburgh’s self-image as the center of European enlightenment, including the production by its citizens of theoretical texts on global history that center on Northern Europe as a favored site of human development (Withers 2007; Mayhew 2000, 168–92).

Fig. 224. PIETRO LONGHI, THE GEOGRAPHY LESSON, 1752. Size of the original: 61 × 49 cm. Galleria Querini-Stampalia, Venice/Cameraphoto Arte Venezia/Bridgeman Images.

the time. In contrast to her submissive Venetian cousin in Pietro Longhi’s The Geography Lesson (fig. 224), this Geographia does not invite the ogling attention of male tutors, but gives the lesson herself, personifying a strong northern constitutional monarchy then gaining a global empire, not—as contemporaries in Britain were keen to observe by way of moral contrast—an effete Mediterranean republic that lost an empire through sensual luxury (Cosgrove 2001, 166–67). Anne instructs the youngest sister, Montague, who is holding a “Map of Europe” and pointing to where Anne places the legs of the compass, marking the position of Britain, one leg in Scotland, the other in England. Anne looks to her left, where the Dundas son and heir Robert arrives through the door from school, clutching his exercise book, hat, and satchel. Shortly after this picture was painted he was taken on a tour of Europe, seeing places on the ground his sisters could only read about or see on the map. The picture’s display of the children’s accomplishments is part of a wider portrayal of the power of the Dundas family as a political dynasty. The children’s father Henry was Lord Advocate, the most powerful man in Scotland, and an increasingly influential one in Brit-

Educational Games A pastel portrait by William Hoare of Thomas and John Quicke with a dissected map shows these children with a widely popular form of geographical instruction (fig. 225). The practice of dissection was applied to other educational images, such as chronological tables, but with maps the cuts could be aligned with political boundaries of counties or nations and conserve geographical coherence, the connection of part and whole. Available as luxury sets in special

Fig. 225. WILLIAM HOARE, PORTRAIT OF MASTERS THOMAS AND JOHN QUICKE, 1770. Size of the original: 61.5 × 74.5 cm. Private collection. Image courtesy of the Paul Mellon Centre for Studies of British Art, London.

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cabinets, they were also cheaply manufactured or made at home and diffused to schools and households of all kinds (Shefrin 1999, 2003). The Quicke family was longstanding Devon gentry who had recently been enriched by developing local manganese mines and had spent their money in fashionable style, replanning their estate, building a manor house in a neoclassical style, taking Grand Tours to Italy, and commissioning a highly fashionable, Bath-based portraitist to depict their children. The portrait of the Quicke brothers is one of a number of fancy picturestyle portraits fashionable at the time that displayed a new informality, with people seeming to be interrupted in the course of everyday tasks, such as reading books, doing needlework, looking at pictures, writing letters, or playing with toys, and the pictures often carry a message about such activity. The dissected map of Europe in the Quicke portrait looks to be homemade, although they were commercially available from London engraver and mapmaker John Spilsbury for twelve shillings, “mounted on mahogany . . . the countries coloured in outline” (Newby 1990, 52–53). Britain is securely in place on the map, as are the central pieces of Northern Europe, while the kingdoms of Southern Europe are scattered on the table. John Quicke holds Italy in his hand, looking to his brother for guidance that he is putting it in the correct place. The elder Quicke brother is posed with calm stillness, in contrast to his younger brother’s insistence on completing the map. The portrait of the Quicke children may be a pun on the vaunted quickness with which dissected maps might be assembled. Dissected maps were used in progressive schools like William Gilpin’s at Cheam, in which children were encouraged to draw, cultivate garden plots, and play at shops (Shefrin 1999, 22). They are described as instruments of imagination as well as reason in Benjamin Heath Malkin’s affecting 1806 memoir of his prodigious child Thomas, who compiled a text and map of visionary country Allenstone, among other inventive landscape drawings, before his death at age five: “His dissected maps . . . afforded him pleasure and interest to the last. He had some counties of England in his hands, reading the names of the towns in them, within half an hour of his dissolution” (Malkin 1997, 148). Malkin’s memoir frames Thomas’s life with William Blake’s poetry and art of childhood innocence and Blake’s frontispiece shows the boy’s apotheosis, ascending from a cliff top laid out with book, compasses, and crayons. Criticism of Visual Aids Dissected maps as well as other cartographic artifacts attracted criticism. Erasmus Darwin’s radical A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education (1797) included geographical board and card games but not dissected maps because they emphasized

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the “forms of counties and of countries” not “the situations” and “the principal rivers and mountains, which ingrave or imboss it’s [sic] surface.” He preferred to provide outline maps published by William Faden that children would fill in with the texture of topographical features (Darwin 1797, 21–22; Shefrin 1999, 23). Liberal textbooks such as John Aikin’s England Delineated (1785) provided “outline maps of knowledge” to be filled in by observation, perhaps on rambles with the aid of topographical maps and telescopes, or reliably documentary up-to-date information (Daniels and Elliott 2012). The more conservative case against dissected maps is made in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park (1814), a family portrait in fiction that explores both modes of education and forms of geographical knowledge. Here dissected maps, like chronological charts, stand for the superficial knowledge of forward and clever children, as their adult equivalents are attracted to pictorial plans of landscape gardening drawn up with little regard for the social and physical fabric of the countryside. Arriving at a Northamptonshire country house from a much poorer house in Portsmouth, the serious-minded Fanny Price is called “prodigiously stupid” by her smart cousins for not being able “put the map of Europe together,” not knowing the principal rivers of Russia, the chronological order of the kings of England, or “the difference between water-colours and crayons” (Austen 1814, 1:33–34). At a time when no map could conceivably put together a Europe fractured by war, Fanny’s inner life, and her deeper, less articulated learning and feeling about the world, prove the appropriate sensibility to connect and conserve the land and life of the country (Daniels and Cosgrove 1993). The increasing production of visual aids made geography attractive but threatened its cultural standing as a serious pursuit, a subject too easily reduced to consuming representations of the world rather than observing its reality on the ground. In contrast to Locke’s Thoughts on Education, the other main treatise on progressive education, Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Émile, ou de l’éducation (1762), is marked by a suspicion of ready-made cartography that confines a child to a world of signs and is as otherworldly in its way as the fairy stories the philosopher also dismissed. “I remember somewhere to have seen a tract on geography, which begun as follows. What is the world?—It is a globe of pasteboard.” “You intend, we’ll suppose, to teach your child geography, and for that purpose provide for him maps, spheres, and globes. What an apparatus! wherefore all these mere representations of things? why do you not rather begin by shewing him the object itself?” An evening walk close to home would educate all the senses, introduce the child to the sounds, fragrance, and touch of nature as well as how it looks. His first points

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of geography should be the “city in which he dwells and his father’s country house”; he should be encouraged to make a map himself, a simple sketch map, first formed by these two points then including the places in between, and pin them up to ornament his room (Rousseau 1763, 1:177, 2:11, 3:171). Émile was of course no more a real boy, no less a philosophical puppet, than other children in educational literature, but he was a more robust, outdoor figure. In its emphasis on firsthand, physical encounters with the world, Rousseauian principles were more radical than those shaped by Locke’s writings and more classically virile. British portraiture shaped by Rousseau’s ideas tends to focus on boys or young men in naturalistic settings, sturdy-limbed figures dressed for recreation. Such pictures also allude to more conventional images of male outdoor pursuits, figures posed for the hunting field, relaxing in parks and gardens, taking walks in the country, observing and sketching the natural world. In practice the most progressive English parents modified Rousseau’s regime. “At night we depart a little from Monsr. Rousseau’s plan,” noted Lady Caroline Fox shortly after publication of Emilius and Sophia, “for he reads fairytales and learns geography on the Beaumont wooden maps” (quoted in Shefrin 2003, 145n13). St e p he n Da n i e l s a n d J o h n Bo neh ill See also: Atlas: School Atlas; Games, Cartographic; Geographical Mapping; Geography and Cartography; Globe: Instructional Texts for the Use of Globes; Landscape, Maps, and Aesthetics; Map Trade; Military Cartography; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Women and Cartography Bibliograp hy Anderson, Carolyn J. 2010. “Constructing the Military Landscape: The Board of Ordnance Maps and Plans of Scotland, 1689–1815.” 2 vols. PhD diss., University of Edinburgh. Austen, Jane. 1814. Mansfield Park: A Novel. 3 vols. London: Printed for T. Egerton. Barber, Peter, and Tom Harper. 2010. Magnificent Maps: Power, Propaganda and Art. London: British Library. Bermingham, Ann. 2000. Learning to Draw: Studies in the Cultural History of a Polite and Useful Art. New Haven: Yale University Press. Bonehill, John, and Stephen Daniels. 2009a. “‘Real Views from Nature in This Country’: Paul Sandby, Estate Portraiture and British Landscape Art.” British Art Journal 10, no. 1:72–77. ———, eds. 2009b. Paul Sandby: Picturing Britain. London: Royal Academy of Arts. Bonehill, John, Stephen Daniels, and Nicholas Alfrey. 2009. “Paul Sandby: Picturing Britain.” In Paul Sandby: Picturing Britain, ed. John Bonehill and Stephen Daniels, 13–27. London: Royal Academy of Arts. Charlesworth, Michael. 1996. “Thomas Sandby Climbs the Hoober Stand: The Politics of Panoramic Drawing in Eighteenth-Century Britain.” Art History 19:247–66. Christian, Jessica. 1990. “Paul Sandby and the Military Survey of Scotland.” In Mapping the Landscape: Essays on Art and Cartography, ed. Nicholas Alfrey and Stephen Daniels, 18–22. Nottingham: University Art Gallery, Castle Museum. Cosgrove, Denis E. 2001. Apollo’s Eye: A Cartographic Genealogy of

the Earth in the Western Imagination. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Daniels, Stephen. 1999. Joseph Wright. London: Tate. Daniels, Stephen, and Denis E. Cosgrove. 1993. “Spectacle and Text: Landscape Metaphors in Cultural Geography.” In Place/Culture/ Representation, ed. James Duncan and David Ley, 57–77. London: Routledge. Daniels, Stephen, and Paul Elliott. 2012. “‘Outline Maps of Knowledge’: John Aikin’s Geographical Imagination.” In Religious Dissent and the Aikin-Barbauld Circle, 1740–1860, ed. Felicity James and Ian Inkster, 94–125. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Darwin, Erasmus. 1797. A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education, in Boarding Schools. Derby: Printed by J. Drewry; for J. Johnson, St. Paul’s Church-Yard, London. David, Andrew, ed. 1988. The Charts & Coastal Views of Captain Cook’s Voyages, Vol. 1, The Voyage of the Endeavour, 1768–1771. London: Hakluyt Society. Driver, Felix, and Luciana Martins. 2002. “John Septimus Roe and the Art of Navigation, c. 1815–1830.” History Workshop Journal 54:144–61. Fry, Michael. 1992. The Dundas Despotism. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Fuseli, Henry. 1831. The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli. 3 vols. Ed. John Knowles. London: Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley. Hughes, Michael. 1746. A Plain Narrative or Journal of the Late Rebellion, Begun in 1745. London: Printed for Henry Whitridge. Johnson, Dorothy. 1990. “Picturing Pedagogy: Education and the Child in the Paintings of Chardin.” Eighteenth-Century Studies 24:47–68. Locke, John. 1705. Some Thoughts Concerning Education. 5th ed. London: Printed for A. & J. Churchill. Malkin, Benjamin Heath. 1795. Essays on Subjects Connected with Civilization. London: Printed by E. Hodson. ———. 1997. A Father’s Memoirs of His Child, 1806. Poole: Woodstock Books. Mayhew, Robert J. 1998. “Geography in Eighteenth-Century British Education.” Paedagogica Historica 34:731–69. ———. 2000. Enlightenment Geography: The Political Languages of British Geography, 1650–1850. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Morant, Philip. 1742. “Preface.” In Geographia antiqua et nova: System of Antient and Modern Geography, with a Sett of Maps Engraven from Cellarius’s, by Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy, iii–vi. London: Printed for John and Paul Knapton. More, Hannah. 1799. Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education. 2 vols. London: Printed for T. Cadell Jun. and W. Davies. Newby, Evelyn. 1990. William Hoare of Bath R.A., 1707–1792. Bath: Bath Museums Service, Alan Sutton Publishing. Plax, Julie Anne. 2002. “Seventeenth-Century French Images of Warfare.” In Artful Armies, Beautiful Battles: Art and Warfare in Early Modern Europe, ed. Pia Cuneo, 131–55. Leiden: Brill. Praz, Mario. 1971. Conversation Pieces: A Survey of the Informal Group Portrait in Europe and America. London: Methuen. Quilley, Geoff. 1996. “The Sphere of Contemplation: The Imagery of Global Navigation in Eighteenth-Century England.” In Romantic Geographies: Proceedings of the Glasgow Conference, September 1994, ed. Colin Smethurst, 55–64. Glasgow: University of Glasgow French and German Publications. Retford, Kate. 2006. The Art of Domestic Life: Family Portraiture in Eighteenth-Century England. New Haven: Yale University Press. Robertson, Bruce. 1986. “Venit, vidit, depinxit: The Military Artist in America.” In Views and Visions: American Landscape before 1830, ed. Edward J. Nygren, 83–104. Hartford: Wadsworth Atheneum. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. 1763. Emilius and Sophia: or A New System of Education. 2d ed. 4 vols. London: Printed for T. Becket, P. A. de Hondt.

Encyclopedias Roy, William. 2007. The Great Map: The Military Survey of Scotland, 1747–55. Edinburgh: Birlinn. Sands, John O. 1990. “The Sailor’s Perspective: British Naval Topographic Artists.” In Background to Discovery: Pacific Exploration from Dampier to Cook, ed. Derek Howse, 185–200. Berkeley: University of California Press. Shefrin, Jill. 1999. Neatly Dissected for the Instruction of Young Ladies and Gentlemen in the Knowledge of Geography: John Spilsbury and Early Dissected Puzzles. Los Angeles: Cotsen Occasional Press. ———. 2003. Such Constant Affectionate Care: Lady Charlotte Finch, Royal Governess & the Children of George III. Los Angeles: Cotsen Occasional Press. Sitwell, Sacheverell. 1936. Conversation Pieces: A Survey of English Domestic Portraits and Their Painters. London: B. T. Batsford. Sloan, Kim. 2000. “A Noble Art”: Amateur Artists and Drawing Masters, c. 1600–1800. London: British Museum Press. Townshend, George. 1776. Rules and Orders for the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich. London: Turner Bequest. Walters, Alice N. 1997. “Conversation Pieces: Science and Politeness in Eighteenth-Century England.” History of Science 35:121–54. Withers, Charles W. J. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Young Lady’s Geography, The. 1765. London: Printed for R. Baldwin and T. Lownds.

Encyclopedias. In words and images, encyclopedias order the world. As texts of classification and summations of learning, encyclopedias have a long and distinguished history. Pliny’s Natural History (a.d. 77) is considered the first major European encyclopedic work. Where the ancient Greeks and Romans understood enkyklios paideia to mean a general education, scholars in the European Renaissance used the term “encyclopedia” to refer to the whole circle of human knowledge. The philosophical foundations of European encyclopedism were laid down during the seventeenth century, notably by Sir Francis Bacon. His 1620 Instauratio magna emphasized the importance of classification, hierarchy, and methodical connections between the topics making up the world of human learning, itself organized under three headings, history, poetry, and other knowledge, corresponding to the faculties of memory, imagination, and reason. The modern encyclopedia is a product of the Enlightenment. All encyclopedias have to confront the contradiction between the interconnectedness of knowledge and the principles for that knowledge’s classification, usually alphabetical order. In the Enlightenment, encyclopedic schemes for the classification of knowledge were advanced in association with claims for the social utility of that knowledge and even that human society would be united by the power of the knowledge contained in encyclopedias (Yeo 2001). Enlightenment encyclopedias thus drew on earlier traditions, yet they consistently sought to combine up-to-date definitions and

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discussions of topics, organized as alphabetical entries, with schemes for the classification of knowledge that were usually outlined at length in the preface. In relation to questions of mapping and the nature and definition of maps in the European Enlightenment, eighteenth-century encyclopedias are important for three related reasons. They provided what contemporaries understood as “maps of knowledge” or “charts of learning”—classificatory schemes that, then as now, afforded insight into the world of Enlightenment learning. Individual alphabetical entries such as “map” and “geography” and the relations between these and other such terms can be considered and comparisons may be made between different encyclopedias and, over time, between different editions of the same encyclopedia (Laboulais 2006; Withers 1996). By examining the biographies of the authors of entries in Enlightenment encyclopedias, the connections between them, and the sales and distribution of these works, modern scholars have traced what may be thought of as sketch maps of the production and reception of the Enlightenment as an intellectual phenomenon (Darnton 1979; Kafker 1996). Metaphors describing the works’ classificatory intentions—as the “tree” of human learning, for example, its individual branches separate subjects, or as the “map” of world knowledge—were commonplace in Enlightenment encyclopedias (fig. 226). Ephraim Chambers termed his Cyclopædia (1728) “a Survey of the Republick of Learning” and saw it marking “the Boundary that circumscribes our present Prospect; and separates the known, from the unknown Parts of the Intelligible World” (Chambers 1728, vol. 1, dedication). What Richard R. Yeo has considered contemporaries’ concern to provide “maps of the sciences” for the Enlightenment intellectual landscape (Yeo 2001, 27–32) is most clearly expressed in the preliminary discourse to the multivolume Encyclopédie produced under the general editorship of Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert. In acknowledging Bacon and Chambers but in emphasizing reason rather than philosophy and, moreover, in displacing theology as the root of all knowledge, the Encyclopédie effectively undid the old order of knowledge and presented a new agenda for learning. For these reasons, as well as for the radical tone of many of its entries, the Encyclopédie epitomizes the Enlightenment’s engagement with the power of secular reason and is arguably the most significant of the Enlightenment’s many encyclopedias. Laying out their plans for this new view of knowledge and the emancipatory purposes to which it might be put, the editors considered the Encyclopédie “a kind of world map which is to show the principal countries, their position and their mutual dependence, the road that lies directly from one to the other; this road is often cut by a thousand obstacles, which are known

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in each country only to the inhabitants or to travelers, and which cannot be represented except in individual, highly detailed maps. These individual maps will be the different articles of our Encyclopédie and the tree or systematic chart will be its world map” (d’Alembert 1751, xv). As with Chambers’s Cyclopædia, the Encyclopédie was, like much Enlightenment mapping, a means to lay down boundaries around spaces of knowledge and a document of uneven intellectual and social progress. In the first edition of his Cyclopædia, Chambers provided this definition for map: “a plain Figure, representing the several Parts of the Surface of the Earth, according to the Laws of Perspective: or a Projection of the Surface of the Globe, or a part thereof, in plano. See Projection” (1728, 2:495). Distinction was made between “Maps, universal” and “Maps, particular,” namely, between maps of the whole world and maps of individual countries. By the 1786–88 edition, the entry for map began with very similar words as the first edition entry, but was much enlarged upon. Connections were made with the mapping of regions and, thus, in contemporaries’ terms, with “surveying.” Thus, “For MAPS of provinces, or small tracts, as parishes, manors, &c. we use another method, more sure and accurate than any of the former. In this the angles of position, or the bearings of the several places, with regard to one another, are determined by proper instruments, and transferred to paper. This constitutes an art apart, called SURVEYING” (Chambers 1786–88, vol. 3, s.v. “map”). Chambers defined surveying as: “the art, or act, of measuring lands; i.e. of taking the dimensions of any tract of ground; then laying down the same in a map or draught; and finding the content or area thereof” (Chambers 1786–88, vol. 4, s.v. “surveying”). The entry then gives cross-references to “theodolite,” “circumferentor,” “protractor,” “compass,” and other surveying-related terms, and the author makes wider connections still (and further establishes his own credibility and heightens the value of the entry) by making reference to articles on surveying in recent volumes of the Royal Society’s Philosophical Transactions. With reference to map-related terms, we can here see the nature of definitions, developments in those definitions over time, the place of illustrations in accompanying textual descriptions, and how encyclopedias provided connections between branches of carto-

graphic knowledge in a fast-changing intellectual world (fig. 227). Maps also accompanied descriptions of places and countries. In the more than two hundred volumes of the Encyclopédie méthodique ([Panckoucke] 1782–1832)— effectively, the successor to Diderot and d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie—maps were used to accompany discussions of the nature and structure of geography as an Enlightenment subject. In 1787, Nicolas Desmarest, the leading French physical geographer, produced with others the Atlas encyclopédique, contenant la geographie ancienne, et quelques cartes. He oversaw the production of the Atlas encyclopédique contenant les cartes et les planches relative a la geographie physique (1827). Both were illustration volumes to accompany the text volumes of the Encyclopédie méthodique. Despite the title of the 1827 Atlas, that work also included maps to illustrate themes in related volumes on ancient geography and on modern geography within the Encyclopédie méthodique (Laboulais 2006). Elsewhere in the Encyclopédie méthodique, maps were used to illustrate the principles of engraving and the coordination between typography and topography as large areas were labeled with larger and spaced letters, smaller and more ornate features such as rivers with more compact lettering following the feature itself. The entries in the different editions of the Encyclopædia Britannica offer a yet different illustration of the ways in which map-related entries and maps appeared in Enlightenment encyclopedias. In the first edition (1771), no entry appears for “map” or “mapping.” Discussion of those topics is included within “geography,” which begins with the description and use of celestial and terrestrial globes and the armillary sphere before referencing a set of five maps—of Europe, Asia, Africa, North America, and South America—that guide the reader on topics such as latitude and longitude. By the second edition (1778), a discussion of maps is again included within the entry on “geography.” Geographical and mapping apparatus are illustrated, including an analemma. New information about geography and exploration is shown on A Map of the World in Three Sections drawn by the engraver Andrew Bell, one of the Encyclopædia Britannica’s founding “gentlemen.” This map also appears in the third edition (1797) alongside another map by Bell

(facing page) Fig. 226. GENEALOGICAL TREE OF THE MATHEMATICAL SCIENCES. While not published in an encyclopedia, this genealogical tree, produced by an instructor in mathematics and hydrography at the Collège du Havre, France, exemplifies the encyclopedia-as-map metaphor. Cartography’s multiple aspects occupy several of the outer branches. At left, emerging from pure mathematics, géométrie encompasses several aspects of surveying and military science. In the center and at

right, from mixed mathematics, the various branches of navigation and cosmographie intertwine. The tree’s cartographic fruits include spheres, maps, and globes. Louis-Claude-Étienne Delisle, Tableau des mathématiques (Paris: [Jean-Claude] Dezauche, [1779]). Size of the original: ca. 90 × 59 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preuβischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (Kart. W 27052).

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Fig. 227. ILLUSTRATION OF SEVERAL INSTRUMENTS FOR MAPPING AND SURVEYING. From George Selby Howard, The New Royal Cyclopædia, and Encyclopædia (London, 1788), vol. 3, pl. 149 (between 1,768 and 1,769). © The British Library Board, London.

titled Map of the World: Comprehending the Latest Discoverys. The fact that Bell’s earlier map also appears in George Selby Howard’s New Royal Cyclopædia, and Encyclopædia (1788) emphasizes the importance of such maps within later Enlightenment encyclopedias. Yet a note of caution is also necessary. Encyclopedias and other such works sometimes used the same maps and textual definitions, little if at all altered, given the expense and the difficulties involved in securing the latest information despite, often, the author’s claim to have done so. The authors of the articles making up Diderot and d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie were mainly literary fig-

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ures and scholars from the salons and academic institutions of Paris, with a handful from smaller centers such as Montpellier and Beziers. The leading Parisian mapmaker Didier Robert de Vaugondy wrote the entry “globe” (with d’Alembert) and contributed to those on “géographie” and “fuseau.” Unlike him, most contributors were not professionals in the modern sense, and the Encyclopédie grew to completion by degrees, “not the creation of a close-knit sect” (Kafker 1996, 35) but of the editorial coordination of geographically dispersed correspondents. Examined from the standpoint of its purchasers and readers rather than its authors, the sales of the Encyclopédie reveal how the Enlightenment had a geography of textual reception (Darnton 1979). Lyons dominated the urban geography of the Encyclopédie’s sales, with subscription numbers nearly twice that of Paris. Sales were generally higher in France’s provincial capitals and in towns with an administrative and cultural focus than they were in the Atlantic and Mediterranean port towns and in the textile towns of northern France. Beyond France, the Encyclopédie sold well in most urban centers throughout Europe; everywhere, the main purchasers were a heterogeneous group of noblemen, clerics, civic officials, and professionals. If in this final sense the Encyclopédie presents a kind of map of the Enlightenment, Enlightenment encyclopedias more generally provide systems of knowledge classification, descriptive content on individual topics, and connections between individual entries. Encyclopedias reveal their content, and changes in that content, far more readily than they do their readers or their authors. For Enlightenment contemporaries, encyclopedias were an entrepôt designed to lay out the world of learning and to advance new knowledge to the individual and collective good. Their textual and illustrative content was both informative and instructive, in keeping with Enlightenment interests in self-improvement and national improvement. For historians of cartography (and of geography), Enlightenment encyclopedias, if read carefully in context and understood as part of emerging systems of knowledge classification, illustrate changing views of how terms such as “map” and “mapping” were defined, how mapping was thematically divided, how it was to be undertaken, and with what other forms of knowledge such topics were connected on the overall map of Enlightenment learning (Withers 2014). Ch arl es W . J. W ithers See also: Enlightenment, Cartography and the; Metaphor, Map as; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Science and Cartography Bibliography Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. 1751. “Discours préliminaire des editeurs.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 1:[i]–xlv. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand.

Engineers and Topographical Surveys Chambers, Ephraim. 1728. Cyclopædia: Or, An Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences. 2 vols. London: Printed for James and John Knapton et al. ———. 1786–88. Cyclopædia: Or, An Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences. 5 vols. London: Printed for J. F. and C. Rivington et al. Darnton, Robert. 1979. The Business of Enlightenment: A Publishing History of the “Encyclopédie,” 1775–1800. Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Kafker, Frank A. 1996. The Encyclopedists as a Group: A Collective Biography of the Authors of the “Encyclopédie.” Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. Laboulais, Isabelle. 2006. “La géographie dans les arbres encyclopédiques de la seconde moitié du XVIIIe siècle.” In Géographies plurielles: Les sciences géographiques au moment de l’émergence des sciences humaines (1750–1850), ed. Hélène Blais and Isabelle Laboulais, 63–93. Paris: L’Harmattan. [Panckoucke, Charles-Joseph]. 1782–1832. Encyclopédie méthodique, ou par ordre de matières; par une société de gens de lettres de savans et d’artistes. Over 200 vols. Paris: Panckoucke. Society of Gentlemen in Scotland. 1771. Encyclopædia Britannica; or, A Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, Compiled upon a New Plan. 3 vols. Edinburgh: Printed for A. Bell and C. Macfarquhar. Withers, Charles W. J. 1996. “Encyclopaedism, Modernism and the Classification of Geographical Knowledge.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 21:275–98. ———. 2014. “Space, Geography and the Global French Enlightenment.” In The Cambridge Companion to the French Enlightenment, ed. Daniel Brewer, 214–32. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yeo, Richard R. 2001. Encyclopaedic Visions: Scientific Dictionaries and Enlightenment Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Engineers and Topographical Surveys. During the Enlightenment engineers increased and diversified the uses of topography to fulfill the military and administrative needs of modernizing states, giving rise to new institutions and techniques of surveying. “It was under Louis XIV that military topography emerged from nothingness,” noted the Mémorial topographique et militaire ([Soulavie] 1802–3, 76), the first specialized journal in the field. The statement referred not only to the French case but also to “the first military topography that deserved this name”: Piedmontese engineer Giovanni Tommaso Borgonio’s Carta generale de stati di sva altezza reale (1680) (see fig. 108) ([Soulavie] 1802–3, 69; Sereno 2007, 847–53). From that first topography, a century of development in France led to the 1802 Commission topographique at the Dépôt de la Guerre, the French institution in charge of military cartography since 1688. General Nicolas-Antoine Sanson, the chief of the Dépôt, gathered engineers from the various state public services interested in topographical surveys, either military (engineers, artillery, ingénieurs géographes) or civil (ponts et chaussées, forests, mines, foreign affairs), in order to acquire and promote a universal standardized topography. It was a pattern that would be replicated in other nations throughout the eighteenth century.

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Throughout this period, engineers contributed widely to the transformation of practices, the graphic results, the multiple uses of topographical surveying and maps, and even their own role in society, given the standing of their theoretical and practical expertise, which distinguished them from ordinary land (property) surveyors and from other military competitors. Thus, as cartography moved from the geographer’s study into the field, away from the compilation of sources to the onsite measurement and observation of surveying, topographical surveys evolved from a craft-based skilled labor to mathematically informed, triangulation-based operations, requiring more complex and sophisticated competence. In parallel, the social structure of engineers evolved from individual craftsmen to institutionalized corps, and their training shifted from apprenticeship toward academic education. As large-scale mapmakers who also used maps, eighteenth-century engineers participated in the dissemination of techniques through their wide travels, their published books, and their instrumental and graphic innovations. The decades around 1700 saw movement toward the organization of various national engineering corps. Other itineraries based on patronage, apprenticeship, and family training persisted, as they had done since the Renaissance. Yet there were still idiosyncratic career routes. For example, Borgonio was the private secretary of Carlo Emanuele II and tutor of his son Vittorio Amedeo II (Sereno 2007, 851). At the turn of the nineteenth century, Sir Thomas Livingston Mitchell, later surveyor general of New South Wales and famous explorer of Australia, began his career as an officer of the 95th Rifle Regiment, attached to the quartermaster general department of the army in Spain. Later he was chosen to survey the battlefield after Waterloo for James Wyld’s atlas of the Peninsular War (Sargent 1984). Nonetheless, the more customary route to becoming an engineer was via apprenticeship and family training, especially among dynasties of engineers who specialized in topography (e.g., the Masse or Naudin families) or created topographical surveys related to civil engineering projects, like the John Grundys (father and son) in Britain. Many of these engineer-surveyors fulfilled several functions simultaneously or successively, such as William Elstobb, whose father was a teacher of mathematics with a keen interest in physics and fen drainage, and who himself taught mathematics and worked as a land surveyor in the 1730s. Later, the engineering corps provided a better social framework for topographical surveyors and slowly encouraged more specialized careers. Born and educated in Lanarkshire, William Roy was first a land surveyor, then a civil assistant to Lieutenant Colonel David Watson for the military survey of Scotland (1:36,000, 1747–55), after which he was given

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a military commission. He soon managed the military surveys in Britain, eventually becoming the director of the Royal Engineers and a major general in the army. Charles Vallancey, born of French Huguenot parents in Flanders, followed a slow path from Eton and the Royal Military College at Woolwich to the highest military grades before transforming the general survey of southern Ireland (1774–90) from a military map to a topographical map. By the end of the century, topographical survey training had permeated the curriculum of military and civil engineering schools and corps. Training Engineers In general, academic training in topography was first implemented within the military academies created for artillery officers and military engineers from the 1680s to the 1720s, then from midcentury on for civil engineers, mining and forestry engineers, and topographers. The Spanish Crown promoted early experiments in topographical training, following the early establishment of the Academia de Matemáticas in Madrid in 1582 (Lindgren 2007, 507) and subsequent foundations in Brussels (1671) and Barcelona (1720) (Galland Seguela 2008, 55). Early French schools of artillery also participated in the movement toward regular training. The Kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia simultaneously set up both school training and two corps of military engineers when, in 1736, Giuseppe Ignazio Bertola, first engineer of the king, proposed a military school of fortification, civil architecture, and design, with a thirty-six-member corps of military engineers (corpo degli ingegneri militari) and four topographical draftsmen (disegnatori topografici). At the royal Scuole teoriche e pratiche d’artiglieria, eventually opened in 1739 in Turin, military topographers (ingegneri topografici) learned mathematics—including geometry, if not explicitly applied to mapping—from the great mathematician Joseph-Louis Lagrange, before he left for Berlin in 1766. In France, two offices of draftsmen (bureau des dessinateurs) turned into schools, matriculation at which soon became mandatory for entrance to the relevant corps: in 1747, the same year César-François Cassini (III) de Thury took charge of the Carte de France, Jean-Rodolphe Perronet created the École des Ponts et Chaussées, a school for civil engineering in Paris; then in 1748, the École royale du Génie de Mézières started providing the highest scientific training in Europe for military engineering, producing brilliant topographers such as Jean-ClaudeEléonor Le Michaud d’Arçon. But alternative training methods still continued. Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet, directeur des fortifications at Grenoble, personally trained his staff in topography for the Carte géométrique du Haut Dauphiné et de la frontière ultérieure, prepared from 1749 to 1754. Military engineers eventually replaced

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their more specialized rivals, the ingénieurs géographes, in mapping border regions, even though the latter had first been in charge of this fieldwork. The failure in 1761 of the bureau des dessinateurs of the ingénieurs géographes militaires at Versailles to turn into a true school demonstrated that there was no room for a third full school for topography in France. These topographical engineers received only small financial support from the army, which treated them like land surveyors or artisans, skilled laborers trained through apprenticeship instead of through the new academic training supervised by the Académie des sciences. Thus military topographers often had to invest in a regimental rank to supplement their engineer grade. Such dual commissions, engineer and officer, also existed in Britain until midcentury, adding complexity to both external duties and the hierarchy within the corps, as exemplified by John Montresor, chief engineer in British North America and a lieutenant in the 14th Regiment of Foot, while William Eyre, who ranked below him within the establishment of engineers, was a major in the 44th Regiment. Attendance at the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, founded in 1741 for artillery and engineer cadets, was not yet mandatory to achieve rank in the establishment engineers under the Board of Ordnance. Alternative routes to entering the corps were through apprenticeship in the Drawing Room at the Tower of London or by appointment of the master general of Ordnance. Moreover, officers of the Foot Regiments were often commissioned as assistant engineers, who proliferated during the American Revolutionary War, especially for topographical surveys. Of the 150 maps from known and identified topographers kept in the collections of General Thomas Gage and Sir Henry Clinton, 50 were produced by establishment engineers; 50 by assistant engineers and officers of the 60th Royal American, a regiment with heavy recruitment among Protestant Germans and Dutch in Europe; and 50 from officers in other branches (Marshall 1973; Campbell 2010). The dichotomy between engineers and officers was emphasized with the establishment of the Royal Military College at High Wycombe in 1799. Each school, Woolwich and High Wycombe, developed its own topographical survey method, systems that competed in the field during the Peninsular War. Thus, some officers of the Royal Staff Corps preferred a team trained on the Woolwich instruments and their use of contour lines to those trained at High Wycombe with their quick hachure sketching for relief representation, a method taught at High Wycombe by the French émigré General François Jarry (Jones 1974, 21). Such rivalry emerged in most countries, as every technical corps—civilian or military—could claim some

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expertise in topographical surveys. When Joseph Jean François de Ferraris, commander of the École de mathématiques du corps d’artillerie at Malines, proposed in 1769 to survey the Austrian Netherlands along with the adjacent principalities of Liège and Stavelot, Chancellor Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz recognized the competence of the artillerists but thought that the corps of engineers should undertake the project. Ultimately, the survey was headed by Léopold-François Cogeur, Ferraris’s deputy and teacher of mathematics to student artillerists Damien Gillis and Peter Wirtz. Nonetheless, in many circumstances, fieldwork was necessarily collaborative. The so-called Murray Map of the St. Lawrence River in North America, begun in 1760, resulted from the efforts of two establishment engineers (William Spry and Montresor) and three officers (Samuel Holland, formerly a Dutch military topographical surveyor, Lewis Fusier of the 60th Regiment, and Joseph Peach of the 47th Regiment), though not without some conflict between them all (Hornsby 2011, 25–30). The topographical map of Egypt made during Napoleon’s expedition was credited to the military ingénieurs géographes, even though only two of them had performed the actual surveys; five civil topographers from the Bureau du cadastre and the cadastre of Corsica (who later joined the Dépôt de la Guerre), eleven civil engineers, seven military engineers, and one artillerist, as well as one astronomer, officers of the Marine, and mining engineers all took part in the survey. General Antoine-François Andréossy, an artillerist, took advantage of his position as chief of the Dépôt de la Guerre in 1801 to propose a project for gathering military engineers, artillerists, and topographers into a single corps chargé des fonctions industrielles (corps devoted to the industrial functions), a project that proved futile (Bret 1991, 119). Andréossy’s idea must have been based on experience, for with one corps of engineers focused on topography, rivalries were reduced, collaboration became easier, and uniformity and quality of mapping increased. France, the most populous country in Europe, and its much smaller transalpine neighbor to the southeast, Piedmont-Sardinia, created just such engineering corps. In France the Dépôt de la Guerre, established in the last quarter of the seventeenth century, was soon followed by the creation of an autonomous corps of military topographers (ingénieurs géographes) in 1691, while military engineers (ingénieurs du roi) concentrated on fortification and poliorcetics under Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, although they did surveys as well, mainly in the colonies. The first chief engineer of the ingénieurs géographes, named in 1716, was Roussel who, with Jean-François de La Blottière, performed topographical surveys of the boundaries in the Alps and the Pyrenees in 1719, which were of high military importance (Berthaut 1902, 1:15–16; Frœhlich

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1960). Nevertheless, topographical surveying was certainly at stake in the competition between the two French engineering corps, a rivalry that reached its climax after the Seven Years’ War (1756–63). Already oversubscribed with too many engineers for peacetime work, both corps also competed with the surveyors working under Cassini III on the Carte de France. The specialized corps of ingénieurs géographes now seemed superfluous, and the 1762 ordinance increased the number of ingénieurs du roi to four hundred. While the ingénieurs du roi surveyed the topography of Alpine borders, the ingénieurs géographes worked on mapping the French coastline (1772–85) under the direction of Jean-Baptiste Berthier. Several of the ingénieurs géographes were sent to the French-held West Indies, mainly Saint-Domingue, but also Martinique, where Claude Loupia de Fontenailles and René Moreau du Temple prepared their exceptional map (Bégot, Pelletier, and Bousquet-Bressolier 1998). The masterpiece of the ingénieurs géographes was the Carte topographique des environs de Versailles (also known as the Carte des chasses du roi), a topographical map of the royal hunting grounds, launched as means for continuing financial support of the corps in peacetime. The survey work from 1764 to 1773 also served as a research laboratory for training in topographical mapping; the complete published version appeared finally in the early nineteenth century (Bourcier 1972; Berthaut 1902, 1:42–43; Marcel 1897). In Piedmont, the tiny corps created under Bertola in 1738 and supervised by the Ufficio degli Ingegneri Topografi, grew to seven in 1777, when their director Antoine Durieu died. An engineer-topographer from 1744, Durieu trained as a trabuccante (rodman) and as a land surveyor in the cadastral survey of Savoy in 1728. Although influenced by French models, Piedmontese engineers also created their own tradition during the decade 1728–38, when the superintendent of the cadastre supervised topographers working under experienced land surveyors or royal notaries (e.g., Jean-Joseph Boldrino for a map of Evian, and Maurice Roggieri for Annecy) (Bruchet 1988, 16–17, fig. 5). Piedmontese engineers Hyacinthe Cocelli and Giovanni Morosi eventually took over, while Jean Perpilliat was assisted by draftsmen, including the Austrians Gabriel Grienberger and François Schittvein, for the map reduction, “Carte générale de la Savoie,” 1737 (Vincennes, Service historique de la Défense, DAT J 10C 1563; Florence, Istituto Geografico Militare, Ord 4, Cartella 2, Doc. 25; and the Bibliothèque municipale de Chambéry, carte Sav. B 189. 1-6 cat. No 132) (Guichonnet 1955; Pallière 1988, 78). The Italian states had already served as a melting pot for topographical surveyors from various traditions (Pansini 2002), well before the arrival of French topographers with Napoleon.

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The spread of French influence during the Napoleonic invasion led to the creation in 1801 of a military topographic corps of the Cisalpine Republic (i.e., the former grand duchies of Lombardy, Mantua, Parma, Modena, and the northern part of the Papal States, including Bologna and Ferrara) under the leadership of Gustaf Wilhelm af Tibell, a Swedish engineer in the French service, who founded the Deposito della Guerra in Milan based on French models. For two years, that Italian corps comprised only Neapolitan engineers, except two Venetians trained at the Collegio militare di Verona. A decade later, when half of its members were from Lombardy, its leaders were still Neapolitan engineers, Antonio Maria Campana and Ferdinando Visconti, who was to replace Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni at the Deposito della Guerra in Naples in 1815 (Cuccoli 2012). In Portugal, the establishment of the Real Corpo de Engenheiros in 1790 institutionalized a corps that had been trained in topography since 1647 and established as a corps in 1693. The reforms of Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal, in the mid-eighteenth century had encouraged mathematical studies and also welcomed foreign help, best exemplified in the person of Marshal General Count Wilhelm de SchaumburgLippe (see below). When Prince Regent João VI settled the Portuguese royal court in Brazil in 1808, he promoted topography, requesting that a journal be inaugurated modeled on the French Mémorial Topographique et Militaire. Two years later in 1810, he created the Real Academia Militar at Rio de Janeiro for artillerists and engineers as well as for engineer-topographers (engenheiros geographos e topographos). Crossing Boundaries During the Renaissance, the scarcity of skilled engineers in any one nation made them a valuable labor force, always in demand. Thus they were among the most transient and versatile cartographic practitioners in Europe in the eighteenth century, despite the development of national schools and engineering corps. National boundaries remained porous for institutions and professions related to topographical surveys (Virol 2010). Topographic engineers often traveled abroad in the service of various princes, either in the wake of military alliances or invited because of their own reputations. Jacques Naudin, for instance, was secretly sent by France to the Southern Netherlands (1719–23) to complete work begun when he had been assigned to Maximilian Emanuel II, elector of Bavaria, the last governor of the former Spanish possessions. Another family of French military engineers, the Denis, was secretly paid by Piedmont, into whose service Denis fils later entered. As Vincenzo Denisio he became director of the Ufficio di Topografia Reale in 1790 and a distinguished Pied-

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montese cartographer (Sereno 2002, 83, 100). Despite the modernization of nation-states and the gradual emergence of a topographical surveying profession, the demand for engineering expertise remained high in the second half of the eighteenth century, with Italian engineers still highly prized. Rizzi Zannoni, from Padua in the Republic of Venice, successively served the kings of Poland, Denmark, and Prussia prior to his two decades in France, where he served in high positions, before returning to Italy in 1776, where spent his final thirtyeight years, first in Venice and then in Naples. In Portugal, foreign engineers and scientists participated in the revival of interest in cartography as it related to Pombal’s reforms midcentury and in the boundary surveying efforts in Brazil. Of seventy-nine engineers serving there from 1750 to 1777, eleven were German, nine Italian, one French, one Swiss, and one Swedish (Bueno 2011, 331–33). Among them, Miguel António Ciera—another Paduan engineer—surveyed the Brazilian boundaries in the 1750s; later a member of the Academia Real das Sciências de Lisboa, he successively taught mathematics at the Colégio Real dos Nobres, at the University of Coimbra (reformed in 1772), and at the Academia Real da Marinha. His son, Francisco António Ciera, took over his father’s position there and headed the triangulation-based topographical surveys of the unfinished “Carta geral do reino.” Foreign topographers also came from Germany following Schaumburg-Lippe, who, like Jacob Crisóstomo Pretorius, was both an artillerist and member of the Academia Real das Sciências. Schaumburg-Lippe’s assistant, Conrado Henrique Niemeyer, worked alongside Portuguese engineers. A second wave of German officers called by Christian August, Prinz zu Waldeck, commander in chief in 1797, were active in the Peninsular War; Brigadier Baron Held de Wiederhold, Lieutenant Colonel Baron Jean-Baptiste de Blumenstein, and First Lieutenant Frederico Varnhagen shared topographical survey work with Portuguese engineers José Maria das Neves Costa, José Joachim de Freitas Coelho, and João da Mata Chapuzet (Dias 2003; Raeuber 1993, 92). Protestant German and Dutch engineers enrolled in British service by joining the 60th Regiment of Foot, raised in Europe in 1756 by Swiss engineer James Prévost. Much of the topographic mapping of British possessions and coastlines in North America during and following the Seven Years’ War was the responsibility of those engineers, including Dietrich Brehm, George Demler, Bernard Ratzer, Samuel Holland, Charles Blaskowitz, Claude Joseph Sauthier, and J. F. W. Des Barres (Widder 1999; Campbell 2010). The changes wrought first by the American and then by the French Revolution further reinforced tendencies toward transnational circulation, stimulated not just by technical demands but increasingly by political and

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ideological considerations. Louis-François Carlet de La Rozière, inspecteur général des frontières et côtes du royaume in France, died in Portuguese service after his emigration during the French Revolution. But few moved around as much as José María de Lanz. A Mexican-born Spanish naval officer, Lanz began his professional life surveying coastlines. In 1793 he became a French citizen, then taught applied mathematics at Gaspard Marie Riche de Prony’s École des géographes and later at the Escuela de Caminos y Canales in Carlos IV’s Spain, prior to managing the mapping services for José I Bonaparte. After one year at the Academia de Matemáticas in Buenos Aires, he continued his career under Simón Bolívar in Colombia (Ortiz and Bret 1997). Crossing the boundaries between military and civilian services was not unusual in Ancien Régime France. Since topographical surveying in France was the domain of the ingénieurs géographes, not the military engineers and artillerists, the French case was an odd one; yet because the French model was employed throughout Europe, it is worth closer study. Until early Napoleonic times, a few ingénieurs géographes (topographers) came from the private company of the Cassini Carte de France or from the team employed by Edme Verniquet for the plan of Paris (1790). General Etienne-Nicolas Calon, head of the Dépôt de la Guerre from 1793 to 1797, was himself trained in the corps of military topographers (ingénieurs géographes militaires) (fig. 228), which was officially suppressed in 1791, though the engineers continued and even extended their activities during the French Revolutionary Wars. But the backgrounds of his successors varied sharply, such as that of Sanson (director 1802 to 1812), who had taught architecture in a military school before entering the Corps du Génie in 1793. Many heads of the Dépôt’s topographical section had also worked within civil institutions, such as Charles-François Frérot d’Abancourt, a topographer formerly assigned to the cadastre of Corsica, to Turkey on behalf of the ministry of foreign affairs, and to the compilation of commemorative maps of the campaigns of Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, vicomte de Turenne, for the Chevalier Jean de Beaurain’s commercial enterprises. During the French Revolution, d’Abancourt organized the geographic creation of the administrative districts (départements) of modern France (Ozouf-Marignier 1989), the topographical works of the Bureau du cadastre, and the short-lived Agence des cartes (Berthaut 1902; Bret 1991). Similarly diverse were the heads of the Bureau du cadastre who ran civil cartography. Prony, a civil engineer and a physicist, was later a member of the Académie des sciences, as well as the director of the École des Ponts et Chaussées and the École des géographes (1797–1802). Jean-Henri Hassenfratz, a chemist and a mining engineer, had also worked in Beaurain’s

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Fig. 228. JEAN-BAPTISTE BERTHIER, EIGHTEENTHCENTURY FRENCH INGÉNIEURS GÉOGRAPHES MILITAIRES AT WORK. From Berthier’s “Plan de la bataille de l’Affelt,” manuscript, 1747 (inside front cover), concerning the battle of Lauffeld (also Laffelt or Lawfeld) near Maastricht during the War of the Austrian Succession. The plane table was the major means for the topographical surveys by the French topographers, both civil and military. Size of the original: ca. 52.5 × 42.0 cm. © Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (A 2 C 369).

commercial establishment and later held tenure teaching physics at the Ecole polytechnique (Grison 1996). All the same, by their training and their own talents, engineers belonged to a technical elite that benefited from a certain social recognition, at least compared to land surveyors (arpenteurs and géomètres), who made cadastral surveys of noble estates. Engineers adapted more easily to the increasing sophistication of instruments and generally possessed the intellectual tools required for managing financial and technical complexities. However, some land surveyors did command theoretical knowledge: among those who worked between 1776 and 1791 on the very large-scale “Plans d’intendance,” or “Plans des paroisses de la généralité de Paris” at the order of the intendant Louis Bénigne François de Bertier de Sauvigny, some owned a library of applied geometry, such as Guillaume Dubray, others wrote elementary books on land surveying, such as Louis-Antoine Didier

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and Pierre Picq (Touzery 1995, 28–29). Yet on the whole, their expertise did not yet match that of the engineers. In 1794, in order to recruit twenty-five land surveyors for the national cadastre, Prony organized a competition to find the “most learned citizen in map and plan surveying, measurement and trigonometric calculus” recommended by the chief engineer of Ponts et Chaussées in every new département (Bret 2009, 126). In addition to their ability to write a memoir and to understand logarithms and the metric system as well as possessing the accessory talents of coloring, drawing, and elegant handwriting, the candidates had to prove their skill in the field in trigonometric, topographical, and land surveying operations, especially measuring a baseline and using a compass. Nonetheless, in Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign, the new recruits proved their striking inferiority when compared not only to their military and civil school–trained comrades, but also to the surveyors whom Dominique Testevuide had trained as engineers for the cadastre of Corsica (Bret 2009, 135–36). Killed in Egypt, Testevuide was replaced by his nephew and assistant Pierre Jacotin, later a colonel in the new imperial corps of ingénieurs géographes militaires (1808) and the head of the topographical section at the Dépôt de la Guerre. As they gradually professionalized, French engineers definitively surpassed their challengers in topographical surveys. Military topographic training still continued within the Dépôt, until the École impériale des ingénieurs-géographes was established in 1809. A former civil engineer, Louis Puissant, the examiner and main professor whose treatises on topography, land surveying, and geodesy were much appreciated, replaced the famous mathematician Pierre-Simon de Laplace at the Académie des sciences. Mathematical geography and topographical survey now shared the curriculum for engineers. Instruments and Innovations For engineers, field knowledge had long been more practical than theoretical. What distinguished their manner of topography from that of land surveyors were their overall goals. The property surveyor “measured the land and not the space” (Touzery 1995, 26), while engineers both measured a given space and then visualized it within a broader spatial context articulated within the figure of the earth by references to geodetic coordinates. Attempts to reduce large-scale maps that lacked geodetic triangulation, such as the cadastral maps of Savoy, had failed. By linking topographic local space to geodesy, engineers bridged the wider gap between chorography and geography: they could reduce the large scale to the small scale with minimal error by basing their topographic surveys upon second- and third-order triangulation and inscribing

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them within the network of the first-order triangulation along a meridian and a parallel. Without the framework provided by triangulation, even the most respected maps of eighteenth-century engineers could not meet the standard for quality demanded by their early nineteenth-century users and critics. By the end of the eighteenth century, engineers were making fewer maps of battles and sieges, and the fortification plans advocated by Vauban and his followers did not depict a landscape beyond the short range of a fortified place. The survey techniques of the late seventeenth century, such as found in Borgonio’s Carta generale (1680), employed a compass and a contraguardo and drew landscape in perspective (à la cavalière). Roussel and La Blottière’s eight-sheet manuscript map of the Pyrenees (reduced from the original surveys of 1:36,000 to ca. 1:216,000, published as Carte generale des monts Pyrenées, et partie des Royaumes de France et d’Espagne, 1730) was created for obvious military purposes: it was oriented to the south, allowing French staff officers to easily read it with Spain at the top of the map. But despite Roussel’s long service as an engineer and his deserved reputation, “this work, reputedly geometric . . . is nevertheless beneath the estimation we keep for it. Although the framework on it is good, its details would not support critique. The relief is absolutely false and idealized; the mountains were thrown on [the sheet] incompletely and without continuity” ([Soulavie] 1802–3, 81; Frœhlich 1960). Moreover, engineers often perpetuated mistakes by copying their predecessors instead of correcting their work in the field. The work of Claude Masse barely escaped this indictment, since he tried to present the mapped territories like a painter, emphasizing the image rather than the space. Faced with the challenge of representing an entire territory, topographic surveying entered a different scientific domain with the Cassini Carte de France (1:86,400), the first survey based on a national geodetic triangulation. Similar projects of national triangulation-based topography were successively launched in many countries, yielding reputable maps, such as those by Ferraris in the Austrian Netherlands, by Rizzi Zannoni in the Kingdom of Naples, and by the British Board of Ordnance. Demand for accuracy sometimes required transnational cooperation, as with the Paris-Greenwich triangulation (1784–88), which linked the meridian lines of the royal observatories. The tremendous increase in topographical needs accompanying the growth of the modern state and the social and political upheavals of revolutions multiplied and diversified surveying practices and uses. Like military leaders and administrators, many engineers needed topographical surveys as an intermediary step to a further project, whether for building roads, canals, fortifi-

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cations, towns, or mines, or for managing forests. The earlier ornamental map as showpiece was replaced with the utilitarian map as tool. In Tuscany, topographical mapmaking was tightly linked to the administrative reforms and needs of the House of Lorraine. Ferdinando Morozzi and, especially, Leonardo Ximenes led the development of such cartography in the second half of the eighteenth century, indeed forming a school, which shortly thereafter was to produce documents of extraordinary importance with hydraulic, political, administrative, military, fiscal, and sanitary purposes. Piedmontese engineers also made a collective map of forests, while Spirito Benedetto Nicolis di Robilant produced a mineralogical map. Such developments were not without tribal claims for the strategic value of topographical surveying. In 1775, Le Michaud d’Arçon, of the military engineers, fought against the Cassini survey of Dauphiné and Provence, two provinces he was himself surveying to complete his fellow engineer Bourcet’s map of the Alps: “It is of the highest importance that its knowledge only benefit us. The privilege granted to Mr. Cassini’s engineers should exclude the parts of the boundaries, the knowledge of which it would be important to keep. . . . His map will be good or bad. Would it be good, it should be forbidden” (Berthaut 1902, 1:72). The copperplates of Roussel and La Blottière’s map of the Pyrenees were sequestered after its publication in 1730, as were those of the forty-seven-sheet map of Egypt and Syria at 1:100,000 in 1808 after Napoleon’s campaign, at the same time as those of Jean-Denis Barbié Du Bocage’s Carte de la Morée in 1807 (Berthaut 1902, 1:276, 278, 2:396). In a military context, engineers often based their field practice on their own training and the supply of instruments. The most common topographical surveying instruments included a chain for measuring a local baseline; either a plane table with an alidade or a telescope according to the range, more convenient for drawing the field, or a compass for quick surveying; a protractor or a land surveyor square for small areas, or better a graphomètre; and a pocket sextant or a small repeating circle. For both vertical and horizontal angle measurement, reflecting instruments, either sextants or circles, were used. For the Carte de France, engineers mainly used a sighted graphomètre (graphomètre à lunette) in order to draw rough drafts, which were later copied and improved thanks to registers of place-names and calculations (Pelletier 1990, 96–100). Without any instruments for measuring altitude accurately, the engineers neglected measuring and drawing relief, a topographical aspect of major interest for engineers of the Ponts et Chaussées and military engineers. The chief instrument for an engineer’s topographical work in France and Italy was the plane table, introduced by Johann Jakob Ma-

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rinoni for the cadastre of Milan (censimento) in 1720 (see fig. 399). By contrast, British military topographers set aside the plane table, with the major exception of the survey of Madras Presidency, at the end of the eighteenth century. They preferred to use the theodolite, which was adopted in the following century only for the new 1:80,000 topographic map of France. British topographical surveying relied on local civilian triangulation, such as Peter Perez Burdett’s survey of Derbyshire published in 1767. Some engineers sought improvement to their instruments. In Britain, Henry Beighton designed a new plane table for his trigonometric survey of Warwickshire (1722–25; published 1728) (see fig. 834). French military engineer Nicolas-Joseph Cugnot further improved the plane table with a steadier platform, eventually used widely in France. Gaspard Monge at the École normale supérieure proposed a method for using surveying instruments from a height in 1795. Antoine François Lomet created a special device to make the sextant suitable for expeditious topographical surveying from a moving balloon (figs. 229 and 230). Lomet experimented with the balloon in 1796 at Meudon with Nicolas-Jacques Conté, a former land surveyor, then chemist, mechanical engineer, and head of the École nationale aérostatique (and also the inventor of the artificial graded pencil, indispensable to engineers and topographers). The main result of these experiments was the creation of the École des géographes, which included a two-year common curriculum for topographers, offered with the École nationale aérostatique, after one year at the École polytechnique (Bret 1990–91). Maps themselves felt the effect of the engineer’s quest for improvement. General Franz Ludwig Pfyffer of Switzerland had worked with French and Hessian engineers during the War of the Polish Succession (1733–38) and the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48). He extended the tradition of the plans-reliefs to a smaller scale with his three-dimensional “Plan du canton de Zug” (1780, ca. 1:50,100), built after a topographical survey and a further leveling every ten toises by barometer. Napoleon wanted it for the Dépôt de la Guerre (Bürgi 2007). The graphic representation of height was an essential requirement for both civil and military engineers. The most creative innovation to meet this challenge was the introduction of contour lines. The Bolognese scientist Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli first used bathymetric lines in 1725 (see fig. 361), and they were further employed by the Dutch surveyor Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius, who built on techniques used earlier in the sixteenth and mid-seventeenth century (Pieter Bruinsz., River Spaarne, 1584; Pierre Ancelin, River Maas and environs, 1697) (Konvitz 1987, 68). Contour lines were proposed for mountains by Marc Bonifas, dit Du Carla, at the

Fig. 229. MICHEL-ANGE LANCRET, “MÉMOIRE SUR LA MANIÈRE DE LEVER LES CARTES ET NIVELLEMENS, PAR L’AÉROSTAT,” [1796]. An application of aerostatics and Gaspard Monge’s descriptive geometry to topographical sur-

veys by the students of the École polytechnique and the École nationale aérostatique. Size of the original: ca. 56 × 40 cm. Private collection.

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Fig. 230. ANTOINE FRANÇOIS LOMET, AN ENGINEER’S IMPROVEMENT TO THE SEXTANT FOR EXPEDITIOUS AERIAL TOPOGRAPHICAL SURVEYING. Original drawing added to the manuscript “Moyen d’établir sur le sextant deux règles qui, par le mouvement de l’alidade se placent dans

la direction des côtés d’un angle observé avec cet instrument,” 4 Frimaire an 5 (24 November 1796). © École nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, Marne la Vallée (MS 1532).

Académie des sciences (1771); then used by Jean-Louis Dupain-Triel fils for a small-scale map of France (1791) (see fig. 357); by French military engineers, among whom most noteworthy was Jean-Baptiste Meusnier de La Place, who displayed water depths on the map of the harbor of Cherbourg (1789) (Konvitz 1987, 98–99) (see fig. 363); and then in fortification projects. The earliest evidence for their use in large-scale terrain mapping dates to the Egyptian campaign (fig. 231), but the method was used in Italy as early as 1801. The 1802 Commission topographique did not standardize the use of contour lines, but it maintained them officially as a specific need for French military engineers. Nevertheless, their use soon spread out from the military; in 1812, civil engineer Pierre-Simon Girard published Verniquet’s

Plan de Paris with contour lines added. In addition to administrative requirements, techniques were also transferred from one engineering field to another. At the eve of the nineteenth century, standardized topography had become a method shared by engineers. Patri ce Bret See also: Boundary Surveying: Enlightenment; Cruquius, Nicolaas Samuelsz.; Heights and Depths, Mapping of; Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando; Masse Family; Military and Topographical Surveys; Military Cartography; Naudin Family; Topographical Survey Map; Topographical Surveying; Triangulation Surveying Bibliography Bégot, Danielle, Monique Pelletier, and Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier. 1998. La Martinique de Moreau du Temple, 1770: La carte des ingénieurs géographes. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques.

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Fig. 231. ANONYMOUS, “FORT DE L’INSTITUT,” CAIRO [1798–99]. A military engineer’s achievement: the use of contour lines in topographical surveys for fortification planning.

© Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (GR 1 Vm 63, tablette 42/2).

Berthaut, Henri Marie Auguste. 1902. Les ingénieurs géographes militaires, 1624–1831: Étude historique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Service Géographique. Bourcier, Sylvie. 1972. La carte des chasses royales. Vincennes: Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre. Bret, Patrice. 1990–91. “Les épreuves aérostatiques de l’Ecole polytechnique en l’an IV: De la géométrie descriptive à l’origine de l’Ecole des géographes.” Sciences et Techniques en Perspective 19:119–42. ———. 1991. “Le Dépôt général de la Guerre et la formation scientifique des ingénieurs-géographes militaires en France (1789–1830).” Annals of Science 48:113–57. ———. 2009. “Du concours de l’an II à la suppression de l’École des géographes: La quête identitaire des ingénieurs géographes du Cadastre de Prony, 1794–1802.” In Jogos de identidade profissional: Os engenheiros, a formação e a acção = Les enjeux identitaires des ingénieurs: Entre la formation et l’action = The Quest for a Professional Identity: Engineers between Training and Action, ed. Ana

Cardoso de Matos et al., 121–54. Lisbon: Edições Colibri; Évora: CIDEHUS; CIUHCT. Bruchet, Max. 1988. Notice sur l’ancien cadastre de Savoie. New ed., updated. Intro. Paul Guichonnet. Annecy: Archives de la HauteSavoie. Bueno, Beatriz Piccolotto Siqueira. 2011. Desenho e desígnio: O Brasil dos engenheiros militares (1500–1822). São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo. Bürgi, Andreas. 2007. Relief der Urschweiz: Entstehung und Bedeutung des Landschaftsmodells von Franz Ludwig Pfyffer. Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung. Campbell, Alexander V. 2010. The Royal American Regiment: An Atlantic Microcosm, 1755–1772. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Cuccoli, Lorenzo. 2012. “Le armi dotte tra Francia e Italia, 1796– 1814.” PhD diss., Università di Bologna. Dias, Maria Helena. 2003. “As explorações geográficas dos finais de

English Pilot, The Setecentos e a grande aventura da Carta geral do reino de Portugal.” Revista da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto—Geografia 19:383–96. Frœhlich, André. 1960. “The Manuscript Maps of the Pyrenees by Roussel and La Blottière.” Imago Mundi 15:94–104. Galland Seguela, Martine. 2008. Les ingénieurs militaires espagnols de 1710 à 1803. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez. Grison, Emmanuel. 1996. Du faubourg Montmartre au Corps des Mines: L’étonnant parcours du républicain J. H. Hassenfratz (1755– 1827). Paris: Presses de l’École des Mines. Guichonnet, Paul. 1955. “Le cadastre savoyard de 1738 et son utilisation pour les recherches d’histoire et de géographie sociales.” Revue de Géographie Alpine 43:255–98. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J. F. W. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Jones, Yolande. 1974. “Aspects of Relief Portrayal on 19th Century British Military Maps.” Cartographic Journal 11:19–33. Konvitz, Josef W. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lindgren, Uta. 2007. “Land Surveys, Instruments, and Practitioners in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:477–508. Marcel, Gabriel. 1897. “A propos de la Carte des chasses.” Revue de Géographie 41:344–56. Marshall, Douglas W. 1973. “The British Engineers in America: 1755–1783.” Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research 51:155–63. Ortiz, Eduardo L., and Patrice Bret. 1997. “José María de Lanz and the Paris-Cadiz Axis.” In Naissance d’une communauté internationale d’ingénieurs (première moitié du XIXe siècle), ed. Irina Gouzévitch and Patrice Bret, 56–77. Paris: Centre de Recherche en Histoire des Sciences et des Techniques; Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie. Ozouf-Marignier, Marie-Vic. 1989. La formation des départements: La représentation du territoire français à la fin du 18e siècle. Paris: École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Pallière, Johannès. 1988. “La Carte générale de la Savoie, 1737.” In La carte de Savoie: Histoire de la représentation d’un territoire, 74–81. Chambéry: Musée Savoisien. Pansini, Valeria. 2002. “L’oeil du topographe et la science de la guerre: Travail scientifique et perception militaire (1760–1820).” PhD diss., École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris. Pelletier, Monique. 1990. La carte de Cassini: L’extraordinaire aventure de la carte de France. Paris: Presses de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées. Raeuber, Charles-Alphonse. 1993. Les renseignements, la reconnaissance et les transmissions militaires du temps de Napoléon: L’exemple de la troisième invasion du Portugal, 1810. Lisbon: Comissão Portuguesa de História Militar. Sargent, T. C. 1984. “Thomas Livingston Mitchell and Wyld’s Atlas of the Peninsular War, 1808–1814.” Cartography 13:253–59. Sereno, Paola. 2002. “‘Li Ingegneri Topograffici di Sua Maestà’: La formazione del cartografo militare negli stati sabaudi e l’istituzione dell’Ufficio di Topografia Reale.” In Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo, 2 vols., ed. Rinaldo Comba and Paola Sereno, 1:61–102. Turin: Allemandi. ———. 2007. “Cartography in the Duchy of Savoy during the Renaissance.” In HC 3:831–53. [Soulavie, Jean-Louis]. 1802–3. “Notice sur la topographie considérée chez les diverses nations de l’Europe, avant et après la carte de France par Cassini; suivie d’un catalogue des meilleures cartes.” Mémorial Topographique et Militaire, rédigé au Dépôt Général de la Guerre, no. 3:57–201. Touzery, Mireille. 1995. Atlas de la généralité de Paris au XVIIIe siècle: Un paysage retrouvé. Paris: Comité pour l’Histoire Économique et Financière de la France.

393 Virol, Michèle. 2010. “La circulation internationale des ingénieurs en Europe (années 1680–années 1780).” In Les circulations internationales en Europe, années 1680–1780, ed. Pierre-Yves Beaurepaire and Pierrick Pourchasse, 67–80. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Widder, Keith R. 1999. “The Cartography of Dietrich Brehm and Thomas Hutchins and the Establishment of British Authority in the Western Great Lakes Region, 1760–1763.” Cartographica 36, no. 1:1–23.

English Pilot, The. The English Pilot was a series of pilot books (texts of sailing directions accompanied by nautical charts) conceived by John Seller, and published by him, his partners, and their heirs in London from 1671 until the end of the eighteenth century. The series was the first major sea atlas produced in England, thus initiating the entrance of marine chart publication into the London map trade and marking the end of Great Britain’s reliance on the Dutch for marine charts. John Seller, a London mathematical instrumentmaker and maker and seller of maps and charts, wrote about navigation and mathematics and supplied instruments, chiefly compasses, to the Admiralty (Verner 1978, 135– 36). He briefly described the motivation for The English Pilot in the postscript to his Practical Navigation (1669, 310): “whereas there being frequent complaints made that the English hath not as yet manifested that forwardness in the promotions of things of publick concernment, for the general benefit of Navigation, as the Hollander hath done, in the making of Waggoners and Charts for the Sea . . . [I] am at the present upon making (at my own cost and charge) a Sea Waggoner for the whole World, with Charts and Draughts of particular places, and a large Description [of] all the Roads, Harbors and Havens, with the Dangers, Depths and Soundings in most parts of the World.” The plan of the contents of The English Pilot was laid out in the preface to The First Book, Describing . . . the Whole Northern Navigation (1671), in which Seller described his planned four books: the first, the Northern Navigation (northern Europe, the Baltic, the coasts of England and Scotland), the second, the Southern Navigation (the Channel, the coasts of Europe from France to the Cape of Good Hope, including the Mediterranean); the third, the Oriental Navigation (the Cape of Good Hope to Japan), and the fourth, the West Indian Navigation (from Hudson’s Bay to the Straits of Magellan). In its final form, The English Pilot expanded to six books. The following list identifies the initial title, first and last publication dates, and initial primary authors. All parts of The English Pilot went through multiple reprints, but the complexity of ownership and the reuse of plates make the definition of editions both difficult and mobile, especially as the charts were often supplied by one firm and the text by

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another (Adams and Waters 1995, 62–67; Verner 1967, XV–XVIII; 1970, XIV; 1973, XII): The English Pilot, the First Book, Describing . . . the Whole Northern Navigation (1671–1785, John Seller) The English Pilot, the Second Book, Describing . . . the Southern Navigation (1672–1792, John Seller) The English Pilot, the Second Book, The Second Part, Describing . . . the Mediterranean Sea (1677–1803, John Seller, John Thornton) The English Pilot, the Third Book, Describing . . . the Oriental Navigation (1675, partial, John Seller; 1703–61, complete, John Thornton) The English Pilot, the Fourth Book, Describing . . . the West-India Navigation (1689–1794, John Thornton) The English Pilot, the Fifth Book, Describing . . . the West Coast of Africa (1701–80, Jeremiah Seller and Charles Price) Seller was only able to prepare the first two books before he ran into financial difficulties. In 1677 he formed a partnership with four other men in the trade: John Thornton, a chartmaker; William Fisher, a printer and publisher of nautical tracts; and James Atkinson and John Colson, both teachers of navigation. Their efforts brought the book on the Mediterranean Sea to the public. By 1679 Fisher had acquired full rights to the Mediterranean Sea, and from this point on, Seller was no longer involved in the publication of new volumes of The English Pilot (Verner 1967, VI). After Fisher’s death in 1691, the publication rights and stock passed to his son-in-law and heir Richard Mount, who had been his apprentice, and Mount’s partner Thomas Page. Similarly, Thornton’s interest in two books, Oriental Navigation and West-India Navigation, was transferred after his death in 1708 to his son Samuel, also a chartmaker. By 1715 the firm of Mount and Page had acquired the plates, texts, and publication rights to all the books of The English Pilot and through their heirs continued to publish all the books until 1803 (Verner 1973, VII–IX). The quality of the charts throughout The English Pilot varied according to their authors. For the Northern Navigation, Seller worked from Dutch charts. He had bought sixty-three old and worn copperplates originally published by Johannes Janssonius in 1620 as a counterfeit edition of Blaeu’s Het licht der zee-vaert (Verner 1978, 151–52). Now, as a cheap if dated shortcut, Seller reprinted some of these and supplemented them with some new charts of British waters. John Thornton may also have supplied some of the plates for the Mediterranean Sea (Verner 1978, 149). Thornton was an experienced chartmaker who served as hydrographer to the East India Company and supplied charts to Hudson’s Bay Company (Smith 1978, 79–81, 95, 98–100). In

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preparing charts for ships sailing to the East, Thornton had acquired a large collection of navigation material on which he could draw for both the Oriental Navigation, which he took over from Seller, and the WestIndia Navigation, for which he was solely responsible. Thornton dedicated the third book, Oriental Navigation, to the East India Company’s Court of Managers, and several of the pilotage charts in this book reflect their source in larger-scale manuscript works signed by Thornton (Cook 1985, 66–67). He had access to manuscript charts of the Indian Ocean and the Far East, prepared by Joan Blaeu as hydrographer to the Dutch Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) in 1638–73, some of which Thornton copied on vellum for the East India Company (Roncière 1965). In addition, Thornton incorporated information gleaned from the voyages of William Dampier to the coasts of New Holland (Australia) in 1699–1701 and Edmond Halley to the South Atlantic in 1699–1700. Thornton compiled the charts for the fourth book, West-India Navigation, while his partner William Fisher printed the sailing directions. The English Pilot, the Fifth Book, covering the west coast of Africa (1701), was produced by Jeremiah Seller, son of John, who continued his father’s mathematical instrument business, and Charles Price, who had apprenticed as a watchmaker and probably worked in Seller’s shop. Price’s aptitude as a chart- and mapmaker is shown in his signing of twelve of the fifteen charts in the West Coast of Africa and providing original work to charts based mostly on Dutch sources (fig. 232) (Verner 1973, IX–XI). While sales of The English Pilot continued throughout the eighteenth century, bringing profit to Mount and Page, later partners did little to incorporate new materials, allowing increased competition both at home and from abroad. In England by the latter half of the century, charts published by Thomas Jefferys (e.g., the West Indian Atlas) and Robert Sayer and John Bennett (e.g., the North American Pilot) as well as those found in J.  F.  W. Des Barres’s The Atlantic Neptune offered alternative charts based on British surveys, with Sayer and Bennett, and William Herbert and Henry Gregory producing new charts for the East Indies (Verner 1967, IX). From the Netherlands, the sixth volume of De nieuwe groote lichtende zee-fakkel (1753) from the Van Keulen publishing house focused on the Asian waters based on VOC materials and, from France, Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette’s Le Neptune orientale (1745) also presented material for Asian navigation based on firsthand observation. Nonetheless, The English Pilot was the first systematic attempt by the English to publish charts and to compete against Dutch dominance. Alis tair S . Maeer and As h ley Bay nto n- W illiam s

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Fig. 232. A CHART OF YE COASTS OF CIMBEBAS AND CAFFARIA FROM MT. NEGRO TO YE C. OF GOOD HOPE, ENGRAVED BY FRANCIS LAMB, FROM THE ENGLISH PILOT, THE FIFTH BOOK, DESCRIBING . . . THE WEST COAST OF AFRICA. Various states of this particular chart appeared in printings of this book from 1701 to 1780. The chart was originally prepared by Jeremiah Seller and Charles Price, but on this impression their names have been roughly obliterated from the title cartouche and not replaced. Printings of The English Pilot remained uncolored, but this impression comes from a large and undated (ca. 1715) collection

of charts from several of books of The English Pilot published under the title The Sea-Atlas: Containing an Hydrographical Description of Most of the Sea-Coasts of the Known Parts of the World and probably assembled by Samuel Thornton, all of whose charts bear full, contemporary color. This particular work exemplifies the common combination of coastal charts with detailed harbor plans. Size of the original: ca. 43 × 54 cm. Image courtesy of the Lionel Pincus and Princess Firyal Map Division, New York Public Library (02-295).

See also: Atlas: Marine Atlas; Map Trade: Great Britain; Marine Charting: Great Britain B i bliogra p hy Adams, Thomas R., and David W. Waters, comps. 1995. English Maritime Books Printed Before 1801: Relating to Ships, Their Construction and Their Operation at Sea. Providence: John Carter Brown Library; Greenwich: Greenwich National Maritime Museum. Baynton-Williams, Ashley. 2005. “The English Pilot: The Fourth Book.” Mapforum 5:26–32. Cook, Andrew S. 1985. “More Manuscript Charts by John Thornton

for the Oriental Navigation.” In Imago et mensura mundi: Atti del IX Congresso internazionale di storia della cartografia, 3 vols., ed. Carla Clivio Marzoli, 1:61–69. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. Roncière, Monique de la. 1965. “Manuscript Charts by John Thornton, Hydrographer of the East India Company (1669–1701).” Imago Mundi 19:46–50. Seller, John. 1669. Practical Navigation: Or, An Introduction to that Whole Art. London: Printed by J. Darby. Shirley, Rodney W. 1995. “The Maritime Maps and Atlases of Seller, Thornton, and Mount & Page.” Map Collector 73:2–9.

396 Smith, Thomas R. 1978. “Manuscript and Printed Sea Charts in Seventeenth-Century London: The Case of the Thames School.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 45–100. Berkeley: University of California Press. Verner, Coolie. 1967. “Bibliographical Note.” In The English Pilot: The Fourth Book, London 1689, V–XX. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. ———. 1973. “Bibliographical Note.” In The English Pilot: The Fifth Book, London 1701, by Jeremiah Seller and Charles Price, V–XIV. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. ———. 1978. “John Seller and the Chart Trade in Seventeenth-Century England.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 127–57. Berkeley: University of California Press. Verner, Coolie, and R. A. Skelton. 1970. “Bibliographical Note.” In The English Pilot: The Third Book, London 1703, by John Thornton, V–XV. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. Worms, Laurence, and Ashley Baynton-Williams. 2011. British Map Engravers: A Dictionary of Engravers, Lithographers and Their Principal Employers to 1850. London: Rare Book Society.

Engraving and Etching. See Reproduction of Maps: Engraving and Printing

Enlightenment, Cartography and the. The Enlightenment was both a historical moment—by convention, the “long” eighteenth century in Europe, ca. 1660–ca. 1815—and an intellectual movement distinguished by challenges to established authority and by new ways of critical thinking about the world. Eighteenth-century commentators considered how far public affairs should be governed by reason, the utility of science and philosophical inquiry, and the idea of human progress. Central to contemporaries’ interests and work was their belief that the application of critical reason based on careful observation of the world, not unswerving faith in ancient authority, would bring practical social benefits. Cartography or, more properly, mapping and mapmaking, was not a priority within Enlightenment philosophical and political ideals, but as a practice it was vital to knowing and shaping the Enlightenment’s social and natural worlds. Modern interpretations of the Enlightenment agree that it was an eighteenth-century phenomenon concerned with new ways of understanding the human condition as a means to its intellectual and social improvement. Important historiographical variations exist, however, in modern scholarship. For some scholars, the Enlightenment was a philosophical phenomenon defined by the lives of great thinkers, predominantly urban, male, and French. Others have discerned a broader Enlightenment with multiple origins or have gone beyond the Enlightenment’s philosophical concerns to consider it as a movement in the social history of ideas—about political

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freedom, race, science, and the environment to name but a few. Significant attention has been paid to Enlightenment as a process, even to the idea of multiple enlightenments rather than the Enlightenment. Further strands of Enlightenment studies are apparent in the work of those who have considered the Enlightenment’s contradictions, consequences, and continuing implications (Kors 2003). In summary, the Enlightenment has been studied in terms of its defining features and principal characters (its “what” and “who”), for its origins and motivations (its “how” and “why”), and, given the uneven results of its claims to political freedom and progress, in regard to its legacy (its “so what”). Most recently, attention has been paid to the Enlightenment as a geographical phenomenon, to its “where” (Butterwick, Davies, and Sánchez Espinosa 2008; Livingstone and Withers 1999; Withers 2007; Withers and Mayhew 2011). While recognizing the historiographical complexities of the term Enlightenment as period, process, and placebased phenomenon, and further acknowledging that “cartography” was not understood as a coordinated endeavor of measurement and mimetic representation until after 1800 (Edney 2019), we may nevertheless distinguish two related themes connecting these terms. Under cartography in the Enlightenment we may consider the role that maps, mapmakers, and the processes of mapmaking had in advancing the ideas and the ideals of the Enlightenment. Attention to the cartography of the Enlightenment highlights how the language of mapping can help explain the nature and geographical dimensions of the Enlightenment. The period of the Enlightenment was characterized by the appearance of a new group of cartographers. By the second half of the seventeenth century, four interrelated groups of cartographic practitioners have been identified: mariners, intellectual geographers, commercial publishers, and land measurers. “After 1660,” writes Matthew H. Edney (1998, 82), “the increased intervention of each European state in the large-scale surveying of their territories led to a fifth grouping of ‘professional geographers,’ specifically the military and state surveyors.” This group in particular drew together earlier traditions of work in maritime charting, smallscale mapping, and large-scale land surveying into a unified whole called by some “mathematical cosmography,” in which mathematics, astronomy, and geometry came together, often in particular institutional contexts, to provide epistemological foundations to Enlightenment mapmaking. Others have used “mathematical practitioners” to denote mapmakers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Taylor 1954, 1966), but this term is less precise than Edney’s fourfold distinction. Elsewhere, Edney (1999, 167) noted that “the variety and scope of technological and institutional innovations in map

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making during the eighteenth century is overwhelming.” Why was this? In general terms, because the Enlightenment was the period “when natural philosophy was reconfigured with an instrumentalist, and highly empiricist, quantifying spirit”; when “European states and their landed elites began to undertake large-scale topographic and very large-scale cadastral surveys”; “when European philosophers began to use the world itself as the source of ideas and data for European science”; and “when new map projections were designed to regulate the unavoidable distortions according to mathematical rather than aesthetic principles” (Edney 1999, 168). Cartography shared in the esprit géométrique that characterized the Enlightenment’s interest in situating practical reason, in delineating political space, and even in giving accurate shape to the earth through geodetic expeditions to Peru and to Lapland. Different themes in cartography—for example, mineralogical mapping in the emergent earth sciences; military mapping in European states and in their colonies, notably by the French in Egypt and Upper Canada and by the British in India and North America; or boundary surveying, as in Spanish and Portuguese America—revealed the world as never before. France led the way in Europe. Geodesists and astronomers were employed through the Académie des sciences in the first Cassini survey (1680–1744) to provide a mathematical framework for the French state. This work was extended by the Carte de France under the direction of César-François Cassini (III) de Thury between 1747 and 1789. Elsewhere in Europe, military surveys were undertaken of the Habsburg territories (1763–87), the Highlands of Scotland (1747–55), Saxony (1780–1825), and the Italian and German states under French occupation during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (1794–1815). Cartography was thus a central feature in the Enlightenment, but mapping in the period was neither a simple nor a direct consequence of Enlightenment interests in reason and the authority of observation. Cartography’s visual rhetoric often depended on textual accompaniment—the association of map and memoir in what Edney has called the Enlightenment’s “geographical archive” (Edney 1999, 170–75)—in which mapmakers would indicate the difficulties associated with undertaking their maps and with the sources on which they depended. In many places, however, as the world was mapped according to European cartographic precepts, mapmakers relied on native peoples as guides, interpreters, and suppliers. Yet indigenous toponyms and native mapped knowledge—and often the peoples themselves—were commonly excluded from the resulting maps, appearing, if at all, as marginal figures ideologically and figuratively. The increasingly plain lines and form of much Enlightenment cartography and the

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progressive exclusion of decoration from maps thus enshrined as much or as little symbolic significance, if differently expressed, as the ornamentation of earlier decorated maps. Mapmaking had close connections with the authority of the painterly eye in Enlightenment aesthetic traditions: surveying was a form of visual as well as of geometric and political authority. Mapping was also directed at the emerging public sphere (fig. 233), then interested in the location of current events and,

Fig. 233. FRONTISPIECE TO DIDIER ROBERT DE VAUGONDY’S NOUVEL ATLAS PORTATIF (PARIS: FORTIN, 1778). The full title of the atlas (“destiné principalement pour l’instruction de la jeunesse, . . .”) and the image of putti, holding a map of the world and measuring it with dividers, nicely symbolizes the educational power of the atlas. An atlas such as this one demonstrates the function of Enlightenment cartography as sociable pedagogy; the instrumentality that such education presumes for geographical maps underpins the use of maps within the public sphere of adult discourse. Size of the original: ca. 25 × 15 cm. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (Greenlee 4891.R64 1778).

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as Brückner (2006) shows of the early United States of America, in the changing shape of the nation. Plainness was a construct designed, among other things, to make maps easier for their users. Many Enlightenment cartographers left blanks on their maps. Where earlier, uncertainty might have been illustrated with ornamentation or hypothesized geographical content, blank space did not undermine the authority of Enlightenment cartographers. The graphic and visual authority of maps, their political and administrative power, is clear by what they do not show as well as by what they do (Belyea 1996). Cartography was used in the Enlightenment to inform audiences about their changing political world and even to instruct in political theory. In his Atlas des enfans, for example, Jean-Marie Bruyset used maps to illustrate the political state of Europe: [Question]: “What are the different forms of government of the states of Europe?” [Response]: “One distinguishes there [on it] five types of governments: despotism, monarchy, aristocracy, democracy, and a mixed form.” (Bruyset 1790, 97) Individual nations could be graphically summarized: “How do you characterize the Scot? They are robust and warlike, civil, frank, and clever. Those who live in the mountains toward the north are nearly savages” (Bruyset 1790, 113). Enlightenment cartography was thus a means to measure not just the physical dimensions of the world but the moral conditions of its peoples. This is evident in what we may term the cartography of human difference. A principal philosophical and historical tenet of the Enlightenment was belief in the stadial theory of social development, that is, the stage-by-stage development of human societies from savagery to pastoralism, to agrarianism, to industrial society, or, as it was also phrased, from rudeness of culture to civilized society. What contemporaries termed the “Science of Man” was motivated by a concern to bring questions of science as method, principally incorporating direct observation, to bear upon the human world as those questions were then being used to explain and map the physical realm. In charting the Enlightenment world, explorergeographers and voyageurs-naturalistes everywhere encountered geographies of human difference—different human cultures, perceived to be at different stages of human “enlightenment,” existing in different parts of the globe. Textual descriptions of geographies of human difference, often theoretically inflected, were an Enlightenment commonplace. Cartographic depictions of them were not. Didier Robert de Vaugondy did include maps of human variation by religion, skin color, and shapes

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of faces in editions of his Nouvel atlas portatif (1762). These were all topics central to the Enlightenment writings of men such as Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de Montesquieu, whose De l’esprit des loix (1748) invokes climate as a principal cause of human variation, and Georges-Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon, whose discussions about human difference also linked variety to environment (Withers 2007). One such map was unusual in being undertaken by a woman, Marie Le Masson Le Golft, a leading Enlightenment figure in Le Havre and in Saint-Domingue (Haiti) through her connections with the short-lived academic Cercle des Philadelphes there. Le Masson Le Golft charted the geography of human cultures at the world scale by religions, mores (that is, effectively, human intellectual capacity or perceived state of social development), skin color, and bodily shape (fig. 234). Here, framed by ornamental rather than plain cartographic devices, was a worldview in which Europe positioned itself as the high point of social progress (O’Connor 2005). The Enlightenment was, then, a period in which cartography was important to the advance of practical reason and of geographical science as a public good, expressed through mathematical cosmography, mapping, and marine charting. It is also possible to “read” the Enlightenment cartographically in seeing the phenomenon at different scales and in different locations. To do so—with regard to particular local institutions, for example, such as the Nuremberg Kosmographische Gesellschaft, or in terms of mobile practices with political consequences such as military mapping—is consistent with more recent historiographical interpretations of the Enlightenment (Livingstone and Withers 1999; Withers 2007). Enlightenment cartography did not simply inscribe a straightforward move to a more modern world or to a more modern mapped view of the world: the fact that different meridians were used, in Paris, London, and Philadelphia to name but a few, and that different indigenous units of measurement were often incorporated even as indigenous toponyms were replaced, shows that the Enlightenment did not rationalize the world consistently though cartography. Certainly, “Enlightenment science emphasized empirical observation and quantifiable measurement in mapmaking” (Delano-Smith 2001, 291). The idea of absolute mathematical precision intrinsic to modern cartography echoed Enlightenment ideals about reason and social advance. But the complexity of the human and physical geography of the Enlightenment world acted also to undermine the practice of cartography as a straightforward mirror to that world. Ch arl es W . J. W ithers See also: Encyclopedias; Memoirs, Cartographic; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Science and Cartography

Fig. 234. MARIE LE MASSON LE GOLFT, ESQUISSE D’UN TABLEAU GENERALE DU GENRE HUMAIN (PARIS, 1786). This double-hemisphere world map, engraved by Maurille Antoine Moithey, was shaded and imprinted with different symbols to distinguish between religions (Christianity, both Catholic and Protestant, Islam, and idolatry), mores (the

learned, those living in society, savages, the polygamous, the naked, human, and cruel), physical color (white, black, bronze, olive, reddish, yellowish), and physical shape (small, medium, large, very large, well built, badly built, beautiful, ugly). Size of the original: 50.7 × 68.0 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 8-F-1786 Le).

400 Bibliograp hy Belyea, Barbara. 1996. “Inland Journeys, Native Maps.” Cartographica 33, no. 2:1–16. Brückner, Martin. 2006. The Geographic Revolution in Early America: Maps, Literacy, and National Identity. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Bruyset, Jean-Marie. 1790. Atlas des enfans, ou Nouvelle méthode pour apprendre la géographie, avec un Nouveau traité de la sphere, et XXIV cartes enluminées. New ed. Lyons: Bruyset. Butterwick, Richard, Simon Davies, and Gabriel Sánchez Espinosa, eds. 2008. Peripheries of the Enlightenment. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. Delano-Smith, Catherine, 2001. “The Grip of the Enlightenment: The Separation of Past and Present.” In Plantejaments i objectius d’una història universal de la cartografia = Approaches and Challenges in a Worldwide History of Cartography, by David Woodward, Catherine Delano-Smith, and Cordell D. K. Yee, 283–97. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. Edney, Matthew H. 1998. “Cartography: Disciplinary History.” In Sciences of the Earth: An Encyclopedia of Events, People, and Phenomena, 2 vols., ed. Gregory A. Good, 1:81–85. New York: Garland. ———. 1999. “Reconsidering Enlightenment Geography and Map Making: Reconnaissance, Mapping, Archive.” In Geography and Enlightenment, ed. David N. Livingstone and Charles W. J. Withers, 165–98. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2019. Cartography: The Ideal and Its History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kors, Alan Charles, ed. 2003. Encyclopedia of the Enlightenment. 4 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Livingstone, David N., and Charles W. J. Withers, eds. 1999. Geography and Enlightenment. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Mayhew, Robert J. 2000. Enlightenment Geography: The Political Languages of British Geography, 1650–1850. New York: St. Martin’s Press. O’Connor, Bridgette Byrd. 2005. “Marie Le Masson Le Golft, 1749– 1826: Eighteenth-Century Educator, Historian, and Natural Philosopher.” PhD diss., Wadham College, University of Oxford. Taylor, E. G. R. 1954. The Mathematical Practitioners of Tudor & Stuart England. Cambridge: For the Institute of Navigation at the University Press. ———. 1966. The Mathematical Practitioners of Hanoverian England, 1714–1840. Cambridge: For the Institute of Navigation at the University Press. Withers, Charles W. J. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Withers, Charles W. J., and Robert J. Mayhew. 2011. “Geography: Space, Place and Intellectual History in the Eighteenth Century.” Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 34:445–52.

Estate Plan. See Property Map: Estate Plan Euler, Leonhard. Leonhard Euler, a major mathematician and scientist of the eighteenth century, was born in Basel on 15 April 1707 and died in St. Petersburg on 18 September 1783. He studied at the University of Basel under Johann Bernoulli, who recognized his brilliance. Bernoulli’s son Daniel encouraged the invitation to Euler to join the Akademiya nauk, recently founded in St. Petersburg (1724). Euler joined the academy in 1726 and became professor of physics and mathematics

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in 1731, succeeding Bernoulli as premier mathematician in 1733 (Calinger 1996, 125, 128–29). He assisted Joseph-Nicolas Delisle in astronomical observations, and he independently constructed meridian tables. In 1735 Euler was named director of the academy’s geographical section, a position from which he proposed a plan for the mapping of the Russian Empire. Under this proposal, Delisle and others produced the Atlas Rossiyskoy (1745), including a general map of Russia (see fig. 316), published by the Akademiya nauk (Calinger 1996, 146–47). By 1740, Euler claimed that painstaking work correcting maps took a toll on his eyesight (“Geography is fatal to me,” he wrote), though the cause of the blindness may have been the result of fever (quoted in Calinger 1996, 154–55). Deteriorating political conditions in Russia encouraged Euler to accept the invitation of Friedrich II of Prussia to join the Königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin; in 1744 he became the director of its mathematics class. Despite his blindness, he published more than eight hundred works on mathematics, physics, and astronomy as well as several essays on the theory of cartography. By order of the academy in Berlin, he supervised the creation of the Atlas geographicus omnes orbis terrarum regiones (1753), notable for its emphasis on physical geography as well as being one of the oldest school atlases in Germany (see fig. 6). Several new editions of this atlas were in common use until the end of the eighteenth century. Euler’s disappointment at his lack of advancement within the academy and the troubled conditions in Berlin during the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) encouraged him to return to St. Petersburg in 1766 to a more stabilized political situation under Catherine II. Although he was almost totally blind, more than two hundred of his works were published in this second St. Petersburg period. Euler’s works on cartographic theory include two essays of 1753 and 1779 on spherical trigonometry (translated as Zwei Abhandlungen über sphärische Trigonometrie, trans. and ed. E. Hammer, 1896) and three separate essays about map projections in 1777 that proved the mathematical impossibility of transforming the spherical surface of the earth into the flat surface of a map (translated as Drei Abhandlungen über Kartenprojektion, ed. A. Wangerin, 1898). Gerh ard Holzer See also: Atlas: School Atlas; Academies of Science: (1) German States, (2) Akademiya nauk (Academy of Sciences; Russia); Administrative Cartography: Russia; Geographical Mapping: Russia; Projections: Geographical Maps Bibliography Bradley, Robert E., and C. Edward Sandifer, eds. 2007. Leonhard Euler: Life, Work and Legacy. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Calinger, Ronald. 1996. “Leonhard Euler: The First St. Petersburg Years (1727–1741).” Historia Mathematica 23:121–66.

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Evans, Lewis. As a mapmaker and geographer, Lewis Evans (ca. 1700–1756) had few equals in eighteenthcentury British America. Born in Llangwnadl, Wales, Evans had migrated to Philadelphia by 1736, when his name appears in Benjamin Franklin’s account books, possibly as his clerk. (Franklin would later print Evans’s work, both letterpress and intaglio.) Shortly thereafter, Evans produced a land survey for James Logan, provincial secretary, and became acquainted with Pennsyl-

vania’s leading political and scientific figures. In 1743, he accompanied a diplomatic mission to the vicinity of Lake Ontario in New York, mapping the route and collecting topographical and other information that would appear in his first publication, A Map of Pensilvania, New-Jersey, New-York, and the Three Delaware Counties (1749). In addition to depicting the region’s geography, Evans included notes regarding climate, navigation, and natural history. His theories on the creation of the Appalachian Mountains, expressed on the map, constitute some of the earliest American writings on geology (Brückner 2017, 29–31). Evans’s greatest contribution to American cartography was his map of the middle British colonies (fig. 235). In addition to his own notes and surveys, Evans relied on other printed and manuscript cartographic sources and on the writings of others. These sources are outlined in the thirty-two-page An Analysis of a General Map of the Middle British Colonies in America, intended

Fig. 235. LEWIS EVANS, A GENERAL MAP OF THE MIDDLE BRITISH COLONIES, IN AMERICA (PHILADELPHIA, 1755).

Size of the original: 49 × 67 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3710 1755 .E8 Vault).

———. 2016. Leonhard Euler: Mathematical Genius in the Enlightenment. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Eneström, Gustaf. 1910–13. Verzeichnis der Schriften Leonhard Eulers, 2 vols. Leipzig: Druck und Verlag von B. G. Teubner. Hanke, Michael, and Hermann Degner. 1934. Die Pflege der Kartographie bei der Königlich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften unter der Regierung Friedrichs des Grossen. Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften. Penck, Albrecht. 1934. “Die ältesten deutschen Schulatlanten.” Forschungen und Fortschritte 10:183–84.

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by Evans as the first of a series of “Geographical, Historical, Political, Philosophical and Mechanical Essays” (Gipson 1939, 141–76). Copies of the map were sent to post offices from Virginia to Massachusetts to attract subscribers; Robert Dodsley also sold copies in London. As deputy postmaster general of North America, Franklin may have assisted in the map’s distribution (Brückner 2017, 30–41). The General Map and Analysis immediately became part of the political discourse on the westward expansion of Britain’s American colonies into the disputed Ohio country (Hallock 2003). Evans advocated such a move to counter French threats, although he conceded their right to certain lands. By tempering his anti-French position, opposing the designs of land companies, and recommending a single route to the Ohio country, Evans earned political enemies. Competing factions also used his General Map to promote their views of the defense of the colonies at the start of the Seven Years’ War with France. When his General Map and Analysis were attacked in the press in December 1755, Evans responded with another pamphlet that critically commented on military affairs in North America (Gipson 1939, 177– 218). This precipitated a charge of slander by Pennsyl-

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vania governor Robert Hunter Morris, but Evans died in June 1756 before the matter could be brought to trial. The General Map was the first American-made map to be widely marketed in both the colonies and England. Evans further tried to persuade Dodsley to publish an authorized British edition of the map and to split the profits. Dodsley declined, and Evans’s effort to protect his map from plagiarism failed. Pirated versions of the map immediately appeared in London and continued to be issued until 1814, attesting to the map’s significance and appeal. D avid Bosse See also: Consumption of Maps; Geographical Mapping: British America; Map Trade: British America Bibliography Brückner, Martin. 2017. The Social Life of Maps in America, 1750– 1860. Williamsburg: Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture; Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Gipson, Lawrence Henry. 1939. Lewis Evans. Philadelphia: Historical Society of Pennsylvania. Hallock, Thomas. 2003. “Between Accommodation and Usurpation: Lewis Evans, Geography, and the Iroquois-British Frontier, 1743– 1784.” American Studies 44, no. 3:121–46. Klinefelter, Walter. 1971. “Lewis Evans and His Maps.” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, new ser. 61, no. 7:3–65.

F Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands. From 1770 to 1778 the entire territory of the Austrian Netherlands and of the Prince-Bishopric of Liège was systematically mapped on a large scale (un pouce de France pour 160 toises, or ca. 1:11,520). The surveying and mapping were directed by Joseph Jean François de Ferraris. Although considered a private enterprise, the work was approved of and largely paid for by the Habsburg government in Vienna. It was part of a much larger initiative undertaken by the Viennese court in the second half of the eighteenth century that resulted in the Josephinische Landesaufnahme, the first extensive survey of the Habsburg territory. Made for the Austrian court, the Ferraris map was clearly French inspired in its origins, scale, survey techniques, and geodetic base, which were all modeled on the Carte de France by the Cassinis (1756–89), and in its use of French engravers for publication. Ferraris had strong ties with the Austrian court through his Lorraine origins and the protection of his family by Léopold I, duc de Lorraine. He spent part of his childhood at the Viennese court, studying at the École des Pages, where the mathematician and surveyor Johann Jakob Marinoni taught. Ferraris began his military career in Vienna, returning to the Austrian Netherlands in the 1760s. By 1767 he had become director general of the Kaiserliches und Königliches Niederländischen National Feld Artillerie Corps at Malines and director of the École de mathématiques du corps d’artillerie (founded at Malines, ca. 1763) (Lemoine-Isabeau 1984, 62–63). Charles Alexandre, duc de Lorraine, younger brother of Maria Theresa’s consort, Emperor Francis I, and governor of the Austrian Netherlands, was himself a cartography enthusiast; he supported a large-scale mapping project in response to the desire of the court in Vienna to map its lands. In preparation for the larger enterprise, Charles Alexandre ordered Ferraris to direct

the survey of two imperial domains: the Sonian Forest near Brussels (1767–70) and the Mariemont château in the province of Hainaut (1769). Members of the artillery corps on Ferraris’s staff participated in the survey, including Léopold-François Cogeur, who had trained at the Académie militaire du Génie in Brussels and taught at the Malines academy. A plan for executing a survey of such a vast area was proposed by the French engineer Colonel François de Bon in 1764, before that of Ferraris in 1769 (Lemoine-Isabeau 1984, 62, 186–95; Bracke 2009, 9). Both proposals envisioned two maps. The first would be a manuscript map on a large scale (1:11,520; Bon proposed 1:14,400) in 275 sheets, which would be used for military purposes and reserved for the emperor and his cabinet, thus called the Carte de Cabinet. The second would be a printed map, engraved on twenty-five copperplates (Ferraris originally proposed seventeen) at a smaller scale (1:86,400), destined for local administrations and for sale to private parties. Thus the printed Carte chorographique des Pays-Bas autrichiens was called the Carte Marchande. The income from the sale of the proposed 1,500 copies of this map was meant to cover the expenses of the whole enterprise, but, as with many other large-scale mapping endeavors, things worked out differently, and Ferraris had to appeal to the Austrian court repeatedly for financial support. From 1771 to 1775 Ferraris directed the survey. Its execution was headed by three members of his staff (Cogeur, Damien Gillis, and Peter Wirtz) who led as many as 178 members of the artillery corps to survey the entire territory using only simple plane tables and surveyor’s chains. The geodetic basis of the survey was advertised as the series of triangles related to the map of France by Giovanni Domenico Maraldi and César-François Cassini (III) de Thury first published in 1745, a later version of which included the territory north of the line formed by the Sambre and Meuse Rivers (see fig. 19) (Vervust 2016). Where possible, the surveyors used existing maps, especially those made by the French ingénieurs géographes during wars from the late seventeenth and into the eighteenth century, and in certain places maps by local surveyors. The sketches made in the field were

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assembled in Malines and copied onto each of the 275 sheets (in two sizes: ca. 45 × 141 cm, 90 × 141 cm) that made up the whole of the Carte de Cabinet. It was accompanied by a twelve-volume mémoire in which every detail of military interest was described for each sheet (De Coene 2012). Two copies of the map were made: one for the emperor (Nationaal Archief, The Hague) and one for Charles Alexandre (fig. 236). A third copy was created at the request of the imperial government in Vienna. The Vienna version, assembled from copies of the field sketches, serves as an invaluable testimony to the process of the map’s creation, as these types of preliminary drawings were often discarded after the fair copy was completed (fig. 237). The production of the twenty-five sheets that constitute the Carte Marchande began as soon as the manuscript maps were completed (fig. 238, p. 406). By 1777 proof sheets were produced and by 1778 the first sheets

of the atlas appeared from the printing office in Malines. Meanwhile, serious measuring errors had been noted, especially on the frontiers. Some parts of the country were surveyed again, and a set of six maps was produced. The copperplates were corrected accordingly and the sheets that were already printed were annotated with pen and pencil. The copperplates still exist in the Chalcographie of the Bibliothèque royale de Belgique/ Koninklijke Bibliotheek van België. The Carte de Cabinet is regarded as the oldest topographical map of the Belgian territory and as a primary source of information about Belgium’s preindustrial landscape, thanks to its rich toponymy and detailed hand coloring; its design includes soil types, forests, rivers, roads, religious institutions, buildings, bridges, tenant farms, factories, mills, and even gallows. The map served as a model for the mapping of the new Belgian nation in the nineteenth century. The survey also rep-

Fig. 236. DETAIL FROM THE FERRARIS CARTE DE CABINET, 1771–78, MADE FOR CHARLES ALEXANDRE, DUC DE LORRAINE. Manuscript map, ink on paper; scale, ca. 1:11,520.

Size of the entire original sheet: 90.4 × 141.4 cm; size of detail: ca. 28.5 × 39.5 cm. Image copyright Royal Library of Belgium, Brussels (Ms. IV 5.627, sheet 76).

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Fig. 237. DETAIL FROM THE FERRARIS CARTE DE CABINET, 1771–78, MADE FOR THE IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT IN VIENNA. The grid used in the field plans in preparation for copying to the assembled work is shown.

Size of the entire original sheet: 87.4 × 138.4 cm; size of detail: ca. 28.0 × 36.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Kriegsarchiv, Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (Kartensammlung B VIII a 125, sheet 76).

resents the efforts of monarchies in Europe in the eighteenth century to understand and comprehend the nature of their landholdings through large-scale mapping efforts that used consistent representational techniques, scale, and geodetic bearings.

De Coene, Karen, et al. 2012. “Ferraris, the Legend.” Cartographic Journal 49:30–42. Dubois, Sébastien. 2001. La rectification du tracé des frontières sur les cartes des Pays-Bas autrichiens de Ferraris (1777–1779). Brussels: Palais des Académies. Ferraris, Joseph Jean François de. 1965–74. Carte de cabinet des PaysBas autrichiens, levée à l’initiative du comte de Ferraris. 12 vols. of Mémoires and 12 vols. of Cartes. Brussels: Pro Civitate. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la Principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. Vervust, Soetkin. 2016. “Count de Ferraris’s Maps of the Austrian Netherlands (1770s): Cassini de Thury’s Geodetic Contribution.” Imago Mundi 68:164–82.

Wo u ter Bracke See also: Josephinische Landesaufnahme (Josephine Survey; Austrian Monarchy); Netherlands, Southern B i bliogra p hy Bracke, Wouter. 2009. “De kaart van de Oostenrijkse Nederlanden door Graaf de Ferraris: Inleiding = La carte des Pays-Bas Autrichiens par le comte de Ferraris: Introduction.” In De grote atlas van Ferraris: De eerste atlas van België = Le grand atlas de Ferraris: Le premier atlas de la Belgique, by Joseph Jean François de Ferraris, 2d  ed., 5–20. Tielt: Lannoo; Racine: Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique, Institut Géographique National. La cartographie au XVIIIe siècle et l’œuvre du comte de Ferraris (1726– 1814) = De cartografie in de 18de eeuw en het werk van graaf de Ferraris (1726–1814). 1978. [Brussels]: Crédit Communal de Belgique.

Figure of the Earth. See Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth

Finland. See Sweden-Finland

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Fig. 238. DETAIL AROUND BRUGES FROM THE FERRARIS CARTE MARCHANDE, TITLED CARTE CHOROGRAPHIQUE DES PAYS-BAS AUTRICHIENS, 1777. Area south of Bruges is shown, scale 1:86,400. While less detailed and lacking the color of the Carte de Cabinet, the printed version of the Ferraris survey includes much topographical and social information, as seen in the different engraving for wood-

land and pasture, nature of the roads (paved roads shown with trees lining both sides), types of towns (the post horn and the sign for a bishopric near the city of Bruges). See previous entry, p. 404. Size of the detail: 13 × 13 cm. Image courtesy of the Stephen S. Clark Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Map G6010 1777.F4, sheet VII).

Flamsteed, John. Born in the village of Denby in

him to leave school at age fifteen. By 1670, his diligent studies resulted in the Philosophical Transactions publishing some of his work. That same year he enrolled in Jesus College at Cambridge, receiving his master of arts degree in 1674 as a nonresident student. Shortly af-

Derbyshire, England, on 19 August 1646 and educated in the town of Derby, John Flamsteed first gained an interest in astronomy through reading and studying at home; his ill health as a child and young man caused

Flamsteed, John

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Fig. 239. A LATER DERIVATIVE OF FLAMSTEED’S CONSTELLATION MAPS. Listed in the table of contents as Capricornus, Aquarius, Piscis Notius, Microscopium, and Globus aerostaticus in Johann Elert Bode’s Uranographia sive astrorum descriptio (Berlin: Autorem, 1801), pl. 16. Bode’s atlas

represents the culmination of the Enlightenment celestial mapping on foundations laid by Flamsteed. Size of the original: 58 × 79 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City.

ter graduation in 1675, he was offered the position of the first astronomer royal at the soon-to-be-constructed Royal Observatory at Greenwich, a position that he held for the remaining forty-four years of his life. Flamsteed encountered much difficulty in getting the government to furnish the observatory with appropriate instruments, and eventually he funded the proper equipment himself. Once it was satisfactorily outfitted, Flamsteed applied himself to the task of publishing a new catalog of stars, among other observations. Despite the urging of his patrons and many contemporaries, Flamsteed, ever the perfectionist, continually delayed publication of his observations. He had a contentious relationship with many colleagues, ultimately resulting in his ouster from the Royal Society in 1709. Furious at what he considered to be the unauthorized publication of a draft manuscript of his star catalog in 1712, he succeeded in obtaining all remaining copies in 1715

and burned them. Resolved to publish his catalog properly, Flamsteed set to work and had completed two volumes of what would be the Historia coelestis Britannica before his death on 31 December 1719. His assistants Abraham Sharp and Joseph Crosthwait finished the work and published it posthumously in 1725 in three volumes with a preface by Flamsteed’s widow, Margaret, and James Hodgson. Sharp and Crosthwait also oversaw an additional posthumous publication of a star atlas, Atlas coelestis, as a companion to the star catalog (see fig. 152). This atlas was the first to use a sinusoidal projection for star charts, and because of this use (and that by Nicolas Sanson circa 1650), it is often called the Sanson-Flamsteed projection. Flamsteed’s influence on celestial cartography persisted for nearly a century; the atlas was republished in 1753 and 1781 and revised and reduced to a smaller size by Jean Fortin in 1776 and 1795 (French) and Johann Elert Bode in 1782 and 1805

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(German), in addition to the large celestial atlas by Bode published in 1801 (fig. 239). Although Flamsteed’s interests lay in many astronomical subjects, he clearly privileged practical astronomy over natural philosophy. Perhaps his greatest legacy was advocating and implementing the use of telescopic sights in observing star positions; his Historia coelestis Britannica and Atlas coelestis were the first star catalog and atlas to be fully produced using this method. Despite gaining an impressive level of accuracy and improvement upon earlier star measuring and mapping projects, his catalog had numerous errors; Caroline Lucretia Herschel published a volume of corrections to the catalog in 1798. Due to the large number of stars observed telescopically by Flamsteed that had not previously been recorded, a system of nomenclature needed to be developed. The “Flamsteed numbers” for star nomenclature, which are still used today were, in fact, not devised by Flamsteed himself, but rather by Edmond Halley, who edited the unauthorized 1712 edition of the catalog; Flamsteed eliminated these numbers in the 1725 edition and his star atlas, preferring prose descriptions of stellar locations within constellations. Edme-Sébastien Jeaurat reintroduced the Flamsteed numbers in 1782, and Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande employed them in 1783, codifying their use as standard nomenclature. A n n a F e lic ity Fried man See also: Celestial Mapping: (1) Enlightenment, (2) Great Britain; Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain); Instruments for Angle Measuring: Back Staff Bibliograp hy Baily, Francis. 1835. An Account of the Rev’d. John Flamsteed, the First Astronomer-Royal. London: William Clowes and Sons. ———. 1837. Supplement to the Account of the Rev’d. John Flamsteed, the First Astronomer-Royal. London: William Clowes and Sons. Birks, John L. 1999. John Flamsteed: The First Astronomer Royal at Greenwich. London: Avon Books. MacPike, Eugene Fairfield. 1937. Hevelius, Flamsteed and Halley: Three Contemporary Astronomers and Their Mutual Relations. London: Taylor and Francis. Willmoth, Frances, ed. 1997. Flamsteed’s Stars: New Perspectives on the Life and Work of the First Astronomer Royal (1646–1719). Woodbridge: Boydell Press in association with the National Maritime Museum. ———. 2008. “Flamsteed, John (1646–1719).” In Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Online edition.

Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de. Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu was born in Lyon on 2 July 1738. Educated by the abbé Jacques Pernetti, secretary of the Académie lyonnaise, he entered the gardes-marine in December 1755 and very soon became interested in improving navigational instruments. Enseigne de vaisseau

from 23 March 1762, he was temporarily assigned in 1765 to work with Ferdinand Berthoud and thus became the clockmaker’s most loyal supporter. The published results of Fleurieu’s voyage to test clocks, conducted in the Atlantic in 1768 and 1769 (the year he entered the Académie de marine), provided essential knowledge regarding timekeeping at sea (Fleurieu 1773; Chapuis 1999, 78–79). This didactic work, an authority with regard to sea navigation and very critical of JacquesNicolas Bellin, emphasized the importance of solving the problem of longitude and correcting marine maps, illustrated by the Nouvelle carte réduite de l’océan Atlantique ou Occidental (1772), which corrected the longitudinal dimension of the northern Atlantic (fig. 240). Lieutenant de vaisseau on 1 October 1773 and capitaine de vaisseau on 1 November 1776, Fleurieu was named inspecteur adjoint of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine on 15 May 1776, five days after the promotion of Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, with whom he constituted the driving force of the Dépôt until the Revolution, taking Chabert’s place whenever the latter was at sea (Chapuis 1999, 222–23, 315–17). Directeur des ports et arsenaux from November 1776 until November 1790, he was the first officer to consider the role of the “scientific revolution” within the Marine. A great believer in hydrography as an instrument of national prestige, strategy, and commerce, he closely attended developments in Great Britain, sustaining a correspondence with Alexander Dalrymple (Chapuis 1999, 238), while also directing intelligence. His encyclopedic spirit, enriched by a navigation library and endowed with immense geographic learning, committed him to the principle of the transparency and reliability of sources; he was charged with the task of composing instructions for the voyages of Jean-François de Lapérouse and Joseph-Antoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux. With the Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique (1785– 1809), he laid the technical and human foundation for a new school of high-quality engraving that prevailed in French maritime maps into the nineteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 501–4, 534–36). Even though he had a deep understanding of triangulation, Fleurieu was not a terrestrial hydrographer and did not develop any new methods of surveying. When he published Découvertes des François en 1768 & 1769 dans le sud-est de la Nouvelle-Guinée (1790), he was also ministre de la Marine (24 October 1790–15 May 1791; intérim ministre, July–November 1803); and tutor to the Dauphin from 1792, signaling his close ties to Louis XVI. Though arrested, Fleurieu survived the Terror and became influential once again during the Consulate and the Empire. In August 1800, he engineered the publication of the circumnavigation of Étienne

Fig. 240. CHARLES-PIERRE CLARET DE FLEURIEU, NOUVELLE CARTE RÉDUITE DE L’OCÉAN ATLANTIQUE OU OCCIDENTAL (PARIS, 1772). First edition, engraved on one sheet, ca. 1:12,000,000. This map was published in 1772 and inserted into Fleurieu’s Voyage (1773) the following year. The map corrects a number of essential positions (notably from those found on Bellin’s maps) with ref-

erence to the meridians of Paris and Greenwich and for the first time in France provides the nearly exact dimensions of the North Atlantic in terms of longitude. Size of the original: 48 × 76 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [9646 B]).

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Marchand (14 December 1790–14 August 1792); this massive work realized Fleurieu’s historical interest in the discovery of the northern Pacific and articulated his system for classifying the oceans by using a hydrographic vocabulary that anticipated later models. A member of the Institut and the Bureau des longitudes and bearing many titles, he died in Paris on 18 August 1810. His collection of maps—second in size and importance only to that of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville in eighteenth-century France—was acquired by the state in December 1810 (Chapuis 1999, 494). It later became part of the collection of the Service hydrographique de la Marine kept in the Départment des cartes et plans at the Bibliothèque nationale de France (Chapuis 1999, 880). O liv ier Ch apuis See also: Dalrymple, Alexander; Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France); Marine Chart; Marine Charting: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique Bibliograp hy Bonnel, Ulane, ed. 1992. Fleurieu et la Marine de son temps. Paris: Économica. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de. 1773. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1768 et 1769, à différentes parties du monde, pour éprouver en mer les horloges marines inventées par M. Ferdinand Berthoud. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie Royale.

Fortification Plan. See Military Map: Fortification Plan

France. The period from 1650 to 1815 represents a crucial time in France’s history. During this important century and a half, the monarchy focused on expanding the country’s territory, reinforcing its administrative organization and providing the necessary infrastructure for scientific and economic growth. This entry accordingly summarizes the role of mapping for each arena of activity. Note that the Revolution of 1789 did away with many of those structures and that administration. Napoleon I (emperor from 1804 to 1815) expanded the French Empire, but the growth was not lasting, unlike his administrative and military reorganization that, following the Ancien Régime and the Revolution, put institutions in place that continue to function today. In 1643, at the age of four, Louis XIV became king upon the death of his father, Louis XIII, but only took control of the government in 1661 at the death of Cardinal Jules Mazarin, who, along with the king’s mother, Anne of Austria, had secured the regency. At the time, France was coming out of a period of the major turmoil of the civil wars known as the Fronde, which included

a revolt by aristocrats and nobles led by the “Great Condé” (Louis II de Bourbon, prince de Condé). The situation was more promising on the foreign front. The Peace of Westphalia, signed with the Holy Roman Emperor in 1648, had definitively joined southern Alsace to France. Eleven years later, the Treaty of the Pyrenees, negotiated with Spain, gave France Roussillon and Cerdagne in the south and Artois in the north, as well as a good number of fortified areas in the northeast. The border between France and Spain was set definitively by this treaty. Louis XIV’s personal reign was marked by many years of war. On his deathbed he told his great grandson, the future Louis XV, that he loved war too much (“J’ai trop aimé la guerre”). From 1661 onward, Louis XIV enjoyed many successes, and the Treaties of Aix-laChapelle (1668) and of Nijmegen (1678–79) gave him the Franche-Comté and numerous lands in Flanders, Artois, and the Lorraine. At this point, France was poised to finalize its borders. By demanding the territories surrounding some conquered cities, this foreign policy of annexation (politique de réunion) brought additional lands. Despite the objections and coalition of some European powers, the Treaty of Ryswick (1697) allowed Louis XIV to keep all of Alsace. The War of the Spanish Succession (1701–13) ended with the Treaty of Utrecht (1713): Nice and the Duchy of Savoy, having been occupied during the war, were returned to the duke of Savoy, except for the area of Barcelonnette; France also kept the Principality of Orange. However, it had to relinquish Acadia, Newfoundland, and the Hudson Bay in North America to Great Britain. Louis XIV’s successors followed less aggressive territorial policies. During the reign of Louis XV (1715–74), the Treaty of Paris (1763) that ended the Seven Years’ War sanctioned the relinquishment of France’s colonial empire: Canada (with the exception of the islands of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon), Louisiana, and most of its territories in the Antilles, Africa, and India. But in 1766, Lorraine was integrated into the kingdom, and in 1768, Corsica was annexed. During the reign of Louis XVI (1774–92), France reclaimed a small number of territories in Africa and the Antilles, following France’s commitment to the American Revolutionary War. The French Revolution brought about the definitive annexation of foreign enclaves (Avignon and Comtat Venaissin, the Principality of Montbéliard, and the Republic of Mulhouse) and a new temporary occupation of Nice and the Savoy (1792–93 to 1814–15). The successful wars of the Revolution and the Empire enabled France to enlarge its territory considerably. The annexed regions of the French Empire under Napoleon I Bonaparte were divided into départements (fig. 241), while some conquered countries became kingdoms that

France

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Fig. 241. RENÉ PHELIPEAU, CARTE DE L’EMPIRE FRANÇAIS, DIVISÉ EN 126 DÉPARTEMENS (PARIS: BASSET, 1810), ONE PRINTED SHEET. The map shows the extension of French territory under Napoleon I, a little before the period of its maximum extent.

Size of the original: 66 × 74 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge C 1900).

were entrusted to those close to Napoleon. At its maximum extent, the French Empire in 1812 comprised 130 départements, extending France into Belgium, the Netherlands, the right bank of the Rhine, Piedmont, Liguria, Tuscany, the Illyrian Provinces, and the Roman States; four départements were added in 1812 after the annexation of Catalonia. The emperor’s defeats brought about his first abdication in April 1814, and then after a brief return to power, a second abdication in June 1815. Louis XVI’s brother became king as Louis XVIII

and negotiated the Treaties of Paris, which reestablished France’s 1789 borders, but preserved the enclaves for which annexation was confirmed. The Fronde rebellion (1648–53), emanating from the privileged classes of parliamentarians and princes, left a mark on Louis XIV, who endeavored to reduce their power by creating an administrative structure that was centralized, efficient, and devoted to the sovereign power. He replaced the organization of a kingdom based on a feudal system, which had been only slightly mod-

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Fig. 242. NICOLAS SANSON, CARTE GENERALE DU ROYAUME DE FRANCE EN DOUZE GOUUERNEMENS GENERAUX SUIUANT L’ORDRE DES ESTATS GENERAUX (PARIS: CHEZ M. TAVERNIER, 1643), ONE PRINTED SHEET. The map shows the division of France into military regions.

Size of the original: 40.5 × 52.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [373]).

ernized in the sixteenth century, with a system of power that relied on men of more modest social stature. From the sixteenth-century, districts called gouvernements had been headed by governors, representatives of the king with major powers, particularly military (fig. 242). The king gradually reduced their privileges by giving more and more power to the intendants, his personal representatives who, during the second half of the seventeenth century and for all of the eighteenth century, became the foundation of the provincial administration. The districts they controlled were originally divided for the purpose of financial management (generalités). Other intendancies were created afterward as the kingdom expanded.

The administration of the Ancien Régime was characterized in France by an array of different circumscriptions, corresponding to different powers. The highest judicial power was exercised by the parlements (parliaments), which, in this framework, legislated and enforced the decisions of the Conseil du Roi. This right gave them the power to block the royal administration, a right that they exercised in times of crisis. In 1789, there were thirteen parlements, and their jurisdiction varied greatly, with the one in Paris being by far the most extensive. There were other districts for other functions: financial (with intendancies and also with tax farms) and judicial (for the courts of justice that specialized in various fiscal disputes—Cour des aides, Cour des comptes, Cour des

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monnaies). The districts they covered were very extensive and had specific subdivisions. Religious districts were based on an organization from Gallo-Roman times dating back to the fourth century, with relatively minor modifications except in the south of France. The dioceses, numbering 117 at the end of the Ancien Régime, were reorganized under 18 archbishops. The cartography of these various districts fueled major production of maps in the seventeenth century and certainly into the eighteenth century (Dainville 1956). When the French Revolution occurred in 1789, one of the first projects given to the deputies in charge of France’s reform was to eliminate all institutions belonging to the absolute monarchy of the Ancien Régime and to replace them with new structures. As far as administrative organization was concerned, the Assemblée

constituante (1789–91) decided to give the same territorial division to all public services and national representation. The former “provinces,” an incorrect term designating the former gouvernements, were cut up into départements. After abandoning the idea of giving them a strictly geometric basis (fig. 243), the Assemblée constituante regrouped them, taking into account the former administrative divisions that had been based on geography and ease of communication. The law of 25 January 1790 established the organization of départements, but, after many adjustments, they were settled definitively under the constitution of An VIII (13 December 1799) under the Consulat. France (outside of its colonies) was divided into 83 départements, which were themselves divided into districts (shortly afterwards replaced by arrondissements) and subdivided, in

Fig. 243. CARTE DE LA FRANCE DIVISÉE EN SES 83. DÉPARTEMENS, VÉRIFIÉE AU COMITÉ DE CONSTITUTION (PARIS: BUREAU DE L’ATLAS NATIONAL, 1790), ONE PRINTED SHEET. The map follows the project of the French Revolution of 1789 in which the French territory

was divided geometrically in order to achieve départements of equal dimensions. Size or the original: 46 × 60 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 15304).

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turn, into cantons, which were themselves divided into municipalities. The names given to the départements were inspired by geography (rivers or relief). From then on, these districts served as a basis of all of France’s administrative and political organization. Even the current larger districts created in 1972, which regrouped many départements into regions, did not change this basic organization. Louis XIV and his minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert (1661–83) wanted to equip France with a number of essential institutions for its economic development and scientific influence, with pride of place given to the royal Académie des sciences (founded 1666). The Paris Observatory was founded in 1667 for the work of academic astronomers and was directed by Jean-Dominique Cassini (I), whom Colbert had brought from Italy. Establishing reliable cartography that could respond to commercial and administrative needs through credible astronomical measurements was a high priority. The security of navigation, like the extension of trade and the colonies, required reliable maps that were regularly updated, as well as the development of a means to calculate longitude at sea. Le Neptune françois, a collection of maps of the coasts from Norway to Gibraltar created from the most recent surveys, was published in 1693 by the king’s order. The Dépôt des cartes de la Marine was established in 1720, dedicated to the mission of collecting and compiling marine charts, for which it had a monopoly from 1773. Developing land-based trade required the implementation of a network of proper roads, successfully accomplished during Louis XV’s reign thanks to a policy realized under the Controller General Philibert Orry, who not only authorized the restoration of royal roads, but also the creation of a new road network to correct, or even replace, the existing one. Daniel-Charles Trudaine, who was appointed director of the Ponts et Chaussées in 1742, gave the decisive nudge to the project that determined that roads would be as straight as possible and with a sufficiently wide dimension. By 1778, it was estimated that two-thirds of the network was complete. Better exploitation of estates was needed, whether church or lay properties, royal domains, or royal forests maintained for the needs of the Marine. It was essential to know the exact area, the type of lands, the division of cultivated land, and the local communication networks. The need to create accurate maps for this purpose was apparent, along with necessary documents to establish a new means for calculating the taxes sought by Louis XV in 1763. The cadastre, which was crucial for a fair distribution of taxes, was envisioned at the end of the Ancien Régime; it became indispensable to the Revolution and the Empire to allow for modernized taxation. Developed gradually, given the magnitude of

Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis

the task, cadastral mapping began in 1807 but was not completed until 1850. Similarly, as the general administration of the kingdom became more sophisticated over the course of the eighteenth century, it required increasingly solid and accurate knowledge concerning its territory. For this purpose, Louis XV ordered the creation of a general map of the kingdom in 1747, to be based on geometric measurements and astronomical surveys conducted by the scientists of the Académie. Completed in 1790, it provided a basis for developing new divisions of France. The military efforts that so strongly marked the second half of the seventeenth century and the period of the Revolution and the Empire also called for the establishment of modern institutions to prepare for the deployment of armies and ships and to ensure conquests. Significant progress was made to achieve this by creating competent personnel through teaching and training in specialized schools and within the military services themselves. The legacy of these eighteenth-century developments was not challenged under the Revolution, which is a tribute to their effect. The state played a distinct role in the establishment of unified measures in France at the beginning of the Revolution, and soon throughout Europe. H élène Richard See also: Academies of Science; Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying; Carte de France; Celestial Mapping; Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France); French East Indies; French West Indies; Geodetic Surveying; Geographical Mapping; Map Collecting; Map Trade; Marine Charting; Military Cartography; New France; Paris Observatory (France); Ponts et Chaussées, Engineers and École de (School of Bridges and Roads; France); Property Mapping; Revolution, French; Thematic Mapping; Topographical Surveying; Urban Mapping Bibliography Barbiche, Bernard. 2001. Les institutions de la monarchie française à l’époque moderne, XVIe–XVIIIe siècle. 2d ed., rev. and corr. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Dainville, François de. 1956. Cartes anciennes de l’église de France: Historique, répertoire, guide d’usage. Paris: J. Vrin. Fierro, Alfred. 1989. Le Pré carré: Géographie historique de la France. Paris: Hachette. Mirot, Léon. 1947–50. Manuel de géographie historique de la France. 2 vols. 2d ed., rev. Albert Mirot. Paris: Picard. Sautel, Gérard, and Jean-Louis Harouel. 1997. Histoire des institutions publiques depuis la Révolution française. 8th ed. Paris: Dalloz.

Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis. Jean Baptiste Louis Franquelin was one of the most prolific cartographers in New France, having produced about fifty maps (Charbonneau 1972, 46–52). Born in 1650 in the French province of Berry, he left France for Canada probably during the summer of 1672. The following year, he attended the small seminary of Quebec, where he probably studied science under the Jesuits. When Louis Jolliet

Fig. 244. JEAN BAPTISTE LOUIS FRANQUELIN, “CARTE DE L’AMERIQUE SEPTENTRIONNALLE,” 1688. Pen, ink, and watercolor on paper; ca.  1:3,000,000. One of the most spectacular works of original French mapmaking in Canada, both for its size and its elaborate design, the map shows the

frontiers between French and English colonies and many recent discoveries by French explorers, as well as a view of Quebec City. Size of the original: 101 × 158 cm. Service historique de la Marine, Vincennes (Recueil 66, no 6 bis)/Bridgeman Images.

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and Jacques Marquette explored the Mississippi River, Franquelin was one of the few who knew how to “make geographic maps and other plans to inform the Court and give knowledge of the environs to governors and intendants” (Franquelin 1694). The ever more pressing need for maps grew as French voyageurs traveled to the interior of the continent in great numbers, motivated by the prospect of wealth from trade. Franquelin quickly became an essential resource for informing the French authorities about these new discoveries. In 1683, he went to France to present his early work to the court, accompanied by the explorer René Robert Cavelier de La Salle, who had traveled the Mississippi to its mouth. Upon his return to New France in 1684, Franquelin partnered with Jolliet to create a map of the Saint Lawrence River. This work earned him the position of king’s hydrographer, in which capacity he taught navigation and related subjects to young Canadians. In 1688, Franquelin returned to France to present his latest comprehensive work to the court: a large manuscript map of North America including a very well-rendered view of Quebec and a proposed border between New France and New England (fig. 244). In response to his proposal for further mapping responsibilities, the king mandated Franquelin to “visit all the countries where our subjects have been, and even discover others” (Louis XIV [1689]; Palomino 2017). Unfortunately, the project came to naught, since war broke out between France and England in the spring of 1689. In these new conditions, Franquelin changed his plans and turned to the defense of the colony. During the siege of Quebec, he worked as an engineer, supervising fortification work needed to protect the city. In 1692, the governor of New France, Louis de Buade, comte de Frontenac et de Palluau, sent him with Antoine de Lamothe Cadillac to reconnoiter the New England coast to gauge the merits of launching an attack against Boston or Manhattan. The expedition resulted in maps of the coast of New England and a plan of Boston (Charbonneau 1972, 48), which he brought to France in 1693. There Franquelin learned that his wife and children had drowned in a shipwreck on their way to join him in France. After this tragedy, Franquelin never returned to North America. By 1697, he was working for Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, the general commissioner for fortifications. Nevertheless, his interest in New France continued as he produced a number of maps of extraordinary quality before he died, sometime between 1712 and 1730. Franquelin’s maps were constantly updated according to information reported by voyageurs. While in Quebec, close to the seat of colonial government, he was able to intercept travelers returning from the west and could update material more quickly than could European geographers. Franquelin integrated into his maps geographical

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knowledge from the voyage accounts of a number of famous explorers, among them Jolliet, Marquette, La Salle, Daniel Greysolon Dulhut, Jean Péré, Pierre de Troyes, Pierre Allemand, Louis Hennepin, Pierre Le Sueur, Lamothe Cadillac, and Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville. However, because his work remained in manuscript form, it never gained the recognition that it deserved. And yet, the most prolific geographers of Europe, including Guillaume Delisle, Nicolas de Fer, Alexis-Hubert Jaillot, and Vincenzo Coronelli, were inspired by his work to depict a new America, Franquelin’s exceptional testimony to the French presence in North America. J ean-Franço i s Palom ino See also: Administrative Cartography: New France; Geographical Mapping: New France and French West Indies; New France; Topographical Surveying: New France Bibliography Burke-Gaffney, M. W. 1969. “Franquelin, Jean-Baptiste-Louis.” In Dictionary of Canadian Biography, 2:228–30. Toronto: University of Toronto Press; Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval. Charbonneau, André. 1972. “Cartobibliographie de Jean-BaptisteLouis Franquelin.” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada = Cahiers de la Société Bibliographique du Canada 11:39–52. Delanglez, Jean. 1943. “Franquelin, Mapmaker.” Mid-America 25: 29–74. Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis. 1694. “Memoire touchant les voyages que Franquelin, hydrographe du roy en Canada, a faits de Québec à Paris pour le service de Sa Majesté.” Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des manuscrits, Clairambault, vol. 879, fol. 294–95. Litalien, Raymonde, Jean-François Palomino, and Denis Vaugeois. 2007. Mapping a Continent: Historical Atlas of North America, 1492–1814. Trans. Käthe Roth. Sillery: Septentrion. Louis XIV. [1689]. “Commission octroyée à Franquelin pour faire la carte générale de la Nouvelle-France.” Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des manuscrits, Clairambault, vol. 879, fol. 293. Palomino, Jean-François. 2007. “Portrait of a Cartographer: Jean Baptiste Louis Franquelin, King’s Geographer at Quebec.” In Mapping a Continent: Historical Atlas of North America, 1492–1814, by Raymonde Litalien, Jean-François Palomino, and Denis Vaugeois, trans. Käthe Roth, 104–7. Sillery: Septentrion. ———. 2017. “De la difficulté de cartographier l’Amérique: Jean Baptiste Louis Franquelin et son projet sur les limites de la Nouvelle-France (1688).” In Penser l’Amérique: De l’observation à l’inscription, ed. Nathalie Vuillemin and Thomas Wien, 59–82. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation.

French East Indies. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the French East Indies did not exist as a territorial entity but rather as a series of establishments scattered in the Indian Ocean whose number and size varied according to the commercial and political interests of the French king. No French monarch from Louis XIII to Louis XVI had pursued a true colonial policy in the East Indies, whose commercial outlets were too limited to balance imported products and whose neighbors (the Chinese and the Mughals, in decline after 1707)

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were too powerful to be attacked. Moreover, the Indian Ocean was too distant for colonies requiring population from the West. After abandoning the colony of Madagascar at Fort Dauphin (Tôlanaro) in 1674, the French government focused on maintaining ports of call and entrepôts needed for its commerce with China and India. The administration of these outposts, patterned on the royal model, was entrusted to the successive Compagnies des Indes. The Marine du Roi did not appear in these waters except in time of war. Madagascar had long attracted the French. The first establishment (1642) was abandoned in 1674, but in 1768–70 Louis Laurent de Féderbe, comte de Modave, tried in vain to raise the fortifications of Fort Dauphin, and in 1774 the adventurer Maurice Auguste Benyowski attempted a similar construction at Antongil Bay. Making the Mascarene Islands the key to French establishments in the East Indies recurred as an idea among administrators of the Compagnie des Indes and the secrétaires d’État à la Marine, who were responsible for overseas colonies. Réunion (Île Bourbon) was occupied from 1668 and Mauritius (Île de France) in 1715. They were joined to the royal domain from 1764, while the other Asian establishments underwent the same process in 1770. The keystone of the French presence in the East Indies was, of course, India. They established a foothold at Surat in 1668, then founded their principal settlement at Pondicherry with a governor and a ruling council; they experienced their greatest territorial expansion under Joseph-François Dupleix, governor from 1742 to 1754. However, they lost nearly everything in 1763 by the terms of the Treaty of Paris (1763), which ended the Seven Years’ War. Further east, the French attempted a foundation at Mergui in 1688, in the course of embassies being exchanged between Louis XIV and Na¯ra¯i, king of Siam. By the eighteenth century, Mergui remained a favored winter harbor for ships from the Compagnie des Indes during the monsoon season. Finally, like the other European nations, the French had commercial entrepôts in Canton. In order to improve the acquisition of Chinese products and to combat the Dutch monopoly on spices, the French also attempted commerce, more or less unsuccessfully, in Cochin China in the 1740s and in the Moluccas around 1768–75. From this scattered territory and the state’s high-risk interest in the East Indies emerged a fragmented cartographic activity that was concentrated on two axes: defense and reconnaissance. After the local ruler granted a concession, the creation of defenses and the development of establishments were entrusted to three different groups. The first consisted of ingénieurs militaires (fortifications engineers), of whom the most remarkable was Jean-François Charpentier de Cossigny, who established the defenses of Île de France (1732), Pondicherry

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(1739), and Île Bourbon (1753–59). The second comprised ingénieurs géographes (topographical engineers) assigned to the colonies, including Denis de Nyon, who was engineer at Pondicherry in 1700 and was engineer and governor of Île Bourbon from 1721 to 1726 (fig. 245). The last group was a team of sixteen ingénieurs civils directly employed by the Compagnie des Indes, including Duez de Fontenay, who received a military rank, Louis Paradis, and Jean Bourcet, who was entrusted with the reconstruction of Pondicherry from 1765. After the dissolution of the Compagnie des Indes in 1770, they became the geographic engineers of the colonies up until the suppression of the corps in 1784. These three groups produced several categories of maps. First, there were plans for the development of locations held by the French (e.g., Port-Louis on Île de France or Pondicherry in India) or places under attack (e.g., Gingee Fort or Srirangam in India). Second, there were plans of foreign establishments. These were sometimes made in secret like the atlas of Louis François Grégoire Lafitte de Brassier, who was a prisoner of the English at the siege of Pondicherry in 1778 and returned to France in 1781 by way of Bengal, China, and the Sunda Islands (fig. 246), but they were sometimes drawn up at the request of a foreign sovereigns, such as those of Singor (Songkhla), Mergui, Bangkok, and Louvo by the engineer Lamare during the second embassy sent to the king of Siam in 1686–87. Third, there were plans of French possessions, such as the map of the environs of Fort Dauphin in Madagascar made by Michel Sirandré during the attempted establishment of a fortified settlement by Modave in 1770 and plans of the Seychelles by Lafitte de Brassier in 1777. Finally, there were maps of reconnaissance for possible establishments, such as those of Karwar and Mangalore in India drawn up on order of the governor of Pondicherry, Guillaume Léonard de Bellecombe, in 1778. These maps and plans, often gathered in an atlas to give a better estimation of enemy forces, usually remained in manuscript (Aix-en-Provence, Archives nationales d’outremer). Only a few plans, documenting feats of military prowess or a golden age, were published: e.g., Madraz et le fort St.-Georges pris par les Français commandés par Mr. Mahé de La Bourdonnais le 21 septembre 1746, celebrating the capture of Madras in 1746, or the Plan de Pondicheri en 1741, showing the city under the governorship of Dupleix, published in volume 9 of Antoine François Prévost’s Histoire générale des voyages (1751). Navigation in the waters of the East Indies was aided by the careful work of Jean-Baptiste d’Après de Mannevillette, director of the hydrographic office of the Compagnie des Indes from 1762, whose charts compiled from the observations of French and English marine officers were published in the two editions of Le Neptune

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Fig. 245. DENIS DE NYON, “JSLE DE FRANCE,” 15 JULY 1722. The manuscript outline plan of the Isle de France and the four insets that depict the detailed settings for two proposed forts demonstrate on one page the concerns of the Compagnie des Indes for the security of their establishments.

Size of the original: 51 × 72 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 pf 219 div 2 P 7).

oriental (1745, 1775) and Le supplément au Neptune oriental (1781) (Filliozat 2003). In addition, maps and charts of the East Indies were published by the Dépôt des cartes et journaux de la Marine for the Département de la Marine until the creation of the Dépôt des cartes et plans des colonies in 1778. Given the level of territorial fragmentation, there were no major operations of topographic survey and triangulation as in France, but Étienne-François, duc de Choiseul, secretary of state for the Marine, asked Jacques-Nicolas Bellin to compile medium-scale geographical maps: Île Bourbon (1763), Madagascar and Île de France (1764), and India with Sri Lanka (1766). These maps were included in the Hydrographie françoise, for which Bellin employed a mixed model. Like marine maps, they retained compass roses indicating winds as well as numerous markings regarding tides and points for anchoring, but like geographic

maps they depicted relief as well as hydrographic networks in the interior of the land. The map of India also included geopolitical data. These maps formed an official response to private publications. Bellin relied on several sources for his production: the latest work of geographers, including a map of India drawn up by JeanBaptiste Bourguignon d’Anville for the Compagnie des Indes in 1752 and the additions to Le Neptune oriental; data coming from the Dépôt de la Marine, such as observations made by Nicolas-Louis de La Caille in the Îles de France and Bourbon in 1753; and marine journals and logbooks, especially those with an eye to territorial acquisition, such as the reconnaissance of the Seychelles by Nicolas Morphey in 1756. Mano nmani R esti f- Filliozat See also: Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France); France; Neptune oriental, Le

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Fig. 246. LOUIS FRANÇOIS GRÉGOIRE LAFITTE DE BRASSIER, PLAN DU FORT WILHAMS. ET DE LA VILLE. NOIR [SIC]. ET SES ENVIRONS. EN 1779. AUX ANGLAIS. CALCUTA, CA. 1780. After his captivity by the English, the author, an active and prolific engineer in the French East Indies, created a series of plans of English establishments

in the East Indies, such as this one, which he presented to the Ministry of the Marine upon his return to France. Scale 1:350. Size of the original: 66.5 × 99.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Archives nationales d’outre-mer, Aix-en-Provence (FR ANOM 25 DFC 361 A).

B i bliogra p hy Berthaut, Henri Marie August. 1902. Les ingénieurs géographes militaires, 1624–1831: Étude historique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Service Géographique. Filliozat, Manonmani. 2003. “J.-B. d’Après de Mannevillette et la cartographie de la nouvelle route des Indes.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 175:6–16. Haudrère, Philippe. 2005. La Compagnie française des Indes au XVIIIe siècle. 2d ed., rev. and corr. 2 vols. Paris: Les Indes Savantes. Rinckenbach, Alexis. 1997. “Le dernier soupir de Dupleix”: Les cartes et plans des ingénieurs géographes en Inde.” Cahiers de la Compagnie des Indes 2:63–72. ———. 1998. Archives du Dépôt des fortifications des colonies: Indes. Aix-en-Provence: Centre des Archives d’Outre-Mer.

lantic, following the St. Lawrence and Mississippi Rivers through the interior of North America. However, international rivalries, the inconstancy of royal power, and low levels of commerce discouraged efforts to populate the colonies, without which territorial possession could neither be affirmed nor defended. Two physical areas composed this territorial grouping. On the one hand, the continental expanse of Canada and Louisiana made up New France. On the other, a group of islands in the Gulf of Mexico made up the French West Indies: Saint-Domingue (the western half of Hispaniola), the Windward Islands of Grenada (Grenade) and Martinique; the Leeward Islands of Saint Croix (Sainte-Croix), Saint Kitts (Saint-Christophe), Marie-Galante, and Guadeloupe; and Tortuga (Île de la Tortue). To them was added the South American enclave of French Guiana (Guyane) (fig. 247). After some early attempts by Protestants in Brazil in the sixteenth century (Toulouse 2007, 1562), the French

French West Indies. The territorial grouping of the French West Indies (French Antilles) took shape in stages during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The French endeavored to give it geographical (rather than political) continuity from the Antilles to the North At-

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Fig. 247. GUILLAUME DELISLE, CARTE DU MEXIQUE ET DE LA FLORIDE DES TERRES ANGLOISES ET DES ISLES ANTILLES, 1703, CA. 1:8,700,000.

Size of the original: 47 × 66 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G 3300 1703.L5).

established a presence on the coast of Guiana, founding Cayenne in 1634, but this site never constituted a wellpopulated or prosperous colony. The case of the Caribbean Islands was completely different. Colonies in the French Antilles were much smaller and, from a commercial point of view, more advantageous for colonizers. After several hesitant efforts at settlement and numerous wars, the islands of Sainte-Croix, Saint-Christophe, and Grenade were finally ceded to—or their commerce left in the management of—the Dutch and the English. But Guadeloupe and Martinique, which were colonized in 1635 (first for tobacco farming and then for sugar cane), remained French possessions. Meanwhile, the western part of Saint-Domingue, already occupied, was acquired from the Spanish in 1697 by the Treaty of Ryswick. Here the greatest number of African slaves were exiled: almost 500,000. The cartography of this most populated

and wealthy area of Saint-Domingue is of particular interest at all scales and includes an atlas of plantations, maps of the boundaries with Spain, and detailed plans of communication networks of paths, waterways, and postal routes (Pinon 1999). This combination of smallscale geographical maps and large-scale detail of private and public architecture and gardens provides the most accurate image of all the French colonial West Indies. The slaves purchased in Africa and regulated from 1685 by the Code noir performed the manual labor in the Antilles. Several cities, regular in design and with elegant architecture, were established on Saint-Domingue, including Le Cap-Français (1670; reconstruction 1711) and Port-au-Prince (1749–51), while the capitals of Guadeloupe (Basse-Terre, 1643) and Martinique (SaintPierre, 1635) were more modest. These latter two islands proved less agriculturally productive because of

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their limited surface area and mountainous geography. Saint-Domingue alone produced 70 percent of France’s colonial wealth from its plantations, soon surpassing that of the British Antilles. The largest French fortunes were massively invested there, making sugar, indigo, coffee, and cotton high-profit industries at the expense of African enslavement and the rapid depletion of the soil. By the time the slave revolts on Saint-Domingue had created the first black republic of Haiti in 1804, overexploitation had already partially ruined the island. The French tried several systems of colonization: familial in the northern region of New France, in constant negotiation with the Amerindians; slave-based in the Antilles and Guiana (where 90 percent of the population was of African origin); and mixed in Louisiana, where the demographic weakness of the colony necessitated compromise. The French government in Paris never really escaped from Colbertian economic logic, which sought only French profit from the riches of the distant West Indies. Alongside the official cartography produced by the engineers and their draftsmen to accompany their descriptions of towns and forts, there existed—especially in Louisiana—a personal cartography that illustrated the stories of draftsmen and colonists. They produced maps and plans, deceptively naïve in style, focusing on plantations, areas of the city, and the location of specific activities. Following the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) and the Treaty of Paris (1763), France lost New France and Louisiana (as well as their nearly complete losses in India and Senegal), never having had the means to defend these possessions or to make them prosper. The status of the Antilles and Guiana as French departments, the presence of millions of French speakers in Canada and the extreme northeast of the United States, as well as the numerous descendants of black and white Creoles and expatriates of Acadia in Louisiana and neighboring states bear witness to the historic and cultural vestiges of France in the Americas. G i l l e s-A n to in e Langlo is See also: Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying; Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France); France; Geographical Mapping; New France; Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying; Urban Mapping B i bliogra p hy Boudriot, Jean. 1983. Compagnie des Indes, 1720–1770, vol. 1, Vaisseaux, hommes, voyages, commerces. Paris: L’auteur. Giraud, Marcel. 1953–2012. Histoire de la Louisiane française. 5 vols. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France (vols. 1–4); L’Hartmattan (vol. 5). In English, A History of French Louisiana. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1974–. Historic New Orleans Collection. 2006. Common Routes: St. Domingue, Louisiana. New Orleans: Historic New Orleans Collection; Paris: Somogy Art Publishers. Oury, Guy-Marie, ed. 1987. La Croix et le Nouveau Monde: His-

toire religieuse des francophones d’Amérique du Nord. Chambray: C.L.D.; Montreal: C.M.D. Pinon, Pierre. 1999. “Saint-Domingue: L’île à villes.” In Les villes françaises du Nouveau Monde: Des premiers fondateurs aux ingénieurs du roi (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles), ed. Laurent Vidal and Émilie d’Orgeix, 108–19. Paris: Somogy Éditions d’Art. Pouliquen, Monique, ed. 1992. Voyage aux îles d’Amérique. Paris: Archives Nationales. Service Historique de la Marine. 1983. L’Orient arsenal, XVIIe–XVIIIe siècles. Lorient: Service Historique de la Marine. Toulouse, Sarah. 2007. “Marine Cartography and Navigation in Renaissance France.” In HC 3:1550–68. Wroth, Lawrence C., and Gertrude L. Annan. 1930. Acts of French Royal Administration Concerning Canada, Guiana, the West Indies and Louisiana, prior to 1791. New York: New York Public Library.

Fricx, Eugène Henry. Publisher, printer, and bookand mapseller Eugène Henry Fricx was born on 10 January 1644 in Brussels, where he died on 18 December 1730. His career as printer began when he took over the printing office of his uncle Jean II Mommaert in Brussels in 1670. Initially, he mainly published books with historical or theological content and by 1689 he became imprimeur de sa majesté, a privilege granted by the Spanish privy council. He began printing maps in 1703 perhaps in connection with the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) as part of the war effort. The Southern Netherlands (under Spanish control until 1713, then Austrian Habsburg control until 1789) was the site of many battles between France and the allied Austrian-British-Dutch armies (fig. 248). In 1703, at the behest of the Spanish government, Fricx began a series of engravings of King Felipe V’s Italian campaigns as part of the war’s propaganda (fig. 249). In the same year, he began production of maps that were included in the Table des cartes des Pays Bas et des frontieres de France (1704–12, ca. 1:115,000), known more simply as the Carte des Pays Bas, in twenty-four sheets. From 1706 to 1712, Fricx continued to publish battlefield maps showing the surrounding areas of all the important battles between the allied forces and the French army and the sieges of cities and fortresses in Belgium and the northern part of France. In 1712, he combined forty-eight of these map sheets with his Carte de Pays Bas and Johann Peter Nell’s map Postarum seu veredariorum stationes per Germaniam et provincias adiacentes (1711, ca. 1:2,500,000) into a kind of military atlas of the war. Fricx added two more maps and revised existing plates several times, and his son printed a reedition in the 1740s (Bracke 2006, 14–15). This varied collection comprised two parts: first, the twenty-four topographic maps of regions from the Carte de Pays Bas and, second, the forty-seven (and in later editions, fortyeight) city maps, such as that of Brussels (see fig. 604), and plans of sieges and battles. Sources have been identi-

Fig. 248. EUGÈNE HENRY FRICX, THEATRE DE LA GUERRE DES PAYS-BAS, 1703. Engraved by Jacques Harrewyn, ca. 1:280,000. Fricx’s first published map appeared early in the War of the Spanish Succession. Its dedication to Isidro Melchor de la Cueva y Benavides, fourth marqués de Bedmar, the commander of the Bourbon forces in the Southern Nether-

lands, emphasized Fricx’s commitment to the Spanish regime at this point in his career. Size of the original: 60 × 56 cm. Image courtesy of the Universität Bern, Zentralbibliothek, Sammlung Ryhiner (MUE Ryh 2908:31).

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Fig. 249. FELIPE PALLOTA, GEOGRAPHIA DE LA PARTE DE ITALIA, EN QUE SE A HECHO LA GUERRA, 1703. Published in Brussels by Fricx. Engraved by Jan Baptist Berterham, based on drawings and layout by Pallota, an architect attached to the Spanish royal cavalry. This was one of a suite of engravings made for the Spanish Crown as propaganda in

support of the Bourbon Felipe V (grandson of Louis XIV) as a candidate for the throne of Spain, a precipitating event in the War of the Spanish Succession. Size of the original: 50 × 65 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [5164]).

fied for many of them. The topographical regional maps were based mostly on surveys and manuscript maps by French military engineers, such as published works by Pennier and Jean-Baptiste Naudin and other material probably supplied by Robert-Alexandre d’Hermand, who later became tutor to the young Louis XV and head of the French ingénieurs géographes in 1719 (LemoineIsabeau 1992, 100–101). The city maps were based on the work of Gaspard Baillieul, a military engineer and Paris-based map editor. By contrast, the plans of battles and sieges were taken from Austrian, Dutch, and English sources, with a decidedly anti-French point of view (Bracke 2006, 15). The mixture of French and allied sources suggests the unusual and cosmopolitan audience for the maps envisaged by Fricx after the defeat

of the Spanish-French forces at the Battle of Ramillies (1706). Initially, the maps of the Carte des Pays Bas were destined for private distribution among Spanish military officers; after Ramillies, Fricx received a privilege from the Brabant Council for selling maps to the public (Lemoine-Isabeau 1992, 98–99). Maps from Fricx’s collected Carte des Pays Bas were copied by other European cartographers and publishers, including Nicolas de Fer (Les frontières de France et des Pais Bas, 1708–10); Herman Moll (Les provinces des Pays-Bas catholiques, ca. 1730, ca. 1:430,000); GeorgesLouis Le Rouge (Les XVII. provinces dites les Pays-Bas, 1742, ca. 1:1,000,000); the Crépy firm (Cartes des provinces des Pays Bas, 1744, 1785, ca. 1:130,000); Covens & Mortier (ca. 1720, 1745); and Matthäus Seutter

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(Belgium foederatum, 1731/1756, ca. 1:640,000; and Les provinces des Pais Bas autrichiens, ca. 1744, ca. 1:250,000; see fig. 748). The maps remained in common use until the Austrian general Joseph Jean François de Ferraris published his Carte chorographique des PaysBas autrichiens (1:86,400) in 1777–78. In addition to the Carte des Pays Bas, Fricx published maps of the continents by Guillaume Delisle as well as Ricquier’s Partie du Gange où sont les etablissements du commerce des nations de l’Europe dans les Indes orientales (1726). The latter was based on the work of Jacque André Cobbé, compiled as a bird’s-eye view and oriented east (ca. 1:400,000). (Ricquier’s manuscript is in the Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique, Brussels.) Almost all the maps produced by Fricx’s publishing house were engraved by Jacques Harrewyn and his brother Jean, with decorations by Corneille Marke. The map business was continued by Fricx’s son Guillaume Henri, whose journal of 1705–8 provides a detailed picture of his business network and prices (Bracke 2012, appendix). G er h a rd H o lzer

See also: Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands; Naudin Family; Netherlands, Southern Bibliography Bracke, Wouter. 2006. “Maps by Fricx.” Brussels International Map Collectors’ Circle 24:14–18. ———. 2012. “Eugène-Henri Fricx en de Spaanse Successieoorlog: Une affaire de cartes.” In Quotidiana: Huldealbum Dr. Frank Daelemans, 2 vols., ed. Ria Jansen-Sieben, Marc Libert, and André Vanrie, 1:197–224. Brussels: Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique/ Archief- en Bibliotheekwezen in België. Claessens, Paul-E. 1958. “Deux familles d’imprimeurs brabançons: Les Mommaert et les Fricx, 1585 à 1777.” Brabantica 3:205–20. Hennequin, É. 1968. “Étude historique sur l’exécution de la carte de Ferraris et l’évolution de la cartographie topographique en Belgique.” Acta Cartographica 3:49–141. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la Principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. ———. 1986. “Fricx, Eugène Henry.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 1:242. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. ———. 1992. “À l’origine de la carte des Pays-Bas d’Eugène-Henry Fricx, les levés des ingénieurs militaires de Louis XIV.” Annales du Cercle Archéologique de Mons 75:89–102. Wauters, Alphonse. 1880–83. “Fricx (Eugène-Henri).” Biographie Nationale 7:col. 302–4.

G Games, Cartographic. Cartographic pastimes include playing cards, games (similar to board games), and puzzles. Additionally, some books included games: rules of play were described, and sometimes the relevant maps, but a playing surface was not usually provided. Rare before 1600, and the subject of much debate among Enlightenment educational thinkers, cartographic games were published in increasing numbers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The earliest known English cartographic playing cards were printed by William Bowes (1590) from county maps by Christopher Saxton. In France, cartographic cards created by Jean Desmarets de Saint-Sorlin (engraved by Stefano Della Bella) were published in 1644. Earlier, Henry Peacham had described a French pack he considered suitable for juvenile use: “the foure suites [are] changed into Maps of severall Countries, of the foure parts of the world, . . . the Pourtraies of their Kings and Queenes [are] in their severall Countrey habits; for the Knaues, [in that of] their Peasants or Slaues; which ingenious deuice, cannot be but a great furtherance to a young capacitie” (Peacham 1622, 65). Not all playing cards displaying instructional material were intended for children, but Henry Winstanley designed and published cards (ca. 1675) “Dedicated to the Honble James Herbert Esq. not for his Improvement, But that it was Part of his Studjs and from Whom I must own to have Received most of my Instructions in the Composing of [them].” These displayed “All the Principal Nations of the World Presented in their Habits (or Fashion of Dressing) with a Prospect of their Capital Citys and a Geographical Description of the Provinces . . . and as Much of History of all, as Could be Contained in so Small a Space” (reproduced in Wayland 1967, frontispiece). Each suit represented a continent, hearts equaling Europe, diamonds Asia, spades Africa, and clubs the Americas.

The earliest cartographic board games appear to have been those devised by Pierre Duval, géographe du roi. Modeled on the rules and order of play of the game of the goose, a spiral track race game played by adults across Western Europe since at least the sixteenth century, Le jeu du monde (1645) (fig. 250), Le jeu de France (1659; 1671), Le jeu des princes de l’Europe (1662?; 1670), and Le jeu des François et des Espagnols pour la paix (1660), all from different publishers, were designed for youth and ladies (Seville 2008b, 430–32; Girard and Quétel 1982, 39–49). Duval also designed Le jeu de France pour les dames (1652), this time based on a draughts board, with thirty-two blank squares and thirty-two squares with maps of the French provinces (Hill 1978, 7–8). Around the same time, and little more than half a century after Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe’s catalog of stars was published, Éstienne Vouillemont designed Le jeu de la sphère ou de l’univers selon Tyco Brahe (1661). French publishers, particularly Crépy and Basset (both in Paris), continued to produce similar games throughout the eighteenth century. Only a few years after Duval’s games, a book of a “game of the world,” probably the work of the Jesuit Matthais Kirchoffer, was published at Graz. Orbis lusus (1659) appears to be the earliest game in which a map served as the playing surface. The map was not provided—players were to draw it themselves on an orthographic projection (Sekolec 2009). The game was still known when the Encyclopédie was published (Diderot and d’Alembert 1751–72, 14:792), and may have influenced later designers of cartographic games. French geography textbooks were popular in seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century Britain, so it is surprising that there is no record of English cartographic games similar to those of Duval until the 1750s. It is difficult to believe that the concept was neither imported nor copied in Britain for almost a century, especially given the cross-Channel trade in European maps and prints, the popularity of French fashions in England, Peacham’s reference to French cartographic playing cards, and fugitive references in this period to printed pastimes teaching reading, but no such games, copies, or derivatives of them have so far been located.

Fig. 250. PIERRE DUVAL, LE JEU DU MONDE (1645). © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps *999.[27]).

Games, Cartographic

The earliest known English cartographic board game was A Journey Through Europe, or The Play of Geography “Invented and sold by the Proprietor, John Jefferys . . . Writing Master, Accompt., Geographer, &.” for 8s. (Whitehouse 1951, 6–7). The sole surviving copy bears the imprint of Carington Bowles but the date of 1759. It must thus have originally been printed for either Thomas (II) or John Bowles. Trading on the popularity of Thomas Nugent’s guidebook, The Grand Tour (1749) (Shefrin 1999b, 15), the map, on which numbers were engraved at specific locations, was the playing board, and the first player to reach London won the game. This device of following a tour on a map, with the players as travelers, the counters their servants, and the rulebook written as a guidebook, was imitated by English mapsellers and children’s booksellers well into the nineteenth century. Unlike Continental table games, which were sold as unmounted sheets, the physical format of most early English cartographic board games was modeled on contemporary traveling maps: the engraved sheet was cut into rectangular sections, mounted on linen, and folded into a cardboard slipcase. Map cartouches as well as slipcases were often decorated with emblematic vignettes of the costumes, wildlife, famous buildings, or products and manufactures of regions mapped. Nineteenth-century games sometimes additionally display representations of natural, mechanical, and cultural artifacts and events in various parts of the world superimposed on the body of the map. When the player landed on a particular location, historical, geographical, or economic information was read out from the accompanying numbered rules that were either pasted onto the linen backing at either side of the map or bound into a rulebook. Play instructions frequently reflect contemporary values. In John Jefferys’s game, “He who rests on No48 at Rome for kissing ye Pope’s Toe shall be banish’d for his Folly to No4 in the cold Island of Iceland and miss three turns” (reproduced in Whitehouse 1951, facing 6). In the 1790 edition of Bowles’s Geographical Game of the World, visitors to Paris are invited to “stay one turn to rejoice at the establishment of Liberty, the fall of Despotism, and destruction of the Bastil[l]e, at the memorable Revolution of 1789” (direction no. 75), and Bowles’s European Geographical Amusement, published a year later (1791), required players to stay two turns at Paris “to contemplate the New French Constitution . . . and . . . the Bastile demolished in 1789” (direction no. 3). The origins of dissected maps remain murky, but they were probably being made at home by parents, tutors, and governesses long before their commercial debut. An intriguing reference to the practice survives in a letter from Johann Kaspar Wettstein to Mlle. de Chaires, governess to the future George III and his siblings. In

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1744 Wettstein writes that he is sending two dissected manuscript maps to the young princes (Barber 2011, 26). Eberhard David Hauber, in what appears to be the earliest published reference, recommended that geography be taught to children “in an easy and playful way . . . by cutting the provinces of the countries, depicted on a map, along their borders, mixing them up, and afterwards having the pupil sorting . . . assembling them” (Hauber 1727, 26; Heinz 2015). Commercially available precursors of dissected maps include Johann Jacob Lidl’s Neu und accurat verfaste General Post Land-Karte des sehr grossen Welt beruhmten Konig-Reichs Hungarn (ca. 1750), “composed . . . with great care, principally for the benefit of teachers and youth” (Shefrin 2003, 7980). The verso of this map is printed in eighty rectangles, each having one or more numbers corresponding to a list of place-names printed on the recto, and well as to locations on the map itself. Later in the same decade, evidence for the sale of dissected maps in England can be found in an advertisement for a school run by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont, a French governess and writer working in London. Among the list of school charges was a fee of one-half guinea for les cartes de géographie en bois (geographical wooden maps). Contemporary references suggest that Leprince de Beaumont’s dissections became a fashionable novelty. London diarist Mary Delany, in a letter written in 1759, declared: “I wish I could tell how to get a set of Madame Beaumont’s wooden maps. I think those of England, Scotland, and Ireland come to two guineas” (Shefrin 2003, 5). Two years later, Lady Caroline Fox wrote that her son learns “geography on the Beaumont wooden maps” (Shefrin 2003, 6). The earliest surviving English examples, played with by the children of George III, are tangentially associated with Leprince de Beaumont but not directly attributable to her. Created from the copperplate-printed maps of Jean Palairet’s Atlas méthodique (1755), like the earliest commercially available dissected maps they are mounted on thin sheets of mahogany and cut along the political borders, although the cutting is much more elaborate and delicate than those later sold by the map trade (fig. 251). John Spilsbury was the first English mapseller to market dissected maps. In the early 1760s his puzzles ranged in price from 7s.6d. to £1.1s (Hannas 1972, 18). As with the games, the idea was soon adopted by other mapsellers. Maps sold as dissections included the work of Emanuel Bowen, Thomas Kitchin, Archibald McIntyre, John Gibson, and John Cary. The cost might be kept down by selling a dissection cut out at the borders of the country without the frame provided by the ocean or neighboring countries. Such puzzles cost less, but were actually more difficult to assemble. Just as the extent of cartographic information offered to children in the

Fig. 251. A DISSECTION CUT FROM A COPY OF THE PLATE CARTE DE L’AMÉRIQUE SEPTENTRIONALE. The cutting, including the inland bodies of water, is much more elaborate than that on commercially produced dissected

maps of the period. From Jean Palairet’s Atlas méthodique (London, 1755). Museum of Childhood Collection. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London (B.6-2011).

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Fig. 252. THOMAS JEFFERYS, THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL PASTIME OR THE COMPLETE TOUR OF EUROPE, 1768. Copper engraving.

Size of the original: 52 × 68 cm; folds to 17 × 13 cm. Image courtesy of the Cotsen Children’s Library, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library.

different types of pastimes varied considerably, so too did the quality. Some mapsellers probably sold off old stock of maps as dissections for children, but others, William Darton junior for one, carefully presented their juvenile dissections as current. Some dissected maps, such as the Map of the Various Paths of Life (1794), attributed to George Dillwyn, were allegorical. The Dutch firm of Covens & Mortier was publishing dissections by the 1780s—if not earlier—and Francisco de Goya’s portrait of a young Luis María de Borbón y Vallabriga (1783) shows the boy standing beside a table with a partially assembled dissected map, a single piece still in his hand. By the end of the century, references to map dissections can be found in English juvenile and adult fiction, educational treatises, correspondence, diaries, and perhaps most famously in Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park (1814). There are also paintings and illustra-

tions, the earliest being a portrait (ca. 1770) by William Hoare of two small boys assembling a dissected map (Shefrin 1999b, 6, 21; see fig. 225). Although John Jefferys appears to have designed only one game and Spilsbury died relatively young in 1769, the pastimes they sold must have been commercially successful. Between 1768 and 1770 Thomas Jefferys published three Royal Geographical Pastimes: The Complete Tour of Europe (1768) (fig. 252); Exhibiting a Complete Tour thro’ England & Wales (1770); and Exhibiting a Complete Tour Round the World (1770), all dedicated to the young Prince of Wales. In 1778 William Faden advertised a set of the three games, presumably from Jefferys’s stock, for £1.1s. (Shefrin 1999b, 19 and notes). Robert Sayer and the Bowles family sold cartographic games and dissections through the 1770s and 1780s. From the mid-1780s the firms of William

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Darton and John Wallis, who sold both maps and children’s books, as well as children’s bookseller Elizabeth Newbery, also offered dissected maps, as did Woodman & Mutlow (advertising their shop as “Late Spilsbury’s” [Shefrin 1999b, 9–10]). Of the English cartographic puzzles and games published before 1800, Europe was most commonly portrayed dissection, followed by the other continents, country maps of England, Ireland, and Scotland, and, lastly, the world. Spilsbury offered individual dissected maps of most European countries, although none have survived, and he may have intended to produce them on demand. Similarly, the most common table game was of Europe, but followed by the world, Britain, the other continents, and other European nations. By the end of the century, the thriving English industry in cartographic games and puzzles even included Tour through the County of Somerset, a Geographical Game (1805), which must have had only regional interest. Erasmus Darwin, writing in 1797, expressed reservations about dissected maps although he recommended abbé Gaultier’s “cours de Geographie” (22), referring to Gaultier’s A Complete Course of Geography, by Means of Instructive Games (2d ed., 1795). This was a bound volume that included maps. Darwin also approved “a compendious system of geography on cards, published by Mr. Newberry [sic], . . . [which] supplies a very convenient method of instructing children” (21), reminding us that cartographic playing cards for children continued to be popular throughout the period. The low survival rate for games and pastimes generally makes it difficult to accurately assess either the popularity or the cultural impact of cartographic games. But eighteenth-century publishers were highly entrepreneurial, suggesting that the manufacture of these games and novelties would have slowed to a trickle had they not proved profitable. Their success is also indicated by the multiple editions and variants of some games, by the sheer numbers of different games and puzzles published over less than a century, and by references to their value in teaching geography. Many, particularly those produced in England, were expensive to purchase and marketed to a relatively elite audience. Of those that have survived, a number are still in private collections, and those in institutions are only slowly being cataloged and/or digitized. The only known copy of John Jefferys’s game, that reproduced by F. R. B. Whitehouse (1951, 6–7), was sold at auction with Whitehouse’s collection in the 1950s; its current location is unknown. J ill S h efrin See also: Consumption of Maps; Education and Cartography Bibliograp hy Barber, Peter. 2011. “A Curious Colony”: Leicester Square and the Swiss. London: Jannuzzi Smith Editions.

Bekkering, Betsy, and Geert Bekkering. 1988. Stukje voor Stukje: Geschiedenis van de legpuzzel in Nederland. Amsterdam: Van Soeren. Darwin, Erasmus. 1797. A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education, in Boarding Schools. Derby: Printed by J. Drewry; for J. Johnson, St. Paul’s Church-Yard, London. Diderot, Denis, and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, eds. 1751–72. Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers. 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, and Durand. Girard, Alain R., and Claude Quétel. 1982. L’Histoire de France racontée par le jeu de l’oie. Paris: Balland/Massin. Hannas, Linda. 1972. The English Jigsaw Puzzle, 1760–1890. London: Wayland Publishers. Hauber, Eberhard David. 1727. Zusätze und Verbesserungen zu seinem Versuch einer umständlichen Historie der Land-Charten. In Discours von dem gegenwärtigen Zustand der Geographie besonders in Teutschland, by Eberhard David Hauber. Ulm: Daniel Bartholomai. Heinz, Markus. 2015. “German Maps in Pieces: A Contribution to the Early History of the Jigsaw Puzzle.” Paper presented at the Twentysixth International Conference on the History of Cartography, Antwerp, 12–17 July. Hill, Gillian. 1978. Cartographical Curiosities. London: For the British Library by British Museum Publications. Peacham, Henry. 1622. The Compleat Gentleman: Fashioning Him Absolute in the Most Necessary & Commendable Qualities concerning Minde or Bodie That May Be Required in a Noble Gentleman. London: Francis Constable. Sekolec, Jernej. 2009. “Orbis lusus, a Forgotten 17th Century Geographical Game.” Paper presented at the Twenty-third International Conference on the History of Cartography, Copenhagen, Denmark. Seville, Adrian. 2008a. “The Game of Goose and Its Influence on Cartographical Race Games.” IMCoS Journal, no. 115:51–57. ———. 2008b. “The Geographical Jeux de l’Oie of Europe.” BELGEO, nos. 3–4:427–42. ———. 2011. “Geographical Pastimes: Two Early English Map Games.” IMCoS Journal, no. 124:43–46. Shefrin, Jill. 1999a. “‘Make it a Pleasure and Not a Task’: Educational Games for Children in Georgian England.” Princeton University Library Chronicle 60:251–75. ———. 1999b. Neatly Dissected for the Instruction of Young Ladies and Gentlemen in the Knowledge of Geography: John Spilsbury and Early Dissected Puzzles. Los Angeles: Cotsen Occasional Press. ———. 2003. Such Constant Affectionate Care: Lady Charlotte Finch, Royal Governess & the Children of George III. Los Angeles: Cotsen Occasional Press. ———. 2009. The Dartons, Publishers of Educational Aids, Pastimes & Juvenile Ephemera, 1787–1876: A Bibliographic Checklist. Los Angeles: Cotsen Occasional Press. Wayland, Virginia. 1967. The Winstanley Geographical Cards. Pasadena: Virginia & Harold Wayland. Whitehouse, F. R. B. 1951. Table Games of Georgian and Victorian Days. London: Peter Garnett.

Garden Plan. Gardens were richly represented in the artistic culture of medieval Europe, yet garden plans were virtually unknown there until the Renaissance, when spatial integration with architecture became a priority in garden design. The new mode privileged measurement, mathematical proportions, and symmetrical relationships, in keeping with principles of architecture,

Garden Plan

and it engaged the forms of orthographic projection then being standardized in the visual representation of buildings, namely plan, section, and elevation. Plans had specific strengths and limits in the representation of garden form. Most significantly, they could reveal spatial relationships not readily apprehended in other graphic formats or through real experience. Yet, until the late eighteenth century, garden plans—like maps of the same period—were limited in their ability to represent differences in elevation. Therefore, steeply angled prospects, conflating the discrete advantages of plans and views, were long preferred over true plans for presentation images, and, until the end of the eighteenth century, many plans represented trees in elevation—a practice also common in mapping—to help viewers distinguish them from other forms of land cover. As components of larger landscapes, gardens were frequently represented on early modern maps (Boudon 1991, 125). However, the practical scales for representing gardens were typically much larger than those used for property maps, even in the case of large princely estates. Also, the purposes for which maps were commissioned rarely required that the specific and frequently changing forms of private gardens be depicted accurately. Consequently, whereas many early maps offer valuable information about the general locations of gardens and their positions relative to buildings, natural features, and infrastructure, they usually represent garden plans symbolically (e.g., a quadrant divided by two paths) and therefore cannot be relied upon for more specific design information. Despite the high cultural value placed on gardens in early modern Europe, the practice of garden design was not professionalized there until the nineteenth century. In the absence of an established pedagogy of design, publications offered valuable practical and theoretical models and played a critical role in shaping design developments. Images of gardens circulated widely through descriptive and theoretical works, and graphic literacy developed quickly among cultural elites, for whom garden design became a subject of intellectual inquiry and patronage. In treatises, principles and methods of design were sometimes demonstrated through diagrammatic plans, as in André Mollet’s Le jardin de plaisir (1651). In descriptive works, such as monographic folios and guidebooks, plans were usually presented first and keyed so as to situate subsequent individual views and corresponding texts. When the ground surface of a garden was understood to be planar, and therefore like a sheet of paper, its design could be represented sufficiently in plan alone. Such images proliferated in treatises and manuals during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The conventions of symmetry meant that a design could be represented

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economically by showing only one half or one quarter of its plan, with the understanding that the unseen portions could be filled in through mirroring. Following that logic, two or four alternate schemes were sometimes presented on a single sheet, as if a disjointed plan. From the Renaissance to the early eighteenth century, garden design throughout Europe was dominated by regular (i.e., rule-based) approaches. That manner reached its zenith in the royal gardens at Versailles and their many imitators (e.g., Drottningholm Palace, near Stockholm, Sweden; the Belvedere, Vienna, Austria; Peterhof Palace, Saint Petersburg, Russia). The principles of regular design were codified in Antoine-Joseph Dezallier d’Argenville’s widely disseminated treatise, La théorie et la pratique du jardinage (1709), a section of which explained how to translate designs in plan on paper to much larger forms on the ground (Dezallier d’Argenville 1747, 103–25). During the eighteenth century, a reaction against regular design took shape, first in Great Britain and then on the European continent. Many designers abandoned the conventions of regular design in favor of asymmetrical forms and arrangements. Histories of garden design typically frame that turn as a triumph of picture over plan, as if the new mode were synonymous with picturesque composition, inspired by landscape views. However, approaches to irregular design were highly varied and drew upon a wide range of influences, including some that were exclusively plan-based. For example, the Baron de Bouis, a map enthusiast and entrepreneur with interests in the pedagogy of geography, proposed that the Tuileries gardens in Paris be transformed into a map of Europe (fig. 253), and he later relabeled an existing map of Paris and environs to construe it as a garden plan (Besse 1995, 268–90). Contemporary developments in topographical surveying and mapping had direct and indirect influences on irregular garden design. During the seventeenth century, regular design drew on civil and military engineering for forms (e.g., bastions, canals) and technical methods of construction. During the eighteenth century, garden designers continued to look to engineering, but the basis for that interest shifted from elements of infrastructure to topographical surveying and mapping. Surveying had long been recognized as an essential skill for civil and military engineers, and it had strong practical value for garden designers in site analysis and construction. But maps also facilitated imaginative thinking about the elements of landscape, their formal properties, and their relationships to each other. Recognizing that potential, the French ingénieur géographe Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson declared that engineering, architecture, and garden design were linked through the utility of maps and plans (Dupain de Montesson 1763, v).

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Many individuals involved with the design, representation, and patronage of irregular gardens had exposure to surveying and mapping through contexts of civil and military engineering. For example, during the 1730s and 1740s, the London-based surveyor and mapmaker John Rocque drew and published plans of important new gardens in England. During the 1770s and 1780s, the Paris-based mapmaker and mapseller Georges-Louis Le Rouge published a monumental series of garden design prints, with hundreds of plates representing irregular schemes. Le Rouge was not a theorist of garden design, nor is he known to have had any practical experience as a gardener. Instead, his credibility and involvement were based on his expertise as a surveyor, developed through work as an ingénieur géographe, and his success in the map trade. In the late 1770s, when the head gardener at the Petit Trianon at Versailles, Antoine Richard, was asked to structure a method for learning how to design

irregular gardens, he included study of land surveying with Le Rouge (Hays 2002, 102–3). Over the course of the Enlightenment, technical developments in surveying and mapping transformed the picture of land broadly speaking. By the second half of the eighteenth century, the quality of work had advanced to such an extent that theorists began to idealize maps as copies of nature. Surveyors were trained to think of mapping as a mimetic art, in which the formal qualities of the representation corresponded strictly to those of the place depicted. According to contemporary ideology, the naturalness of a map was directly proportional to the specificity and rigor of its scientific production. Following that idea, garden designers interested in emulating landscape forms could look to maps for inspiration (fig. 254). During the Enlightenment, growing map literacy facilitated the naturalization of irregular design in gardens

Fig. 253. BARON DE BOUIS, CARTE D’EUROPE ET PARTIES D’ASIE ET D’AFRIQUE TRACÉE SUR LE PLAN DU JARDIN DES THUILLERIES, 1736. From Bouis’s Le parterre géographique et historique, ou Nouvelle méthode

d’enseigner la géographie et l’histoire (Paris: Nyon Fils, 1737), pl. 3, p. 21. Copper engraving in two colors. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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Fig. 254. PROJET D’UN JARDIN À L’ANGLOISE DESSINÉ PAR M. LE PRINCE DE CROY À SON RETOUR DE LONDRES. From Georges-Louis Le Rouge, Détail des nouveaux jardins à la mode (also known as Jardins anglo-chinois), 21 cahiers (Paris: [ca. 1773/75]–1788), cahier 1, p. 23. Copper engraving.

Size of the original: ca. 18.5 × 33.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque de l’Institut national d’histoire de l’art, Paris (Collections Jacques Doucet, NUM 4 RES 216 [1]).

on the European continent and beyond. In that regard, surveying and mapping played a role equivalent to that which the ha-ha (i.e., the sunken fence) had assumed earlier in Britain (Hunt 2012, 172–85). Both were technical innovations that made it possible to “leap the fence” and mediate new relationships between concepts of the garden and the larger landscape.

Hays, David L. 2002. “Francesco Bettini and the Pedagogy of Garden Design in Late Eighteenth-Century France.” In Tradition and Innovation in French Garden Art: Chapters of a New History, ed. John Dixon Hunt and Michel Conan, 93–120. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. ———. 2006. “Lesson Plans: Pierre Panseron and the Pedagogy of Garden Design in Late Eighteenth-Century France.” Studies in the History of Gardens & Designed Landscapes 26:275–94. Hunt, John Dixon. 2012. A World of Gardens. London: Reaktion Books.

D av id L. H ays See also: Landscape, Maps, and Aesthetics; Map Trade; Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying B i bliogra p hy Besse, Jean-Marc. 1995. “Les jardins géographiques, lieux et espaces de la mémoire: Réflexions à partir de quelques exemples de l’âge classique.” In Le jardin, art et lieu de mémoire, ed. Monique Mosser and Philippe Nys, 243–98. Besançon: Éditions de l’Imprimeur. Boudon, Françoise. 1991. “Garden History and Cartography.” In The Architecture of Western Gardens: A Design History from the Renaissance to the Present Day, ed. Monique Mosser and Georges Teyssot, 125–34. Cambridge: MIT Press. Dezallier d’Argenville, Antoine-Joseph. 1747. La théorie et la pratique du jardinage. 4th ed. Paris: Pierre-Jean Mariette. Dupain de Montesson, Louis Charles. 1763. L’art de lever les plans de tout ce qui a rapport à la guerre, & à l’architecture civile et champêtre. Paris: Ch. Ant. Jombert.

Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth. Geodesy—the measurement of the size and shape of the earth—was of persistent interest to natural philosophers, astronomers, geographers, and some mapmakers throughout the long Enlightenment. The geodetic surveys undertaken to solve the question of the figure of the earth are discussed in the following entries; this essay addresses the scientific and cartographic issues at stake. There are effectively two stories here: one of the surveying and measurement of artificial lines across the surface of the earth in order to calculate its size and shape, the other of the mathematical analysis of the precise

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curvature of the earth. The two stories coincided in the 1720s and 1730s with the debate in Paris over whether the earth is flattened at the poles (fig. 255, middle) or elongated (squeezed) at the equator (fig. 255, bottom) and with the two great expeditions to Peru and Lapland in 1735–45 that were intended to resolve the issue. Historians have naturally emphasized this period. Misled by contemporary rhetoric, many have maintained that the expeditions were intended as grand experiments to prove either the Cartesian or Newtonian systems of celestial mechanics; however, they did not and indeed could not serve that function (Greenberg 1995, 83–84; Passeron 1998). And, while the expeditions might have settled the general matter of the earth’s figure, they did not provide a precise solution. The expeditions therefore represent a highpoint in the history of Enlightenment geodesy, but not its culmination. The ancient Greek doctrine that the earth is spherical was enshrined in Aristotle’s natural philosophy (Grant 1994, 626–30). This idealized sphericity—idealized in that philosophers were willing to neglect variations in the earth’s surface, notably mountains and seas—became a fundamental component of early modern cosmography. It was manifested both in the conventional pairing of celestial with terrestrial globes and in instructional texts that focused only on the issue that the earth is spherical, not flat (e.g., Ozanam 1711, 141–43; see Dekker 2002). This traditional corpus of knowledge was affected neither by the growing speculation after 1660 that the earth was not in fact spherical nor by the debates and new surveys that that realization engendered. Indeed, the question of the earth’s shape was largely irrelevant to Enlightenment geographers and navigators (d’Alembert 1756, 761). While some geographers, notably Rigobert Bonne, did think it necessary to adjust regional maps for the earth’s shape, Didier Robert de Vaugondy argued to the Académie des sciences in 1775 that the necessary corrections would enlarge the

Fig. 255. CONCEPTIONS OF THE FIGURE OF THE EARTH, 1650–1800, VISUALLY EXAGGERATED FOR EFFECT. Top: cross-section of a sphere, the traditional form. The size of the sphere was calculated from the measured or calculated length s of an arc of a meridian (through α degrees of latitude), or perhaps of another great circle such as the equator. The earth’s size was commonly expressed in terms of the length of one degree of latitude (s⁄α), its circumference (360s ⁄α), or its radius r (derived from circumference, 2πr = 360s ⁄α). Middle: cross-section of an oblate spheroid, flattened at the poles, formed by rotating an ellipse about its polar axis when the polar radius a is less than the equatorial radius b (i.e., a is the semiminor axis of the ellipse, b the semimajor axis); the length of an arc of a meridian increases toward the poles (s1 < s2). Bottom: cross-section of a prolate spheroid, elon-

gated (or squeezed) at the equator, formed by rotating an ellipse about its polar axis when the polar radius is greater than the equatorial radius; the length of a degree of a meridian decreases toward the poles (s1 > s2). As a spheroid, the lengths of the earth’s radii (a, b) were calculated from measurements of s1 and s2. Its shape was variously expressed by the fraction (1⁄n) of the semiminor axis by which the semimajor axis was longer (a = b(1+1⁄n) if the spheroid is oblate); by the ratio of its polar and equatorial radii (a⁄ b); or by its ellipticity (or degree of flattening: f = (b−a)⁄ b). Latitude is determined with respect to local verticals. Note that “oblate” and “prolate” are used more by modern historians than eighteenth-century mathematicians and natural philosophers, who at times confused the terms, so they are otherwise avoided.

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height of a normal-size map of Europe by only 1⁄12 ligne (0.188 mm), which would be imperceptible to the average reader; besides, paper shrank after printing by much greater amounts (Pedley 1992, 109–12; Godlewska 1999, 52–54). What mattered to geographers was the earth’s size, not its shape, and once the issue of its size was settled by Jean Picard’s work in France, completed in 1671, they continued to treat it as a sphere and used simple measures of the length of a degree to compare linear measures. The Enlightenment investigation of the earth’s precise figure was nonetheless important to contemporary developments in other arenas within the mapping sciences. The effects of the spheroidal earth, notably in the varying length of the degrees of a meridian, became apparent after 1700 when large-scale triangulation-based surveys, notably that for the great Carte de France, began to be undertaken across extensive territories. The need for precisely measured angles and distances stimulated significant developments in survey instrumentation and the practices of measurement. And the question of the figure of the earth was of major importance to the earth sciences generally. It was bound up intimately with Isaac Newton’s theory of gravity and with associated speculations on what would later be called geology and geophysics. The attempt by mathematicians to formulate a precise description of how the laws of attraction acting on a revolving ellipsoid of fluid matter would result in a certain shape was an important mathematical topic through most of the century. Geodesy was also important for astronomers. A precise measurement of the earth’s diameter was needed to calculate the distance from the earth to the sun, the basic yardstick for distances within the solar system, and arguments over the shape of the earth developed with the observation of other planets (d’Alembert 1756, 761). Above all, the determination and refinement of the earth’s figure could be held up as a demonstration of the calculating power of science. The Jesuit astronomer Giovanni Battista Riccioli (1661, 136–82) usefully summarized the state of geodesy in the middle of the seventeenth century. He outlined the different determinations of the size of the spherical earth that had been made, along with a table of linear measures in order to permit comparisons between the different values. The determinations fell into three groups: first, determinations of the length of an arc of a meridian, whether by calculation (Eratosthenes, second century b.c.), direct measurement by laying rods on the ground (Caliph al-Maʾmūn’s astronomers in the ninth century), or indirect measurement by triangulation (Willebrord Snellius, early seventeenth century); second, calculations that combined itineraries and marine voyages with astronomical determinations of longitude; and third, measurements of the geometry formed by widely

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Fig. 256. GEOMETRICAL DETERMINATION OF THE SIZE OF THE SPHERICAL EARTH. In September 1654, Francesco Maria Grimaldi, SJ, observed several elements in this diagram: the angle of depression (∠KIF) from the top (I) of Mount Serra near Bologna to the top (F) of the tower (FG) of the palace of justice in Ferrara, and the heights above sea level (BC) of both the mountain (BI) and the tower (CF). From these he calculated that the length of one degree of a great circle is 64,04216/152 passus bononienses or passi di Bologna (121.487 km), equivalent to a terrestrial radius of 3,671,203 passi (6,964.272 km). This calculation contributed substantially to Riccioli’s work in 1644–56 to determine the size of the earth. Detail from Riccioli 1661, 173. © The British Library Board, London.

spaced objects on the earth’s surface (fig. 256). From the last, Riccioli concluded that the length of a degree of a great circle is 64,363 passus bononienses or passi di Bologna (122.096 km) and that the radius of the earth is therefore 3,689,598.5 passi (6,999.17 km) (1661, 176). These figures compare rather poorly to the modern values of 110.946 kilometers for a mean degree and 6,371 kilometers for the earth’s mean radius, were it a sphere (Heilbron 1999, 140–42; Gapaillard 2002, who also precisely defined Riccioli’s passo as 1.897 m). Riccioli’s work exemplifies the quintessentially geometrical nature of the determination of the size of the spherical earth. The geometry was easy to grasp, but actual measure-

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ment was difficult. Melchisédech Thévenot (1681, 19– 20) noted that the direct measurement of a portion of a meridian was made difficult by hills, valleys, and forests getting in the way, and he had proposed, apparently in the mid-1660s, that a very long arc of a meridian comprising “fourteen or fifteen degrees” be measured on the frozen Gulf of Bothnia. He recognized that such work was too difficult to be implemented by individuals and required the support and interest of the state. The eventual solution was developed by the Académie des sciences. To provide a foundation for Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s detailed survey of all of France, the Académie undertook to triangulate the meridian of Paris, to be executed with such care and rigor that it could also be used to determine the earth’s size (see fig. 266). In the first phase of the survey, between 1669 and 1671, Picard triangulated from a baseline just south of Paris, north to Amiens, an arc of 1°22′55″ amplitude; in his Mésure de la Terre (1671), Picard reduced his observations to a figure of 57,060 toises (111.208 km) for one degree of the meridian (Taton 1987, 212, 214), or a circumference of 20,541,600 toises (40,035.5784 km). Yet, at about the same time that Picard was measuring the earth, natural philosophers were beginning to speculate that the earth was not perfectly spherical. Christiaan Huygens had developed his pendulum clock on the principle that the period of a pendulum was defined solely by its length, so that he could propose in the 1660s that the length of a seconds pendulum (i.e., a pendulum with a period of one second, of 36 Parisian pouces 8½ lignes [0.9789 m]) be adopted as a universal standard of length (Huygens 1986, 167–70). But reports soon came in that the length of a seconds pendulum was slightly shorter near the equator (Chapin 1995, 24–25). If these variations were not the result of observational error, then the force of gravity must vary at different points on the earth. As early as the 1670s, Robert Hooke suggested in public lectures that gravity varied because it was offset by the centrifugal force caused by the earth’s rotation, so that the variability of seconds pendulums constituted further proof of the Copernican model of the cosmos; Hooke further suggested that the earth was accordingly shaped more like a turnip than a ball—that is, bulging at the equator where centrifugal forces were greatest (Hooke 1705, 355–57; Hall 1951, 227). In 1671–73, Jean Richer carefully measured the length of a seconds pendulum at Cayenne (4°56′N), where he was undertaking several important sets of astronomical observations for Jean-Dominique Cassini (I). Among other things, this work would allow for a calculation of the distances from the earth to Mars and to the sun, using Picard’s figure for the earth’s diameter. Richer found that a seconds pendulum in Cayenne was shortened by 1¼ Parisian lignes (2.8 mm). Richer’s observation was

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subsequently confirmed by Jean Deshayes and one Varin, working in West Africa and the Antilles in 1681–83. Cassini I regarded the variations as probably due to experimental error (Dew 2008). Together, Picard’s and Richer’s measurements permitted initial mathematical analyses of the earth’s shape, although the necessary mathematical techniques were themselves still in their first stages of development. Isaac Newton, in proposition 18 of book 3 of his Philosophiæ naturalis principia mathematica (1687), drew on the observed flattening of Jupiter’s poles to argue that any sphere of homogeneous fluid, under rotation and subject to universal gravitation (all particles attracting all others), would inevitably bulge at the equator and that the earth had to be similarly shaped. Having postulated, but not demonstrated, that the earth is shaped like an ellipsoid of rotation, Newton then determined its shape in proposition 19, by considering the net effect of all the gravitational and centrifugal forces at play. In proposition 20, he used Richer’s observations to corroborate his calculation. He concluded that the earth’s equatorial radius was longer than the polar radius by 1⁄229 part of the polar radius (i.e., a⁄b = 229⁄230 in fig. 255, middle) (Newton 1999, 821–32; Greenberg 1995, 1–14). Newton’s mathematical treatment of gravity—in which he modeled the effects of attraction between distant objects with no explanation of how that attraction worked—ran counter to René Descartes’s celestial mechanics, which held that vortices in the ether provided a mechanical cause for planetary movement. Huygens, in his Traité de la lvmière (1690), used a modification of Cartesian mechanics to postulate that gravity was the effect of pressure exerted on all particles by the ether toward the earth’s center of mass. This model made the mathematics of a rotating homogeneous fluid much simpler, and Huygens was able to calculate that for the rotating earth to be in equilibrium it had to be flattened, although it was not an ellipsoid of rotation, and that its equatorial radius was just 1⁄578 longer than the polar radius (i.e., a⁄b = 578⁄579) (Huygens 1690, 145–59; Mignard 1987). These theories were eventually challenged and refined in Paris (a full account of the course of the debate can be found in Iliffe 1993, Greenberg 1995, and Terrall 2002). The challenge came from Jacques Cassini (II), who in 1718 finally completed the triangulation of eight degrees of latitude through France along the Paris meridian. In his De la grandeur et de la figure de la Terre (1720), he presented the lengths of degrees at either end of the meridian: 57,097 toises in the south and 56,960 toises in the north. These figures confirmed Cassini II’s preliminary conclusion, made in 1701, that the earth is not flattened but actually elongated at the equator such that degrees of latitude shorten toward the pole (a form

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that had already been suggested by Thomas Burnet and Johann Caspar Eisenschmidt: Greenberg 1995, 86–87). Bernard Le Bouyer de Fontenelle, permanent secretary of the Académie des sciences, asserted that Cassini II’s results coincided with Cartesian mechanics, but this was only one more rhetorical move in his campaign to dissuade younger Parisian scholars from their increasing interest in Newton’s questionable metaphysics; there was in fact nothing about an elongated earth that either supported or was predicted by the existence of vortices (Iliffe 1993, 337–38, 342). Criticism of Cassini II’s results went unheeded. Both Joseph-Nicolas Delisle, in a manuscript memoir from 1716, and his correspondent Giovanni Poleni in Padua, in a letter published in 1724, argued that the smallness of the difference in degree lengths calculated by Cassini II was most likely the result of observational error; they also both suggested that better results would stem from the measurement of degrees of longitude along arcs of parallels (Greenberg 1995, 118–19). Attempts by Jean-Jacques Dortous de Mairan in Paris in 1720 to harmonize Cartesian mechanics with Cassini II’s empirical results and by J. T. Desaguliers in London in 1725 to counter Mairan and prove Newton’s mechanics were both very confused (Greenberg 1995, 15–78). But Mairan’s work prompted Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis to take up the mathematical analysis of the shape of homogeneous rotating bodies in order to refine and advance Newton’s analytical tools and to resolve some of the flaws and obscurantism that made the Principia so difficult to understand. Maupertuis finally went public with his pro-Newtonian sentiments in his Discours sur les différentes figures des astres (1732), in which he explained and contrasted Cartesian and Newtonian mechanics, argued that the Cartesian force of impulse was actually as metaphysically indeterminate as the Newtonian force of attraction, and demonstrated that Newton’s system of gravity perfectly described not only the orbits of the planets but also the observed shapes of the planets. By 1733, Maupertuis had concluded that the earth was flattened, but he could not determine its shape from strictly mathematical principles (Greenberg 1995, 80, 119–31; Terrall 2002, 53–78). Coincidental developments redirected Maupertuis’s geodetic investigations. A review of the second edition of Poleni’s letter (1729) appeared in January 1733 in the Dutch Journal Historique de la République des Lettres; probably written by the journal’s editor, Elie de Joncourt, the review significantly expanded Poleni’s argument for new surveys along arcs of parallels, just as Cassini II and César-François Cassini (III) de Thury were preparing to continue the triangulation for the Carte de France with a survey of the arc of the parallel through Paris. Faced with the inability to achieve certainty about

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the earth’s shape from mathematics alone and with the imminent prosecution of new arc measurements, Maupertuis argued in June 1733 that only precise measurements undertaken without reference to any preconceived notion of the nature of gravity would resolve the issue. His paper sparked a rash of similar papers by other mathematicians and astronomers. In November, Cassini  II announced the preliminary result that the measured arc of the parallel of Paris was shorter than if the earth were spherical, thereby reinforcing the hypothesis of an elongated figure for the earth. But the difference was small and seemed to be less than the probable instrumental and observational errors in the triangulation. Several academicians argued that the matter could be settled only by the measurement of widely separated arcs; furthermore, Pierre Bouguer demonstrated that the determination of longitude by Jupiter’s satellites was too imprecise to permit its use in geodetic surveys of arcs of parallels (Greenberg 1995, 89–106; Terrall 2002, 90–94). The result was the decision to send an expedition to the Viceroyalty of Peru to measure an arc of the meridian at the equator. The expedition, led by CharlesMarie de La Condamine, Louis Godin, and Bouguer, left Paris in May 1735. Shortly thereafter, having worked out the formulas for determining the shape of the earth from distant arc measures, Maupertuis suggested that a second expedition be sent to the northern end of the Gulf of Bothnia to measure an arc of the meridian close to the Arctic Circle. Maupertuis, Alexis-Claude Clairaut, and Anders Celsius accordingly left Dunkirk in May 1736 and returned to Paris in August 1737, well before Bouguer and La Condamine could return to Paris from South America in 1744 and 1745 respectively. The results of the Lapland expedition, explained in detail by Maupertuis in his La figure de la Terre (1738, English translation 1738, German translation 1741), was that a degree near the Arctic Circle was much longer, at 57,437.9 toises, than that at Paris, at 56,925 toises, now corrected for refraction, aberration, and precession in the astronomical observations for latitude (Maupertuis 1738, 125; Iliffe 1993, 356–57). Cassini II and the older generation criticized the quality of Maupertuis’s instruments and observational practices. In response, Maupertuis questioned the quality of the survey of the Paris meridian; in 1739 he and his colleagues repeated Picard’s astronomical observations with modern equipment, and in 1739–40 Cassini III and Nicolas-Louis de La Caille resurveyed the southern portion of the meridian of Paris with new instruments and reduced the results according to Maupertuis’s own formulas. In April 1740 Cassini III announced to the Académie that his observations confirmed the results of the Lapland expedition; his report on the further resurvey of the arc appeared as La meridienne de l’Observatoire royal de Paris, vérifée dans

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toute l’étendue du royaume par de nouvelles observations (1744) (Iliffe 1993, 357–64; Terrall 2002, 94–172). The earth was clearly flattened. While the debate over the earth’s form, whether flattened or elongated, was effectively over, there remained much room for further investigation of the earth’s precise curvature. New theoretical analyses sought to relate the empirical results of the surveys with variations in gravity and the earth’s constitution. Colin Maclaurin in his A Treatise of Fluxions (1742) proved that a flattened spheroid was one form of equilibrium, for which he calculated a ratio of axes of 229⁄230, duplicating Newton’s value. Clairaut, in his Théorie de la figure de la Terre (1743), established that the earth’s shape is properly defined by an equipotential surface, a surface of equal gravitational attraction or what is today called the geoid (Greenberg 1995, 426–619). He also demonstrated that a stratified earth, denser at the center, would have a shape somewhere between the extremes represented by Newton’s and Huygen’s calculations (i.e., with an ellipticity between 1⁄230 and 1⁄578). The problem was that the Lapland and French arcs together gave an ellipticity of 1 ⁄177, a value that fell outside Clairaut’s range. The conflict was not resolved by the arc measurement in Peru, which determined that, corrected to sea level, one degree at the equator measured 56,753 toises (Bouguer 1749, 272, 274) or 56,749 toises (La Condamine 1751, 229). While the Peru arc confirmed the earth’s flattening, Jean Le Rond d’Alembert found in 1749 that its inclusion in calculations for the earth’s ellipticity gave a value of 1⁄174, which was still too large (Chapin 1995, 30–31). But with so much energy and money having been expended on the expeditions, there was little institutional will in France to refine geodetic measures still further. Cassini III had completed the triangulation of France, had pushed it into the Southern Netherlands and across the German states to Vienna in 1745–48, and was now focused on the detailed topographical survey for the Carte de France. Further geodetic work was therefore sporadic and accomplished by astronomers seeking to emulate the grand science of the French surveys. A circle of scholars who had gathered around Pope Benedict XIV sought to contribute to the debates in Paris, leading to Christopher Maire and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich’s 1750–51 triangulation of an arc across mountainous territory from Rome to Rimini, giving a degree of 56,979 toises at 43°N. Shortly thereafter, La Caille used the opportunity of his astronomical expedition to the Cape of Good Hope in 1751–53 to undertake a small arc measurement, giving a degree of 57,037 toises at 38°S; this remarkable figure was equivalent to a degree at about 45°N, yet it was apparently incontrovertible because of La Caille’s acknowledged skills as an observer (Airy 1845, 170). D’Alembert (1756, 755) included La Caille’s

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result in his comparison of all arc measurements to date, concluding that they could not be reconciled into a single elliptical figure for the earth. Further small arcs were measured by Joseph Liesganig in Austria (1762) (see fig. 263), Giovanni Battista Beccaria in Piedmont (1762–64), and Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon in Maryland (1764). The discrepancies between these and previous arcs led Nevil Maskelyne to consider, following from Bouguer’s work, whether the surveys’ errors stemmed in part from the gravitational effects of mountains: the deflection of the local vertical would misalign surveyors’ instruments and so affect all their observations. In 1774 Maskelyne therefore undertook a detailed survey of an isolated mountain, Schiehallion in Scotland, to measure the lateral deflection of the plumb line with precision for the first time (Reeves 2009), with the results seen in a map published in 1778 (see fig. 267). At the end of the eighteenth century, newly concerted efforts to refine scientific knowledge of the earth’s figure again featured a combination of theoretical and practical work. On the theoretical side, starting in 1783, Adrien-Marie Legendre and Pierre-Simon de Laplace developed Clairaut’s ideas of modeling the equipotential surface of the earth’s gravity. In the second volume of his Traité de mécanique céleste (1799), Laplace sought to reconcile the existing arc measures to the theoretical model, to conclude that the earth’s actual shape must differ substantially from the ellipsoidal (Chapin 1995, 31–34). On the practical side, geodetic surveys were restarted by Cassini III’s 1783 mémoire to the British government, calling for a joint Anglo-French survey (1784– 90) to measure the east-west distance between the royal observatories at Greenwich and Paris in order to better connect the observational programs of those two institutions and so improve the astronomical determination of longitude. Shortly thereafter, the Enlightenment quest for standardized measures led the revolutionary French state to resurvey the Paris meridian (1792–99) as the basis for determining the length of a meter, as one ten-millionth of the length of a meridian from the equator to the pole. The success of these two triangulations was in large part due to the high quality of the instruments that were specially commissioned for them, both for measuring angles and for measuring the baselines (Widmalm 1990). These two surveys set the stage for the great nineteenth-century projects to measure long arcs as part of the larger Humboldtian quest to examine and measure all aspects of the physical world. Only then were new tools of mathematical and statistical analysis developed to manage the observations and to develop best-fit ellipsoids to serve as the foundation of each national mapping project. Matth ew H . Ed ney and Ni ch olas Dew

Geodetic Surveying See also: Academies of Science: Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France); Bouguer, Pierre; Carte de France; Cassini Family; Geodetic Surveying; Greenwich-Paris Triangulation; Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to; Longitude and Latitude; Meter, Survey for the; Science and Cartography B i bliogra p hy Airy, George Biddell. 1845. “Figure of the Earth.” In Encyclopædia Metropolitana; or, Universal Dictionary of Knowledge, 29 vols., ed. Edward Smedley, Hugh James Rose, and Henry John Rose, 5:165– *240. London: B. Fellows at al. Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. 1756. “Figure de la terre.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 6:749–61. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Bouguer, Pierre. 1749. La figure de la Terre, déterminée par les observations de Messieurs Bouguer, & de la Condamine, de l’Académie royale des sçiences, envoyés par ordre du roy au Pérou, pour observer aux environs de l’equateur. Paris: Charles-Antoine Jombert. Chapin, Seymour L. 1995. “The Shape of the Earth.” In The General History of Astronomy, Vol. 2, Planetary Astronomy from the Renaissance to the Rise of Astrophysics, Part B: The Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, ed. René Taton and Curtis Wilson, 22–34. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dekker, Elly. 2002. “The Doctrine of the Sphere: A Forgotten Chapter in the History of Globes.” Globe Studies 49–50:25–44. Dew, Nicholas. 2008. “Vers la ligne: Circulating Measurements around the French Atlantic.” In Science and Empire in the Atlantic World, ed. James Delbourgo and Nicholas Dew, 53–72. New York: Routledge. Gapaillard, Jacques. 2002. “Les travaux géodésiques de Riccioli.” In Giambattista Riccioli e il merito scientifico dei gesuiti nell’età barocca, ed. Maria Teresa Borgato, 159–77. Florence: Leo S. Olschki. Godlewska, Anne. 1999. Geography Unbound: French Geographic Science from Cassini to Humboldt. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Grant, Edward. 1994. Planets, Stars, and Orbs: The Medieval Cosmos, 1200–1687. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Greenberg, John L. 1995. The Problem of the Earth’s Shape from Newton to Clairaut: The Rise of Mathematical Science in Eighteenth-Century Paris and the Fall of “Normal” Science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hall, A. R. 1951. “Two Unpublished Lectures of Robert Hooke.” Isis 42:219–30. Heilbron, J. L. 1999. The Sun in the Church: Cathedrals as Solar Observatories. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Hooke, Robert. 1705. “Lectures and Discourses of Earthquakes, and Subterraneous Eruptions, Explicating the Causes of the Rugged and Uneven Face of the Earth.” In The Posthumous Works of Robert Hooke, ed. Richard Waller, 277–450. London: Sam. Smith and Benj. Walford. Huygens, Christiaan. 1690. Traité de la lvmière . . . avec un Discours de la cause de la pesantevr. Leiden: Pierre vander Aa. ———. 1986. The Pendulum Clock, or Geometrical Demonstrations Concerning the Motion of Pendula as Applied to Clocks. Trans. and notes Richard J. Blackwell. Intro. H. J. M. Bos. Ames: Iowa State University Press. Iliffe, Rob. 1993. “Aplatisseur du monde et de Cassini: Maupertuis, Precision Measurement, and the Shape of the Earth in the 1730s.” History of Science 31:335–75. La Condamine, Charles-Marie de. 1751. Mesure des trois premiers degrés du méridien dans l’hémisphere austral. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Maupertuis, Pierre Louis Moreau de. 1738. La figure de la Terre, déterminée par les observations . . . faites par ordre du roi au cercle polaire. Paris: Imprimerie Royale.

439 Mignard, François. 1987. “The Theory of the Figure of the Earth According to Newton and Huygens.” Vistas in Astronomy 30:291–311. Newton, Isaac. 1999. The Principia: Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy. Trans. I. Bernard Cohen and Anne Whitman. Berkeley: University of California Press. Ozanam, Jacques. 1711. La geographie et cosmographie, qui traite de la sphere, des corps celestes, des differens systêmes du monde, du globe, & de ses usages. Paris: Claude Jombert. Passeron, Irène. 1998. “La forme de la Terre est-elle une preuve de la vérité du système newtonien?” In Terre à découvrir, Terres à parcourir: Exploration et connaissance du monde, XIIe–XIXe siècles, ed. Danielle Lecoq and Antoine Chambard, 128–45. Paris: L’Harmattan. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. Reeves, Nicky. 2009. “‘To Demonstrate the Exactness of the Instrument’: Mountainside Trials of Precision in Scotland, 1774.” Science in Context 22:323–40. Riccioli, Giovanni Battista. 1661. Geographiae et hydrographiæ reformatæ. Bologna: Hæredis Victorij Benatij. Taton, René. 1987. “Picard et la Mesure de la Terre.” In Jean Picard et les débuts de l’astronomie de précision au XVIIe siècle, ed. Guy Picolet, 207–26. Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. Terrall, Mary. 2002. The Man Who Flattened the Earth: Maupertuis and the Sciences in the Enlightenment. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thévenot, Melchisédech. 1681. “Discours sur l’art de la navigation.” In Recueil de voyages de Mr. Thevenot, 1–32 (separately paginated). Paris: Estienne Michallet. Todhunter, Isaac. 1873. A History of the Mathematical Theories of Attraction and the Figure of the Earth, from the Time of Newton to that of Laplace. 2 vols. London: Macmillan. Widmalm, Sven. 1990. “Accuracy, Rhetoric, and Technology: The Paris-Greenwich Triangulation, 1784–88.” In The Quantifying Spirit in the 18th Century, ed. Tore Frängsmyr, J. L. Heilbron, and Robin E. Rider, 179–206. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Geodetic Surveying. Enligh tenment Aus trian Mo narch y D enmark and No rway France german s tates . s ee to po grapical surveying Great Britain Italian S tates Po rtugal S pain S wed en-Finland S witzerland

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veys were the most expensive and complicated form of institutional field science during the Enlightenment. Astronomers and mathematicians took to the field with the latest high-precision instruments and heroically endured great hardships to determine the size and shape of the earth. Historians have generally focused on the

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scientific function, institutional histories, and social contexts of the several geodetic surveys undertaken between 1650 and 1800 (e.g., Bialas 1982, 95–196; Levallois 1988, 13–90). Those subjects are of course discussed elsewhere in this volume: the preceding entry considers why the surveys were undertaken and how their results were used; the following entries discuss particular surveys in their national contexts. Professional historians of geodesy have been especially interested in assessing the accuracy of each survey and in tracing the development of issues of concern to modern geodetic science (Smith 1986, 71–193). Historians of science have recently assessed the rhetorical style—textual, mathematical, and graphic—of geodesists’ published accounts of their labors (Widmalm 1990; Bennett 2006; Terrall 2006; Safier 2008). In contrast, this entry draws on the published accounts of the major geodetic surveys undertaken after 1650 and before 1800 to understand the process of geodetic surveying in the Enlightenment by considering how geodesists combined observational and computational techniques. Even though Enlightenment geodesists continually augmented and refined their techniques, their work nonetheless possessed a historically distinctive character. The principle for determining the size of a spherical earth is simple. The length of a portion, or arc, of the earth’s circumference is measured along a meridian; the angle subtended by the arc at the center of the earth is simply the arc’s latitudinal extent, which is readily determined. Comparison of the two gives the earth’s circumference—generally expressed as the length of one degree of latitude—from which may be derived its radius (see fig. 255). This calculation assumes that the length of the meridional arc is determined along the surface of the idealized figure of the earth, as defined by sea level. The late seventeenth-century realization that the idealized figure of the earth is not a sphere, but a spheroid, changed only the need for geodetic surveys but not their design nor the fundamental techniques employed. Early geodesists measured meridional arcs by estimation, pacing, or laying down measuring rods. Such direct measurement was open to substantial error, not least because it determined the length of the arc across the earth’s actual and uneven surface. But direct measurement was conceptually simple to undertake and was still used even in the eighteenth century. In 1702, the Kangxi emperor decreed that the li should be 1/200 of a degree; Chinese and Jesuit surveyors accordingly measured a meridional arc of 200 li with an iron wire one li (558 m) in length, as defined by the imperial standard chi (0.31 m; 1 li = 1,800 chi); the arc encompassed 1°1′32″ of latitude, so the emperor had the standard chi shortened accordingly (Cams 2017, 76–82). In 1767, Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon directly measured a short meridional arc,

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as part of the border between Maryland and Delaware, with large and robust wooden frames (see fig. 531). Otherwise, Enlightenment geodesists used chains of triangulation to measure the lengths of meridional arcs indirectly. The technique had been pioneered for geodesy by Willebrord Snellius. His survey design and instruments were both relatively simple, and, working before the development of logarithms, his calculations were inexact (Haasbroek 1968, 59–119; Smith 1986, 57–66). Even so, Snellius demonstrated that triangulation possessed the flexibility and rigor necessary for generating the high-quality results desired by natural philosophers. Because they comprised triangulations, pre-1800 geodetic surveys appear modern in form. Historians of geodesy, for example, have treated Jean Picard’s pioneering survey of the Paris meridian as a single, coherent chain of triangles (Levallois 1983; Smith 1986, 71–77), but Picard actually undertook that survey as separate sets of triangles that were computed and checked in an idiosyncratic manner (fig. 257). Picard’s work exemplifies how Enlightenment geodesists lacked the tools to correct observational errors across an entire triangulation and instead used a mix of mathematics and logic to massage approximate observations into a semblance of coherence (Delambre 1798, vi). In this respect, the technical history of Enlightenment geodetic surveying comprises a long and complex narrative of one new observational or computational refinement after another. (Lafuente and Delgado 1984 detailed the state of corrections at midcentury; Delambre 1798, 17–176, summarized a century’s worth of mathematical tinkering). This narrative is further complicated by a four-decade hiatus between the early degree measures—in France (Picard 1671; Cassini II 1720; Cassini III 1744), Peru (Bouguer 1749; La Condamine 1751a, 1751b), and Lapland (Maupertuis 1738)—and the post-1784 surveys to connect the observatories at Greenwich and Paris (Legendre 1787; Cassini IV, Méchain, and Legendre [1791]; Roy 1785, 1790) and to define the meter (Delambre 1798; Méchain and Delambre 1806–10). The later surveys introduced markedly new instruments and a new obsession with precision measurement. Although still approximate, they laid the foundations for recognizably modern geodetic practices. Picard established the basic processes and inherently approximate nature of Enlightenment geodetic surveying with his triangulation of 154 kilometers, or 1°22′55″, along the meridian between Paris and Amiens. His plan was to determine the length of three long triangle sides (EG, GI, and IN in fig. 257a) that together approximated a north-south line from which he could compute the desired length of the arc of meridian (Nα). He calculated each of the three desired triangle sides from one section of the triangulation (fig. 257b–d) whose observational

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Fig. 257. CLARIFICATION OF PICARD’S DEGREE MEASURE, 1668–70. (a) In blue, the final reduction of the survey’s three desiderata—the triangle sides EG, GI, and IN—to their meridional components; EG was not observed but only calculated. (b–d) In black, the three stages of the main triangulation, graphically separated here but forming a single chain of triangles; together these comprised thirteen triangles and the primary baseline, AB. (e) The extension within the first stage— b—to locate the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, S, and the Paris Observatory, Z. (f–h) In red, the three sets of verification triangles and the second baseline, XY, matching the main triangulation. (j) The verification extension to Amiens, V. All labels are Picard’s. Based on Picard 1671, pl. 2.

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errors were corrected by a separate set of verification triangles (fig. 257f–h); he extended the triangulation to Amiens in order to verify his final result (fig. 257j). Picard also observed some lesser triangles to connect his survey to key sites in Paris (fig. 257e). Picard began the survey with the direct measurement of a baseline (AB in fig. 257b) whose length would be carried through the triangulation by calculation. He measured the baseline by laying wooden rods along a straight level road south of Paris once in each direction; the two measurements differed by just 1 pied, and he adopted the second measurement of 5,663 toises (11.04 km) as the length of the base (Picard 1671, 3–4). He then measured the angles within each triangle with a large quadrant that read to 1′ of arc (see fig. 265), which he tried to read to just 5″ (Picard 1671, 5–7). In calculating the lengths of the sides of each triangle, Picard haphazardly blended the two sets of triangles. In the first section (fig. 257b, f), Picard averaged the two values he had calculated for the desired length EG from the principal and verification triangles, and rounded the result to the nearest toise. In the second (fig. 257c, g), he rejected the length of GI calculated from the primary triangles and adopted the length from the verification observations. In the third, he decided to measure a second baseline of 3,902 toises (ca. 7.6 km; XY in fig. 257h), which gave a length for LM 0.01 percent longer than that calculated via the first and second sets of triangles; Picard applied this factor as a correction to the calculated length of IN and, because he was still uncertain about the quality of the second section, to GI as well (Picard 1671, 7–14). In working through this convoluted multistage process, Picard followed intuition rather than logic. He was not explicit about some of his reasoning, particularly why he averaged some values and prorated others. And he was content to work at a relatively low level of precision. Having measured his triangles, Picard defined the direction of the local meridian through each of G, I, and N and measured the angles (azimuths) between these local meridians and each of the three desired triangle sides, which permitted the reduction of the three lengths to their meridional components (εG, θI, and νN in fig. 257a). Picard admitted that the sum of these components did not precisely match the desired length of the arc of the meridian, but the difference was minimal, at least at the low level of precision at which he worked, so he added them to give 68,347 toises 3 pieds for Nα (Picard 1671, 15–16). The astronomical determination of latitude had too many uncertainties to be used, so at the end stations N and E, Picard used his new zenith sector to measure the angular distance from the zenith (“zenith distance”) to a particular star (δ Cassiopeia) as it crossed the local meridian; the difference between the two zenith distances gave the difference of latitude.

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Picard also observed δ Cassiopeia from Amiens (V) for use in verifying the whole work. From Nα, 1° of latitude contained 57,064 toises 3 pieds; the extension to Amiens permitted the calculation of a longer arc (βα), from which he calculated that 1° contained 57,057 toises. Picard split the difference to yield a final value of 57,060 toises (111.208 km) for the length of 1° of latitude along the (spherical) meridian (Picard 1671, 18–23). Subsequent geodesists followed very similar processes, all the time refining them in response to increasingly precise instrumentation. Some refinements were pragmatic. Simultaneous observations of stars from either end of the main segments of a triangulation chain eliminated many of the observational errors endemic to individual astronomical observations, and all geodesists were concerned with modeling the effects of refraction (the bending of light rays as they pass through the atmosphere) when measuring vertical angles. The rigorous conditions of the Peruvian expedition made apparent the potential for delicate instruments to be damaged in travel; the geodesists spent a month testing and calibrating their quadrants (Bouguer 1749, 61–68), and thereafter it became standard to check instruments before and after use. One refinement proved to be of fundamental importance to all geodetic operations: Pierre Bouguer (1749, 327–94) first noted the deflection of the plumb bob caused by the gravitational attraction of the Andes, and all subsequent work sought to control for such variation. Geodesists continually sought to refine the corrections that had to be applied to the angle measurements made by their quadrants. It was never possible for a quadrant to be placed in the exact same location as the survey station’s signal—whether prominent pieces of architecture, such as church spires, or artificial targets erected on hilltops, generally in the form of tripods or squat pyramids made from local materials (Bouguer 1749, 72, 101; Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, 1a:46, 103–12)—and the signal was not necessarily taken as the station’s central point (Bouguer 1749, 73). One example from the 1790s illustrates just how complex circumstances could be (fig.  258). On the tower of Dunkirk, the center of the station (P) was atop a hut, the quadrant was set up some two toises away, and distant observers sometimes used the tips of the corner turrets at S and V instead of the proper signal at P (Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, 1b:1–15). This problem reoccurred with the siting of a zenith sector when conducting the necessary astronomical observations at stations at either end of the chain of triangles. Picard had not anticipated that his instruments would be so precise that the errors caused by the separation of the instrument from the station’s center would actually be appreciable, and he had a difficult time accounting for them. But his successors ensured that they

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Fig. 258. STATION I IN THE SURVEY FOR THE METER. The tower of Dunkirk featured a hut and octagonal turrets at each corner (two are labeled S and V). The stem of a rooster atop one of the hut’s doorjambs, like a weathervane, defined the center of the station (P), as it had also in 1787 for the Greenwich-Paris triangulation. Even when augmented by bails of straw, the stem was not particularly visible as a signal, and observers sighted instead on the turrets S and V. This is, however, a neat diagram that does not show where the quadrant had been set up, somewhere between P and M; instead, the sightlines to the neighboring stations had already been reduced to P. From Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, vol. 1, pl. II, fig. 1. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

took enough observations to be able to reduce all observed angles to the center of each and every station. The use of quadrants required a further set of corrections for each observation; when measuring the angle formed between two distant stations, a quadrant was aligned so as to lie in a plane defined by the instrument and the distant targets; using zenith distances to each target, geodesists converted observed angles to the horizontal, as needed for the trigonometrical calculations. French geodesists were understandably obsessed with refining both sets of routine corrections (Delambre 1798, vi–viii). Geodesists also refined the design of each triangulation. For the extension of Picard’s triangulation south of Paris, Jacques Cassini (II) both integrated the secondary baseline into the triangulation as a means to verify the overall quality of the work and undertook a preliminary reconnaissance to ensure that each station was intervisible with its neighbors and to assist the coordination of the separate parties that set up signals and made observations. By the 1730s it was clear that triangles for a geodetic survey should be “well-conditioned”: a small

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error in observing a strongly acute or obtuse internal angle produced an unduly large error in the calculated length of the opposing side, an error that would then propagate through the rest of the triangulation; every triangle should be as close to equilateral as possible (Bouguer 1749, 86–91; La Condamine 1751b, 10–11). At the same time, independent verification triangles continued to be an element of early geodetic surveys, both in France (fig. 259) and in Peru (La Condamine 1751b, 86). The use of verification triangles had the added benefit of defining the locations of multiple stations that could help control the topographical mapping of France (Cassini II 1720, 50). Geodesists in France were attuned to the benefit of taking further observations to fix the geographical positions of other places. By the 1790s, they differentiated between geodetic triangles, all of whose internal angles were measured and carefully corrected, and secondary triangles that were not completely observed but partially calculated (Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, 1b:542–43, 2:1). This distinction would become more clearly institutionalized after 1800 with the proliferation of systematic surveys that used a primary triangulation, of geodetic quality, to cover large regions and then secondary triangulations, controlled by the first and so undertaken by less skilled observers with lesser-quality instruments, to define a greater density of topographical control points. The geodesists’ continuous application of refinements is particularly evident in efforts to improve baseline measurement. Picard established the basic procedure. He directly measured his baselines by laying two wooden rods, each four toises in length, directly on the ground, end-to-end, guided by a thin cord stretched along the length of the base (fig. 260). He had carefully calibrated the rods against the Parisian standard, the toise du Châtelet (1.949 m, divided into six pieds, each of twelve pouces, each of twelve lignes). Great care was taken both to keep each rod in place as the next was touched to it and to keep correct count of the number of times the rods were laid on the ground. Cassini II introduced supports to carry his wooden rods over irregular or marshy ground and, as a precaution against inadvertently using a damaged rod, he checked them daily against a carefully and precisely graduated iron ruler, four pieds in length, that had been calibrated against the toise du Châtelet. Whereas Picard was reluctant to be more precise than a toise in the length of a base, Cassini II gave results to the nearest pied (or 0.325 m; Cassini II 1720, 97–104, 217–21). In Peru and Lapland, the geodesists sought to measure baselines with still greater precision, to the nearest pouce (2.7 cm). At such precision, the effects of the expansion and contraction of measuring rods with changes in the ambient temperature became appreciable. During the

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measurement of the baseline on the flat frozen surface of the Torneå River, the geodesists in Lapland routinely compared their thirty-pied rods against the iron onetoise standard (the toise du Nord), which was kept under cover and at about the same temperature at which it had originally been calibrated against the toise du Châtelet. They found that the length of the wooden rods did not vary appreciably in the cold dry air (Maupertuis 1738, 34, 49–50, 65–66, 86–87). The difficult conditions of the Andes, however, made it necessary for the geodesists in Peru to apply multiple corrections to their two baselines, at Yaruquí in the north (primary) and at Tarqui in the south (secondary). Daily comparisons of their twenty-pied rods against the standard they had brought from Paris, the toise du Pérou, which was kept sheltered and at a constant temperature, revealed significant variations in the rods’ lengths. The bases were also uneven. The geodesists partially controlled for this by inserting wedges underneath each rod to level it and, if rods were at different levels and could not touch directly, they used plumb lines to align their ends. (Measurement of the Tarqui base also required floating the rods across large areas of standing water.) Even so, it was still necessary to reduce each segment to the horizontal (Bouguer 1749, 37–58; La Condamine 1751b, 4–10, 71–85). Furthermore, for the first time, the lengths of baselines were reduced to sea level. The measured length of a baseline is longer than the length between the endpoints projected to sea level, but it is the latter that is needed to determine the length of a meridional arc across the surface of the idealized figure of the earth. Previous baselines had all been situated close to sea level, so that the difference between their measured lengths and their sea-level equivalent was deemed to be minimal (e.g., Picard 1671, 23). But high up in the Andes, the geodesists could not ignore the correction, which they accomplished after a complex series of geometrical and barometric height determination (Lafuente and Delgado 1984, 87–108; Smith 1986, 139-42). The function of a secondary baseline was to verify the quality of the triangulation. Its measured length was compared to that calculated through the chain of triangles from the primary baseline; if the difference was small, then the survey had been properly accomplished and no corrections were necessary. And, in general, the difference was found to be acceptable and the triangulation accepted without change. Consider the late example of William Roy’s analysis of his work vis-à-vis the French baseline at Dunkirk. Roy found unacceptable the difference of seven feet (2.13 m) between its measured length (actually undertaken decades earlier) and that calculated from his baseline on Hounslow Heath. Yet his calculated length for the Dunkirk baseline was

Fig. 259. THE SOUTHERNMOST PORTION OF CASSINI II’S GEODETIC SURVEY OF THE PARIS MERIDIAN. This diagram shows how Cassini II used the same surveying process as Picard. Here, solid lines indicate the main triangles that describe the arc of a meridian, dashed lines the verification

triangles. This is the last of five maps delineating the triangulation, showing the end of the arc at Perpignan. From Cassini II 1720, pl. 7. Image courtesy of the Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library, Ithaca.

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Fig. 260. MEASURING A BASELINE WITH WOODEN RODS. This illustrative vignette shows the early method of measuring a baseline by laying wooden rods on the ground, one set against another, along a stretched-out rope; each rod

was managed by its own team of surveyors. By measuring the baseline close to the sea, no corrections needed to be made to reduce the length to sea level. From Cassini III 1744, 119. © The British Library Board, London.

just fifteen inches (0.38 m) different from the mean of the lengths calculated, via the triangulation of the Paris meridian, from baselines at Paris and Amiens. This “very near agreement” meant that Roy’s own triangulation could stand unaltered as a testament to the “wonderful degree of accuracy” of which geodetic triangulations were capable (Roy 1790, 183–85). That the purpose of secondary baselines was more rhetorical than functional is evident from the failure of Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis to even include a secondary baseline in the Lapland triangulation. By contrast, Charles-Marie de La Condamine did take seriously the 1.03 toise (2.01 m) difference between the measured and calculated lengths of the Tarqui baseline in Peru. Struggling to understand what this meant for the quality of the triangulation as a whole, he could only conclude that such an error guaranteed that the overall length of the meridian was also too long. He therefore developed two algebraic methods to determine a correction that he could apply to the final result for the arc measurement (La Condamine 1751b, 87–101). The post-1784 geodetic surveys were in essence little different from their precursors. However, four decades of sustained improvement in instrument construction

meant that the later surveys were equipped with extraordinarily precise angle-measuring devices, whether French quadrants or British theodolites. As a result, issues of precision and error management were central to both the Greenwich–Paris triangulation and the Survey for the Meter. The new degree of angular precision had to be matched by new techniques of baseline measurement. For the Greenwich-Paris triangulation, the French team simply based their work on the existing triangulation of the Paris meridian and on César-François Cassini (III) de Thury’s baseline at Dunkirk (Cassini IV, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], xvi, 51). But in Britain, Roy fussed extensively over his primary baseline on Hounslow Heath. He eliminated basic errors by lifting his rods completely off the ground, laying them in long, leveled coffers set on tripods, and overlapping their ends that he aligned with a plumb line. He initially used twenty-foot (3.66  m) wooden rods, but he found that their length varied erratically with changes in humidity. He then tried rods made of glass, specially commissioned from Jesse Ramsden. These proved stable and precise and Roy used them to calculate the length of the baseline. In this work, which included accounting for the rods’ slight expan-

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sion with temperature and the reduction of the baseline to sea level (via a leveling survey to the head of the River Thames’s tidal reach), Roy gave his calculations to a precision of one ten-thousandth of a foot (0.003 cm). At the end, however, he decided to “throw away some useless decimals” and gave the final length with a precision of just one tenth of a foot (3.05 cm): 27,404.7 feet (8,352.95 m) (Roy 1785, 478; Widmalm 1990, 199– 200; Bennett 2006). Roy soon found that the glass rods were too delicate to ship, so for his secondary baseline on Romney Marsh, he resorted to his 100-foot (30.48 m) surveyor’s chain by Ramsden, which he found to be both sufficiently precise and stable (Roy 1790, 121–34). Étienne Lenoir’s baseline apparatus for the Survey for the Meter was truly innovative. He designed the measuring rods like metallic thermometers; each rod comprised a primary strip of platinum, two toises in length, and a copper rod shorter by six pouces. Joined by screws at one end only, both strips were free to expand in the same direction. Vernier scales at their free ends, read by a microscope, indicated the relative lengthening of the copper with respect to the platinum, which in turn indicated the absolute length of the platinum rod. A sliding platinum tongue, also marked with a vernier scale read by a microscope, extended from the end of each rod to just touch the next rod without disturbing it. A wood frame, mounted on tripods, gave structure to each rod and allowed the mounting of microscopes and levels; once calibrated, the latter ensured that the base was measured in the horizontal. Lenoir’s complex rods could measure lengths to one hundred-thousandth of a toise (0.001949 cm). At such great precision, almost every aspect of the measurement needed careful regulation and correction, including the reduction to sea level. After extensive adjustments, Pierre-François-André Méchain and Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Delambre determined the lengths of the baselines at Melun and Perpignan to be 6075.900069 and 6006.247848 toises, respectively. But even Delambre had to acknowledge that such precision was “imaginary” and so limited the results to just one hundredth of a toise (1.949 cm): 6075.90 and 6006.25 (Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, 1a:20–21, 2:2–56 and pls. 1–2). Should any dispute have arisen about the distance between the royal observatories or the precise length of the meter, the respective surveys would have had to be repeated or corrected. Complex structures were therefore installed to demarcate the precise endpoints of the baselines before the actual measurement in order to preserve them. This practice was quite distinct from La Condamine’s symbolic construction post facto of pyramids topped with the fleur-de-lis over each end of the Yaruquí and Tarqui baselines in Peru. He did so as part of his collection of monumental inscriptions that com-

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memorated the work of the French scientists working under the orders of the French king; the local authorities quickly recognized the political nature of the Yaruquí pyramids and razed them (La Condamine 1751a, 219– 71; Safier 2008, 23–56). Roy defined each end of his baseline on Hounslow Heath with a precise mark inscribed into the lid of a copper cup inserted into a small bore drilled into a solid wooden rod (six feet long, one foot in diameter) that was placed vertically in the ground and stabilized by having its lower end inserted and bolted into the hub of a horizontal wagon wheel, the whole assembly being buried to the very top of the rod and the copper cup (Roy 1785, 414–16). Delambre constructed much more elaborate monuments for the Melun baseline. The endpoint was inscribed on the end of a copper cylinder, sealed within dressed stone set directly on bedrock. During the survey, while the surveyors might have needed to revisit the baseline, whether to verify it or to define secondary triangles, the cylinder itself was protected by a lead plate over which stood a large signal, which protected vehicles and animals from encroaching on the site; after the survey was completed and checked, the signals were removed and a larger, permanent monument constructed (fig. 261). Local unrest prevented similar monuments from being constructed at the extremities of the Perpignan baseline, so Méchain instead covered the ends with squat brick pyramids, coated with cement against rainwater, and then covered by a large pile of earth “to protect them from insult” (Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, 1b:415, 2:59–62). Further attention was given to improving the precision of targets on which the geodesists sighted. Roy found it best to observe lights at night when the warm ground did not generate haze: even “the most faint looming of the land in a very clear day [could] be discerned . . . in a dark night, when the air was perfectly clear” (Roy 1790, 226). The type of light was important (fig. 262). Globe lamps were visible over only six or eight miles (10–13 km) in clear weather. Reverberatory lamps could be seen for twenty to twenty-four miles (32–38 km) but required careful tending and cleaning. “White lights” of burning sulfur were best; Roy thought they would be visible over eighty or a hundred miles (130–160 km), and they burned well in all weathers, yet they were shortlived. But nighttime observations required careful longdistance coordination between observers and the signal tenders, and the light and smoke of London would always be difficult to overcome. Ultimately, Roy preferred to observe in daytime and in good weather when the observer had the time to sight a flag-staff target and take multiple readings without having to hurry for fear that the light would burn out too soon (Roy 1790, 113–15, 162–64, 170, 253, 265–66).

Fig. 261. DELAMBRE’S MONUMENT AT THE SOUTH END OF THE MELUN BASELINE. The center of concentric circles on the top of the C cylinder marked the endpoint of the base; the cylinder itself was set in place, sealed by lead into a square of dressed stone, 2.43 meters on a side, before the baseline was measured in 1792. In 1799, the foundation was built up and a single dressed stone added as a protective superstructure, leaving a ten-centimeter space so as not to

disturb the cylinder; the surrounding pavement was sloped to ensure drainage away from the site, and the whole protected by sixteen standing stones set within a trench drain. The inner monument remains in situ, although now buried under a traffic island in the middle of a road junction. Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, vol. 2, pl. VI. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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Fig. 262. WILLIAM ROY’S SCAFFOLDS AND LIGHTS. Large scaffolds (left) held the large theodolite on a central support surrounded by a separately supported walkway to prevent the observer’s movements from affecting the theodolite; a scaffold ladder could hold a globe lamp; smaller flagpoles could also hold reverberatory lamps, which Roy hung in pairs

to distinguish them from other lights close to the ground; a small tripod could hold the “white lights” of burning sulfur, and a crane (right) was needed to lift the large theodolite to the top of the scaffold. From Roy 1790, pl. VII. Size of the original: 22 × 37 cm. Image courtesy of the David Rumsey Map Collection.

Nightlights proved especially useful for the long sightlines—up to seventy-five kilometers—of the crossChannel observations, for which Roy gave a number of lights to his French colleagues (Cassini IV, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], 2; Roy 1790, 113). For the Survey for the Meter, Delambre liked “réverbères” with parabolic mirrors because observers could sight them accurately over long distances, even in poor weather, but they required too much coordination, too consistent a construction, and too many skilled attendants. It was simply not worthwhile to use them for the relatively small triangles in France, all of whose sides were less than fifty-eight kilometers with almost all being under forty kilometers in length. But for Méchain’s extension of the arc to the Balearic Islands, nightlights proved essential (Méchain and Delambre 1806–10, 1a:21, 46, 103–12, 2:800–839). In addition to nightlights, Roy introduced another significant innovation in observational techniques. His great theodolite, made by Ramsden, eliminated the computational corrections that the French had to apply to observations with their quadrants (see fig. 412). Its

sturdy frame, needed to keep the full circle from twisting and distorting, made it unwieldy, and it could not be carried up to the top of towers. So rather than using existing structures as stations, the engineer Roy built his own towers on open ground atop hills (see fig. 262 left). An inner scaffold supported the theodolite; a separate outer scaffold supported the observer so that vibrations would not upset the instrument. Roy’s French colleagues seemed to envy the fact that this technique permitted Roy to place his signals and theodolite over the same precise spots, thereby eliminating the need to reduce every observation to the survey station’s center (Cassini IV, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], 58). Moreover, the theodolite measured horizontal angles directly and so avoided any need for reducing observations to the horizontal. In admitting that they had carried on corrections to their baselines with “imaginary” levels of precision, both Roy and Delambre implicitly acknowledged that they were letting mathematical theory outstrip observational practice. This is apparent, too, in the treatment of spherical excess, the amount over 180° in the sum of the inte-

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rior angles of a spherical triangle. Directly proportional to the size of the triangle, it is a very small increment, rising above 2″ only in large triangles, such as those across the English Channel. Through the 1740s, geodesists had simply ignored spherical excess as insensible; they made all calculations with plane trigonometry. Enamored with the precision of his great theodolite, Roy expected to be finally able to measure spherical excess. Yet the theodolite was still insufficiently precise, so he inverted the correction. He first determined the spherical excess for each triangle from its calculated area and then apportioned it among the triangle’s angles as he saw fit to make their sum 180° (Roy 1790, 168–71). French geodesists adopted markedly different approaches to the issue. Delambre used spherical trigonometry and algebraic series to convert both the interior angles and the sides of spherical triangles to the horizontal plane (Delambre 1798, 40–47). By contrast, Adrien-Marie Legendre derived the now-fundamental theorem to convert a spherical triangle to a plane triangle by subtracting one-third of the observed excess from each interior angle (Legendre 1787, 7; Legendre in Delambre 1798, 1–16). Delambre’s exhaustive analytical methods represent the culmination of the Enlightenment approach to managing and correcting approximate geodetic observations. In hindsight, they constituted an overly baroque mathematical cul-de-sac. An alternative was to implement what La Condamine had anticipated decades earlier, specifically the modeling of error across an entire observational system. This alternative was achieved with the method of least squares, in which observations are adjusted so that the sum of the squares of their indeterminate errors is minimized. Verification baselines acquired a new significance, as the difference between their measured and calculated lengths can be redistributed across an entire triangulation. Legendre developed and used the method for his 1806 analysis of comet orbits, but Carl Friedrich Gauss had independently developed it as early as 1795. Gauss used the method to adjust an experimental triangulation of one hundred stations around Braunschweig in 1803–7 and then in his official triangulation of Hanover in 1818 (Dutka 1995; Sheynin 1994, 1999). The adoption of least-squares analysis, together with the general adoption of Roy’s simplified observational procedures, formed a sharp watershed between Enlightenment and modern geodetic surveys. From Picard’s initial triangulation of the Paris meridian to the Survey for the Meter, Enlightenment geodetic surveys possessed a distinctive style that marks them as decidedly early modern. Mat t h ew H . Ed ney See also: Bouguer, Pierre; Cassini Family; Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Height Measurement; Instruments for Angle Measuring: (1) Repeating Circle (Repeating Theodolite), (2) Great

Theodolite; La Condamine, Charles-Marie de; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Picard, Jean; Roy, William; Science and Cartography; Zach, Franz Xaver von Bibliography Bennett, J. A. 2006. “Plates from Royal Society Publications: Illustrating William Roy’s Baseline on Hounslow Heath.” Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London 60:225–30. Bialas, Volker. 1982. Erdgestalt, Kosmologie und Weltanschauung: Die Geschichte der Geodäsie als Teil der Kulturgeschichte der Menschheit. Stuttgart: Konrad Wittwer. Bouguer, Pierre. 1749. La figure de la Terre, déterminée par les observations de Messieurs Bouguer, & de la Condamine, de l’Académie royale des sçiences, envoyés par ordre du roy au Pérou, pour observer aux environs de l’equateur. Paris: Charles-Antoine Jombert. Cams, Mario. 2017. Companions in Geography: East-West Collaboration in the Mapping of Qing China (c. 1685–1735). Leiden: Brill. Cassini (II), Jacques. 1720. De la grandeur et de la figure de la Terre, Suite des Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1718. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Cassini (III) de Thury, César-François. 1744. La méridienne de l’Observatoire royal de Paris, vérifiée dans toute l’étendue du royaume par de nouvelles observations. Paris: Hippolyte-Louis Guérin, & Jacques Guérin. Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique, Pierre-François-André Méchain, and Adrien-Marie Legendre. [1791]. Exposé des opérations faites en France en 1787, pour la jonction des observatoires de Paris et de Greenwich. Paris: Institution des Sourds-Muets. Delambre, Jean-Baptiste-Joseph. 1798. Méthodes analytiques pour la détermination d’un arc du méridien . . . précédées d’un mémoire sur le même sujet, par A. M. Legendre. Paris: Duprat. Dutka, Jacques. 1995. “On Gauss’ Priority in the Discovery of the Method of Least Squares.” Archive for History of Exact Sciences 49:355–70. Haasbroek, N. D. 1968. Gemma Frisius, Tycho Brahe and Snellius and Their Triangulations. Delft: Rijkscommissie voor Geodesie. La Condamine, Charles-Marie de. 1751a. Journal du voyage fait par ordre du roi, a l’équateur, servant d’introduction historique a la mesure des trois premiers degrés du méridien. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. ———. 1751b. Mesure des trois premiers degrés du méridien dans l’hémisphere austral. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Lafuente, Antonio, and Antonio J. Delgado. 1984. La geometrización de la tierra: Observaciones y resultados de la expedición geodésica hispano-francesa al virreinato del Peru (1735–1744). Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Instituto “Arnau de Vilanova.” Legendre, Adrien-Marie. 1787. Mémoire sur les opérations trigonométriques, dont les résultats dépendent de la figure de la Terre. [Paris]. Levallois, Jean-Jacques. 1983. “La détermination du rayon terrestre par J. Picard en 1669–1671.” Bulletin Géodésique 57:312–31. ———. 1988. Mesurer la Terre: 300 ans de géodésie française, de la toise du Châtelet au satellite. Paris: Presses de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées; Association Française de Topographie. Maupertuis, Pierre Louis Moreau de. 1738. La figure de la Terre, déterminée par les observations . . . faites par ordre du roi au cercle polaire. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Méchain, Pierre-François-André, and Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Delambre. 1806–10. Base du système métrique décimal, ou mesure de l’arc du méridien compris entre les parallèles de Dunkerque et Barcelone, exécutée en 1792 et années suivantes. 3 vols. Paris: Baudouin. Picard, Jean. 1671. Mesure de la Terre. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Roy, William. 1785. “An Account of the Measurement of a Base on Hounslow-Heath.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London 75:385–480.

450 ———. 1790. “An Account of the Trigonometrical Operation, Whereby the Distance between the Meridians of the Royal Observatories of Greenwich and Paris Has Been Determined.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London 80:111–270. Safier, Neil. 2008. Measuring the New World: Enlightenment Science and South America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sheynin, Oscar. 1994. “C. F. Gauss and Geodetic Observations.” Archive for History of Exact Sciences 46:253–83. ———. 1999. “Gauss and the Method of the Least Squares.” Jahrbücher für Nationalökonomie und Statistik / Journal of Economics and Statistics 219:458–67. Smith, J. R. 1986. From Plane to Spheroid: Determining the Figure of the Earth from 3000 B.C. to the 18th Century Lapland and Peruvian Survey Expeditions. Rancho Cordova: Landmark Enterprises. Terrall, Mary. 2006. “Mathematics in Narratives of Geodetic Expeditions.” Isis 97:683–99. Widmalm, Sven. 1990. “Accuracy, Rhetoric, and Technology: The Paris-Greenwich Triangulation, 1784–88.” In The Quantifying Spirit in the 18th Century, ed. Tore Frängsmyr, J. L. Heilbron, and Robin E. Rider, 179–206. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Geodetic Surveying by the Austrian Monarchy. Before

the eighteenth century, no surveys with trigonometric foundations were conducted in Austria. Even the Josephinische Landesaufnahme, which mapped more than 570,000 square kilometers of the Habsburg Empire between 1763 and 1787, did not make use of a triangulation network and was mainly conducted by means of plane tables (Dörflinger 2004, 78). Father Joseph Liesganig, SJ, is in fact considered the Austrian pioneer of triangulation surveying. In 1759, impressed by the achievements of the Jesuits Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich and Christopher Maire in the Vatican State, Empress Maria Theresa commissioned Liesganig with preliminary work for the first Austrian arc measurement on the Vienna meridian. In tackling this task, Liesganig benefited from his collaboration with CésarFrançois Cassini (III) de Thury, who in 1761 cooperated with Liesganig in setting up a triangulation network in the environs of Vienna, a project that continued the perpendicular from Paris via Strasbourg to Vienna. This effort produced the manuscript map “Carte des triangles qui sont servi à déterminer la position des plusieurs lieux aux environs de Vienne” (1761; 1:170,000), drawn by the Austrian engineering officer J. B. d’Avrange. One year later, Liesganig extended these surveys to the environs of the town of Krems, resulting in the 1763 Carte des environs de Wienne (Dörflinger 1977, 31). In 1775, in Paris, Cassini III duly published his own results, including nine map sheets in his book Relation d’un voyage en Allemagne (Zeger 1992, 118–19). In 1762, Liesganig embarked on more extensive surveys along the Vienna meridian. After the accurate determination of two baselines between Neunkirchen and Wiener Neustadt (southern Lower Austria) and in the Marchfeld plain between Seyring and Glinzendorf (north and east of Vienna), he set up a triangulation net-

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work extending across almost three degrees of latitude (with twenty-three main triangles) from Sobieschitz near Brünn (Soběšice near Brno) to Varaždin in Croatia (fig. 263). Because he worked from Cassini III’s triangulation, Liesganig calculated his work using the French toise as the unit of measurement. For the vertices of his triangles, Liesganig mainly used church spires, but also landmark trees. Above the two baseline endpoints in Wiener Neustadt, five-meter-high stone monuments designed by Prince Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz were erected; they featured both a Latin inscription and a geodetic point. The northern monument, which can still be seen in Wiener Neustadt, bears the following inscription: “For the northern boundary. Joseph Liesganig, SJ, set up this northern limit of the baseline, having measured three degrees of the Vienna meridian, by order and under the auspices of the most noble Francis and Maria Theresa. 1762” (Zeger 1992, 124). There was also a monument built at the south endpoint with the following inscription: “For the southern boundary. From the center of this southern marker to the center of the northern marker [are] 38,465 Viennese feet, 5 inches” (Zeger 1992, 124). The distance between the two points at the southern and northern ends of the base equaled the length of the baseline. Liesganig proposed the Marchfeld base for extending the measurement of the Paris degree of latitude, a project conducted roughly at the same time by Cassini III. In the course of his surveying activities, Liesganig maintained continuous contacts with other geodesists and astronomers, such as Boscovich (Embacher 1951, 19; Zeger 1992, 119, 121–25). In 1769, Liesganig carried out an arc measurement extending over more than one degree of latitude, with twenty-six main triangles located in Hungary between Kis-Telek (Kistelek) and Czurok (Čurug). He then published the results of his work in 1770 in his book Dimensio graduum meridiani Viennensis et Hungarici (Zeger 1992, 131; Dörflinger 2004, 81). A comparison of Liesganig’s surveys with modern findings reveals some minor deficiencies, for example, the value for one meridian degree determined by him was too high. However, if compared with other triangulations carried out in the eighteenth century (e.g., in France), the quality of those surveyed by Liesganig can hardly be called very inferior (Embacher 1951, 22, 55). The deficiencies in Liesganig’s work have also been attributed to his simple instruments, most of which he built himself (Zeger 1992, 130–31). Remeasurements of the Wiener Neustadt baseline revealed a deviation of only seven millimeters per kilometer (Dörflinger 1977, 31). However, Liesganig did commit a major blunder in the triangle Wildon–St. Magdalen–St. Urban (near Maribor, Slovenia) because he mistook St. Magdalen for Oberradkersburg Castle. Internationally, Liesganig’s

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451 Fig. 263. JOSEPH LIESGANIG, TRIANGULATION SYSTEM BETWEEN SOBIESCHITZ AND VARAŽDIN. Copper engraving; 1:864,000. From Joseph Liesganig, Dimensio graduum meridiani Viennensis et Hungarici (Vienna, 1770), Tab. V. © The British Library Board, London.

surveys were lauded by Pierre-Simon de Laplace, who made recourse to the arc measurement results on the Vienna meridian in his efforts to obtain generally applicable values for the dimensions of the earth (Zeger 1992, 130). Georges Perrier’s treatise La figure de la Terre (1908) likewise expressed notable appreciation for Liesganig’s work (Embacher 1951, 55). Another imperial surveying commission was entrusted to Liesganig in 1772 with respect to the region of Galicia and Lodomeria, which had been annexed to the Habsburg Empire following the First Partition of Poland-Lithuania. All surveying tasks were carried out over a period of eighteen months with three baselines determined (near Lemberg, Rzeszów, and the Silesian border), and the region was mapped with a triangulation network. The surveys involved Georg Ignaz von Metzburg, professor of mathematics at the University of Vienna, who owed his reputation in part to the production of post-route maps such as the Post Charte der Kaiserl. Königl. Erblanden (1782) (see fig. 85). The surveying project was concluded in 1774 (Zeger 1992, 132–33). The map resulting from these surveys, which originally was merely to serve as a tool for administrative purposes, was then drawn at a scale of 1:72,000. Since this map did not feature any terrain representation, terrain data were later added in the context of the military survey initiated in 1776. This improved version was again detailed at a scale of 1:72,000 and finally printed at a scale of 1:144,000. Under an imperial order dated 3  November 1784, the engineer Johann von Liechtenstern was commissioned with preparing a smaller-sized edition, which was published in 1794 with the title Regna Galiciæ, et Lodomeriæ at 1:288,000. For the representation of Bukovina, Liechtenstern drew on the survey conducted by Captain Hora von Otzellowitz as a basis. A particularly impressive feature is the beautifully designed title cartouche, which shows an allegory of the main rivers of Galicia, its abundant natural resources, its inhabitants, surveyors working with a plane table, as well as the coats-of-arms of Galicia and Lodomeria (see fig. 439), all based on a design by the renowned painter Franz Anton Maulbertsch. In 1824, the map was again slightly improved and republished by the quartermaster general’s staff (Zeger 1992, 134; Dörflinger 2004, 115; 1989, 95). Petra Svatek

452 See also: Austrian Monarchy; Liesganig, Joseph Bibliograp hy Dörflinger, Johannes. 1977. “Das 18. Jahrhundert.” In Descriptio Austriae: Österreich und seine Nachbarn im Kartenbild von der Spätantike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert, by Johannes Dörflinger, Robert Wagner, and Franz Wawrik, 28–35 and pls. 46–70. Vienna: Edition Tusch. ———. 1989. “Vom Aufstieg Österreichs zur Grossmacht bis zum Wiener Kongress (1683–1815).” In Austria Picta: Österreich auf alten Karten und Ansichten, ed. Franz Wawrik and Elisabeth Zeilinger, 66–114. Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt. ———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Embacher, Paula. 1951. “Die Liesganig’sche Gradmessung.” Österreichische Zeitschrift für Vermessungswesen 39:17–22, 51–55. Kretschmer, Ingrid. 1986. “Liesganig, Joseph.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 1:448. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. Zeger, Josef. 1992. Die historische Entwicklung der staatlichen Vermessungsarbeiten (Grundlagenvermessungen) in Österreich, Vol. 1, Verschiedene Arbeiten vom Altertum bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg. Vienna: Zeger.

Geodetic Surveying by Denmark and Norway. The first

triangulation of Denmark began after 1761, when the king approved plans by the academy of sciences and letters, the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab, to undertake a large-scale survey of Denmark. The maps were to serve civilian and economic purposes and were to be among the best in Europe. The survey was overseen by a commission of academy members, headed by Christen Hee of Copenhagen University, but the work itself was directed by Thomas Bugge. The academy seems to have initially thought that purely astronomical control for the detailed mapping would suffice. To that end, Jørgen Nicolai Holm, who had participated in the border surveys between Norway and Sweden, was tasked with planning the improvement of the instruments and conditions at the observatory; the academy also enticed the Swedish instrumentmaker Johan Ahl to Copenhagen. Plans for the survey soon developed, prompted by Holm, so as to emulate the Carte de France by undertaking a comprehensive triangulation on which to base the detailed topography. However, detailed plane table surveys began in 1762 before the triangulation had been started. After Bugge’s test triangulation in 1763, the academy commissioned Ahl to construct a new “geographical circle” to serve as the primary angle-measuring instrument for the full triangulation. The circle, delivered in 1764, was based on a design developed by Ahl’s teacher, Daniel Ekström (Bugge 1779, 21–29 and pl. 1; Pedersen 1992, 96–99; Branner and Johansen 1999, 16; Amelin 2001) (see fig. 406). The island of Sjæland (Zealand) was surveyed in the

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seven field seasons between 1764 and 1770, first by Bugge and then from 1768 by Ole Christopher Wessel. Bugge began by measuring, with 12-fod (6-alen; 3.7662 m) rods, a baseline of 14,514.775 alen (9.0384 km) just west of Copenhagen (Bugge 1779, 33–34, 49–50, and pl. 2, fig. 15); from this he extended a primary triangulation of some eighty triangles and several more baselines, together with a secondary network to fix the location of some churches and windmills. As in the French surveys, the locations of the triangulation stations were calculated with respect to the observatory. Bugge’s map of the triangulation included a list of key places on the island and their calculated coordinates (fig. 264). After 1777, Bugge would supervise the refitting of the observatory, complete with new instruments by Ahl (Amelin 2001), and determine its latitude and longitude with respect to Paris. Other surveyors completed the triangulation of the country: Niels Morville surveyed Fyen (Funen) and parts of eastern Jylland (Jutland) in 1772–77; Caspar Wessel, Jylland in 1779–81 and 1786–96; Hans Skanke, Jylland in 1782–85, when Wessel was off triangulating Oldenburg. Finally, Thomas Bugge, Jr., conducted the triangulation of Bornholm in 1806 (Pedersen 1992, 131–32; see Nørlund 1942, pl. 101, for a diagram of the entire work to 1806). In his work, Bugge carefully discussed observational errors and distinguished between random and systematic ones. But he lacked a theory for accumulated errors. Moreover, as with the French surveys, his angle measurements were relatively imprecise. Regardless of nineteenth-century criticism, Bugge’s use of plane rather than spherical trigonometry for calculating the triangulation was quite appropriate (Andersen 1968, 53–81; Kristensen 2001, 82–89). By contrast, Wessel had by 1787 developed an entirely new technique for determining coordinates—by means of complex numbers. A complex number has two parts, one real and one imaginary (based on the square root of negative one); Wessel realized for the first time that they could be expressed geometrically and that, conversely, calculations in two dimensions could be transformed into operations on complex numbers. Wessel’s application of complex numbers did not simplify the calculations necessary to reduce a triangulation to coordinates, but it entailed a mathematical abstraction that proved deeply satisfying to him. Now celebrated, Wessel’s work on complex numbers would not be recognized for over a century (Branner and Johansen 1999, 9, 44–49). Triangulation surveys were introduced into Norway only after 1772, when General Heinrich Wilhelm von Huth determined that there were few good maps of the border areas with Sweden. He initiated a military survey of the border from Frederikshald (Halden) to Trøndelag. This marked the start of what became Norway’s

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453

Fig. 264. THE TRIANGULATION OF ZEALAND. Thomas Bugge, Trigonometrisk carte over Siæland, in his Beskrivelse over den opmaalings maade, som er brugt ved de danske geographiske karter (Copenhagen: Gyldendals Forlag, 1779). The Copenhagen Observatory marked the origin of a coordinate system defined by the observatory’s meridian and its perpen-

dicular; the table at left gives the trigonometrically calculated coordinates of each station in the triangulation, the calculated distance from the observatory, and thus each station’s longitude from the observatory and latitude. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Copenhagen (KBK 1111-2-1767/1b-c).

geographical surveys (the modern-day Statens Kartverk). Plane table surveying began in 1773, and in 1779 the work was expanded to include triangulations by Johan Jacob Rick and Ditlev Wibe, under Bugge’s direction. The triangulation started at the fortress of Konsvinger, and the original reference point was the flagpole of the fortress. In Trondheim, where the triangulation ended, an interim observatory was established and used to define a Norse prime meridian. After 1785, Bugge secured an extension of the triangulation back along the coast, from Trondheim to Frederikshald, to serve as the basis for new hydrographic surveys. This further triangulation provided the basis for seven sea charts at the scale 1:225,000, which Carl Frederik Grove published in 1791–1803. The full circuit of Norse triangulation was completed in 1805 with the completion of a chain of tri-

angles from Christiana (Oslo) to Kongsvinger (Pettersen 2009, 2014; Hoem 1986, 79). Nils Vo je Jo hansen See also: Bugge, Thomas; Denmark and Norway; Videnskabernes Selskabs kort (Academy of Sciences and Letters map series; Denmark) Bibliography Amelin, Olov. 2001. “Instrument Maker on the Run: A Case of Technology Transfer.” In Around Caspar Wessel and the Geometric Representation of Complex Numbers: Proceedings of the Wessel Symposium at the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, Copenhagen, August 11–15, 1998, ed. Jesper Lützen, 65–79. Copenhagen: C. A. Reitzels Forlag. Andersen, Einar. 1968. Thomas Bugge: Et mindeskrift i anledning af 150 årsdagen for hans død 15. januar 1815. Copenhagen: Geodætisk Institut. Branner, Bodil, and Nils Voje Johansen. 1999. “Casper Wessel (1745– 1818): Surveyor and Mathematician.” In On the Analytical Representation of Direction: An Attempt Applied Chiefly to Solving Plane

454 and Spherical Polygons, 1797, by Caspar Wessel, trans. Flemming Damhus, ed. Bodil Branner and Jesper Lützen, 9–63. Copenhagen: C. A. Reitzels Forlag. Bugge, Thomas. 1779. Beskrivelse over den opmaalings maade, som er brugt ved de danske geografiske karter. Copenhagen: Gyldendals Forlag. Hoem, Arne I. 1986. Norge på gamle kart. Oslo: J. W. Cappelens Forlag. Kristensen, L. Kahl. 2001. “Wessel as a Cartographer.” In Around Caspar Wessel and the Geometric Representation of Complex Numbers: Proceedings of the Wessel Symposium at the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, Copenhagen, August 11–15, 1998, ed. Jesper Lützen, 81–98. Copenhagen: C. A. Reitzels Forlag. Nørlund, N. E. 1942. Danmarks kortlægning: En historisk fremstilling. Copenhagen: Ejnar Munksgaard. Pedersen, Olaf. 1992. Lovers of Learning: A History of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1742–1992. Copenhagen: Munksgaard. Pettersen, Bjørn Ragnvald. 2009. “The First Astro-Geodetic Reference Frame in Norway, 1779–1815.” Acta Geodaetica et Geophysica Hungarica 44:67–78. ———. 2014. “Astronomiske bestemmelser av Norges første nullmeridian.” Kart og Plan 74:150–60.

Geodetic Surveying by France. The term geodesie, at-

tested from 1570 in England (Oxford English Dictionary), appeared around 1644 in France and meant to divide the land (Le grand Robert de la langue française). Antoine Furetière’s Dictionaire universel (1690) indicated that people called it arpentage (surveying surfaces). Operations to determine longitude and latitude of locations were the domain of geography. Geodesy per se is concerned with determining the form and dimensions of the earth. French scholars engaged in geodetic surveying relied on methods and instruments developed in the sixteenth century. In 1533 Gemma Frisius had explained how to construct a network of triangles covering large areas (Pogo 1934–35). Frisius also constructed the goniometer, or square, in 1537, and improved it by adding a compass; this device helped standardize triangulation, which spread quickly throughout Europe. In France, Philippe Danfrie’s Déclaration de l’usage du graphomètre (1597) explained another invention, the graphomètre, which was used until the nineteenth century. By the middle of the seventeenth century, Dutch circles, plane tables, and graphomètres were commonly used for mapping at large, medium, and small scales using Frisius’s method. The Académie des sciences, a royal foundation created in 1666 following the example of the Royal Society of London (founded 1662), provided an institutional framework for scientific research. Jean-Baptiste Colbert summoned the Dutch scholar Christiaan Huygens to participate in the Académie’s program: “To measure the dimensions of the earth. To advise on the means of making geographic maps with more exactitude than before” (Taton 1987, 208). The creation of an astronomical observatory was imperative. In the spring of 1667

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Louis XIV decided to establish the Paris Observatory, to be designed by Claude Perrault. The main axis of the building became the basis of the future meridian for the astronomical observations indispensable to geodesy. Having received its royal charter in 1699, the Académie henceforth decided disputes among geographers over questions of geographic outlines and location of places (Pastoureau 1988, 295–302). One of the Académie’s first projects was to measure anew the arc of the meridian. Previous work by Willebrord Snellius in 1617, Richard Norwood in 1635, and Giovanni Battista Riccioli in 1661 had produced contradictory results for the length of the terrestrial degree. The Académie adopted a method of triangulation that depended on: 1) determining a baseline; 2) on-site measuring of the angles of the triangles forming the triangulation network; 3) determining precisely the longitude and latitude of the two extremities of the arc; and 4) adjusting, as possible, for differences in longitude and altitude of the points in the network. When the telescope of Galileo Galilei (1609) was added to angle-measuring instruments, heretofore furnished only with pinnules, sightings improved considerably; the addition of the vernier scale (1631; after Pierre Vernier) made angle readings more precise. From 1659, Huygens produced regulators that enabled clocks to keep the second on the hour for a month. On 23 May 1688, Pierre de Carcavy reminded the Académie that Colbert “wanted work done to make geographic maps of France more exact than those made heretofore.” He invited Guillaume Sanson, an “able geographer,” to discuss the matter (Gallois 1901, 196). After hearing Sanson, the Académie decided to prepare a map of the environs of Paris in order to compare possible methods of triangulation and to select the best one. The task was given to David Vivier under the supervision of Gilles Personne de Roberval and abbé Jean Picard. In his report of 1669 Picard recommended replacing the alidade with pinnules with an alidade with a telescope. To further these operations, Colbert summoned the Italian Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) to Paris, where he arrived on 4 April 1669. Cassini I was to verify with Picard the position of the principal points on a map, which would serve as a foundation for the map of the environs of Paris (see fig. 4). This map depended upon the measure of an arc of the meridian of the Paris Observatory between Sourdon, north of Paris (20 km south of Amiens), and Malvoisine, south of Paris (6 km from La Ferté-Allais). Picard constructed a chain of thirteen triangles along both sides of the Paris meridian according to Gemma Frisius’s method. The vertices of these triangles were the “stations” chosen for their mutual visibility. The baseline ran along the road from Paris to Fontainebleau between

Geodetic Surveying

Fig. 265. QUADRANT WITH TWO TELESCOPES, 38 POUCES (1.03 M). From the first edition of Jean Picard’s Mesure de la Terre (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1671), pl. 1, engraved by Sébastien Le Clerc. At bottom left, an observer has arranged the instrument horizontally and aims it along the arc. An enlarged detail of the arc’s transversal scale is shown, rather faintly engraved, just below and left of the quadrant itself. Size of the original: ca. 39 × 29 cm. Image courtesy of the Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library, Ithaca.

the mill of Villejuif and the pavillon of Juvisy, measured with two sets of poles. Each set comprised two poles of 2 toises (3.898 m), screwed together to make two measures of 4 toises (7.796 m); these sets, lined up straight, made one 8-toise unit. Picard created three instruments for taking angular measurements. The angles of each triangle were measured with a quadrant of 38 pouces (1.03 m) (fig. 265), whose arc (limb) could be set at any angle, thanks to a central joint (genou), to sight each angle in the plane formed by the three vertices of the station and the two targets. The quadrant had two telescopes: one was fixed and pointed toward the origin of the angle; the other pivoted and was used like an alidade moving along the graduations of the arc. The eyepieces of the two sighting telescopes were on the arc end of each; they

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were equipped with reticules that permitted measuring the difference in altitude for the apex of each triangle sighted in relation to that of the operator. A micrometer, which Picard constructed with Adrien Auzout in 1666, further refined the measurements. Its eyepiece had a focal reticule with cross hairs. Readings along the arc were taken to one minute with the help of an adjustable piece fixed to the telescope (Picard 1671, 11–15). To learn the subtending angle along the meridian between Sourdon and Malvoisine, Picard had constructed a zenith sector 10 pieds (3.25 m) in radius whose arc was 38 pouces (1.03 m) (see fig. 396). Its astronomic telescope had a long focal length, allowing the viewer to relate terrestrial measurement to the heavens. With this instrument, Picard determined the zenith distance of the same star at the two extremes of his triangulation. By observing the star near its zenith, he limited the effects of refraction and could accurately determine the latitude of each place. At this middle latitude, he established the length of a degree of latitude along the meridian to be 57,060 toises (111.09 km). Picard published the result of this work, completed from 1669 to 1670, under the title Mesure de la Terre (1671). It is fairly easy to determine latitude based upon the height of the terrestrial pole above the horizon, but longitude is more difficult to evaluate. Because the earth turns on the axis of its poles every twenty-four hours, in the absence of a directly accessible celestial reference point the measurement of longitude requires precise timepieces. Cassini I had perfected the calculation of longitude by a method based on observing the satellites of Jupiter; he determined the precise time of their eclipses with his own updated table. These eclipses occurred at the same time everywhere they were visible on earth and thus served as a reference clock. Observers noted the local time of a given eclipse and compared it to that of the meridian of origin. Thus the longitude of a location was the difference between the local time of the observation and that of the Paris meridian. Picard and Philippe de La Hire planned to use this method to determine the coordinates of points on the coasts of France. They took measurements in Brest and Nantes in 1679, in Bayonne, Bordeaux, and La Rochelle in 1680, and on the northern coast of France in 1681. In 1682, La Hire went to Provence and to Lyon. They plotted the corrected data on a map of France, and then compared that outline to the map that Guillaume Sanson had provided in 1679. The result was astonishing: compared with Sanson’s map, Brittany, the Cotentin Peninsula, and the Atlantic coast, whose longitudes were based upon the Paris meridian, retreated eastward by more than a degree (about 80 km), reducing the size of the realm by a fifth (see fig. 625). A draft of this map was

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Fig. 266. SHEET 4 OF THE CARTE DES PROVINCES DE FRANCE TRAVERSÉES PAR LA MÉRIDIE.NE DE PARIS. From Jacques Cassini (II), De la grandeur et de la figure de la Terre, Suite des Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1718 (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1720). Map shows the network of triangles up to Mont Ventoux.

Size of the original: ca. 37 × 46 cm. Image courtesy of the Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library, Ithaca.

presented to the Académie by La Hire on 12 February 1684 and engraved in 1693. Even though in February 1681 Picard contemplated combining existing maps of provinces to make a general map of the realm, “it was still necessary to arrive at a general framework [of triangles]” (Gallois 1909, 293). Upon Picard’s death in 1682, Cassini I took over. In 1683, he continued the meridian south to Bourges, while La Hire continued north to Béthune. But Colbert died on 6 September 1683 and was replaced by François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois, who

suspended operations. They only began again in August 1700. Cassini I, aided by his son Jacques (Cassini II) and his nephew, Giacomo Filippo Maraldi, continued the triangulation to Canigou, where a pyramid was erected in order to extend observations to the east into Roussillon. Operations concluded in 1701 with the measure of a base 1,583 toises (3.15 km) in length near Collioure (fig. 266). In 1718 Cassini II, Maraldi, and Gabriel-Philippe de La Hire extended the Sourdon meridian to Dunkirk, where they measured a baseline. The length of a degree

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of the meridian found by Cassini II differed according to latitude: 57,097 toises for the southern segment from Paris to Collioure, and only 56,960 toises for the northern length from Paris to Dunkirk. From this difference Cassini deduced a shrinkage as one moved north: the earth must be an elongated ellipsoid, squeezed at the equator (see fig. 255 bottom). Until this moment, the work of Huygens and Isaac Newton, supported by experimental results from Jean Richer, had suggested that the earth was a flattened spheroid, on which the length of a degree grew longer as one moved north (see fig. 255 middle). The dispute was not resolved until 1737 with the Lapland and Peru expeditions. Between 1739 and 1740 César François Cassini (III) de Thury and NicolasLouis de La Caille measured the meridian once again from Villejuif to Juvisy and found that previous measurements were faulty. They remeasured it five times in 1750, finding the section to be five toises longer. The earth was therefore indeed a flattened spheroid. The effect of the geodetic work of the Académie on geographical mapmaking was not immediate, but it demonstrated strikingly the necessity of establishing maps with accurate coordinates, as also shown by comparison of the Académie’s map with that of Guillaume Sanson. The geodetic network progressively completed by transversals (great circles cutting perpendicularly across the meridian at particular latitudes) and astronomical verification of the key points of Cassini’s triangles henceforth allowed maps to be established on precise coordinates. However, the cartography of the coasts of the realm did not immediately benefit. The maps of Le Neptune françois (1693) used the longitude measurements of the Académie, but the chains of triangles had yet to reach the coasts. The maps of the Frontières de l’Océan, surveyed by Claude Masse between 1688 and 1724 using a graphomètre, were based only on purely local geometrical foundations (Bousquet-Bressolier 2003, 64–67, 71–73). Yet geodetic work influenced the compilation process of geographical mapping. Claude Delisle and his son Guillaume, both members of the Académie, renewed géographie de cabinet by gathering and compiling a wide variety of information (travel accounts, direct measurements, maps, and descriptions) and relying upon firsthand data obtained from local informants with whom they were in constant contact. The notes of Claude Delisle conserved in the Archives nationales de France show the care with which he transcribed distances as well as longitudes and latitudes, whether observed using methods of geodesy or estimated by informants (Lagarde 1995, 130–36; Pelletier 2002). All the maps from the Delisle workshop and from that of their heir, Philippe Buache, referred to these observations and demonstrated the increasing reliance by the géographes

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de cabinet on the astronomic and triangulation work of the geodesists. Ecclesiastical cartography also benefited from the progress of geodesy. From its appearance in 1678, the Académie map of the environs of Paris served as a model for the map of the Diocèse de l’archevêché de Paris (1675–80) by Albert Jouvin de Rochefort, which also employed the triangle network of the Académie map. Jouvin de Rochefort filled in watercourses and inhabited areas, though with little concern for topographical exactitude (Dainville 1956, 52–53). Attractive maps would follow, however, with the Diocèse de Coutances (4 sheets) by G. Mariette de la Pagerie (published by Nicolas Langlois, 1689) considered one of the most accomplished in terms of its precision, the quality of its relief representation, and the subtlety of the engraving. Similar precision permeates the map of the Evesché de Meaux (1698), prepared by François Chevalier, whose method of surveying terrain (des châssis) proposed in 1707 to the Académie, served as an example to others. Similar standards guided the map of the Evesché du Mans (1706), the Carte particulière du Diocèse de Rouen (6 sheets; 1:97,300) prepared by Frémont before 1707 and engraved by Claude-Auguste Berey, Académie des sciences engraver, as well as many others, including maps by Guillaume Delisle and later Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville (Dainville 1956, 55–70). Thus, geodesy continued to overlap with the geometric triangulation that accompanied large-scale projects. However, the military ingénieurs géographes who drew up the map of the coasts of Brittany in the years 1771– 76 noted sizeable discrepancies in distances from the meridian and requested copies of the calculations from Cassini’s general triangulation of France. Cassini  III answered their requests by publishing the Description géométrique de la France in 1783 (Pelletier 2006, 172). Henceforth, military ingénieurs géographes would take up geodesy. The geodesy of France extended beyond its frontiers. On his visit Europe in 1717, Peter the Great twice visited the Paris Observatory. He invited the astronomer Joseph-Nicolas Delisle to found an observatory in St. Petersburg, together with a school, in order to lay the foundation for a map of Russia. The project took shape in 1725. At the death of the czar, Catherine I confirmed the mission of Delisle, who would remain in Russia for twenty-two years. The observatory was constructed, but geodetic operations were limited to the measurement of a baseline near St. Petersburg in 1737 and 1738 (Archives de l’Observatoire de Paris, A7/7, 64–65). During the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48), Cassini III followed the army and received the order from Louis XV (17 April 1746) to continue the triangulation operations begun in France into Flanders and

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Brabant. Cassini linked Paris to Bergen op Zoom and Maestricht with an “uninterrupted series of triangles” (Pelletier 2006, 164). These surveys served as a foundation for the military maps of Flanders surveyed by François Félix Masse at a scale of 1:14,400 and as a matrix for the map of Joseph Jean François de Ferraris, surveyed at a scale of 1:11,520 and reduced to 1:28,800 (Lemoine-Isabeau 1984, 46–73). After completing the operations with his father from Brest to Strasburg for the perpendicular to the meridian of Paris, Cassini III continued to Vienna, where he began operations in 1761. He continued into Bavaria (base of 2,000 toises), to the Duchy of Württemberg, and to Duisburg (base of 1,000 toises). In 1762, he carried out a new expedition to construct triangles covering the Palatinate, Franconia, and Austria (Cassini [III] de Thury 1763). Though the indifference of both Emperor Joseph I of Lorraine and the Grand Duke of Tuscany forced him to abandon these operations, Cassini III next worked to link England with the triangulation of France carried out between 1763 and 1784. His proposal, transmitted by the Royal Society, was well received by King George III. After the untimely death of his father, Jean-Dominique Cassini (IV) took over the project with Adrien-Marie Legendre and Pierre-François-André Méchain. Cassini IV compared the results from Jean-Charles Borda’s improved repeating circle with Méchain’s use of the quadrant. On the English side, William Roy worked under the authority of the Royal Society with the Ramsden theodolite. Dunkirk was joined to Greenwich by about thirty triangles. The extension of triangulation allowed the spread throughout Europe of the “geometric description” of France completed by Cassini IV. French astronomers from Picard to Cassini IV had provided the methods and instruments for geodetically based mapping on a national scale. On 26 March 1791, the Assemblée Constituante adopted the report proposing a measure of an arc of the meridian between Dunkirk and Barcelona that would definitively establish the value of the meter and commissioned Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Delambre and Méchain for the task. C at h e r i n e B o u sq u et-Bres s o lier a n d Su z a n n e D ébarbat See also: Academies of Science: Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France); Bouguer, Pierre; Carte de France; Cassini Family; Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands; France; GreenwichParis Triangulation; La Caille, Nicolas-Louis de; La Condamine, Charles-Marie de; Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to; Meter, Survey for the; Paris Observatory (France); Picard, Jean Bibliograp hy Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine. 2003. “Claude Masse et la cartographie des côtes du Ponant (1688 à 1724).” Cahiers Nantais, no. 59: 57–73.

Cassini (III) de Thury, César-François. 1763. Relation de deux voyages faits en Allemagne par ordre de roi, par rapport à la figure de la Terre . . . . Paris: Durand. Dainville, François de. 1956. Cartes anciennes de l’Église de France: Historique, répertoire, guide d’usage. Paris: J. Vrin. Gallois, Lucien. 1909. “L’Académie des sciences et les origines de la carte de Cassini.” Annales de Géographie 18:193–204, 289–310. Lagarde, Lucie. 1995. “Un cartographe face à ses sources: Guillaume Delisle (1675–1726) et l’Amérique du Nord.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 129–45. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la Principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. Levallois, Jean-Jacques. 1988. Mesurer la Terre: 300 ans de géodésie française, de la toise du Châtelet au satellite. Paris: Presses de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées; Association Française de Topographie. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1988. “Contrefaçon et plagiat des cartes de géographie et des atlas français de la fin du XVIe au début du XVIIIe siècle.” In Les Presses Grises: La contrefaçon du livre (XVIe–XIXe siècles), ed. François Moureau, 275–302. Paris: Aux Amateurs de Livres. Pelletier, Monique. 2002. “The Working-Method of the New Cartographers: The Gulf of Mexico and Spanish Sources, 1696–1718.” Terrae Incognitae 34:60–72. ———. 2006. “De Cassini de Thury à Le Michaud d’Arçon: Les militaires français et la triangulation dans la seconde moitié du XVIIIe siècle.” In Margaritae cartographicae: Studia Lisette Danckaert 75um diem natalem agenti oblata, ed. Wouter Bracke, 159–78. Brussels: Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique. Picard, Jean. 1671. Mesure de la Terre. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. ———. 1684. Traité du nivellement par M. Picard . . . avec une relation de quelques nivellemens faits par ordre du roy et un abbregé de la Mesure de la Terre. Ed. Philippe de La Hire. Paris: Estienne Michallet. Pogo, Alexander. 1934–35. “Gemma Frisius, His Method of Determining Differences of Longitude by Transporting Timepieces (1530), and His Treatise on Triangulation (1533).” Isis 22:469–506. Taton, René. 1987. “Picard et la Mesure de la Terre.” In Jean Picard et les débuts de l’astronomie de précision au XVIIe siècle, ed. Guy Picolet, 207–26. Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique.

Geodetic Surveying by the German States. See Topo-

graphical Surveying: Topographical and Geodetic Surveying in the German States Geodetic Surveying by Great Britain. At the start of the last half of the seventeenth century, Britain had yet to make its particular contribution to the mapmaking sciences. The country had not lacked excellent mapmakers such as Christopher Saxton and John Speed. However, mapmakers, chartmakers, and surveyors still struggled to achieve a mutually acceptable standard (and definition) for the natural geographical mile. John Davis had published The Seamans Secrets in 1595, a treatise on navigation that remained influential for some sixty years, in which he recognized the commonly understood relationship between angular latitude and linear miles.

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He stated that a degree of a great circle was “20 leages, which is 60 mile,” therefore a minute of arc was a mile of “1000 paces, every pace 5 foote” (i.e., the Roman mile), and a degree was therefore 300,000 feet (91.44 km) (Davis 1595, B4). However, he acknowledged that the estimate for the length of a degree lacked any precision. By the mid-seventeenth century, the 66-foot (22.12 m) chain devised by Edmund Gunter, professor of astronomy at Gresham College, provided English land surveyors with a reliable standard of length. Its measure of 66 feet, or 22 yards of 100 links, was chosen because it was a multiple of the standardized English 16½ foot perch (rod or pole). The same could not be said of the seaman’s nautical mile. Widely accepted as the linear equivalent of a minute of arc, the value for the nautical mile varied substantially. A contemporary of Davis, the mathematician Thomas Blundeville, calculated a nautical mile to be 4,166 feet (1.27 km) based on a degree of latitude being 2,500 fathoms of 5 feet. The mathematician William Oughtred proposed 5,830 feet (1.78 km) assuming a degree of 66¼ statute miles each of 5,280 feet (Glover 2001, 11). It was to answer these uncertainties that Richard Norwood undertook the first measurement of a degree of latitude in Britain. Norwood, a surveyor and mathematician, began his career in the coastal trade, receiving a rudimentary education in mathematics and navigation. In 1613 he journeyed to Bermuda, where he surveyed and mapped the islands from 1614 to 1617. After a brief period as surveyor to the Virginia Company, Norwood exploited his knowledge of mathematics and navigation as a tutor and author of a number of influential mathematical text books including Trigonometrie (1631) and The Seamans Practice (1637). In the latter work he described his observations and calculations for determining the length of the contentious nautical mile. For this first reliable measurement undertaken in Britain, Norwood used a five-foot-radius sextant to measure the meridian altitude of the sun observed near the Tower of London on 11 June 1633, finding an altitude of 62°01′, giving 51°30′ latitude. For the north end of his baseline, Norwood chose York, a city found to be some 170 miles distant from London through a combination of chaining with a Gunter’s chain and matched pacing. On 11 June 1635, Norwood observed the solar meridian altitude at York of 59°33′, giving 53°58′ latitude; the difference in latitude from London to York was therefore 2°28′. He divided the distance from London to York, adjusted for the terrain, by the difference in latitude from the solar altitudes, giving him a value for the nautical mile of 6,120 feet (1.87 km; the modern International Nautical Mile is 1,852 meters exactly, or 6,076 feet). That his nautical mile was a mere 44 feet too great is

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remarkable given the instruments of the period. However, the importance of Norwood’s determination is not that he achieved an apparently reliable result (York lay a degree west of London and a straight line route would have been impossible), but that he recognized the importance of an accurate value for the nautical mile and was the first Briton to measure it. Norwood’s determination, applied to the spherical earth, gave it radius of 21,037,635 feet. Despite these achievements, Norwood had to return to Bermuda in 1638 to escape persecution for his religious beliefs, dying there in 1675. Similar work to determine the size of the (spherical) earth came in France in 1669 when the abbé Jean Picard measured a meridian arc near Paris by triangulation using a quadrant with a three-foot (1.03 m) radius and observed its terminal latitudes with a long (3.25 m) zenith sector fitted with a telescope and (probably) the first use of fine cross-wires at the focus point (see figs. 265 and 396). Picard’s length for a degree of latitude was 57,060 toises (365,184 feet; 111.21 km) (Danson 2006, 23–24) making the earth’s radius 20,890,809 feet and a nautical mile 6,086.4 feet; a result close to Norwood’s and remarkably similar to modern measures. Worldwide trade by the maritime nations stimulated a demand for better navigation solutions, which, in turn, called for precise star charts for marine use. Apart from the Pole Star, few star positions were accurately known. To overcome this paucity of data, the Greenwich Royal Observatory was established in 1675. The shape of the earth was held by most scholars to be a sphere. In 1687, Isaac Newton reached his dramatic conclusion that the earth was in fact flattened at the poles because of the effects of its daily rotation and, importantly for geodesy, speculated that the gravity of a mountain’s mass might be sufficient to deflect a plummet, a theory that became known as the attraction of mountains. Interest in measurements of angle and distance during the early seventeenth century was principally limited to land surveyors and the more mathematically sophisticated mapmakers. At sea, mariners had benefit of tables of latitude, a means of observation with Davis’s back staff (1594), and Norwood’s value for the nautical mile (1635). With the invention of the telescope and its adaptation to astronomy, practical astronomers were beginning to map the heavens. On land, surveyors had the benefit of Gunter’s chain (1620), the principal instrument in estate surveying for distance measurment, as well as the circumferentor and the first theodolites for angular measures. They also enjoyed the availability of many textbooks on surveying methods and rudimentary land law. The general increase in land rents toward the end of the century and the slow rise of the enclosure movement led to increases in land value and the consequent need for better instruments to measure field areas

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more quickly and accurately. The combination of better instrumentation and mathematical training opened the way toward the radicalization of geodesy during the next century. It was important for geodesy that secondary education for the sons of the more affluent artisans provided an improved and plentiful source of land surveyors to meet the hugely increased demand for accurate plats. Their practical education included mathematics, geometry, and trigonometry as well as instruction in the use of John Napier’s logarithms for complex calculation. By the first decades of the eighteenth century, both Cambridge and Oxford had consolidated the teaching of mathematics and geometry in their curricula. As education improved, so did the instruments of the surveyor and practical astronomer. Located along London’s Strand and Fleet Streets, the chief instrumentmakers included Jonathan Sisson, who advanced the art of circle division, improving the theodolite with the addition of a telescope, a graticule, and a horizontal bubble. In 1742, the Royal Society of London commissioned him to construct the first imperial standard yard. Made of brass and engraved by his young apprentice, John Bird, copies of the standard went to the Académie royale des sciences in France and to America in 1816 with Ferdinand Rudolf Hassler. For the Greenwich Observatory, George Graham constructed an 8-foot mural quadrant fitted with a vernier scale reading to 15′ of arc, and a 12½-foot (3.81 m) zenith sector for observing latitude by transiting stars. Bird, perhaps the finest of this group of instrumentmakers, took handmade divisions on instruments to their zenith. Between 1749 and 1767, Bird constructed an 8-foot mural quadrant, fitted with his tangent screw micrometer, for the Greenwich Observatory, and furnished many of the quadrants and sectors employed during the transit of Venus campaigns. The introduction of the achromatic lens, patented in 1758 by John Dollond and Peter Dollond, led to a great improvement in telescopes and allowed short, practical telescopes to be fitted to land survey instruments. The most innovative were those of Jesse Ramsden, who pioneered mechanical division, creating a family of exquisite, precise measuring instruments. While London was the center of British instrumentmaking, the trade also flourished across the country, since for their basic income craftsmen relied on satisfying the growing demands for land surveyors mapping the new enclosures and for the engineers contributing to the Industrial Revolution. Most learned commentators agreed that the earth was not round; it was either flattened, the Newtonian view, or elongated, a view held by some in France. Thanks to the work of Norwood and Picard, the all-important nautical mile had been established with an accuracy

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commensurate with the needs of good navigation. The next challenge was to determine the true shape of the earth and its precise dimensions. Britain took no major part in the early science of geodesy. The French Académie royale des sciences led the determination of the figure of the earth. In 1736–37 the expedition of Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis to Lapland gave the length of a degree in the meridian of 57,437.9 toises (367,602.56 feet) at the latitude of the Arctic Circle (Danson 2006, 35). The expeditions of Charles-Marie de La Condamine and Pierre Bouguer to Peru in the years 1735–43 determined the length of a degree at the latitude of the equator as 56,753 toises (363,219 feet) (Danson 2006, 40). While in Peru, Bouguer attempted to detect and measure Newton’s prediction for the attraction on mountains using the mass of Mount Chimborazo in the Andes. His value of 7.5 arc seconds seemed too small and Bouguer suspected the accuracy of his zenith sector. Nevertheless, he had demonstrated a practical method. When incorporated with the work of Picard, and later the Cassini family in France, the arcs in Lapland and Peru firmly established the flattened shape of the earth and gave for the first time a reliable value for its principal dimensions. All this work was carefully followed in Britain, but it was not until the advent of the 1761 transit of Venus and its possibility for measuring the solar parallax that serious scientific attention was paid. Led by the fellows of the Royal Society and, in particular, Astronomer Royal James Bradley, two expeditions were sent abroad: one to Benkulen (Bengkulu) in Sumatra and another to the South Atlantic island of Saint Helena. The Benkulen team comprised astronomer Charles Mason and land surveyor Jeremiah Dixon. Forced to divert to Cape Town, they successfully observed the transit and spent a number of months observing southern stars. Their colleague on Saint Helena was Nevil Maskelyne. These three men represent the beginnings of Britain’s geodetic work that culminated with the great surveys of India and Africa in the next century and the development of the first reference ellipsoids, or mathematically defined surfaces used to approximate and visualize a planetary body such as earth. In 1769, Mason and Dixon joined the hundreds of astronomers from across Europe and North America to observe the second transit of Venus. The recent completion by John Harrison of a successful chronometer, H4, provided a quick and accurate mechanical solution to finding the longitude, surpassing even Maskelyne’s lunar distance method. The perplexing enigma of the attraction of mountains remained contentious. Any precise earthly measurement dependent on the vertical as an index was, according to Newton, a candidate for susceptibility. Evidence for the

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existence of the attraction of mountains was mounting from the many gravity observations around the globe and the small inconsistencies apparent in some meridian arc measurements; all hinted toward the density of the earth, still unknown, not being completely consistent with a solid or even (as some contested) a hollow world. Maskelyne was firmly of the opinion that the aberrations were consistent with what might be expected from Newton’s attraction of mountains and set out to prove it. Under the auspices of the Royal Society, Maskelyne devised a simple but clever experiment, requiring either a deep valley or a moderate mountain oriented eastwest and preferably isolated from its peers. Maskelyne postulated that if the effect were real, then the latitude observations either side of such a defile or hill would be influenced by the change in mass occasioned and that, when converted to distance using Bouguer’s La figure de la Terre (1749), would differ from a directly measured distance. The difference between the two would be twice the value of any vertical deviation due to a discordance of gravity. In August 1773, Charles Mason traveled to Scotland to find a suitable site for Maskelyne’s experiment. By the end of October he reported finding a remarkable hill in the Scottish Highlands: Schiehallion. Mason declined the invitation to make the experiment because of ill health and inadequate recompense. The Royal Society turned instead to the mathematician Reuben Burrow to carry out the following instructions: first, to find by celestial observations the apparent difference of latitude between the two stations on the north and south sides of the hill; second, to find the distance between the parallels of latitude; and third, to determine the figure and dimensions of the hill (Maskelyne 1775, 508; Danson 2006, 119–20). After many difficulties, the fieldwork was completed on 24 October 1774. Maskelyne delivered a paper to the Royal Society on 6 July 1775, in which he announced that the difference between the measured distance between the northern and southern observatories and that derived from the latitude observations amounted to 11.6 arc seconds and, therefore, Schiehallion’s attraction, or the amount by which its mass deflected the plumb line, was 5.8 arc seconds (ca. 600 feet [182.9 m] over the ground). Maskelyne scarcely mentioned any of the many scientists and practitioners who assisted him, entirely dismissing Burrow “on account of his inferiority of education and situation in life” (quoted in Danson 2006, 195). For his experiment, Maskelyne was awarded the Society’s 1774 Copley Medal. Maskelyne had determined the deflection of the vertical; it only remained to calculate the volume and mass of the mountain and its gravitational attraction in order to derive a mean density of the earth itself. This task

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was awarded by the Royal Society to the mathematical genius Charles Hutton, who took almost four years to solve the riddle. His paper was presented to the Society’s fellows on 21 May 1778 (fig. 267). Hutton’s remarkable conclusions were that the ratio of Schiehallion’s gravitation attraction to that of the whole earth was 1:9,933; that the theoretical attraction of the mountain was 20.8 seconds of arc which, given Maskelyne’s observed 11.6 arc seconds, meant that the mountain was approximately 55 percent the density of the entire earth; and the mean density of the planet was approximately 4.5 times that of water. He acknowledged that the geological information he had at his disposal was limited in the extreme and that the world would have to wait for a more thorough examination of the density of the mountain’s rock (Danson 2006, 154). Hutton described a large four-foot-square map (no longer extant) used to set down the data acquired during the expedition, and he employed contour lines of the thousands of elevations calculated by Burrow (Hutton 1778, 714–15, 756–57, 780). In 1782, Burrow left England for a career in India. Between 1790 and 1791, with the encouragement of William Roy and the mathematician Isaac Dalby and with funds from the East India Company, he measured a degree of longitude and another of latitude in Bengal, the first arcs measured in India. In 1802, William Lambton began work on the Great Arc of India, a network of triangles extending from Bangalore south to Cape Comorin. The early years of the eighteenth century saw a rapid improvement in the quality and quantity of land surveying instruments available to the surveyors servicing the agricultural community. That said, the majority of land surveyors throughout the century preferred to work with a chain only. Angle-measuring instruments were limited to the more affluent surveyors. The invention of John Hadley’s double reflecting octant (or quadrant) in 1730 and the sextant in the latter half of the century radically improved the measurement of latitude at sea. Combined with Tobias Mayer’s and Maskelyne’s lunar distance tables, determining longitude became ever more precise. Finally, Harrison’s invention of the chronometer made the business of finding a reliable longitude simple and precise. Although an expensive piece of equipment (ca. £60 for a good “marine watch”), by the close of the century most foreign-going British vessels carried one. The invention of the dividing engine and achromatic lenses in the second half of the century led to the construction of extremely precise instruments for both astronomical and geodetic observations. Baseline measurements improved significantly with the introduction of precisely calibrated rods and chains, and the process of

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Fig. 267. A SKETCH OF SCHEHALLIEN, WITH PART OF THE HILLS, AND OTHER PLACES ADJACENT, 1778. From Hutton 1778, pl. XI.

© The British Library Board, London.

triangulation became widely accepted as the most precise and rapid means for establishing mapping control. The work of Mason and Dixon in America, that of Burrow on Schiehallion, and Roy’s great triangulation led to the development of advanced measuring methods and the disciplines necessary for precise determinations. The use of calibration techniques and the application of corrections for temperature, atmospheric pressure, and tension allowed these first geodetic surveyors to achieve remarkably accurate (standardized) measures of length. The certainty of the attraction of mountains, measured by Maskelyne, cautioned geodesists to be aware of the effect and encouraged the collection of data from around the world. By the close of the century, the basic principles and a growing awareness of the strange effects of natural phenomena on geodetic observations were in place for the geodesists of the nineteenth century to develop, explore, and understand the mechanics that make geodesy one of the most fascinating of the natural sciences.

See also: Academies of Science: Great Britain; Great Britain; Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain); Greenwich-Paris Triangulation; Mason-Dixon Line; Roy, William Bibliography Broglio, Ron. 2002. “Mapping British Earth and Sky.” Wordsworth Circle 33:70–76. Close, Charles Frederick. 1926. The Early Years of the Ordnance Survey. Chatham: Institution of Royal Engineers. Danson, Edwin. 2001. Drawing the Line: How Mason and Dixon Surveyed the Most Famous Border in America. New York: John Wiley & Sons. ———. 2006. Weighing the World: The Quest to Measure the Earth. New York: Oxford University Press. Davis, John. 1595. The Seamans Secrets. London: Thomas Dawson. Glover, William. 2001. “Of Inches and Miles.” Argonauta: The Newsletter of the Canadian Nautical Research Society 18, no. 4:10–12. Hutton, Charles. 1778. “An Account of the Calculations Made from the Survey and Measures Taken at Schehallien, in Order to Ascertain the Mean Density of the Earth.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London 68:689–788. Maskelyne, Nevil. 1775. “An Account of Observations Made on the Mountain Schehallien for Finding Its Attraction.” Philosophical Transactions 65:500–542. Mudge, William, and Isaac Dalby. 1799–1811. An Account of the Op-

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erations Carried on for Accomplishing a Trigonometrical Survey of England and Wales. 3 vols. London: Printed by W. Bulmer and Co. for W. Faden. Reeves, Nicky, 2009. “‘To Demonstrate the Exactness of the Instrument’: Mountainside Trials of Precision in Scotland, 1774.” Science in Context 22:323–40. Richeson, A. W. 1966. English Land Measuring to 1800: Instruments and Practices. Cambridge: Society for the History of Technology and M.I.T Press. Skinner, F. G. 1967. Weights and Measures: Their Ancient Origins and Their Development in Great Britain up to 1855. London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office.

Geodetic Surveying by the Italian States. In 1655 the

Italian Jesuit Giovanni Battista Riccioli, with the help of his fellow Jesuit Francesco Maria Grimaldi, produced a calculated estimation of the earth’s size, the first effort in Italy to do so. The century that followed opened with the work of Monsignor Francesco Bianchini, who produced a partial correction of the geodetic alignment of the Italian peninsula and, between 1717 and 1725, carried out astronomical and trigonometrical measurements in order to produce a map of the Duchy of Urbino. Italy’s more substantial contribution to both the practice and theory of geodesy developed from the middle of the century onward. As part of scientific research aimed at defining the terrestrial spheroid, geodesy formed a necessary basis for “protogeometric” cartography (Cantile 2004); as Elio Manzi (1987, 338) points out, it was one of the cultural products of what Giambattista Vico described as the recurring tension between “truth” and “certain knowledge.” Credit for the realization that “only precision greater than that actually necessary for the drawing of maps would provide material and data of high scientific interest” (Mori 1922, 4) lies almost exclusively with Jesuit and Piarist scientists (the Piarist order was founded in seventeenth century by Saint Joseph Calasanz and devoted to education and scientific research). Not only were they responsible for Italy’s main achievements in geodesy during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, they also trained the ranks of scholars and technicians who would play a decisive role in nascent official cartography within the peninsula (Cantile 2007). The first such work was carried out in the years 1750– 53 within the Papal States, when the Jesuits Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich and Christopher Maire measured the arc of meridian between Rome and Rimini (Maire and Boscovich 1755). The two scientists prepared a trigonometric network of nine large triangles spanning about two degrees of latitude for an arc of 2°9ʹ46ʺ (fig. 268). To measure the length of this arc, they established two geodetic baselines at the ends of the span: one in Rome (running along the Via Appia from the Tomb of Cecilia Metella to Frattocchie) and the other at Rimini (running from the mouth of the Ausa River to-

Fig. 268. THE TRIANGULATION OF THE ECCLESIASTICAL STATES. From Maire and Boscovich 1755, tab. 1. Size of the original: 19.0 × 15.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Stephen S. Clark Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (QB 296 P2 M2).

ward Pesaro). The baselines were measured using three rods of seasoned wood, each 27 palmi romani (6.03 m) long, which were calibrated against an iron toise copied from the toise de Pérou owned by Jean-Jacques Dortous de Mairan. Over the following decades, the measurement of the Via Appia baseline was rechecked several times, with a new measurement ultimately determined by the Jesuit Angelo Secchi (Borchi and Cantile 2000). The angles at the vertices of the network and the relative azimuths at Rome and Rimini were measured with a quadrant 3 piedi romani (0.89 m) in diameter; the absolute latitudes at the ends of the arc of meridian were determined using a circular sector 9 piedi in diameter (2.68  m). The results achieved—56,979 toises per degree—did not agree with the previous measurements for the length of a degree of arc obtained along the southern section of the French meridian. These differences led Boscovich to claim that their measurements confirmed Newton’s theory; he explained the discrepancies between the experimental data as due to the effect of mountain masses on the plumb line. The work of these two “indefatigable gentlemen” (Pedley 1993) provided the geometric framework for Maire’s Nuova carta geo-

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grafica dello Stato Ecclesiastico (1755, ca. 1:375,000), the first geodetic map produced in Italy (see fig. 90). Boscovich’s conclusions required further testing to establish whether the Alps did indeed cause the plumb line to deviate from the vertical. In 1759, the king of Sardinia, Carlo Emanuele III, commissioned the Piarist cleric Giovanni Battista Beccaria to carry out further measurements. From 1760 to 1764 Beccaria measured a trigonometric network stretching from Mondovì (Monregalese) to Andrate, covering just over one degree of latitude (arc length 1°7ʹ54ʺ) and composed of seven triangles with its geodetic baseline stretching from Turin to Rivoli. He used iron bars of about 6 piedi parigini long (1.96 m) to measure the baseline and a quadrant with a 300 linee (0.68 m) radius to measure the angles at the vertices and to take astronomical measurements at the ends of the network. To test the hypothesis that the proximity of the Alps caused a deviation from the vertical, Beccaria divided the arc of meridian into two parts—to the north and south of Turin. This gave him two different readings of the average degree of latitude along the meridiana Andratensis and the meridiana Monregalensis; once again, both measurements differed from the French measurements. These results convinced Beccaria of the truth of Boscovich’s theory ([Beccaria] 1774). However César-François Cassini (III) de Thury disagreed, claiming that the differences with respect to the French meridian were due solely to inaccuracies in the geodetic procedures, a view shared by Franz Xaver von Zach. It was only when the astronomers Giovanni Plana and Francesco Carlini made more accurate measurements that the conclusions from Beccaria’s experiment were accepted in principle, despite all the objective limits to the accuracy of his network. Beccaria’s work was furthered in 1788 by Father Salvatore Lirelli, who extended the network with fifty new triangles, although they were not measured with any great accuracy (Mori 1922, 9–12). Within the Duchy of Milan, Boscovich was a rather isolated figure when he carried out his astronomical and geodetic measurement in 1762, but thanks to government commissions to the Jesuits Barnaba Oriani, Francesco Reggio, and Giovanni Angelo de Cesaris, geodetic work was carried forward. All members of the Brera Observatory, they measured an arc of meridian and prepared a topographical map of the duchy. From 1788 to 1791, they determined a trigonometric network stretching from the Alps to the area of Piacenza and across to the borders of the Veneto; the geodetic base was calculated near Somma Lombardo, on the left bank of the Ticino. Distances were measured using three sophisticated T-shaped iron rods (longimetri), twice the length of the standard toise of the Paris Observatory,

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itself copied from the toise de Pérou (Reggio 1794). For their trigonometric procedures the astronomers used a mobile quadrant with a radius of 1.5 piedi (0.49 m) and three different Troughton theodolites, while the measurement of astronomical coordinates at the Brera Observatory was made with a mural quadrant with a radius of 8 English feet (2.44 m) specially built by Jesse Ramsden. Their work, inspired by the famous Carte de France, bore cartographic fruit, and a final image was drafted and engraving begun in 1792–93 (fig. 269); the ten-sheet Carta topografica del Milanese e Mantovano was finally printed in 1804–7 (ca. 1:86,400) (Combi 1930; see also fig. 306). In the Venetian Republic, Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni in 1776 calculated a small trigonometric network for his map, La gran carta del Padovano (1780–81, ca. 1:20,000; see fig. 422). However, it was only during the Austrian occupation after 1797 that regular survey work began to cover the entire territory of the former Republic. Headed by General Anton von Zach—brother of the aforementioned Franz Xaver—the survey team calculated a trigonometric network from four geodetic baselines; the first one, the most famous of these, measured in the immediate vicinity of Padua (from the city’s Porta Santa Croce to Pozzovigiano) and the other baselines measured respectively on the left bank of the Piave River, in Passariano, and in the land of Schwarzaneck in Carinthia. Measurements of the first baseline were obtained with four rods of seasoned wood, each measuring 4 Viennese klafter (7.59 m) and calibrated against a copy of the French toise; the angles at the vertices of the network were, however, calculated using quadrants of no great precision. War temporarily stopped the geodetic and topographic work, which was concluded in 1805; its results served the production of the unpublished “Topographisch-geometrische Kriegskarte von dem Herzogthum Venedig,” consisting of 120 sheets (Sectionen), at 1:28,800 scale, with military descriptions (Militarische Beschreibungen) (Rossi 2005), and the published map, Das Herzogthum Venedig / Il Ducato di Venezia (1806, ca. 1:234,000). The results of this survey were so uncertain from a scientific point of view that Franz Xaver von Zach intervened to correct the locations of various points. In the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, 1750 marked the first of the three commissions given to the Jesuit scientist Leonardo Ximenes to create a map “founded on geometric bases” (Mori 1905, 373). However, even though numerous maps were prepared with each serving specific purposes, no solid geodetic work was ever carried out throughout the eighteenth century (Rombai 1987, 296). Repeated calls for such cartographic projects all came to nothing; neither the regency governments of

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Fig. 269. GIOVANNI ANGELO DE CESARIS, FRANCESCO REGGIO, AND BARNABA ORIANI, CARTA TOPOGRAFICA DEL MILANESE E MANTOVANO ESEGUITA DIETRO LE PIÙ ESATTE DIMENSIONI GEOGRAFICHE ED OSSERVAZIONI ASTRONOMICHE, ENGRAVED (1792– 93) AND PRINTED (1804–7), FOGLIO 1, SCALE 1:86,400. The three Jesuits measured an arc of meridian and prepared a

topographical map of the duchy after determining a trigonometric grid stretching from the Alps to the area of Piacenza and across to the borders with the Veneto from 1788 to 1791. (For a detail from another sheet of this map, see fig. 306.) Size of the original: 54 × 87 cm. Reproduced with permission of the Istituto geografico militare, Florence (authorization n. 6934 dated 03.15.2017).

1737–65 nor Grand Duke Leopold I of Tuscany (later Emperor Leopold II) showed the political will and determination necessary for such an undertaking. Failing to understand the social and scientific importance of such work, its leaders allowed Tuscany to trail behind in geodetic surveying (Cantile 2008). In the Kingdom of Naples, on the other hand, thanks to the enlightened initiative of the abbé Ferdinando Galiani, Rizzi Zannoni set to work. From 1781 onward he became the first to undertake systematic geodetic surveys in southern Italy, laying the baselines for one of the most important cartographic projects in Europe (Valerio 1993). Rizzi Zannoni established the fortress of Sant’Elmo in Naples as the origin of his geodetic frame of reference. He then established the absolute latitudes of Lecce and Capo Santa Maria di Leuca and measured

two geodetic baselines (one in the plain between Caserta and Caivano, the other near Lecce). From these he proceeded to make a general triangulation of the kingdom (three volumes of manuscripts, his “Observations astronomiques et géometriques,” can be consulted in the Biblioteca Attilio Mori at the Istituto geografico militare, Florence). He determined the astronomical coordinates of the Sant’Elmo fortress with a Ramsden quadrant 2 feet (0.62 m) in radius but measured the baselines of Caserta and Lecce with walnut rods standardized against a special iron chain that had been compared “with a standard that was kept in the Customs House” (Firrao 1868, 6). Using a Ramsden graphomètre 1.5 feet (0.46 m) in diameter, he measured the angles of the vertices of the triangles, starting from the Orlando Tower in Gaeta. Finally he joined all these measurements to the

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Fig. 270. GIOVANNI ANTONIO RIZZI ZANNONI, GULF OF NAPLES, 1794. From his Atlante geografico del Regno di Napoli (Naples, 1788–1812), foglio 14, scale ca. 1:114,000. From 1781 onward Rizzi Zannoni was the first to undertake systematic geodetic surveys in southern Italy.

Size of the original: ca. 53 × 78 cm. Reproduced with permission of the Istituto geografico militare, Florence (authorization n. 6934 dated 03.15.2017) (Archivio cartografico, Gruppo 11, n. 28 d’ordine, Cartella d’Archivio 85, Documento n. 6).

geodetic network of the Papal States. Thus, based on the assumption that the earth is a sphere, he obtained the length of the arc of meridian between Capo Santa Maria di Leuca and Naples and between Naples and Rome. All of Rizzi Zannoni’s work in the geodetic field was designed purely for use in cartography, which means that on a scientific level it cannot be compared to work carried out with more rigorous standards. Nevertheless, it did result in the completion of the most wide-ranging cartographic project within Italy to date: the famous Atlante geografico del Regno di Napoli (1788–1812, ca. 1:114,500) (fig. 270). Other Italian states made few original contributions to geodesy; in the Republic of Genoa there were no initiatives (Quaini 1986), while in the Duchy of Modena the topographical work of Domenico Vandelli included the Stati del serenissimo signor duca di Modena in Italia (1746, ca. 1:200,000). After the French occupation, the geodetic network already established for Lombardy was

also extended, covering the duchies of Modena, Parma, and Piacenza. Finally, in the Kingdom of Sicily the baron Samuel von Schmettau, quartermaster general in the Austrian army, undertook a topographical survey on his own initiative but with the approval of Prince Eugene of Savoy, from 1719 to 1721, with a team of six military engineers including Lieutenant Michel (Miguel) Angelo de Blasco (Dufour 1995, 25–50). On his return to Vienna in 1721, Schmettau supervised Blasco in the preparation of two manuscript maps at 1:80,000. By 1723 a printed version ca. 1:321,000 appeared under the title Nova et accurata Siciliæ . . . Descriptio universalis (see fig. 305). The printed map bore the claim that it was based on astronomic observations, and there is no evidence that it was based on a geodetic framework (Dufour 1995, 35–38). And rea Cantile See also: Boscovich, Ruggiero Giuseppe; Italian States; Rizzi Zannoni, Giovanni Antonio

Geodetic Surveying B i bliogra p hy [Beccaria, Giovanni Battista]. 1774. Gradus Taurinensis. Turin: Ex Typographia Regia. Borchi, Emilio, and Andrea Cantile. 2000. “La nuova base geodetica dell’Appia antica.” In Eventi e documenti diacronici delle principali attività geotopocartografiche in Roma, ed. Andrea Cantile, 138–61. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Cantile, Andrea. 2004. “La prima cartografia proto-geometrica italiana.” In Rappresentare e misurare il mondo: Da Vespucci alla modernità, ed. Andrea Cantile, Giovanna Lazzi, and Leonardo Rombai, 63–81. Florence: Polistampa. ———. 2007. “Sulla nascita della cartografia ufficiale italiana: Gesuiti, scolopi, laici e militari, tra le esigenze della polemologia, le occorrenze dell’amministrazione e le necessità della scienza.” In La cartografia in Italia: Nuovi metodi e nuovi strumenti dal Settecento ad oggi, ed. Andrea Cantile, 31–57. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. ———. 2008. “Le prime vicende della carta generale della Toscana granducale: Mezzo secolo di vagheggiamenti, aspirazioni e fallimenti.” In Toscana geometrica: La prima corografia geodetica regionale e il contributo dell’Osservatorio Ximeniano, ed. Andrea Cantile, 45–54. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Combi, Maria. 1930. Una carta topografica della Lombardia del secolo XVIII. Milan: F. Combi. Dufour, Liliane, ed. 1995. La Sicilia disegnata: La carta di Samuel von Schmettau, 1720–1721. Palermo: Società Siciliana per la Storia Patria. Firrao, Cesare. 1868. Sull’Officio Topografico di Napoli: Origine, e vicende. Naples: Tipografia dell’Unione. Maire, Christopher, and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich. 1755. De litteraria expeditione per pontificiam ditionem ad dimetiendos duos meridiani gradus et corrigendam mappam geographicam. Rome: In Typographio Palladis Excudebant Nicolaus, et Marcus Palearini. Manzi, Elio. 1987. “Illuminismo lombardo illuminismo napoletano: Cartografia e territorio.” Rivista Geografica Italiana 94:337–59. Mori, Attilio. 1905. “Studi, trattative e proposte per la costruzione di una carta geografica della Toscana nella seconda metà del secolo XVIII: Con lettere e documenti inediti di Leonardo Ximenes, G. D. Cassini, G. N. De l’Isle, C. M. De la Condamine, N. L. La Caille, T. Perelli ed altri.” Archivio Storico Italiano 35:369–424. ———. 1922. La cartografia ufficiale in Italia e l’Istituto Geografico Militare. Rome: Stabilimento Poligrafico per l’Amministrazione della Guerra. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1993. “‘I due valentuomini indefessi’: Christopher Maire and Roger Boscovich and the Mapping of the Papal States (1750–1755).” Imago Mundi 45:59–76. Quaini, Massimo, ed. 1986. Carte e cartografi in Liguria. Genoa: Sagep. Reggio, Francesco. 1794. “De mensione basis habita anno 1788 ab astronomis mediolanensibus.” Ephemerides Astronomicae anni 1794, Appendix, 1793, 20:3–20. Rombai, Leonardo. 1987. “Geografi e cartografi nella Toscana dell’Illuminismo: La politica lorenese di aménagement del territorio e le ragioni della scienza geografica.” Rivista Geografica Italiana 94:287–335. Rossi, Massimo, ed. 2005. Kriegskarte, 1798–1805: Il Ducato di Venezia nella carta di Anton von Zach. 3 vols. Treviso: Fondazione Benetton Studi Ricerche; Pieve di Soligo: Grafiche V. Bernardi. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. Società uomini e istituzioni cartografiche nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare.

Geodetic Surveying by Portugal. In Portugal during the reign of João V (1706–50), the need to redefine the

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borders of overseas territory with Spain stimulated the spread of new surveying methods. In 1720, the engenheiro-mor (principal engineer) of the kingdom, Manoel de Azevedo Fortes, began to reform teaching in the military academies to produce capable engineers skilled in surveying and large-scale mapmaking techniques. To achieve this, Azevedo Fortes published his Tratado do modo o mais facil, e o mais exacto de fazer as cartas geograficas (1722) and O engenheiro portuguez (1728–29), syntheses of French treatises available at the time (Bueno 2011, 101–2). Between 1722 and 1729, João V also established two astronomical observatories in Portugal (Bueno 2004, 232). The first concern of the Crown was the geodetic surveying of overseas territory, such as the urgent project “Novo atlas da América portuguesa” (Almeida 2001, 100–142). Instead of waiting for results from Azevedo Fortes, João V decided to contract Giovanni Battista Carbone and Domenico Capassi, Jesuit astronomers by profession, living in Naples, to start making the first maps with latitudes and longitudes observed in loco. Carbone was replaced by another Jesuit, the Portuguese Diogo Soares. These padres matemáticos (mathematician priests) made the first general maps of Brazil. After the Treaties of Madrid (1750) and San Ildefonso (1777), the Portuguese and Spanish sent expeditions to demarcate the new frontiers of their territory in South America. These expeditions integrated Portuguese and foreign military engineers and astronomers who were charged with the difficult task of surveying and also with making astronomical observations (Ferreira 2001, 91–114). Some of the astronomers contracted at that time by the Portuguese government, like the Italian Miguel António Ciera, later returned to Portugal, where they played an important role in beginning geodetic work there. In Portugal, geodetic work effectively began only toward the end of the eighteenth century after the creation of the Academia Real das Sciências de Lisboa (1779). The subject of the “Carta geral do reino” was analyzed and discussed at the Academia by astronomers and mathematicians in the late 1780s. Portuguese astronomer Custódio Gomes de Vilas Boas presented his opinion to the secretary of the Academia, dated October 1789, in which he expressed the views of other members and demonstrated that their proposal was quite different from the way the work was to be carried out starting the following year (Dias 2003, 384–85). In 1790, a government order placed the mathematician and astronomer Francisco António Ciera, a professor at the Academia Real da Marinha, in charge of the construction of the “Carta geral do reino” and the measurement of the meridian degree, following the example of other European models (Ciera was the son of

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instruments developed by José Monteiro da Rocha, and, in 1796, another measurement in the central part of the country (Buarcos-Monte Redondo). From 1793 the team observed angles with a repeating circle made by George Adams Jr. and ordered from England. By the end of the eighteenth century, there was a network with a considerable number of points, but it did not extend beyond Serra da Estrela in the north. However, many points were established along the coast, and the triangulation of the harbor of Lisbon was completed. Ciera’s geodetic work was synthesized in the Carta dos principaes triangulos das operaçoens geodezicas de Portugal (ca.1:1,800,000, 1803), one of the rare maps printed by the Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica, under the direction of the French officer Louis André Dupuis. Brought to London, the map was surreptitiously translated and published by Aaron Arrowsmith in 1805. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the “Carta geral do reino” was finally begun, at 1:10,000, but work was suspended in 1804 by the political difficulties of the time. Not until 1835 were the geodetic works reinitiated by Pedro Folque and his son Filipe. Maria Helena Dias and Beatriz Picco lo tto Si q uei ra Bueno

Fig. 271. FRANCISCO ANTÓNIO CIERA, MAP OF THE POINTS AND THE SERIES OF TRIANGLES FOR MEASURING THE DEGREE OF THE MERIDIAN BETWEEN 37° AND 43°45ʹN, 1791. Manuscript, ca. 1:2,000,000. The first geodetic network of Portugal, designed and signed by Ciera, based on the surveys of 1790–91 directed by him. Size of original: 49 × 40 cm. Image courtesy of Portugal/Gabinete de Estudos Arqueológicos da Engenharia Militar/Direção de Infraestruturas do Exército, Lisbon (4361/I-4-49-82).

the above-mentioned Miguel António Ciera, surveyor of South American boundaries). Two official engineers worked with Ciera: the Portuguese Carlos Frederico de Caula and the Catalan Pedro Folque. They traveled throughout Portugal during the first expeditions (1790–91), choosing the most appropriate high points from which to observe. Those travels were described in a manuscript report, “Viagem geografica & astronomica pelo Reino de Portugal p.a a construsão da carta topografica e determinasão do gráo do meridiano” (Lisbon, Arquivo Histórico Militar). In the autumn of 1791, the observations were extended to Galiza (Galicia), in collaboration with Spanish officials. The result of these first expeditions was a map with the first geodetic network of Portugal (fig. 271). In 1793 a short geodetic baseline was measured near Lisbon (Batel-Montijo), an operation repeated in the following year with measurements made by Ciera with

See also: Administrative Cartography in Portugal; Portugal Bibliography Almeida, André Ferrand de. 2001. A formação do espaço brasileiro e o projecto do Novo atlas da América portuguesa (1713–1748). Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Bueno, Beatriz Piccolotto Siqueira. 2004. “A produção de um território chamado Brasil.” In Laboratório do mundo: Idéias e saberes do século XVIII, ed. Artur Soares Alves et al., 229–43. São Paulo: Pinacoteca; Imprensa Oficial. ———. 2011. Desenho e desígnio: O Brasil dos engenheiros militares (1500–1822). São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo. Dias, Maria Helena. 2003. “As explorações geográficas dos finais de Setecentos e a grande aventura da Carta geral do reino de Portugal.” Revista da Faculdade de Letras: Geografia 19:383–96. Ferreira, Mário Olímpio Clemente. 2001. O Tratado de Madrid e o Brasil meridional: Os trabalhos demarcadores das partidas do sul e a sua produção cartográfica (1749–1761). Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Folque, Filipe. 1841. Memoria sobre os trabalhos geodesicos executados em Portugal. Vol. 1. Lisbon: Academia Real das Sciencias.

Geodetic Surveying by Spain. Jorge Juan and Antonio de

Ulloa, two renowned Spanish geodesists, participated in the French scientific expedition to Peru. This experience garnered numerous honors on their return to Madrid, and their detailed expedition report, Relacion historica del viage a la America Meridional (1748), to secretary of state Zenón de Somodevilla y Bengoechea, marqués de la Ensenada, brought his patronage. Juan was familiar with the geodetic principles established by Jean Picard as a foundation for geodetic surveying in France; he incorporated these principles in his proposals for mapping Spain.

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Ensenada was aware of the political importance of maps and the necessity of having a map of Spain prepared with geometric reliability that the administration could use to support its plans. In the memoir he presented to the king in 1753, he referred to geographic maps and affirmed: “The benefit that this provision will produce [is] not [only] for the knowledge of the exact position of each place; it will provide at a glance the extent of the territory, the exact boundaries of each province, the course of the rivers, the areas that they irrigate and their navigation, the use and exploitation of the lands. . . . and other important information leading to good government and the promotion of commerce” (quoted in Capel 1982, 150). Ensenada’s interest in cartography on a global level was complemented by his more local interest in the cadastre, set out in his “Proyecto de una única contribución en la Corona de Castilla” and elaborated in a royal decree of Fernando VI published in October 1749. Juan described his first project in his “Instrucción de lo que se ha de observar . . . en la formación de los Mapas generales de España” (also attributed to Juan and Ulloa jointly). A manuscript of the “Instrucción” for this innovative cartographic project is preserved in the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid, although its date of presentation is unknown. Juan recommended the construction of an accurate map of Spain based upon a geodetic network of triangles centered along one of the sides of a central triangle. The three chapters of the description of the project—geography, hydrography, and astronomy—detail all the geodetic measurements and type of geographic information to be recorded. One example of such an instruction refers to the error of closure of a triangle: “If the error exceeds six minutes it is mandatory to find out where this error comes from by observing again the three angles” (para. 24, p. 10). Juan also describes the angle-measuring instruments to be used: “A metal graduated quadrant, of nine inches radius and with all the pieces according to its usage, and a telescope of four lenses” (para. 30, p. 53) (Ruiz Morales and Ruiz Bustos 2005, 64, 66). Training survey works were carried out in Toledo, but unfortunately no written report is preserved. Juan’s second project, “Método de levanter y dirigir el mapa ó plano general de España,” was presented to Ensenada in 1751 but not published until 1809. The technical considerations of the first project are included there, although generalized. Some aspects of this project are more precise than the first, such as the expected completion date. The geodetic foundations of the project included measuring a baseline in the center of Spain, although reduced by two or three leagues from the recommended length of Juan’s first project. Juan’s proposed configuration of the triangular network was unusual in an unexpected way. Instead of following the French

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method of establishing chains of triangles along meridians and parallels, Juan proposed “eight series of triangles [to] be set up from the baseline, following the eight needle bearings to the end of the kingdom,” to follow the cardinal points of the compass (Juan 1809, 144). These two geodetic proposals, large and all-encompassing for eighteenth-century Spain, were frustrated by Ensenada’s fall from power in 1754 due to political intrigues, which put an end to all the minister’s cartographic plans. Nonetheless, Juan’s projects served Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel in his instructions for the survey of the coast of the Iberian Peninsula. Tofiño established triangular chains along the coast, measuring several baselines, and making angular observations. Complementary astronomical observations helped to calculate the latitude and longitude of single points (fig. 272). The fieldwork, carried out between 1783 and 1788, led to the production of the Atlas marítimo de España, containing the first Spanish maps compiled using contemporary geodetic methods. As part of their program of cartographic renewal, Juan and Ulloa proposed to Ensenada that Tomás López be sent to Paris to learn the art of engraving and geographic mapmaking. Although López stated later that the purpose of his sojourn was to learn how to make a map of Spain, his important compilation of cartographic information lacked geometric reliability because it wasn’t based on any geodetic network. Nevertheless, López played a major role in creating the Cuerpo de Ingenieros Cosmógrafos de Estado established by his good friend the prime minister, Manuel Godoy (Ruiz Morales 2003, 40–42). The ordinance of the Cuerpo, signed by King Carlos IV in August 1796, incorporated the need to create a geometric chart of the kingdom. The first surveys were carried out four years later in Catalonia and Galicia, but no documents are preserved. Unfortunately, the Cuerpo de Ingenieros Cosmógrafos was suppressed by a royal order of the government on 31 August 1804. It would take another fifty years before the creation of an institution, the Dirección de la Carta Geográfica de España, that could establish a geodetic network based on a central baseline at Madridejos (Toledo). Nonetheless, at the end of the eighteenth century other geodetic work took place in Spain along the frontier, stemming from the prolongation of the meridian of France to south of Barcelona, performed in order to define the geodetic meter. Pierre-François-André Méchain was in charge of these operations up to the eastern coasts of Spain, and after his death his successors Jean-Baptiste Biot and François Arago expanded the triangulation network to include the Balearic Islands. Various Spanish geodesists collaborated with them, including José Rodríguez González. During the two years of the survey (1806–8), he supervised the triangulation of Majorca, uniting that network to those on Ibiza and

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Formentera (Ten 1996, 163–80). Rodríguez González further enhanced his scientific prestige by critically analyzing the geodetic works of William Mudge and Isaac Dalby in England, Nicolas-Louis de La Caille in South Africa, and William Lambton in India. His study appeared in the 1812 Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London as “Observations on the Measurement of Three Degrees of the Meridian Conducted in England by Lieut. Col. William Mudge.” Even though the results of this Balearic network helped to confirm the value of the meter, linking the triangles to the peninsula was not completed until well into the nineteenth century, with work supervised from 1865–85 by Carlos Ibáñez e Ibáñez de Ibero.

Geodetic Surveying by Sweden-Finland. In 1671, the French astronomer Jean Picard carried out measurements at Tycho Brahe’s old observatory Uranienborg together with Anders Spole, professor of astronomy at the University of Lund. It was then proposed that similar geodetic measurements be made on the ice between Stockholm and Torneå or another place in Norrland. In 1695, Spole joined an expedition from Uppsala to Torneå, although no measurements of the meridian arc were then carried out, due to lack of financial support. In 1732 Spole’s grandson Anders Celsius had started

a European study tour to perfect his astronomical skills and bring back to Sweden the most recent techniques. In 1734, he was in Paris where he came into contact with Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis. When the latter wanted to organize an expedition to test the theory of the flattening of the earth at the poles, Celsius suggested the Torne Valley as an ideal area, and in 1736 the French expedition got under way. The previous year Celsius had been in London, where he purchased a quadrant and other instruments with a view to establishing more precisely the difference in longitude between Uppsala and Torneå, Göteborg and Stockholm, and Åbo (Turku) and Uppsala. In the wake of Celsius, Daniel Ekström, a commissioner from Uppsala observatory, went to London to study the making of precision instruments for astronomical and survey purposes; he was eventually appointed director of manufacture of mathematical instruments in Sweden. Celsius became the Swedish specialist who accompanied the French expedition. His assistant was Anders Hellant, a native of Torneå and a student at Uppsala, later his pupil. When the measurements were done, the Frenchmen returned to Paris, while Celsius went back to Uppsala to complete work on his thermometer. As a result of the expedition, the first Swedish triangulation network was constructed between Torneå and Kittisvaara in 1736–37 and a map of the meridian and triangulation was published in 1738 (fig. 273). After working with the Maupertuis expedition, Hellant continued his own work in Lapland, observing eclipses of Jupiter’s moons at Torneå simultaneously with observations made at Uppsala, instrumentally locating ten places in Lappmark, producing his own map of Torne and Kemi Lappmark, and in 1752 determining the longitude of Kemiträsk, Inari, Utsjoki, and Vadsö, near Varanger Fjord. Hellant raised some objections to Maupertuis’s results, but a remeasurement of the meridian arc was not realized until 1801–3, with the support of the Kungliga Vetenskapsakademien and the government. It was carried out by the mathematician Jöns Svanberg. The land survey office, Lantmäterikontoret, in Stockholm had been suspicious of the French enterprise and delegated the land surveyor Nils Marelius to accompany the Frenchmen and at the same time learn as much as possible from them. During the 1740s Marelius continued to establish positions along the east coast between Karlskrona and Umeå. After 1752 his main achievement

(facing page) Fig. 272. DETAIL OF THE CENTRAL PORTION OF THE PLANO DEL PUERTO DE CADIZ BY VICENTE TOFIÑO DE SAN MIGUEL. Approximately 1:30,000, two maritime miles divided into decimes (= 12.3 cm), Madrid, 1789. To establish the outline of the Iberian coast, Tofiño used methods similar to the techniques of the Académie des sciences in France by projecting chains of carefully measured triangles

along the coastline complemented by angular and astronomical observations. The letters next to the soundings represent the nature of the sea floor: A, sand (arena); C, gravel (cascajo); L, ooze (lama); P, rock (piedra); and F, mud (fango). Size of the entire original: 56 × 86 cm; size of detail: ca. 42 × 29 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid (MV/29, C. 01, n. 006).

Ma r i o R u iz Mo rales See also: Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to; Spain; Ulloa, Antonio de, and Jorge Juan B i bliogra p hy Capel, Horacio. 1982. Geografía y matemáticas en la España del siglo XVIII. Barcelona: Oikos-tau. Juan, Jorge. 1809. “Método de levantar y dirigir el mapa ó plano general de España, con reflexîones á las dificultades que pueden ofrecerse: por Don Jorge Juan, Capitan de Navío de la Real Armada.” In Memorias sobre las observaciones astronómicas, hechas por los navegantes españoles en distintos lugares del globo, by José Espinosa y Tello, 2 vols., 1:143–55. Madrid: Imprenta Real. Ruiz Morales, Mario. 2003. Los ingenieros geógrafos: Origen y creación del Cuerpo. Madrid: Centro Nacional de Información Geográfica. Ruiz Morales, Mario, and Mónica Ruiz Bustos. 2000. “Los trabajos geodésicos de D. José Rodríguez González.” Topografía y Cartografía 17, no. 96:2–13; no. 97:6–21. ———. 2005. Jorge Juan y sus proyectos para un Mapa de España. Granada: Universidad de Granada/Fundación Jorge Juan. Ten, Antonio E. 1996. Medir el metro: La historia de la prolongación del arco de meridiano Dunkerque-Barcelona, base del sistema métrico decimal. Valencia: Instituto de Estudios Documentales e Históricos sobre la Ciencia, Universitat de València–C.S.I.C.

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Fig. 273. DETAIL FROM THE CARTE DE L’ARC DU MERIDIEN MESURE AU CERCLE POLAIRE, 1738. From Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, La figure de la Terre, déterminée par les observations (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1738), following p. 184. Detail showing the line of the meridian (“Meridien de Kittis”), the horizontal double line of the Arctic Circle (“Cercle Polaire”), the baseline measured across the frozen river (“Base de 7406 [toises] 5 [pieds] 2 [pouces]”), and the central portion of the geodetic triangulation. See figure 436 for a map of the entire triangulation. Size of the entire original: ca. 17 × 10 cm; size of detail: ca. 8.4  ×  8.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (QB 283 .M45).

was the marking and mapping of the long boundary between Sweden and Norway. For this task Ekström constructed a plane table alidade that incorporated a spirit level like that invented by the London maker Jonathan Sisson in 1734. The instrument combined the plane table’s ease of recording horizontal angles directly on a map with the ability to determine vertical angles (and hence, altitudes) across long distances. The Vetenskapsakademien encouraged the use of geodetic methods for surveying—triangulation and astronomical determination of position—particularly in border areas. The secretary of the academy Per Elvius (the younger) had in 1748 determined the longitude of Göteborg (Gothenburg) and emphasized the need for more accurate coordinates along Sweden’s west coast. In 1742–44 Jacob Faggot was secretary of the academy and urged the importance of mapping Finland. In Åbo (Turku) he enlisted the help of Jacob Gadolin, a professor of theology and a brilliant mathematician and astronomer. In 1748 Gadolin had established Åbo’s astronomical position and then provided the basis of triangulation measurements from the Swedish east coast to Helsingfors (Helsinki).

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An important result of the mapping of Finland after 1747 was the manuscript atlas by Eric af Wetterstedt, which was later called “Chartor öfver Stor Furstendömet Finland,” dedicated in 1775 to King Gustav III (Krigsarkivet, Stockholm, SE/KrA/0410/A/001). In 1771 af Wetterstedt became the head of the land survey of Finland, Finska lantmäterikontoret, and continued in this position until his death. His general map and four county maps of Finland (1775) were the basis for Finnish military reconnaissance mapping and eventually for Carl Petter Hällström’s maps included in Samuel Gustaf Hermelin’s atlas of Sweden (Geographiske chartor öfver Swerige). Beginning in the middle of the century, the measurement of altitude claimed growing attention. Barometers were being used for this purpose with increasing frequency, and a dissertation on the subject was written at the University of Lund in 1752 (Isaac Barck Larsson, “Dissertatio gradualis de altimetria geodætica”). In 1802 the botanist Göran Wahlenberg started his measurements of altitude in the Kemi Lappmark, culminating in his important book and map, Berättelse om mätningar och observationer för att bestämma lappska fjällens höjd och temperatur vid 67 graders polhöjd (1808). Ulla Eh rensvärd See also: Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to; Sweden-Finland Bibliography Amelin, Olov. 1999. Medaljens baksida: Instrumentmakaren Daniel Ekström och hans efterföljare i 1700-talets Sverige. Uppsala: Institutionen för Idé- och Lärdomshistoria. Lindroth, Sten. 1967. Kungl. Svenska Vetenskapsakademiens historia, 1739–1818. 2 vols. in 3. Stockholm: Kungl.Vetenskapsakademien. Richter, Herman. 1959. Geografiens historia i Sverige intill år 1800. Uppsala: Lärdomshistoriska Samfundet. Tobé, Erik. 1991. Anders Hellant: En krönika om sjuttonhundratalets märkligaste Tornedaling. Luleå: Tornedalica. ———. 2003. Anders Celsius och den franska gradmätningen i Tornedalen, 1736–37. Uppsala: Universitet. Widmalm, Sven. 1990. Mellan kartan och verkligheten: Geodesi och kartläggning, 1695–1860. Uppsala: Institutionen för Idé- och Lärdomshistoria.

Geodetic Surveying by Switzerland. Due to the small size

of the Old Confederation’s constituent polities, no countrywide geodetic survey was undertaken by the Swiss in the Enlightenment. There were individual regional maps, which were at least based on surveys made by a graphic triangulation, but the resulting maps, which were more or less of similar accuracy, remained limited to small surface areas. The correlation between the quality of the geodetic base and the system of government is well illustrated by a comparison with France. Around 1765 the Cassini Carte de France reached the western border of presentday Switzerland, whose standard map during the Enlightenment, Nova Helvetiae tabula geographica (by Johann Jakob Scheuchzer, 1712; see fig. 771), was then already five decades old (Rickenbacher 2007a, 25). Analyzing the accuracy of these two maps, it is apparent that the

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Fig. 274. CARTOGRAPHIC MODERNITY APPROACHED SWITZERLAND FROM THE WEST. Juxtaposition of the deformation grid of the Nova Helvetiae tabula geographica of 1712 (blue, mesh size 10 km) and the Carte de France from ca. 1765 (red, mesh size 2 km). The French achieved a homogeneous precision over large territories, while Swiss cartography reflected the political heterogeneity of the Confederation without internal coherence (Rickenbacher 2011, 253 [fig. 5-3]). Image courtesy of the author.

centrally organized kingdom of France achieved similar levels of exactitude over large distances, while the maps of the Confederation reflected the political heterogeneity of a Switzerland without internal coherence (fig. 274). The Carte de France also comprised roughly 2,000 square kilometers of current-day Swiss territory. The coordinates of numerous church spires calculated from the triangulations made by Cassini’s engineers are among the first geodetically determined values for Switzerland. Under the leadership of General Jean-Claude-Eléonor Le Michaud d’Arçon, the French expanded the “Carte géométrique des frontières de France” between 1779 and 1781 as far as the main crest of the Jura. Their military engineers (officiers du Génie) mapped approximately 2,560 square kilometers on a scale of 1:14,400. The triangulation for this map comprised 113 points in Swiss territory (Rickenbacher 2007a, 29). A few astronomical coordinates, mainly latitudinal, had been calculated in Switzerland by the first half of the eighteenth century. Yet, in contrast to France, a central government entity was lacking that could have articulated and implemented a geodetic survey project. This meant that the visionary ideas of Jacques-Barthélemy Micheli du Crest, who in 1754 had proposed a similar methodology in Switzerland as that conceived in France, were simply shelved. In 1757, on the initiative of Johannes Gessner and with the aid of the Physikalische Gesellschaft, Zurich’s first astronomical observatory was constructed on the roof of the Meise guildhall (moved to the Karlsturm of the Grossmünster in 1774). In 1772 Jacques-André Mallet founded the Geneva Observatory. There were also a few private astronomical observatories,

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but the geodetic projects of individual scientists remained limited to local areas and were not linked to one another. It was not until December 1785, when twenty-twoyear-old Hamburg native Johann Georg Tralles was appointed professor at the Berner Hohe Schule, that concrete steps were taken with regard to a geodetic survey. In 1790 Tralles published his Bestimmung der Höhen der bekanntern Berge des Canton Bern, which argued that the calculation of heights of mountains was absolutely necessary for the improvement of Swiss mapping, and this became the first geodetic project in the country. Together with his most notable pupil, Ferdinand Rudolf Hassler of Aarau, Tralles measured a thirteen-kilometer-long baseline in 1791 and again in 1797 in the Grosses Moos west of Bern, which was measured in 1834 for the third time and thereby formed one of the geodetic foundations for the Topographische Karte der Schweiz 1:100.000 (called the Dufour map) (Rickenbacher 2006). In 1792, Tralles’s achievements persuaded the Oekonomische Gesellschaft Bern to encourage the government of Bern to purchase a theodolite from Jesse Ramsden of three feet in diameter. The instrument, however, was not delivered until 1797 and, due to its weight, was not practical for observing from high mountain peaks. Hassler’s handwritten index of coordinates, the “Resultats principaux des mesures,” comprises fifty-one points on a surface area of approximately 11,500 square kilometers and forms the prime geodetic achievement of that era (Rickenbacher 2007b, 15). After the collapse of the Helvetic Republic (1798– 1803), both Tralles and Hassler left the country. Between 1803 and 1818, the Bureau topographique français de l’Helvétie mapped approximately 5,800 square kilometers of Swiss territory based on modern geodetic principles (Rickenbacher 2011, 313). After the breakdown of Napoleon’s empire, the countrywide geodetic survey of Switzerland was discontinued until the formation of the nation-state later in the nineteenth century under the leadership of Guillaume Henri Dufour. Martin Ri ckenbacher See also: Switzerland Bibliography Gugerli, David, and Daniel Speich. 2002. Topografien der Nation: Politik, kartografische Ordnung und Landschaft im 19. Jahrhundert. Zurich: Chronos Verlag. Rickenbacher, Martin. 2006. “Die Basismessungen im Grossen Moos zwischen Walperswil und Sugiez.” Cartographica Helvetica 34:3–15. ———. 2007a. “L’extension de la carte de France vers la ‘Suisse’ entre 1780 et 1815.” Le Monde des Cartes 191:25–39. ———. 2007b. “Ferdinand Rudolf Hassler und die Vermessung der Schweiz, 1791–1803.” Cartographica Helvetica 36:11–25. ———. 2011. Napoleons Karten der Schweiz: Landesvermessung als Machtfaktor, 1798–1815. Baden: Hier + Jetzt. Wolf, Rudolf. 1858–62. Biographien zur Kulturgeschichte der Schweiz. 4 vols. Zurich: Orell, Füssli. ———. 1879. Geschichte der Vermessungen in der Schweiz als historische Einleitung zu den Arbeiten der schweiz. geodätischen Commission. Zurich: S. Höhr.

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Geographical Mapping

lightenment inherited the four categories of spatial knowledge that Renaissance philosophers had defined in emulation of ancient Greek terminology: cosmography, the study of an ordered and integrated creation; geography, the study of the earth; chorography, the study of specific regions; and topography, the study of precise places. After 1650, two independent trends served to rationalize and simplify these four categories into just two. Working from the bottom up, as it were, military engineers (e.g., the French ingénieurs géographes) extended their detailed, large-scale topographical surveys to cover ever larger regions. This trend, apparent after 1740 in such regional surveys as the Austrian Josephinische Landesaufnahme, constitutes a major theme in much of this volume. In contrast, this entry addresses the opposite trend: geography’s subsuming of both cosmography and chorography and the idealization of geographical map-

ping as a top-down practice for organizing and mapping all knowledge of the world at smaller scales. The entry explores the practices by which Enlightenment geographers, working in their studios (i.e., géographes de cabinet), compiled and updated geographical maps. It also considers how geographical mapping was presented to and accepted by the public as a process that attempted to discern truth from multiple reports, even though common practices continued to introduce and perpetuate error. Despite contemporary claims that geographical mapping integrated topographical mapping and marine charting, the practices whereby geographical maps of the world and its regions were produced, circulated, and consumed remained distinct and mark geographical mapping as a separate cartographic mode in the Enlightenment. The redefinition of geography began when, in 1650, Bernhardus Varenius recast cosmography as “general geography” in his widely influential Geographia generalis (Schuchard 2007, 191–321). Varenius stripped Renaissance cosmography of its hermetic and micromacrocosmic concepts and embraced its astronomical and geometrical core—the “doctrine of the sphere” (Dekker 2002), as enshrined in matching pairs of terrestrial and celestial globes and the many manuals explaining their use—and he wedded it to a new respect for empirical observation. For Varenius, all spatial knowledge was rooted in topography, which informed chorography, which in turn supplied material for what he now called “special geography” (the detailed description of the earth, region by region), which could finally be synthesized as general geography, the account of the earth as a whole (Varenius 1650, 2). That global synthesis depended in turn on cosmographic geometry: for example, the climatic zones, or latitudinal bands created by the earth’s axial tilt, explained the distribution of flora and fauna (Varenius 1650, 491–616). Varenius repeatedly invoked the principles of what later scholars would call “mathematical” or “astronomical geography,” which is to say, the size and shape of the earth, the determination of latitude and longitude, the construction of global and regional map projections (albeit without explanatory diagrams), and the principles of marine navigation (Varenius 1650, 19–62, 437–91, 617–786). General geography thus deployed the geometry of cosmography to structure empirically derived information (fig. 275)

(facing page) Fig. 275. WORLD MAP AS ORGANIZED, COMPREHENSIVE, COSMOGRAPHICAL KNOWLEDGE, OR SCIENTIA. Samuel Dunn, Scientia terrarum et coelorum, or the Heavens and Earth Astronomically and Geographically Delineated and Display’d (London, 1781; originally published in 1762). Close copies of this map were also published under the variant title A General Map of the World or Terraqueous Globe, with All the New Discoveries and Marginal Delineations, Containing the Most Interesting Particulars in the Solar, Starry and Mun-

dane Systems. This four-sheet map surrounded the standard double-hemisphere world map with a variety of astronomical diagrams and maps, including a diagram of the solar system (with comets), celestial hemispheres, an analemma (an orthographic projection of the celestial sphere, with instructions), and map of the moon. Each element was presented in a factual manner, but the overall effect was hardly plain. Size of the original: 104.7 × 124.5 cm. Image courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps, La Jolla.

Zölly, Hans. 1948. Geschichte der geodätischen Grundlagen für Karten und Vermessungen in der Schweiz. [Wabern].

Geographical Atlas. See Atlas: Geographical Atlas Geographical Mapping. E n l i g ht e n me n t D e n m ark an d N o rway, wi t h T o po g r aph ical S urve yi n g F ran ce N e w F ran ce a n d t h e F r e n c h W es t In d ies G e rman Stat e s G re at Bri ta i n Bri t i sh Ame r i c a I tal i an Stat e s N e t he rl an ds P o rtu g al P o rtu g u e s e A f r i c a P o rtu g u e s e A me r i c a P o rtu g u e s e E ast I n d i e s, wi t h To po graph ical S urve yi n g Ru s s i a S pai n S pani s h Ame r i c a S w e de n -F i n l a n d

Geographical Mapping in the Enlightenment. The En-

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(see also, e.g., Lubin 1678, 5–8; Sturm 1705, 34, 52, 78; Gottschling 1711, 8, 16–18; Bruzen de la Martinière 1722, 50–51). Geography’s absorption of chorography took longer. In the early eighteenth century, definitions of “map” remained broadly inclusive and did not specify a required geometrical structure. For example, John Green (1717, 6) defined a map simply as the “Resemblance of the Heavens or the Earth on a plane Superficies.” Yet by midcentury, “map” was accepted as necessarily the product of the projection of meridians and parallels onto the plane, as explicated in the Encyclopédie: “a plane figure that represents the surface of the earth, or one of its parts, according to the rules of perspective [i.e., projection]” (d’Alembert 1752, 706). The codification of any map or carte géographique as the product of the combination of cosmography with geography was matched by the codification of “chart” or carte marine or carte hydrographique as “representing only the sea, its islands, and its coasts” (d’Alembert 1752, 706) and also of “plan” as the product of surveys. The same distinctions are evident in Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language (1755). Implicit in Varenius’s intellectual schema was a distinction between “general” maps of the world and “particular” or “special” maps of smaller areas. As geography increasingly subsumed chorography, the distinction between general and particular maps became a sliding conceptual scale within which particular maps were understood as being assembled to form some general map, whether of the world, a continent, or a region. The distinction was relative. Geography and geographical mapping thus came to encompass the full range of scales of knowledge, from the provincial to the global. However, the label “universal” was applied only in an absolute manner, to indicate maps of the whole earth. Geographical maps, whether particular or general, were thus a primary means for Europeans in the Enlightenment to learn about the wider world, organize it, and give it meaning. They were part and parcel of the broader mechanisms for creating and communicating knowledge. Indeed, geographical mapping consistently intertwined graphic maps with written accounts of the world. Geographical maps occurred within, or in conjunction with, a variety of texts, such as bibles, official memoirs, monthly periodicals, history books, atlases, and multivolume histories of travel and exploration (Verdier 2015, 21–79). Even when maps were apparently unaccompanied by written accounts—whether as globes, mounted on walls, or in atlases without text— they were nonetheless often read in conjunction with written works and manuals. Moreover, written accounts could constitute textual maps, expressing spatial rela-

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tionships and hierarchies verbally (e.g., Edney and Cimburek 2004, 334–36). The official, commercial, and scholarly networks interested in geographical mapping entailed both the practical use of maps as works of factual exposition and the intellectual reading of maps as works of scholarly imagination. Civil, military, and ecclesiastical officials all commissioned and used regional maps for a variety of purposes. While the range of participants in, and the objectives for, official mapping networks varied substantially, the maps produced tended to be instrumentally oriented, restricted in circulation and remaining in manuscript, focused on the territories of each particular state or colony, and made and used almost exclusively by men. By contrast, cultural and economic centers such as Amsterdam, Paris, London, Augsburg, and Venice sustained a dynamic commercial network based on the trade in geographical maps. This commercial network was supported by a broad desire for geographical knowledge in conjunction with history, religion, trade, politics, war, and current events generally (fig. 276). This commercial network tended to produce geographical maps that were more oriented to intellectual and pedagogic needs and were openly circulated (the maps were usually printed); its participants were broadly interested in the wider world and included women and literate members of the laboring classes. The commercial market embraced explicitly instrumental functions as well, especially in the form of road maps and other travel guides. Furthermore, in this era of still-nascent copyright protections, publishers made extensive use of the easiest and most cost-effective technique for making geographical maps in order to supply the marketplace: they simply copied existing works (Pedley 2005, 96–118, 200–203). Scholarly networks, within which maps and other geographical texts were shared and circulated in pursuit of geographical knowledge, overlapped with and mediated between the official and commercial networks of geography. These scholarly networks featured a wide array of individuals, ranging from prolific, dedicated, and vocational scholars such as Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, to antiquarians and historians who consulted and made maps to aid their studies, to dabblers such as John Mitchell who made only one or two works. The ways in which official, commercial, and scholarly networks actually interacted and encouraged the circulation of geographical works remain little studied. In mid-eighteenth-century Britain, it appears that official maps and other geographical materials circulated in private and scholarly circles; from there, official and newly created maps entered the marketplace; published maps then formed a staple of official and private as well as public map consumption (Edney 2008, 69–70).

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Fig. 276. A GEOGRAPHICAL MAP AS A POLITICAL STATEMENT. Le triomphe des armées françaises (Paris: Jean, [1797–98]). This cartographic celebration of French successes during the War of the First Coalition used a map apparently by Jean Baptiste Poirson of the political state of the Holy Roman Empire in April 1797 (Germinal V), after the Austrian Habsburgs had sued for peace. Napoleon is depicted at right, holding Italy. His fellow commanders slice up Poirson’s map

and strip away Habsburg territories. The untouched portion of the map, showing the remaining Habsburg territories, is grasped in the talons of an Austrian eagle who also wields a broken saber. A triumphal column, at left, names the victorious French generals. Size of the original: 35 × 45 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 15324).

The relationships of scholarly geographical networks to other networks were undoubtedly different in other parts of Europe, given the various ways in which Europe’s states supported scholarship, and need to be clarified through detailed studies of how geographical materials traveled between networks. And those relationships were variously constituted, as geographers made their maps in response to personal, commercial, or official motivations (Haguet 2011). Overall, it seems clear that responsibility for the creation of new geographical maps rested with members of the scholarly networks, whether working on their own or at the behest of official or commercial paymasters.

Compilation and Updating The task of geographical mapping was to integrate and present a wide range of knowledge, from detailed local studies, to regional and coastal surveys, to images of the entire earth. The steady flow of new geographical information—caused by the post-1650 growth of Europe’s economies, global trade networks, and colonies—engendered the constant augmentation of Europe’s maps and the creation of many new maps de novo. Despite the variety of occasions for geographical mapping, there were only two basic techniques by which geographical maps were produced and updated. First, what we might call survey compilation featured

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the combination, in an ad hoc manner, of detailed surveys within a locally measured framework (fig. 277). Second, geographical compilation assembled a wide variety of source materials within the cosmographical framework of projected parallels and meridians; this process could be as simple as reconfiguring an existing regional map within that framework (fig. 278) or as complex as redrawing the map of the world from scratch. Over the course of the eighteenth century, geographical compilation steadily subsumed survey compilation to create a single, rational epistemology. In survey compilation, particular surveys and accounts were incorporated into general maps through the creation or appropriation of an extensive geometrical framework. There was, however, no common practice for creating that larger framework, so that regional maps can appear to have been cobbled together in a pragmatic manner. For example, the geometrical structure of a large island is readily defined by a coastal traverse, whether surveyed anew, copied from existing charts, or assembled from information gathered from local mariners; the closure of the traverse gives the structure a degree of rigidity that can then control the assembly of particular terrestrial surveys. This was the procedure followed for the map reproduced in figure 277, which was created by fitting topographical maps within a coastline copied from a chart; most of the source materials had been acquired during France’s intervention, in 1738–40, in the Corsican revolt against Genovese rule (Huguenin 1970, 124–25). An alternative method featured the construction of an internal framework from road or river surveys. In mapping Saxony in the 1730s, for example, Adam Friedrich Zürner surveyed the main roads to create a rigid framework within which to assemble detailed surveys (see fig. 954). Green (1717, 84–85, pl. 11) thought such processes were properly applicable to the “smallest portions of the Earth,” such as “a Town-Land, Territory, County, or Province,” but not to entire kingdoms or still more extensive areas. In practice, each instance of survey compilation featured its own geometrical solution for combining and generalizing particular maps into a more general one. The relative ease of determining latitude also meant that a number of regional maps were compiled from

surveys with the help of observed latitudes (e.g., Edney and Cimburek 2004). By the 1780s, the adoption of the various techniques for determining longitude also meant that field surveys generally featured at least one position whose latitude and longitude had been determined, permitting the detailed survey to be readily incorporated into the geographer’s cosmographical framework. Particular maps that lacked any reference to latitude and longitude (as fig. 277), unless included in an accompanying memoir, were largely a thing of the past by 1800. By contrast, geographical compilation situated detailed maps within a cosmographical framework. Despite the importance of this framework, it received no specialized label from eighteenth-century geographers, who generally referred only to networks (réseaux) of lines of latitude and longitude; the use of “graticule” for a projected network of meridians and parallels is a midnineteenth century innovation and is used here only for convenience. So, the geographer first drew a graticule, as defined by a map projection, and then plotted key locations whose latitudes and longitudes were known. The epitome of such mapping was the map drawn by 1682 on a stone floor at the Paris Observatory under the direction of Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) to which new locations were added only when determined by reputable astronomical observations (see fig. 147). Itineraries or traverses along roads, rivers, political boundaries, and coasts were fitted in between these control points (fig. 279); their intermediate points could then be used to control the positioning of yet further detailed information, steadily building up the map in an iterative process. Simple in principle, geographical compilation was difficult in practice: “nothing is more common and more easy than to make maps,” Jacques-Nicolas Bellin wrote in 1744, yet “nothing is so difficult as to make them tolerably well” (quoted by Dawson 2000, 95; see also Pedley 2005, 19, 248n1). In addition to the pragmatic issues of constructing the graticule and graphically interpolating source materials, Enlightenment geographers faced two interrelated problems. There were relatively few places whose geographical coordinates had been sufficiently well determined to serve as main control points, so geographers needed to use more detailed source materials

(facing page) Fig. 277. A LARGE REGIONAL MAP COMPILED FROM SURVEYS. “Carte geographique et hidrographique de l’isle de Corse,” 1741. This anonymous manuscript map exemplifies the interconnection between topographical and chorographical work, compiling both within the coastline derived from a marine chart, all without any reference to latitude and longitude; the map lacks even the indication of the global coordinates of one key location and lacks the northward orientation encouraged by map projections, although its compass does

indicate both magnetic and true north. The map’s different sources are reflected in the two scales, one for lieües and one for milles. The legend explains the locations of French encampments (A through Y) and the island’s several jurisdictions (1 through 14), as per earlier maps (see fig. 13). The surrounding insets depict town and fortification plans. Size of the original: 115 × 168 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (département Arsenal, MS-6434 [47]).

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Fig. 279. A ROUTE SURVEY CONTROLLED BY GEOGRAPHICAL COORDINATES. From Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville’s “Œuvres diverses: I Mémoires relatifs à la géographie.” D’Anville kept this undated diagram of the route from Casüin (modern Qasvin, the ancient capital of Persia) to Ardebil (Ardabil), derived from the travels of Adam Olearius in 1635–39, within a collection of notes about Azerbaijan, northern Persia, and the seventh-century campaigns of the Byzantine emperor, Heraclius. D’Anville controlled the route with latitudes and longitudes taken from the tables of the thirteenth-century astronomer Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī and the fifteenth-century astronomer Ulugh Beg. D’Anville incorporated this information into a small map of Persia that would eventually be printed in Venice by Paolo Santini (1779). Size of the original: ca. 17 × 11 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Département des manuscrits, Nouv. acq. fr. 17381, fol. 52r).

(facing page) Fig. 278. REGIONAL MAP WITHIN A GLOBAL FRAMEWORK. Didier Robert de Vaugondy, Carte nouvelle de l’isle de Corse (Paris, 1756). The island is presented within a geographical framework of latitude and longitude, indicated in the marginal gradations, and with its mountains depicted in a more conventionally geographical manner. The first state of a printed map, this work bears a legend at lower left indicating the camps of the French battalions and attacks by the Corsican

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to calculate coordinates for new control points. Moreover, those detailed sources varied widely in quality and were often ambiguous or even contradictory. Enlightenment astronomers made substantial improvements in the observation of terrestrial latitudes and longitudes. In particular, Cassini I’s technique of timing the eclipses of Jupiter’s moons to determine longitude, using his improved tables first published in the Connoissance des temps for 1690, would eventually prove especially significant in refining geographical coordinates. The Connoissance des temps provided long lists of observed positions, giving some measure of how their number slowly increased through the eighteenth century before accelerating rapidly after 1770 with the intensification of Europe’s global enterprise: 90 positions in 1699; 220 in 1753, 390 in 1777, and 870 in 1785 (Chapuis 1999, 26–27). Geographers defined the locations of most of their control points by calculation. If the distance and direction between two places are known, together with the size of the earth, then their latitudinal and longitudinal difference can be calculated with simple spherical trigonometry. (These calculations can be made from distances alone if the data are sufficiently redundant.) For small enough differences, plane trigonometry could suffice, as Franz Xaver von Zach demonstrated in 1790 (see fig. 952). Over time, astronomers and geographers had created extensive lists of geographical positions. Varenius (1650, 658–65) listed the latitudes and longitudes of some 225 places, Giovanni Battista Riccioli (1661, 402–25) no fewer than 2,200. The process was rarely as straightforward as simply undertaking repeated calculations: different sources gave different distances between places; distances were expressed in various units of measure; calculating the location of one point via different routes gave inconsistent results; more fundamentally, different observers would produce variant values for the latitude and longitude of the same place. Geographers therefore carefully weighed their sources and the reliability of the geographers or travelers who made them and accordingly rejected some sources outright or took simple or weighted means of conflicting results. The most extensive recalculation of geographical co-

rebels. The map’s subtitle claims that this map was derived from “a large manuscript map surveyed on the ground,” but as figure 277 indicates, such a source map would not have been from a single survey but would have been compiled from multiple surveys. Size of the original: 65 × 49 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [5799]).

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Fig. 280. A NETWORK OF KNOWN DISTANCES FOR RECALCULATING POSITIONS. Detail from Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, Position des points discutés dans l’analyse géographique de l’Italie in d’Anville 1744, 277, showing a portion of d’Anville’s graphic presentation of the routes and other distances that he used to determine the latitudes and longitudes of numerous places across Italy. The map’s scale bars (not shown) reflected his mix of ancient and modern sources, with scales for ancient Roman miles (each 755.5 toises), common miles (60 to one degree), Lombard miles (each 849 toises), and French leagues (each 2,500 toises). The thirty-one places with their names underlined—such as Florence, Rome, and Ancona—indicate that latitudes had been observed; only the longitude of Rome had also been determined (with respect to Paris). The network includes another 245 places. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 10822[A]).

ordinates was undertaken by Guillaume Delisle. Riccioli had used ancient itineraries and geographies to define distances across Eurasia, but he had not accounted for how the various stadia and other ancient itinerary measures related to modern measures. Delisle therefore set out to reconfigure the world’s coastlines by comparing the available astronomical observations for latitude, and for a few longitudes, with the distances between ports, islands, and capes that he either measured from sea charts or took directly from mariners’ pilot books. For example, he reduced the length of the Mediterranean Sea from the 56° of longitude or 1,160 leagues recorded in existing geographical maps (each league being equivalent to 3 nautical miles, or 5.6 km) to just 41°30′ of longitude or 860 leagues; the width of northern Africa, from Cape Verde to the Horn, accordingly shrank from 80° to 70° of longitude. This global reconfiguration is evident in his many maps, from his 1700 map of Africa (see fig. 289) to his large maps of the Eastern and Western Hemispheres (1720). Delisle had great confidence in the quality of his source data because they had been communally created and implicitly tested and corrected by “an infinity of pilots” (Delisle 1722, 365,

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Fig. 281. CORRECTED VERSUS UNCORRECTED OUTLINES. A detail from Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, Parallele du contour de l’Italie, in d’Anville 1744, 29, which covers the same portion of central Italy as figure 280. This outline map shows the results of his recalculations of latitudes and longitudes around the peninsula and compares his new outline (shaded solid line and capital letters for place-names) to previous maps by Delisle (solid line, Roman lettering) and Sanson (dotted line, italic lettering), with Rome defining their common longitude. D’Anville’s commentary on the map indicated that his corrected outline revealed that Italy was much smaller than previously thought, only 10,650 square leagues (a league here being 2,500 toises; i.e., 252,831 km2) compared to Delisle’s 13,200 square leagues (313,368 km2) and Sanson’s 14,100 square leagues (334,734 km2). Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 10821[A]).

366, 368). All told, Delisle accomplished the remarkable act of completely reconfiguring global geography (see Dawson 2000, 245–52). Other geographers recalculated geographical coordinates within particular regions. In the 1740s, for example, d’Anville and Tobias Mayer both used Roman itineraries to recalculate the latitudes and longitudes of places in Italy and Germany. To construct a new map of Italy, which he published in 1743 (see fig. 64), d’Anville first carefully studied Roman measures, concluding inter alia that the ancient Roman mile of eight ordinary stadia was equivalent to 755 toises 3 pieds, whereas the mile used in Roman Britain was longer, at 826 toises (d’Anville 1743, 1–164, esp. 162). Armed with these and other equivalents, d’Anville could establish a network of ancient roads across Italy (fig. 280) connecting thirtyone places with observed latitudes and just one observed longitude, from which he calculated the latitudes and longitudes of almost three hundred towns and other places (d’Anville 1744). He provided a graphic summary of the results that contrasted Italy’s uncorrected and corrected outlines (fig. 281). In this he followed the example set by Jean Picard and Philippe de La Hire in their famous 1693 map of France’s coasts before and after correction by new longitude observations (see fig. 625). In Germany, Mayer worked from thirty-three known latitudes and no observed longitudes to recalcu-

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late some two hundred positions across the Holy Roman Empire. Like d’Anville, he presented the results in a map, his Germaniae . . . mappa critica of 1750, which contrasted his new geographical outline with those of Johann Baptist Homann and Delisle (Meurer 1995) (see fig. 532). John Cowley similarly corrected the coastline of Scotland in a 1734 map (see fig. 11). For regions beyond Europe, geographers drew on a variety of ancient, indigenous, and colonial sources—whatever was available, whether textual or cartographic—to create new control points. For central Asia, d’Anville used the work of medieval and early modern Islamic astronomers to establish latitudes and longitudes of places along routes (see fig. 279). Geographers in St.  Petersburg and Paris used information about China sent to them by the Jesuit missionaries who had worked with Chinese astronomers and surveyors under the Kangxi and Yongzheng emperors (Cams 2017, 177–242). For his enlarged, 1788 map of South Asia, James Rennell used a mix of ancient, local, and British sources. Like Delisle and d’Anville before him, Rennell carefully assessed the various itinerary measures used in the region, and he estimated the proper factors to correct the inevitable overmeasurement in the road distances surveyed by British army columns. Rennell tied all of these routes to the known locations of Bombay and Madras through a complex series of calculations and adjustments (Edney 1997, 84, 94, 98–102; Verdier 2015, 160–68). Once a sufficiently detailed collection of control points had been defined and plotted on an otherwise empty graticule, the geographer could draw in the other source materials. The process of generalization—of reducing the information in particular maps and other sources so as to fit smaller-scale, general maps—was an implicit part of the art of the geographer. The general assumption was that if the particular sources were good enough, they would fit easily into the overarching geometrical framework. The actual process of fitting information was graphic in nature, as mapmakers sketched details within the geographical framework. For example, for the interior of New France, Delisle first constructed a series of geographical sketches derived from information and routes published in the Lettres édifiantes (the Jesuit Relations) and from personal correspondence and conversations with travelers. He then combined the sketches within a framework of latitude and longitude, finally integrating the results with an existing map (Dawson 2000, esp. 185–230; Pelletier 2002). Fitting the source material together in just the right way could be a laborious process: the perfectionist d’Anville, for example, made twenty drafts of a map of ancient Egypt before completing a fair copy (Haguet 2011, 90). The variable quality and availability of particular source materials remained a significant issue. D’Anville

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had intended his new map of Italy to be the first of a new set of large maps of European countries, but each posed a particular challenge. For France, d’Anville thought that the triangulation undertaken by the Académie des sciences would, when combined with detailed road surveys, produce “a consistent framework . . . markedly superior to all that have ever existed in this genre,” but many of the particular, provincial maps were so geometrically defective as to be useless even when fitted to this more perfect trigonometrical framework. Germany had the road network to create an adequate framework, but the final map itself “inevitably surpasses all other maps in difficulty, because of the prodigious number of states.” Spain’s political standing required it to be mapped anew, but d’Anville lamented the almost complete lack of good provincial maps that he might use as source materials. The British Isles presented the opposite situation: England’s wealth ensured that it was well covered with updated regional maps and road itineraries, although Scotland still lacked good coverage. The list continued (d’Anville 1744, i–xxxix, esp. xx, xxii). D’Anville was constantly aware of the shortcomings, or simple lack, of detailed information for areas remote from Western Europe. He would later admit, for example, that he would not have undertaken his foursheet Carte de l’Inde (1752) had he not been specifically commissioned to do so by the Compagnie des Indes (Haguet 2011, 99); in the event, he filled the large white space in the center of South Asia with a set of scale bars and an admission: “A great expanse of country of which we have no particular knowledge.” Other geographers were, however, far less scrupulous in their use of existing maps and other source materials. The fitting of source materials into the geographical framework was not without problems. Without good latitudes and longitudes to guide the act of compilation, detailed surveys might be misunderstood. An egregious instance was the creation in 1729–30 by GaspardJoseph Chaussegros de Léry of the “River of the West” that apparently reached from Lake Superior all the way across the uncertain continental interior of North America to the Pacific Ocean or to the putative “Sea of the West.” The origins of this mythic river lie in a map of a river from Lake Winnipeg to Lake Superior drawn by a Cree informant, Ochagach, for a French trader, Pierre Gaultier de Varennes de La Vérendrye in 1728–29 (see fig. 393). Lacking any indication of global coordinates or scale, and accompanied by an obscure narrative, geographers ended up drastically reconfiguring the map in accordance with the European desire for a water route through North America (Lewis 1991). The addition of new information and the correction of existing data were constant and continual. Incremental changes could never be as concerted as the wholesale re-

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Fig. 282. AN EXAMPLE OF INCREMENTAL GEOGRAPHICAL CHANGE. Details of Nova Scotia on John Mitchell’s A Map of the British and French Dominions in North America: (left) the first variant (1755); (right) the fourth variant ([1756]), which Mitchell called the “second edition” of his map. The differences stemmed from Mitchell’s incorporation of astronomical observations for latitude and longitude published in Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1750 et 1751, dans

l’Amérique septentrionale (1753) by Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert. Mitchell added a long explanation of both the original compilation and the corrections to the modified map, which he indexed by newly added Roman numerals. Size of the original maps: 136 × 195 cm; size of each detail: ca. 17.5 × 24.5 cm. Images courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3300 1755.M5 and G3300 1755.M523 respectively).

configurations effected by Delisle, d’Anville, and others. If anything, they were haphazard and opportunistic, being determined by individual geographers’ ability to access and assess new information. And that ability was never perfect, even in those rare instances when a geographer had unprecedented access to private and official archives. When Mitchell was commissioned by the Board of Trade and Plantations to construct his large Map of the British and French Dominions in North America (1755), his access to the Admiralty’s archives permitted him to assess and reject some potential sources, such as the 1715 manuscript chart of Nova Scotia by Nathaniel Blackmore (see fig. 862). Even so, Mitchell remained unaware that Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, had in 1753 published his astronomical determination of positions throughout maritime New France; once apprised of his failing, Mitchell soon made the necessary corrections to his map (fig. 282) (Edney 2008, 71–72). Bruno Latour’s concept of “centres of calculation” (1987, 215–57) provides a useful model for understanding the concentration of geographical maps and reports in certain places, yet we must remember that even within the imperial capitals of Paris and London, circulation was always circumscribed by temporal, institutional, economic, and social constraints and was generally inefficient. Overall, the construction of geographical knowledge was a process of combining and reconciling sometimes divergent reports. Geographers used the projected graticule as a logical scaffold on which to hang new and existing information and to identify and correct flawed information. With hindsight, the progressiveness of this

incremental process appears ineluctable. If Delisle had not used Spanish sources for his L’Amerique septentrionale (1700) to reattach California to North America and to correctly situate the mouth of the Mississippi River (Pelletier 2002), some other geographer would eventually have done so. Yet intellectually honest geographers admitted to being uncertain about their changes, knowing that new and better information might overturn their conclusions. With respect to his treatment of California, for example, Delisle actually only moved the island to be very close to the mainland to make California appear to be connected, but he did not completely eliminate the gap. Other geographers explicitly titled their cartographic hypotheses as attempts or trial designs, such as d’Anville’s Essai d’une nouvelle carte de la Mer Caspienne (1754) and Didier Robert de Vaugondy’s Essai d’une carte polaire arctique (1774). Some geographers were, however, more sanguine about how, working in their studios, they had “discovered” new features at the margins of certain geographical knowledge. Delisle himself remained uncertain whether indigenous sources did indeed indicate the existence of a great Sea of the West in the midst of North America, and so left it off his published maps, but his son-in-law Philippe Buache included it in a 1752 map of discoveries in the north Pacific (see fig. 390). At the very end of the century, Rennell construed a long chain of mountains—the “Mountains of Kong”—as running across Africa in the map he prepared for the 1799 edition of Mungo Park’s journal (Bassett and Porter 1991). Modern hindsight should not deny the fact that geographical maps in the

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Enlightenment were accepted as works of conjecture whose delineations might yet be overturned by new or reinterpreted data. Criticisms and Idealizations The practice of geographical compilation entailed myriad decisions on the part of the geographer that were likely opaque to readers of the final maps. How could readers assess the quality of a geographer’s work? The anxiety was highlighted when, in about 1690, the Dutch diplomat Nicolaas

Fig. 283. A WORK OF UNKNOWN AND UNCERTAIN QUALITY. Nicolaas Witsen, Nieuwe Lantkaarte van het noorder en ooster deel van Asia en Europa strekkende van Nova Zemla tot China ([Amsterdam], 1687), in six sheets, dedicated to Peter I of Russia.

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Witsen sent a copy of his large map of northeastern Asia to the Royal Society (fig. 283). Sir Robert Southwell, the Society’s president, promptly requested information from Witsen about his sources and methods. The map, he wrote, is “Columbus like” in its “Discovery of a New World” or “at least” in its giving “Tydings of those Parts, which from the beginning have layn in the Dark. But the Enterprise being so vast, and the success so unexpected; the Publick are very impatient to be told by what Magick you have been able to master this Work. For it

Size of the original: 118 × 127 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 11961 [RÉS]).

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looks in one Part no less difficult then a Geographical Description of the Bottom of the Sea” (Southwell in Witsen 1691, 492). It was to answer such concerns and to demonstrate the quality of their work that geographers shared information about their sources and techniques with others within the networks of scholarly geographers. We know of Witsen’s account because Southwell published it in the Royal Society’s proceedings, and Witsen later included a longer statement in his geographical description of the region, Noord en Oost Tartarye (1692). By 1700, geographers added explanatory comments to the maps themselves and increasingly published their accounts either as short articles in learned journals, as addenda to related geographical studies, or as stand-alone memoirs (Haguet 2011, 97–99). The production of stand-alone memoirs was especially a French practice but by the 1730s was being emulated by British geographers and, by the 1780s, by German geographers as well. In addition to explaining the critical apparatus used to create specific maps—in which respect they constitute absolutely crucial source materials for historians of cartography interested in the maps and in the development of geographical methods more generally—the memoirs and other commentaries were integral to the formation of the public sphere and of the disinterested pursuit of knowledge during the Enlightenment. The royal prerogatives that had limited debate over political and cultural matters to royal courts and parliaments were steadily eroded by the increasing participation of the lesser gentry and middling sort in discussions and debates over policy within new social settings and in new forms of print. A good geographical education—which included knowledge of how to make maps and featured much geographical map work, from games to map copying— was crucial if one was to participate, or claim a right to participate, in open discussions of political, military, economic, religious, or cultural affairs (Withers 2001, 114–42). Renaissance justifications of geography either as the science of princes or as a balm for intellectual curiosity gave way after 1650 to the new expectation that geographical maps would be actively read by the developing public as a source of politically important information. The consumption of printed geographical maps, and of information about geographical maps, became a hallmark of membership within the still socially privileged circles of the public and was actively pursued by those seeking entry into those circles. Public political debates depended on at least the façade of disinterestedness: opinion was not to be determined by personal or party-political gain, but was ideally to be structured by the rational evaluation of information and addressed to a generic community, the public per se. The debates accordingly promoted a concern with measured facts (data) presented in a plain

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manner without rhetorical adornment, although the results could still be decorative. In addition to providing useful and essential information to the growing public, geographical mapping exemplified the rational creation of new knowledge. In several satires in the London newspapers, for example, Benjamin Franklin used the study of geography as a model of rational and systematic thought that elicits truth (Dean 2004, 104–5). The common metaphorical usages of “map”—whether as a guide to truth, salvation, or an organized life, or as a comprehensive statement of organized knowledge (i.e., scientia)—all depended on this understanding of geographical mapping as an inherently rational and coherent endeavor. The memoirs and commentaries sustained this understanding through three interrelated strategies. First, the published accounts of geographical mapping extended invitations to the public to assess geographical maps, to engage critically with maps, and to be active participants in geographical mapping. For example, Herman Moll often asked his readers to compare and evaluate the maps of his competitors and to conclude that he was correct to disparage them. One comment on his ca. 1710 map of South America claimed that “every body may easily judge” how “false” and “dangerous” were other maps; his final, emphatic statement that those other maps were “notoriously false” implied a degree of public conversation about geographical maps (fig. 284). Sixty years later, Robert de Vaugondy’s facsimiles of early maps in the 1777 supplement to the Encyclopédie, which demonstrated the changing depiction of the Bering Straits and of California (see fig. 138), encouraged readers to compare the depictions and to see how debate and the geographical process could progressively extirpate error. More generally, in explaining their sources and methods geographers subordinated themselves to the public’s supervision and judgment. Each geographer “passed his observations down to posterity in a medium available to every reader. He had an obligation to tell the truth and ran the ‘risk’ of ruining his reputation and of sinning against mankind when he made a mistake” (Novak 2001, 220–21). It did not matter if memoirs were large or small, expensive or cheap, or even little read; they still had the potential to be read by anyone who was sufficiently interested. Geographers opened up their work to the public by debating even fine points of geographical mapping in scientific journals, as when d’Anville and Bellin argued in print over the representation of the Kamchatka Peninsula as derived from their respective interpretations of distances and times and whether the resultant maps should be labeled as “probable” or “true” (Verdier 2015, 118–30). Geographers also argued at length during the 1750s over the truthfulness of the reported discoveries of the fictitious Spanish admiral Bartholomew de Fonte, and in the 1760s Robert de Vaugondy

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Fig. 284. AN APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC EVALUATION OF MAPS. Detail from Herman Moll’s To the Right Honourable, Charles Earl of Sunderland . . . This Map of South America, According to the Newest and Most Exact Observations is Most Humbly Dedicated, in his The World Described: Or, a New and Correct Sett of Maps (London, [1727–28]), but originally published ca. 1710. Moll routinely added comments to his maps that puffed his own work and derided those of his competitors and, in doing so, asked his readers to critique the respective maps and to assess their worth. In this comment, Moll used “projection” to refer to the design and execution of the map (the project) and not just the construction of the framework of parallels and meridians. Size of the entire original: ca. 62 × 99 cm; size of detail: ca. 9.5 × 11.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (SM-1719-11).

and Rigobert Bonne debated the value of taking into account the earth’s flattened shape at the small scales of geographical mapping (Pedley 1992, 60–61, 74–78, 109–12). There was indeed widespread public interest in assessing the quality of geographical maps and texts, fed in part by reviews of maps published in more popular journals, such as the Mercure Galant or the Journal des Sçavans in Paris (Verdier 2015, 87–89), the Gentleman’s Magazine in London (beginning in 1731), and Zach’s Allgemeine Geographische Ephemeriden (published beginning in 1798), and by books that offered long lists of the “best” maps (e.g., Gregorii 1713; Lenglet du Fresnoy 1716). The extent to which members of the public might have had the skills to assess geographical works is suggested by an April 1777 letter from British politician Henry Strachey, then in New York as secretary to Lord Richard Howe, head of the commission sent to negotiate peace with the American colonies, to his wife, Jane, in London, asking after recently published maps and books about North America: “If you can

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hear a good Character of these, I should be glad to have them, but not if they are meer Catchpenny’s—Nothing here is so scarce as Maps of the Colonies—I wish I had a good one of each Province separately but I doubt if there any good ones even in London—and I don’t desire Trumpery” (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan, William L. Clements Library, Henry Strachey Papers). Implicit in this complaint is the expectation that Jane Strachey would have been able to determine, if not by herself then through consultation with others, that specific maps were indeed of good quality and worth their price, and not “catchpennies” made only to capture the hard-earned money of the unsuspecting. The second strategy pursued within the published memoirs and commentaries was the self-conscious promotion of critical geography, or géographie positive (Robert de Vaugondy 1755, 159), and its distinction from the simple practice of copying existing works. The issue was clearly laid out by Green when he argued that a few critical geographers, such as Claudius Ptolemy, Gerardus Mercator, and most recently Guillaume Delisle, had periodically advanced geography by actively seeking accurate, coherent, and comprehensive geographical coverage. Yet the economics of publishing meant that it was cheaper to copy an existing map than to create a new one, so that “every one that can copy or engrave a map . . . sets up for a Geographer.” The result, Green declared, was that almost all published maps were only degraded copies of the critically produced few, “to the Dishonour, as well as Prejudice of Geography” (Green 1717, 132–34). Green’s views were favorably reported in the Mercure in 1721 (Verdier 2015, 95), and similar sentiments were repeated by others who claimed critical standing (e.g., Delisle 1727, 120–21). The pursuit of an ostensibly critical geography permitted geographers to rise in social status through their intellectual achievements (Haguet 2011, 89, 99; Edney 1994b), a not inconsiderable point when social and cultural status was as important as that of the quality of one’s techniques in the public assessment of map quality (Withers 1999). In the third strategy, published commentaries established critical geography as an all-encompassing and innately progressive science. Some scholars have referred to this idealized and potentially perfect practice as “mathematical cosmography” because of the manner in which it unified geographical and astronomical work (Edney 1994b). The graticule, formed from the mapping of celestial circles onto the terrestrial globe, provided a means of readily translating and naturalizing any and all information from European and non-European sources within an apparently universal framework that could accommodate any degree of precision (Edney 1994a, 386–87; Edney 1997, 97). From this perspective, geographical practice was positioned as a universal map-

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ping practice that properly encompassed all other kinds of mapping. Indeed, in addition to remarking on the ability of the graticule to integrate information drawn from mariners’ charts and logbooks, some critical geographers even asserted that marine charts were properly geographical works. Varenius (1650, Epistola dedicatoria, unpaginated) argued that geography was crucial to mariners and that mariners themselves “acknowledge the enormous . . . aid that geography can give when they undertake to cross distant seas and a raging ocean, when they rely on the accuracy of the maps and on the principles which geography has bestowed on them for their use.” Moll’s disparagement of other maps of South America included the claim that mariners would be led astray by geographical maps, even though no mariner would ever have used such maps for actual navigation (see fig. 284). A number of geographers made works that they called “charts,” such as Green, who in 1753 made a Chart of North and South America that indicated the discoveries of recent explorers and the routes of Pacific voyagers (Green 1717, 136–37; see fig. 342). Regardless of these claims by land-bound geographers, mariners generally went on following their own distinct practices for making and using sea charts. Overall, critical geographers argued not that their maps were statements of truth and perfect knowledge, but that geographical mapping was a process that leads to truth. Done right, critical geography was the proper methodology for knowing the world. In this respect, geographers were acutely aware of their place in a historical progression of geographical improvement (e.g., Robert de Vaugondy 1755) and held out the prospect of future perfection, especially in the face of contemporary degradation of geography by hack copyists. The idealization of geographical practice within public debate depended on the drawing of a bright line between critical geographers and mercenary copyists. Yet it is hard, in hindsight, to discern a sharp distinction between, on the one hand, the small coterie of critical geographers, conceptually clustered around the exemplary and exceptional Delisle and d’Anville, and, on the other, an undistinguished mass of copyists. After all, many critical practitioners provided public explanations only when pressed to do so (as Witsen and Mitchell), or when prompted by public criticism (e.g., Robert de Vaugondy 1755, esp. xi–xii, 232–44), and many others had both critical and uncritical moments. It is possible to point to the way in which outmoded concepts persist on geographical maps, such as the continued depiction of California as an island, as evidence of the persistence of uncritical copying, while the common claim made in the titles of copyists’ maps that they had been made from the “latest” or “best” sources seems to represent an attempt by the copyists to partake in the standing of critical geography and so enhance their reputation and

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sales (Edney 1999, 188). Yet in practice, much of the critical work of geographical editing took place not in the concerted reconstructions of entire continents and countries but in the piecemeal and unremarked correction and editing of existing maps. The bright line soon fades and blurs. Moreover, the claim that geographical mapping was a process leading ineluctably to truth was limited. Critical geographers and the public idealized geographical mapping as creating “a comprehensive archive constructed through the geographic practices of reconnaisance [sic] and mapping,” but it proved incapable of digesting the products of the detailed, large-scale chorographical surveys increasingly pursued after 1740 (Edney 1999, 165–66). The last and grandest product of eighteenthcentury geographical compilation was the forty-sevensheet French topographical map of Egypt and Syria, as well as its three-sheet geographical reduction, produced in 1818 from a wide variety of materials that had been collected during the Napoleonic conquest of Egypt in 1799–1802 (Godlewska 1988). After 1800, the idealization of the geographical archive gave way to a new idealization of a spatial archive based on state territorial surveys (Edney 1997, 96–118). Matth ew H. Edney See also: Atlas; Economy, Cartography and the; Education and Cartography; Geography and Cartography; Globe; Green, John; Hase, Johann Matthias; History and Cartography; Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages; Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography; Map Trade; Measures, Linear: Itinerary and Geographical Measures; Memoirs, Cartographic; Mikoviny, Samuel; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the; Projections: Geographical Maps; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Religion and Cartography; Rennell, James; Transportation and Cartography: Road Map; Travel and Cartography; Vischer, Georg Matthäus; World Map Bibliography Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. 1752. “Carte.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 2:706–11. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1743. Eclaircissemens géographiques sur l’ancienne Gaule, précédés d’un traité des mesures itineraires des Romains, et de la lieue Gauloise. Paris: Frederic-HenriScheurleer. ———. 1744. Analyse géographique de l’Italie. Paris: Estienne & Fils. Bassett, Thomas J., and Philip W. Porter. 1991. “‘From the Best Authorities’: The Mountains of Kong in the Cartography of West Africa.” Journal of African History 32:367–413. Bruzen de la Martinière, Antoine-Augustin. 1722. “Essai sur l’origine & les progrès de la géographie jusqu’à la découverte de l’Amerique, avec des remarques sur les principaux geographes, Grecs & Latins.” Mémoires Historiques et Critiques 2, no. 4:49–101. Cams, Mario. 2017. Companions in Geography: East-West Collaboration in the Mapping of Qing China (c. 1685–1735). Leiden: Brill. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne.

Geographical Mapping Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillery: Septentrion. Dean, Ann C. 2004. “Benjamin Franklin, Writing by Hand: Manuscript, Print, and Political Imagination.” Journal for Early Modern Cultural Studies 4, no. 2:89–113. Dekker, Elly. 2002. “The Doctrine of the Sphere: A Forgotten Chapter in the History of Globes.” Globe Studies 49–50:25–44. Delisle, Guillaume. 1722. “Détermination geographique de la situation et de l’étenduë des differentes parties de la Terre.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1720: 365–84. Delisle, Joseph-Nicolas. 1727. “Projet général pour l’astronomie et la géographie donné en 1727.” In Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka, by V. F. Gnucheva, ed. A. I. Andreyev, 120– 23. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR, 1946. Edney, Matthew H. 1994a. “Cartographic Culture and Nationalism in the Early United States: Benjamin Vaughan and the Choice for a Prime Meridian, 1811.” Journal of Historical Geography 20:384–95. ———. 1994b. “Mathematical Cosmography and the Social Ideology of British Cartography, 1780–1820.” Imago Mundi 46:101–16. ———. 1997. Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765–1843. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1999. “Reconsidering Enlightenment Geography and Map Making: Reconnaissance, Mapping, Archive.” In Geography and Enlightenment, ed. David N. Livingstone and Charles W. J. Withers, 165–98. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2008. “John Mitchell’s Map of North America (1755): A Study of the Use and Publication of Official Maps in EighteenthCentury Britain.” Imago Mundi 60:63–85. Edney, Matthew H., and Susan Cimburek. 2004. “Telling the Traumatic Truth: William Hubbard’s Narrative of King Philip’s War and His ‘Map of New-England.’” William and Mary Quarterly, 3d ser., 61:317–48. Godlewska, Anne. 1988. The Napoleonic Survey of Egypt: A Masterpiece of Cartographic Compilation and Early Nineteenth-Century Fieldwork. Ed. Edward H. Dahl. Monograph 38–39, Cartographica 25, nos. 1 and 2. Gottschling, Caspar. 1711. Versuch von einer Historie der LandCharten. Halle im Magdeburgischen: Renger. Green, John (Bradock Mead). 1717. The Construction of Maps and Globes. London: T. Horne et al. Gregorii, Johann Gottfried. 1713. Curieuse Gedancken von den vornehmsten und accuratesten Alt- und Neuen Land-Charten nach ihrem ersten Ursprunge/Erfindung/Auctoribus und Sculptoribus, Gebrauch und Nutzen entworffen. Frankfurt: Ritschel. Haguet, Lucile. 2011. “J.-B. d’Anville as Armchair Mapmaker: The Impact of Production Contexts on His Work.” Imago Mundi 63:88–105. Huguenin, Marcel. 1970. “French Cartography of Corsica.” Imago Mundi 24:123–37. Latour, Bruno. 1987. Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Lenglet du Fresnoy, Nicolas. 1716. Méthode pour étudier la géographie. 4 vols. Paris: Charles Estienne Hochereau. Lewis, G. Malcolm. 1991. “La grande rivière et fleuve de l’ouest: The Realities and Reasons behind a Major Mistake in the 18th-Century Geography of North America.” Cartographica 28, no. 1:54–87. Lubin, Augustin. 1678. Mercure geographique, ou le guide du curieux des cartes geographiques. Paris: Christophle Remy. Meurer, Peter H. 1995. “Hintergründe und Analysen zu Tobias Mayers ‘Kritischer Karte von Deutschland.’” Cartographica Helvetica 12:19–26. Novak, Maximillian E. 2001. Daniel Defoe: Master of Fictions, His Life and Ideas. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. ———. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing

489 Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pelletier, Monique. 2002. “The Working-Method of the New Cartographers: The Gulf of Mexico and Spanish Sources, 1696–1718.” Terrae Incognitae 34:60–72. Riccioli, Giovanni Battista. 1661. Geographiae et hydrographiæ reformatæ. Bologna: Hæredis Victorij Benatij. Robert de Vaugondy, Didier. 1755. Essai sur l’histoire de la géographie, ou sur son origine, ses progrès & son état actuel. Paris: Antoine Boudet. Schuchard, Margret, ed. 2007. Bernhard Varenius (1622–1650). Leiden: Brill. Sturm, Leonhard Christoph. 1705. Geographia mathematica, oder kurtze und gründliche Vorbereitung zu rechtschaffener Erlernung der Geographia. Frankfurt an der Oder: Jeremiah Schrenes und Johann Christoph Hartmann. Varenius, Bernhardus. 1650. Geographia generalis, in qua affectiones generales Telluris explicantur. Amsterdam: Ludovicum Elzevirium. Verdier, Nicolas. 2015. La carte avant les cartographes: l’Avènement du régime cartographique en France au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Withers, Charles W. J. 1999. “Reporting, Mapping, Trusting: Making Geographical Knowledge in the Late Seventeenth Century.” Isis 90:497–521. ———. 2001. Geography, Science and National Identity: Scotland since 1520. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Witsen, Nicolaas. 1691. “An Account of a Large and Curious Map of the Great Tartary, lately Publish’d in Holland, by Mr. Nicholas Witsen, being an Extract of a Letter from the Author thereof, to the Honourable Sir Robert Southwell Knt. and President of the Royal Society.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society 16:492–94.

Geographical Mapping and Topographical Surveying in Denmark and Norway. The small size and economy of

Denmark, the still poorer economy of Norway, and the financial problems caused by recurrent wars in the seventeenth century, especially those with Sweden, all contributed to the distinctive character of topographical and geographical mapping in Denmark and Norway. To begin with, topographical and chorographical efforts were closely interrelated, and so are combined within this entry (Dahl 1993 reproduces examples of most of the projects). Moreover, until the middle of the eighteenth century, mapping projects were not well anchored institutionally: individuals often performed the work, and the projects ceased when they died or changed jobs; the results were often regarded as military secrets and the maps were not printed. The sporadic results of the early work informed ambitious projects after 1750, even as a series of official and semioffical efforts engaged in new mapping. Hans Willumsen Lauremberg, who had secured the professorship of mathematics at Sorø Akademi in 1623 on the strength of a proposal to survey Denmark, was appointed in 1631 to be royal mathematician by Christian IV. In that capacity Lauremberg was to survey the country. He produced many maps and the first land surveying text published in Denmark, Gromaticæ libri tres (1640), but he failed to have the maps printed and in

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Fig. 285. JOHANNES MEJER’S ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT MAP OF SLESVIG. Mejer prepared this untitled map in about 1650.

Size of the original: 66 × 72 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Copenhagen (KBK 1111, 155-0-1650/1).

1645 lost the king’s favor. Lauremberg was succeeded as royal mathematician, in 1647, by Johannes Mejer, a prolific surveyor from Husum, in Slesvig, who had studied astronomy at Copenhagen University. Mejer’s extensive work in Slesvig and Holstein had produced an atlas of forty maps that would be published, together with an expansive text by Caspar Danckwerth, as Newe Landesbeschreibung der zweij Hertzogthümer Schleswich und Holstein (1652). Mejer added that work to Lauremberg’s to create a large manuscript map of Denmark that he presented in 1650 to Frederik III, who hung it on his study wall (fig. 285). Thereafter, Mejer contin-

ued to map Denmark—Jutland, 1654–55 and Skåne (now in Sweden), 1655–58—and also prepared a number of fanciful maps, full of forests and towns, of Greenland and other Arctic territories claimed by Denmark. In 1658–60, Mejer collected eighty-two maps for a putative “Nordic atlas,” however the work remained unfinished (Dreyer-Eimbcke 2006; Ehrensvärd 2006, 125, 170–80). Although no official successor to Mejer was appointed, his efforts to create a comprehensive and detailed atlas of Denmark were continued by the mayor of Copenhagen, Peder Hansen Resen. Resen sought to create a great Atlas Danicus covering not only the ge-

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ography of Denmark but also local history, antiquities, monuments, and natural history. He worked with Mejer’s maps, with the large corpus of local topographical materials collected pursuant to a 1622 decree by Christian IV, and with further information gleaned from fellow antiquaries. Resen and the copper engraver at Copenhagen University, Johan Huusman, prepared and engraved 115 maps—mostly urban plans (see fig. 890) but including twenty-six regional maps—as well as numerous topographical and architectural views. Resen included these in an exemplar volume, printed in 1677, of which only five copies are known, none complete. The whole project grew to no fewer than thirty-nine volumes in manuscript. Resen eventually reduced them to seven volumes, and then to a three-volume precis that was finally published in 1974. Resen’s source materials were destroyed, along with the rest of the university library, by the great fire of 1728; transcripts of the seven-volume precis did survive, with a few views of estates and landscapes, and have been variously edited and published in the twentieth century (Resen 1974; Ehrensvärd 2006, 180–81). Further surveys were undertaken. From 1691 to 1697, a carriage designed by the astronomer Ole Rømer with a waywiser fitted to a wheel to count its revolutions was used to measure itinerary distances along Denmark’s principal roads (Pedersen 1992, 92). In 1720–23, Captain Abraham Christian Willars surveyed rytterdistrikter or “reuter districts” (cavalry districts), areas from which the king could demand supplies of horses and other commodities to support the military. Seven beautiful maps are known from this work, in various scales from 1:30,000 to 1:70,000 (Nørlund 1943, 56–57) (see fig. 16). The early mapping of Norway was equally fragmentary and sporadic. A Dutch military engineer, Isaac van Geelkerck, surveyed and mapped several parts of Norway between 1644 and 1657, although with an emphasis on fortresses and urban places. In 1650, the Crown also requested that Van Geelkerck produce a regional map of Norway; probably completed, this map is now lost. However, in 1658–60, the engineer Gottfried Hoffman compiled Van Geelkerck’s and Mejer’s maps into a general map of both Denmark and Norway, presented to the Crown prince, later Christian V (see fig. 203). After 1688, Melchior Ramus of Trondheim worked with royal support to turn his own itineraries and other records into a large map of Norway at 1:320,000, which he presented to Christian V in 1692; Ramus died before the map could be published. A map of all of Norway, Delineatio Norwegiæ novissima, drawn by Joachim Frederik Ramus, nephew to Melchior Ramus, was appended to a history of the Norse kings, Norriges Kongers Historie (1719) by Jonas Ramus. Melchior Ramus’s work seems

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also to have been used, at least in part, by Ulric Frideric Aagaard for a series of maps of fogderier (counties) by 1705; nine are known to survive, but more research is still needed to clarify their relationship to earlier maps (Hoem 1986, 97). The maps by Aagaard and the Ramus family seem to have been the primary source for maps of Norway by Ove Andreas Wangensteen (Kongeriget Norge, 1761) and Erich Johan Jessen-Schardebøll (Det Kongerige Norge, 1763) (Nissen 1938–39, 1963–64; Hoem 1986; Ginsberg 2009, 94–96, 100–105). A more concerted interest in topography and geography was fostered within the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab, founded in 1742 by Christian VI. Almost immediately, Christian VI tasked the academy with several topographical projects. Least successful was the publication of the lavish manuscript that commemorated, with sixty-eight landscape views and detailed maps, Christian VI’s grand progress through Norway in 1733; the task proved beyond the capacity of the academy and local publishers (Norske reise 1992 is a modern facsimile). More successful was the academy’s publication of the results of Frederik Ludvig Norden’s expedition to Egypt in 1737–38, which Christian VI had funded; Norden had traced and mapped the course of the Nile from Alexandria to the second cataract (fig. 286). Norden’s work eventually appeared in print, with many maps, plans, and views, in two volumes, as Voyage d’Egypte et de Nubie (1755). Then, in 1751, Frederik V ordered the academy to organize an expedition in 1752–57 to survey the geography, natural history, and economy of the still little-known Norwegian territory of Iceland; the academy also published a study of Iceland, with map, by Niels Horrebow, previously funded by Frederik V: Tilforladelige efterretninger om Island med et nyt landkort (1752) (Pedersen 1992, 65–71). Members of the academy, influenced by these diverse projects, began to ponder a comprehensive topographical survey of Denmark. They were also motivated by the example set by the regional mapping of Sweden, published by the Vetenskapsakademien in Stockholm, and perhaps by some jealousy of royal plans for an expedition to Arabia and Persia in 1761–67, whose sole surviving member was the geographer Carsten Niebuhr. As Norden’s work was being prepared for press, an anonymous proposal wondered at the cost involved and whether the funds would be better spent on a good map of Denmark, like that of Sweden; such a map would be made by the academy’s members selecting the best of all the existing maps, correcting them as necessary, and then compiling them into a single map (Pedersen 1992, 93–94). While there is no evidence that the academy ever formally considered this proposal, it did pay heed to another that was submitted to the king in 1757

Fig. 286. FREDERIK LUDVIG NORDEN’S MAP OF THE NILE. The manuscript “Carte de l’Egipte. & de Nubie,” [1738], would inform the overview map, in two sheets, of the course of the Nile in Norden’s posthumously published Voyage d’Egypte et de Nubie, trans. J.-B. Desroches de Parthe-

nay, 2 vols. (Copenhagen: Imprimerie de la Maison Royale des Orphelins, 1755). Size of the original: 34.0 × 22.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, Copenhagen, and reproduced with their permission.

Fig. 287. MAP OF DENMARK. Theodor Gliemann, “Kongeriget Danmark,” 1815, compiled with assistance from the sheets of the Videnskabernes Selskab kort, manuscript maps of Slesvig and Holstein by military officers, and Samuel Gustaf Hermelin’s printed map of Sweden (1810).

Size of the original: 91 × 63 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Copenhagen (KBK 1111-0-1815/1).

Fig. 288. CHRISTIAN JOCHUM PONTOPPIDAN, DET SYDLIGE NORGE, 1785. Pontoppidan followed this work by the smaller-scale Det nordlige Norge (1795). Copper engraving on two sheets, ca. 1:840,000.

Size of the original: 100.5 × 68.0 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Copenhagen (KBK 1112-0-1785/5).

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via the royal architect, Laurids de Thurah, by a young scholar Peder Koefoed, on the condition that he be appointed professor of mathematics at the gymnasium in Odense. Koefoed proposed a completely new survey, using plane tables equipped with a telescopic alidade of his own design. Unfortunately, he completed only one map, of Copenhagen, before his death. The academy soon pushed ahead with a plan for the mapping of Denmark along the same lines as César François Cassini (III) de Thury’s survey for the Carte de France, to be undertaken by Koefoed’s assistant, Thomas Bugge (Pedersen 1992, 89–97). In 1761, the academy secured royal support for the triangulation-based survey; by 1805, Bugge and his assistants had completed and published sixteen regional maps at 1:120,000 (see fig. 944) and some larger-scale maps of some of the islands. The academy eventually used these as a basis for mapping the country as a whole (fig. 287). As the book trade grew in Denmark and Norway, it featured the commercial production of a few geographical works. The essayist and playwright Ludvig Holberg, who became professor of geography at Copenhagen University in 1730, prepared a short Compendium geographicum in usum studiosæ juventutis (1733), but without maps. Nicolai Jonge would use Holberg’s name for his much larger seven-volume geography—Baron Ludvig Holbergs Geographie eller Jordbeskrivelse (1759– 91), with several maps—although there was little connection between the two works; Jonge also produced other geography books with regional maps, as well as a small Skole-Atlas (1772) with maps derived from those of Johann Baptist Homann (Erslev 1884). The geographical and topographical tradition of Resen’s Atlas Danicus was perpetuated by the bishop Erik Pontoppidan, who produced a small map of Denmark in 1729 and then a small topography of the country published in Bremen: Theatrum Daniæ veteris et modernæ (1730). The royal architect, Thurah, published a topographical account of Copenhagen, Hafnia Hodierna, in 1748 and would have published more had he not died. Pontoppidan continued his own work, to create Den Danske Atlas eller Konge-Riget Dannemark (1763–81). Pontoppidan prepared two volumes before his own death; another five were prepared by his sister’s husband, Hans Hofman. All told, the seven volumes contained more than two hundred city plans and fifteen maps by Diderich Christian Fester; with the academy’s survey barely begun, Fester compiled the maps from Mejer’s manuscripts, corrected by the later works of Willars, Resen, and maybe also by the coastal charts of Jens Sørensen (Ehrensvärd 2006, 300–301, 305). A similar project was undertaken by the theologian Gerhard Schøning for Norway: his three-volume Norges Riiges Historie (1771–81) combined topographical and geographical imagery. The latter drew in particular

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on Melchior Ramus’s maps but also other manuscript works. Many of the maps collected by Schøning were later used by other geographers in their work on Norway. Thus, the teacher of drawing at the Landkadetakademi (founded 1713) in Copenhagen, Christian Jochum Pontoppidan, used a variety of sources for his two detailed maps of Norway in 1785 (southern; fig. 288) and 1795 (northern), whose construction and sources were explained in brief memoirs (Hoem 1986; Ehrensvärd 2006, 333; Ginsberg 2009, 114–17, 122–27). H e nri k Dupont See also: Bugge, Thomas; Denmark and Norway; Niebuhr, Carsten; Videnskabernes Selskab kort (Academy of Sciences and Letters map series; Denmark) Bibliography Dahl, Bjørn Westerbeek. 1993. Kortets historie i Vejle amt: Fra renaissancens byprospekter til 1800-tallets generalstabskort. Vejle: Vejle Amts Historiske Samfund. Dreyer-Eimbcke, Oswald. 2006. 400 Jahre Johannes Mejer (1606– 1674): Der große Kartograph aus Husum. Oldenburg: KomRegis Verlag. Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 2006. The History of the Nordic Map: From Myths to Reality. Helsinki: John Nurminen Foundation. Erslev, Edvard. 1884. “Ludvig Holberg som Geograf.” Geografisk Tidskrift 7:145–51. Ginsberg, William B. 2009. Maps and Mapping of Norway, 1602– 1855. New York: Septentrionalium Press. Hoem, Arne I. 1986. Norge på gamle kart. Oslo. J. W. Cappelens Forlag. Nissen, Kristian. 1938–39. “Bidrag til Norges karthistorie I: Norlandia-kartet i Den Werlauffske gave og Andreas Heitmans kart over Nordlandene fra 1744–45 samt dermed beslektede karter.” Norsk Geografisk Tidsskrift 7:126–60. ———. 1963–64. “Bidrag til Norges karthistorie V: Nytt av og om Melchior Ramus.” Norsk Geografisk Tidsskrift 19:251–72. Nørlund, N. E. 1943. Danmarks Kortlægning: En historisk fremstilling. 2d ed. Copenhagen: Ejnar Munksgaard. Norske reise anno 1733: Beskrivelse af Kong Christian 6. og Dronning Sophie Magdalenes rejse til Norge, 12. maj–23. September. 1992. Postscript Klaus Kjølsen. Herning: Poul Kristensens Forlag. Pedersen, Olaf. 1992. Lovers of Learning: A History of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters, 1742–1992. Copenhagen: Munksgaard. Resen, Peder Hansen. 1974. Kobberstikkene fra Peder Hansen Resen: Atlas Danicus, 1677. Ed. Ib Rønne Kejlbo. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger.

Geographical Mapping in France. From the middle of the seventeenth century to the end of the eighteenth, geographical maps enjoyed commercial success in France and in continental Europe, and they played a fundamental role in the development of the discipline of geography. During the Renaissance, interest had focused on maps of the realm, a trend that the publication of the first national atlas of France in 1594 confirmed (Maurice Bouguereau’s Le theatre francoys). Yet it was only in 1658 that the first important French world atlas appeared: Les cartes générales de toutes les parties du monde, produced by Nicolas Sanson and issued in seven editions until 1676. For the Sanson family—Nicolas and his son Guillaume—the map was the essential element

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Fig. 289. GUILLAUME DELISLE, CARTE D’AFRIQUE DRESSÉE POUR L’USAGE DU ROY (PARIS: CHEZ L’AUTEUR, 1722). A new edition of the 1700 map by the same author, which had already corrected the Mediterranean shoreline of Africa. This map was dedicated to the king and was therefore a political map; yet it also reflects the progress

made by Delisle in understanding the continent, for example in his separation of the courses of the Senegal River from that of the Niger. Size of the original: 50.0 × 64.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [7771]).

in geography, which could be studied in three different ways: with globes and maps; with tables incorporating the divisions and subdivisions of empires, monarchies, realms, republics, and other sovereign states; and finally with textual descriptions (Sanson 1681, 6). Thanks to Nicolas Sanson, whose geographic tables so “marvelously” aided the memory that “only eyes and maps were necessary,” geography became accessible to users as various as poets, philosophers and historians, sovereigns and politicians, churchmen and financiers, magistrates, businessmen, and travelers, as well as readers of historical works and travel narratives (Sanson 1681, 6, [IV], [II–III]). By the early eighteenth century, geographic maps benefited from new data gathered and transmitted by the Académie royale des sciences, which allowed precise lo-

calization of an ever-increasing number of points whose latitudes and (less easily determined) longitudes were becoming known. These new data allowed geographers to modify the map of the world by presenting “a nearly new earth” (Fontenelle 1728, 78), as demonstrated by the Mappe-monde (1700) of Guillaume Delisle (see fig. 201), which shortened the length of the Mediterranean Sea by 300 leagues and the length of Asia by 500 leagues, thus changing the breadth of Africa as well (fig. 289). Soon, géographes de cabinet were immersed in increasingly numerous sources, especially travel narratives. They had to synthesize an immense amount of material, a task too formidable for many, who found it simpler to copy from a colleague. Understanding these imperatives and undoubtedly with Delisle in mind, Didier Robert de Vaugondy wrote: “The astronomer and

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the geometer each has his own sphere of knowledge; but the geographer should possess knowledge of both [subjects] and be able to discuss [each] in order to reconcile and to utilize appropriately the support that he draws from each” (Robert de Vaugondy 1757, 613). Philippe Buache followed in Delisle’s footsteps, using the latter’s collection before it was transmitted in 1773 to Buache’s nephew, Jean-Nicolas Buache, who sold it in 1780 to Jean-Claude Dezauche. In fact, the contract of this sale shows that, in the course of their long life, the plates of the geographic maps (the world and the continents), undoubtedly much in demand, had been frequently brought up to date by several successive engravings, thus explaining the variety of dates given for the same map; other plates that had become unusable were “to be remade” (“Vente” 1780). For the purpose of selling maps, the names of Guillaume Delisle and Philippe Buache assuredly attracted buyers. Another concern for geographic mapping was the question of projection, which was debated alongside that of the flattening of the earth. Rigobert Bonne revived the projection used by the Italian Bernardo Silvano in the 1511 edition of Ptolemy’s Geography (Silvano’s projection was itself a variant of Ptolemy’s second projection). It represented parallels with concentric circles and all the meridians with curves except for the central one, which is straight, something that distinguished his projection from truly conic projections. Bonne’s projection, reconfigured for the ellipsoid, was later used for the nineteenth-century map of France at a scale of 1:80,000, called the carte de l’État-Major. In November 1752, Philippe Buache presented to the Académie royale des sciences an “Essai de géographie physique” in which he distinguished physical or natural geography from historical geography and from mathematical or theoretical geography, which concerned itself with methods for producing maps. Buache considered that “the most general” part of physical geography was “the type of frame,” which appeared to him to be “the support for different parts of the terrestrial globe and which is formed by chains of high mountains that encircle it and traverse it” (Buache 1756, 400–401). He demonstrated his theory of the “framework of the earth” with the Cartes et tables de la géographie physique ou naturelle (1754–56), presented to the king in 1757, and still published as late as the end of the century by Dezauche. Buache termed another aspect of physical geography as the intérieure (interior), concerning minerals, the sources of fountains, the various layers “that are found in mountains,” as well as the interior of the sea, the direction of currents, and the observation of the magnetized needle, important subjects for navigation (Buache 1756, 400). Buache’s essay was well received by the Académie des sciences: “This way of viewing our globe opens a new avenue for geography. It is perhaps

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more interesting to know the directions of these mountain chains which serve as a frame for the earth and, in some sense, a restraint on the fury of the waters of the sea, which supply and direct the waters of rivers and of fountains, and which are perhaps linked to many other physical phenomena, than it is to know the ancient boundaries of a realm or of an empire that no longer exists” (“Sur les chaînes” 1756, 124) (see fig. 5). This favorable response from the Académie did not stop other critics. In the first volume of the Géographiephysique, Nicolas Desmarest accused Buache of never having been in the field, which would have allowed him to observe “that the supposed catenation of these [mountainous] ridges does not exist as Buache represents it on his maps” (Desmarest 1795, 69). Desmarest argued that new science should be based upon dependable observations and should offer tools for explaining the form and causes of the heights of mountains. Desmarest (1795, 151–88) was similarly critical of the geological labors of Jean-Étienne Guettard. Nevertheless, the geographical theories of Buache were adopted by his nephew Jean-Nicolas Buache. In the diplomatic context of the Franco-Spanish boundaries, the younger Buache, writing in 1791, favored a natural frontier constituted by the “crest or the summit of the Pyrenees Mountains,” “determined along their whole length by the innumerable sources of rivers that emerge from them to water the lands of France and those of Spain.” He claimed that this type of “simple and natural” division “had been adopted by the United States of America when they determined the limits of their possessions” (cited by Nordman 1984, 105). Thanks to such an approach, nations “would more efficaciously assure and defend the limits of their possessions by adopting the constant and invariable boundaries that are established by nature,” as Buache said in his lectures to the École normale (Nordman 1984, 107). His views contrasted with the less utopian outlook expressed forty years earlier by the politician and economist Anne Robert Jacques Turgot. His Plan d’un ouvrage sur la géographie politique recognized that states had used natural boundaries, but he placed them once again within a historical context, as he reflected on the great moments of history (Nordman 1984, 107). Throughout this long period, geographers continued to publish historical maps as part of their standard repertoire. All the great géographes de cabinet of the eighteenth century, such as Guillaume Delisle, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, Gilles Robert Vaugondy, and Didier Robert de Vaugondy, produced historical maps on which they tried to locate exactly places cited by ancient authors or in sacred history. D’Anville justified his work with accompanying mémoires. Delisle focused on the Middle Ages and planned to draw up five series of historical maps (Hofmann 2000, 106). Michel Picaud presented thirty maps to illustrate Les révolutions de

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l’univers (1763) by Étienne-André Philippe de Prétot, using the same map, repeated with varied coloration, to follow the evolution of world history from the dispersion of the sons of Noah up to the eighteenth century. Increased production and demand created a promising climate for the trade in geographical maps. In 1752 the publisher and mapseller Roch-Joseph Julien opened what was probably the first map store in Paris, offering a large selection of European maps. In his 1763 catalog, he remarked that Europe was inundated with a “prodigious number” of available maps, obliging him to make a considered selection for his customers (Pedley 2005, 160); in his choices for France, the names of Guillaume Delisle, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, and Didier Robert de Vaugondy stand out. The maps of d’Anville were the most costly: 5 livres for his mappemonde in two hemispheres of 1761 (fig. 290), while that of Delisle cost only 2 livres 10 sols. Moreover, observing that “a good atlas is put together according the use one wishes to make of it and how much one wishes to spend,” Julien offered his services to counsel any client who wished to create his or her own atlas factice (Pedley 2005, 160, 282n7). Nevertheless, large coherent atlases continued to be produced by single cartographers. For their Atlas universel, Gilles Robert Vaugondy and Didier Robert de Vaugondy chose a format compatible with the folio volumes of libraries, identical symbols for all maps in order to facilitate comprehension, and demanded a high quality of engraving that sometimes seemed excessive to the engravers. Their editor, Antoine-Chrétien Boudet, protected himself from financial risk by proposing a subscription in 1752, which was well-received and gave purchasers significant savings. In the tradition of the cartographic memoir, Didier Robert de Vaugondy cited the sources for his large atlas: he had used classic models like Nicolas Sanson, whose plates his family had inherited, and Guillaume Delisle, but also numerous geographers of the eighteenth century whose work he had examined with care (Robert de Vaugondy 1755). Gilles and Didier preferred to correct existing documents that they had selected as the bases of their work, rather than creating completely new ones (Pedley 1992, 51–68). Buache and Dezauche followed the same method of correction in reediting the maps of Delisle. Geographical maps played an important role in teaching geography. By the end of the eighteenth century, professors had at their disposal a whole arsenal of maps and atlases, from which they could carefully select in order to protect their students from bad documents and faulty counterfeits. The Institutions géographiques (1766) by Didier Robert de Vaugondy, published in the tradition of the Introduction a la geographie of Guillaume Sanson, recommended the maps of his Nouvel atlas portatif of 1762. That same year Jean Lattré and Jean-Thomas

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Hérissant published the Atlas moderne, which targeted a similar scholastic audience and, with fewer maps, was slightly less expensive (Pedley 1992, 100–102). The best pedagogue appears to have been Edme Mentelle, who took geography outside the walls of his cabinet: beginning from the geographic position of his students and progressing outward in concentric circles, he had his pupils travel metaphorically to the ends of the earth (Nordman 1994, 146). Mentelle’s Géographie comparée; ou Analyse de la géographie ancienne et moderne des peuples de tous les pays et de tous les âges (1778–84) returned to a tradition of linking ancient and modern geography using maps and tables. An atlas of great quality complemented this work containing simplified, clearly engraved and color accented maps that were easily comprehended and even included the Mappe-monde physique of Buache (fig. 291). The most capable geographers were sought to illustrate books in which a map seemed to be indispensable. This work was not negligible, for it both provided complementary revenue to the geographers and expanded map appreciation to a wider reading public. JacquesNicolas Bellin, in addition to his duties at the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, illustrated the voyage of Pierre-François-Xavier de Charlevoix to Canada (1744) and the Histoire générale des voyages (1746–1802 [an X]), edited until 1761 by the abbé Antoine François Prévost. D’Anville prepared the maps for the description of China by Jean-Baptiste Du Halde, published in 1735. Didier Robert de Vaugondy illustrated different texts including the first volume of the Histoire naturelle (1749) by Georges-Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon, and the Histoire des navigations aux terres australes (1756) by Charles de Brosses; he also prepared two maps for the posthumous edition of the Esprit des loix (1758) by Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de Montesquieu. In general, the most well regarded geographical maps produced in France were the work of practicing geographers who taught mathematics and geography and who were active contributors to scientific debate in the learned academies. The work of these géographes de cabinet dominated until the last quarter of the century, when scientists and scholars in the field drew attention to the important work of synthesis that could be performed by leaving the office for direct observation of nature. Mo ni q ue Pelletier See also: Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’; Atlas: School Atlas; Buache, Jean-Nicolas; Buache, Philippe; Delisle Family; France; Historical Map; Robert de Vaugondy Family; Sanson Family Bibliography Buache, Philippe. 1756. “Essai de géographie physique, où l’on propose des vûes générales sur l’espèce de charpente du globe, composée des chaînes de montagnes qui traversent les mers comme les terres; avec quelques considérations particulières sur les différens

Fig. 290. JEAN-BAPTISTE BOURGUIGNON D’ANVILLE, HÉMISPHÈRE ORIENTAL OU DE L’ANCIEN MONDE (PARIS: CHEZ L’AUTEUR, 1761). This map of the Eastern Hemisphere is one half of the first edition of d’Anville’s double-hemisphere world map. As he had already done in his map of Africa of 1749, d’Anville emptied the interior of this conti-

nent of any contents that did not appear to him to be verified and based on reliable information. Size of the original: 65 × 59 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [96 B]).

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Fig. 291. MAPPE-MONDE PHYSIQUE D’APRÈS DES VUES DE MR. PALLAS, 1779. Mentelle was one of the first to include maps of physical geography in his school atlases, beginning with the Atlas nouveau (1784). Here the views of Peter Simon Pallas replicate the global chain of mountains initially proposed by Philippe Buache, and the map includes the heights of particular mountains as well as asterisks marking

volcanoes. From Edme Mentelle and Pierre-Grégoire Chanlaire, Atlas universel de géographie physique et politique, ancienne et moderne (Paris: chez les Auteurs, An XIV [1806]). Size of the original: 26 × 42 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Atl 1806 Me).

bassins de la mer, & sur sa configuration intérieure.” Mémoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1752: 399–416. Desmarest, Nicolas. 1795. Encyclopédie methodique: Geographiephysique. Vol. 1. Paris: H. Agasse. Fontenelle, Bernard Le Bouyer de. 1728. “Eloge de M. Delisle.” Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1726: 75–84. Hofmann, Catherine. 2000. “La genèse de l’atlas historique en France (1630–1800): Pouvoirs et limites de la carte comme ‘œil de l’histoire.’” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 158:97–128. Nordman, Daniel. 1984. “Buache de La Neuville et la ‘frontière’ des Pyrénées.” In Images de la montagne: De l’artiste cartographe à l’ordinateur, 105–10. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale. ———, ed. 1994. L’École normale de l’an III: Leçons d’histoire, de géographie, d’économie politique. Paris: Dunod. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications.

———. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Robert de Vaugondy, Didier. 1755. Essai sur l’histoire de la géographie, ou sur son origine, ses progrès & son état actuel. Paris: Antoine Boudet. ———. 1757. “Géographie.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 7:608– 13. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, and Durand. Sanson, Guillaume. 1681. Introduction a la geographie. Paris: l’Auteur. “Sur les chaînes de montagnes du globe terrestre.” 1756. Histoire de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1752: 117–24. “Vente par M. Buache de la Neuville à M. J. C. Dezauche et à son épouse d’un fonds de commerce de cartes géographiques,” 5 juin 1780, manuscript, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cartes et plans, Rés. Ge EE 3119.

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Geographical Mapping in New France and the French West Indies. Geographical mapping in French colonial

possessions of North America, the islands of the Caribbean, and French Guiana was organized in various ways and produced varied results, but differences arose not so much from geographic variations as from differences in chronological development and the way in which maps were ordered and used. Moreover, this particular historical period witnessed important developments in modes of spatial representation as well as the extension of the domains covered by cartographic documents. Finally, this type of mapping was rarely the fruit of isolated labor or of self-taught mapmakers. The purpose of medium- to small-scale geographical maps was to function as political tools, which allowed the king to see the extent of his holdings and could serve as foundations for diplomatic negotiations (fig. 292). Such maps also had a military objective: identifying enemy forts and the location of enemy troops, information on which the defense of colonies and attacks on enemy

Fig. 292. NICOLAS DE FER, LES ISLES DE L’AMERIQUE CONNUES SOUS LE NOM D’ANTILLES (PARIS, 1702). Ca. 1:10,900,000. This map of the Antilles and the Gulf of Mexico, compiled and published in Paris, depicts the claims of the French, Spanish, and English Crowns.

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positions depended. The scale of geographical maps allowed them to be useful for other purposes. Marine maps indicated passable waters and provided bathymetric information. Thematic maps noted the locations of indigenous tribes. Route maps displayed the network of roads and trails connecting commercial posts and religious establishments. A general map of Saint-Domingue (1784) even showed the network of mail distribution in the colony (fig. 293). This sizable cartographic production originally remained in manuscript form, but by the mid-eighteenth century it was beginning to be synthesized and printed by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine under the supervision of Jacques-Nicolas Bellin. After the initial work of French navigators who described the coastline of North America from direct observation in the sixteenth century, cartographers also began to incorporate data from astronomic observations. In 1601 Guillaume Levasseur drew a chart of the Atlantic Ocean using the Mercator projection, which represented shipping routes as straight lines and cor-

Size of the original: 33 × 22 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, GeD 13302).

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Fig. 293. ANONYMOUS, CARTE DES POSTES AUX LETTRES DE L’ÎLE DE SAINT DOMINGUE, 1784. This printed map shows the postal routes and post houses in the French part of Saint-Domingue.

© Archives nationales (France) (N III Saint-Domingue, pièce 3).

rected the alignments of the Mediterranean and North American coastline by taking into account magnetic declination. Such information was digested by a new type of geographer, the géographe du roi, a title created by Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu. One of the first géographes, Nicolas Sanson, published a map of New France in 1656 that incorporated information provided by Jesuit missionaries, especially for Canada and the St. Lawrence River valley. Accounts by travelers and explorers provided critical information to cartographers: topographical indications,

the number of days required to walk between places, information on orientation, as well as botanical and ethnographic data. However, these sources were not always reliable. At the end of the seventeenth century, following the twenty-year-old path of the Recollect father Louis Hennepin along the Mississippi, the naval officer Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville had many occasions to curse the imprecisions of his predecessor. When a colony was established, the inhabitants themselves, concessionaires and scholars, administrators, surveyors, and engineers, helped to produce maps and plans and endeavored to

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make them more accurate. However, in the absence of strong copyright laws, commercial geographers copied one another to boost their own production, not always aware of the most recent works, even though these maps were not always evaluated and verified. Thus documents with obsolete information circulated alongside works with the most recent data. The creation of the Académie des sciences along with the improvement of timekeepers and angle measuring instruments pushed cartographers toward overseas expeditions for astronomical observations to determine exact latitudes and longitudes in order to establish better maps. While earlier geographers like Sanson drew on literary accounts and the works of others, the new geographers working in Paris relied on astronomers by asking them specific and precise questions with a desire to produce maps on the scientific basis of consistent inquiry, observation, and measurement. The loci of these observations were often in French possessions in the Western Hemisphere. Between 1672 and 1673 Jean Richer observed Mercury from Cayenne, and in 1685 Jean Deshayes determined the longitude of Quebec in Canada. Nonetheless, even these observations were subject to scrutiny by geographers such as Guillaume Delisle in Paris, who queried results such as the information provided by René Robert Cavelier de La Salle, who found the mouth of the Mississippi by land rather than by sea. Further data were required in order to check earlier work. Antoine François Laval crossed the Atlantic

in 1720 (fig. 294), noting the variations of the compass during his voyage and comparing these measurements to those on Edmond Halley’s map, first published in 1701 (see fig. 348). From 1729 to 1733 the astronomer Pierre Baron made observations in New Orleans in French Louisiana, the results of which he reported to the Paris Académie des sciences (Langlois 2003, 152–53). In 1750 and 1751 Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, used a quadrant for his geometric operations in Canada, which resulted in maps of the environs of Louisbourg, the Scatari Island, and the Strait of Fronsac. His astronomic observations also included the eclipses of the satellites of Jupiter at Louisbourg (previously observed by Laval from Dauphin Island in 1720). Chabert’s results were remarkably precise: the measures differed from modern measures by only three minutes in longitude and one in latitude. The tasks required of these learned field observers were sometimes arduous. In 1749 Father JosephPierre de Bonnécamps was sent to map the Ohio River Valley near the Great Lakes as a member of the expedition directed by Pierre-Joseph Céloron de Blainville, but he was unable to fulfill his mission because of harsh conditions, bad weather, and the limitation of the itineraries chosen by his military escort, who had other concerns. Many early observers sent their findings to Paris, where Claude Delisle and his son Guillaume established a cartographic workshop in the first third of the eighteenth century (Dawson 2000). They prepared documents for engraving, synthesizing all the accounts and

Fig. 294. ANTOINE FRANÇOIS LAVAL, ROUTE POUR LE VOYAGE DE LA LOUISIANE, 1720. The Jesuit Laval was a mathematician and hydrographer, professeur royal for the Marine officers in Toulon after he opened an observatory in Marseille in 1702. The printed map, included in Laval’s Voyage de

la Louisiane (Paris: Jean Mariette, 1728), between 256 and 257, shows the plan of the Atlantic route followed by French ships sailing to Louisiana and includes notations of magnetic variation along the route. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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observations available and working in connection with the new Paris Observatory and the Cassini family. Bellin and Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville continued the compilation method of the Delisles. For the encyclopedic compilation of the Histoire générale des voyages by the abbé Antoine François Prévost (15 volumes, 1746– 59), Bellin compiled the majority of maps of America. The first manuscript maps to describe with great precision the colonized territories in New France were the work of geographers residing there, including Jean Baptiste Louis Franquelin in Canada (1688) and François Le Maire in Louisiana (1716). Military engineers also played a part in this exhaustive cartographic labor, including Gaspard-Joseph Chaussegros de Léry in Canada, Ignace-François Broutin in Louisiana, Amédée-François Frézier in Saint-Domingue, and François Blondel in the Antilles. Their precise and nearly unimpeachable research brought the best sources of information to geographers in the metropole (fig. 295). Broutin,

for example, lived more than thirty years in Louisiana, where he arrived in 1720 as an officer charged to defend two concessions in the Natchez region. Although he never obtained the title of engineer, Broutin served in turn as surveyor (map of Chapitoulas, ca. 1726), architect (plan of an Ursuline convent in New Orleans, 1745), and hydrographer (a large map of the course of the Mississippi, 1731). Thanks to the protection of JeanBaptiste Le Moyne de Bienville, Broutin played the role of engineer-in-chief without the title, and in this capacity he produced plans, sections, and elevations of fortifications and buildings in most of the outposts and cities in the colony (Langlois 2003, 82, 192, 251, 287; Dujardin 2008). For a generation earlier Franquelin provides a notable example of a resident geographer, living twenty years in Quebec (New France), whose story strikingly demonstrates the king’s interest in his North American colony. As a young merchant, Franquelin crossed the Atlantic in

Fig. 295. BARON DE CRENAY, “CARTE DE PARTIE DE LA LOÜISIANNE,” 1733. De Crenay was one of the French officers to lead the punitive expedition against the Natchez. He designed this manuscript map to trace land routes across colonial Louisiana between Native American settlements and

French establishments. It is the only map of its type known for the region. Size of the original: 77.5 × 113.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Archives nationales d’outre-mer, Aix-en-Provence (DFC Louisiane 6A, pièce 1).

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1671 or 1672 to Canada, where he studied geography at a small seminary in Quebec. Called upon to depict the expedition of Louis Jolliet and Jacques Marquette on the Mississippi, Franquelin furnished the intendant Jacques Duchesneau in 1678 with two maps remarkable for their aesthetic qualities: one showed the expedition itself and the other, the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Lake Huron. Sent to Jean-Baptiste Colbert, these documents assured the standing of the new geographer, who was summoned to perfect his scientific knowledge in Paris. There, with La Salle, Franquelin prepared maps of La Salle’s discovery of Louisiana. Returning to Quebec in 1684, Franquelin dedicated himself to the cartography of the St. Lawrence and Acadia. He was named royal hydrographer in 1687, and in this capacity he produced a map of the boundaries of English and French possessions (see fig. 244). Between 1689 and 1692, in the face of war with the English, he took up engineering, producing plans for the defense of Quebec. Franquelin was asked to complete all types of tasks, and he defined his own work as follows: “to draw accurate lines and to divide this great land into provinces, to which will be assigned both boundaries and French names” (Franquelin 1694, 294). Similar representations of the French West Indies found in small-scale geographical maps outlined claims against those of the English such as the Carte de l’isle de Sainct Christophle (ca. 1650) by Abraham Peyrounin showing French positions at both extremities of the island and British positions in the center. Others were propaganda documents designed to encourage settlement, such as the L’Isle de Cayenne by Étienne Vouillemont (1667), praising the attractiveness of Cayenne and the other islands and describing their resources through the inset of illustrations around the map (for example, “Représentation des moulins à sucres desdites isles”). Vincenzo Coronelli’s map of Marie-Galante (Isola di Maria Galante nelle Antilli, 1671), at a larger scale (ca. 1:60,000), details coastline, footpaths, land parcels, ponds, gullies, and noteworthy trees, suggesting that the Venetian geographer had access to cartographic sources not employed by other French mapmakers. In the eighteenth century, parallel with serious administrative efforts in mapmaking, commercial geographers in Paris benefited from access to manuscript sources such as the “Carte des Antilles francoises,” by the colonial engineer Jean-Baptiste-Pierre Le Romain (see fig. 21). Philippe Buache (Carte de l’isle de la Martinique, 1732), Gilles Robert de Vaugondy (Isles de Saint-Domingue ou Hispaniola et de la Martinique, 1750), and JacquesNicolas Bellin (Carte réduite des isles de la Guadeloupe, Marie Galante et les Saintes, 1759) produced maps attesting to increased development of the islands. Geographical mapping of the French colonial world combined the on-site observation and measurement by engineers, officers, and self-taught geographers resident in

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the colonies with the compilation effort of géographes de cabinet resident in France. The work of the colonial geographers tended to remain in manuscript and circulate only in a small circle unless it was sent to the capital, where the geographers of the metropole had access to the wider resources of commercial printing and distribution centers. Gilles -Anto ine Langlo is , with ad d itional info rmatio n o n th e French W est Indies provid ed by J ean-Lo ui s Glénisson See also: Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis; French West Indies; New France Bibliography Blanchard, Anne. 1981. Dictionnaire des ingénieurs militaires, 1691– 1791. Montpellier: Centre d’Histoire Militaire et d’Études de Défense Nationale. Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine, ed. 1995. L’œil du cartographe et la répresentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Broc, Numa. 1975. La géographie des philosophes: Géographes et voyageurs français au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Editions Ophrys. Buisseret, David. 1991. Mapping the French Empire in North America. Chicago: Newberry Library. Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillery: Septentrion. Débarbat, Suzanne, and Simone Dumont. 1997. “Les débuts de la cartographie scientifique: L’apport des astronomes français.” Bulletin de la Classe des Sciences (Académie Royale de Belgique), 6th ser., 8:271–303. Dujardin, Justine. 2008. “Cartographier la Louisiane française au XVIIIe siècle.” Thèse diplôme d’archiviste-paléographe, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Franquelin, Jean Baptiste Louis. 1694. “Memoire touchant les voyages que Franquelin, hydrographe du roy en Canada, a faits de Québec à Paris pour le service de Sa Majesté.” Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Département des manuscrits, Clairambault, vol. 879, fol. 294–95. Hale, Elisabeth, ed. 1985. La découverte du monde: Cartographes et cosmographes. Montreal: Musée David M. Stewart. Konvitz, Josef W. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Langlois, Gilles-Antoine. 2003. Des villes pour la Louisiane française: Théorie et pratique de l’urbanistique coloniale au 18e siècle. Paris: L’Harmattan. Litalien, Raymonde, Jean-François Palomino, and Denis Vaugeois. 2007. Mapping a Continent: Historical Atlas of North America, 1492–1814. Trans. Käthe Roth. Sillery: Septentrion. Pelletier, Monique. 1988. “Louis XIV et l’Amérique: Témoignages de la cartographie.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 115:50–58.

Geographical Mapping in the German States. There were few motives for geographical mapping in the German states during the Enlightenment. The Thirty Years’ War (1618–48) had depopulated large parts of Germany and devastated its economy; the political settlement had fractured the Holy Roman Empire and led to the increasing independence of the many, mostly small Reichsstände (imperial estates). The rise to military and political power of Brandenburg-Prussia was not accompanied by much regional mapping because of concerns for secrecy. Yet there were two exceptions to the generally discour-

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aging socioeconomic conditions: the continued commercial trade of maps, focused in some trading towns and southern Germany’s free imperial cities; and the pursuit of mapmaking on mathematical and astronomical principles at some of the smaller universities and the academies that started to emerge in the eighteenth century. Nuremberg had cultivated the arts and sciences since the Middle Ages as well as the art of copper engraving since its invention. Cartography had long been an element of its cultural life, from the terrestrial globe by Martin Behaim and the several cartographic projects by Albrecht Dürer to Philip Eckebrecht’s world map (dated 1630) for the Tabulæ Rudolphinæ of Johannes Kepler during the Thirty Years’ War; this last work stands as perhaps the first critical attempt at an overall improvement in the representation of the world (Meurer 2007, 1193–98, 1239– 40). After the war, engraving flourished again in Nuremberg and soon map engraving as well. In the eighteenth century, Johann Baptist Homann’s publishing house (founded in 1702) became a major map producer for central and northern Europe; after his death in 1724, the business continued as Homann Heirs until 1813 and then, under the name of the last owner, Christoph Fembo, until 1852, albeit with diminished significance. The Homann maps were in wide circulation at home and abroad because they were well made, attractive, and inexpensive. Through them the results of eighteenth-century explorations were quickly disseminated across central Europe. Homann commissioned a number of original maps, mostly of German territories (fig. 296). Most of the Homann maps of foreign countries were largely based on French or Dutch maps; however, they were not simply copied, but critiqued and enhanced, drawing extensively on the work of scientists such as Johann Caspar Eisenschmidt, Johann Hübner, Eberhard David Hauber, August Gottlieb Boehme, Johann Michael Franz, Georg Moritz Lowitz, and Tobias Mayer. Franz (one of Homann Heirs), Lowitz, and Mayer briefly ran a cosmographical society in Nuremberg between 1746 and 1754 through which they sought to emulate the geographical and astronomical achievements of the Académie des sciences in Paris (Forbes 1980, 427–28); all three were later recruited to Göttingen University, where Lowitz offered the first cartographic course at a university on the drawing of maps in 1757. Homann Heirs also published the Atlas coelestis (also known as Atlas novvs coelestis) by Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr in 1742, which popularized the Copernican view of the world; in addition to several maps of the cosmos and heavens, this astronomical atlas included a world map with 142 sites with astronomically determined geographical coordinates (fig. 297). Doppelmayr was also one of the most successful globe producers of the eighteenth century. In the last decades of that century, the renowned cartographer Franz Ludwig Güsse-

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feld of Weimar produced many maps for Johann Christoph Weigel, an offshoot of the Nuremberg publishing house Schneider and Weigel. Another cartographically productive imperial city was Augsburg, called the Bilderfabrik Europas (picture factory of Europe) in the eighteenth century due to its many active engravers. Its engraving was not based on a rich cartographic tradition, as in Nuremberg, but instead blossomed with the advent of etching techniques (Vedutenstich). The most prominent map publisher was Matthäus Seutter; he founded his company in 1707, and it was kept up by his heirs, particularly Tobias Conrad Lotter, until the end of the century. Based on the quantity of maps and commercial success, Seutter was the second most important publisher in the German states, but the quality of his maps could not measure up to Homann’s. The vast majority of maps were copies, many of Homann’s maps, and were adorned with splendid baroque cartouches and ornamentations. Only about forty maps were original, primarily of the southern German territories. The imperial city of Frankfurt with its fair was, until the seventeenth century, the center of the German book trade. Matthäus Merian the Elder had taken over the business of his father-in-law Johann Theodor de Bry there in 1623, which existed until 1734 under his heirs. Its major works were the Theatrum Europæum (21 vols., 1633–1738) and Topographia Germaniae (16 vols., 1641–54) with bird’s-eye views and small-scale maps. Heinrich Ludwig Brönner founded his publishing house in 1727. Johann Wilhelm Abraham Jäger founded Jägersche Buchhandlung and from 1778 to 1789 dealt particularly with the manufacture and distribution of an eighty-one-sheet topographic map series of Germany, the Grand Atlas d’Allemagne, which for the first time featured quadrangle map sheets. The Saxon trade and fair city of Leipzig surpassed Frankfurt as the predominant book city in the seventeenth century. Johann George Schreiber founded an important cartographic publishing house there, and his heirs carried on the business until the nineteenth century. Its map production was mainly focused on Germany. The Akademie der Wissenschaften, founded in 1700 in Berlin (as the Kurfürstliche-Brandenburgische Societät der Wissenschaften), proved of particular importance to geographical mapping in the German states. It had mapping privileges in Prussia but did not excel in this enterprise because King Friedrich II prevented the mapping of his kingdom to maintain military secrecy. However, Leonhard Euler published his school atlas there in 1753. The particular achievements of the academy related to the theoretical foundations of geography. Friedrich II had invited leading mathematicians to Berlin. Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis visited Berlin in 1740, returned in 1745, and became the academy’s president in

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Fig. 296. PHILIPP HEINRICH ZOLLMANN, HYDROGRAPHIA GERMANIÆ, FIRST PUBLISHED BY 1712. From Grosser Atlas (Nuremberg: Johann Baptist Homann, 1716), map 41. The map celebrates the bounty and riches of the hydrographic network of the area of the German states

and beyond. It is colored according to the watersheds of the major rivers. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (SM-1716-2).

1746. Euler, who had also been in Berlin since 1741, led the academy after Maupertuis’s death and through the Seven Years’ War; disappointed on not receiving a formal appointment to the presidency, he returned to St. Petersburg in 1766. In 1764 mathematician and physicist Johann Heinrich Lambert joined the academy, and in 1766 mathematician and astronomer Joseph-Louis Lagrange arrived and remained in Berlin until the king’s death in 1786. In their research, these scholars touched on questions about map projections and Lambert published his “Anmerkungen und Zusätze zur Entwerfung der Land- und Himmelscharten” in the third volume

of his Beyträge zum Gebrauche der Mathematik und deren Anwendung (1772). In 1783 the astronomer Johann Elert Bode prepared an oblique-aspect map of the world on the stereographic projection. The map was in two sheets with one hemisphere centered on Berlin (Die obere oder nordliche Halbkugel der Erde) and the other on Berlin’s antipodes (Die untere oder südliche Halbkugel der Erde) (see fig. 639). After the death of Friedrich II in 1786, Prussian cartography was set free. The academy’s cartographer, Daniel Friedrich Sotzmann, who lost his sight in the last decades of his life, designed excellent maps of Germany and other countries.

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Changes in Germany triggered by the French Revolution and Napoleon’s accession to power also affected geographical mapping. The Holy Roman Empire ceased to exist in 1806 and most imperial estates and cities lost their special status and the many privileges accorded to nobility. Vienna, Berlin, and the capitals of two remaining small duchies, Weimar and Gotha, became the centers of German cartography.

and 1800, Great Britain developed from being a fledgling producer of geographical maps to being a leader in the genre in terms of quantity, diversity, and sophistication of production. Following the English Civil Wars (1642–51), English cartography was at its nadir. However, a series of mutually reinforcing developments following the Restoration of Charles II in 1660 laid the basis for the ascendency of British cartography after 1750. First, Britain attained a degree of political stability and growing economic prosperity, fueled in part by its everexpanding overseas empire and revenues generated from global trade and in part by agricultural and industrial reforms. Increasing prosperity, combined with growing literacy and public interest in global events, eventually resulted in the development of a large and sophisticated domestic map market, fostering the rise of a thriving and versatile commercial map-publishing industry. Another factor was the emergence of both private and public institutions that provided source material for printed maps but also acted as both commercial clients for maps and outlets for cartographic production in their own right. Eventually, geographical maps became integral elements of periodicals and travel books and ubiquitous aspects of popular visual culture in Britain.

In the heady days of the Restoration, London’s commercial mapsellers advanced grand proposals to create large atlases and folio-sized maps to rival those being produced in Amsterdam and Paris. Their ambitions were, however, restricted by high costs, a shortage of skilled labor (notably engravers), limited access to original cartographic sources, a lack of official, institutional, and private funding, and underdeveloped markets. John Seller, whose title of “Hydrographer in Ordinary” to Charles II did not come with any significant financial support, undertook a series of fine atlases mostly based on alreadypublished Dutch sources, in particular the Atlas terrestris (1665), followed by the miniature Atlas minimus (1670). However, Seller’s global sea atlas, The English Pilot (1671–1701), was only partially completed, as production costs drove him to financial ruin. Likewise, Moses Pitt’s The English Atlas (1680–83), an attempt at a grand multivolume work in the Dutch baroque style, was never finished and landed Pitt in debtor’s prison. Britain’s still small economy meant that only a handful of the world atlases produced in this period turned a profit, and none of these were based on original cartographic sources. London mapsellers pursued several strategies to balance high cost and low demand: outright piracy; the use of subscriptions to raise capital; reissuing older works as if new; buying plates or already printed maps from Dutch publishers; and, after 1700, issuing atlases serially, mapby-map, to allow the nascent public to acquire large works over time. Despite these strategies, the roster of early mapmakers and mapsellers is littered with failure and bankruptcy (Tyacke 1978; Wallis 1978). The primary geographical interest of the English public always lay in the constitution of England itself, such that the county atlas—generally showing each county on one small-scale sheet—became the staple product of the map trade. Mapsellers generally reprinted older county atlases, ultimately derived from the surveys by Christopher Saxton in the 1570s, although they occasionally employed local sources to add modest updates to their maps. In the early eighteenth century, agricultural reforms led to widespread interest in further improvements—from reclaiming marshes and wastes to building canals and turnpikes—all of which prompted the undertaking after 1700 of a series of commercial topographical surveys of England’s counties that would revolutionize the geographical maps of England. The critical transitional work was Emanuel Bowen and Thomas Kitchin’s The Large English Atlas (1749–60), which reduced many of the new county surveys to geographical scales (see fig. 475). By century’s end, the county atlas

(facing page) Fig. 297. JOHANN GABRIEL DOPPELMAYR, BASIS GEOGRAPHIÆ RECENTIORIS ASTRONOMICA. From his Atlas [novvs] coelestis (Nuremberg: Homann Heirs, 1742), pl. 15.

Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (SM-1742-3).

J oac h im N eumann See also: Büsching, Anton Friedrich; German States; Homann Family; Mayer, Tobias; Seutter, Probst, and Lotter Families B i bliogra p hy Diefenbacher, Michael, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, eds. 2002. “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Forbes, Eric G. 1980. “Mathematical Cosmography.” In The Ferment of Knowledge: Studies in the Historiography of Eighteenth-Century Science, ed. G. S. Rousseau and Roy Porter, 417–48. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meurer, Peter H. 2007 “Cartography in the German Lands, 1450– 1650.” In HC 3:1172–1245. Scharfe, Wolfgang. 1987. “Daniel Friedrich Sotzmann: Leben und Werk eines Berliner Kartographen.” In Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium Wien ’86, 29.–31. Oktober 1986: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe, Ingrid Kretschmer, and Franz Wawrik, 11–22. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer.

Geographical Mapping in Great Britain. Between 1650

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Fig. 298. JOHN CARY’S DEVONSHIRE, IN CARY’S NEW AND CORRECT ENGLISH ATLAS (LONDON, 1787). The map exemplifies late eighteenth-century small-scale English county maps. It shows Devon in high detail, including all settlements, roads (with mileages between points), forests, and major topographical features. It was based, albeit with some

updated modifications, on Benjamin Donn’s award-winning large-scale survey, published in 1765. Size of the original: 21 × 26 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (SM-1787-9).

had grown in order to accommodate the wealth of new information (fig. 298) (Skelton 1978; Hodson 1984–97; Delano-Smith and Kain 1999, 49–111; Fox 2010). The growth of the overseas empire led to institutional and public demands for geographical maps. Indeed, maps played an important role in the public debates to define the emerging concept of the English and, later, British Empire (Harley 1997). For example, A New Map of the Most Considerable Plantations of the English in America by Edward Wells, in his successful A New Sett of Maps both of Antient and Present Geography (1700), provided a powerful and early notion of a coherent transcontinental English empire. Likewise, Herman Moll’s A Map of

the East-Indies and the Adjacent Countries (1710) was an enthusiastic overview of the East India Company’s activities in Asia. Britain’s ascendency as a global power led it to be involved in a series of wide-ranging conflicts, and to satisfy intense public interest, commercial publishers issued maps that featured the theaters of conflict. A fine example is Henry Overton’s A New & Correct Map of the Trading Part of the West Indies, Including the Seat of War between Gr. Britain and Spain (1741), which was produced during the War of Jenkins’ Ear (1739–48). Intense public interest in the period leading up to and during the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) helped expand the large domestic map market, as ex-

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citing new maps were sent from the regions of conflict back to London for publication, and the public devoured maps that advanced Britain’s territorial claims, such as A New and Accurate Map of the English Empire in North America published under the auspices of the Society of Anti-Gallicans (1755) (Pedley 2007) (see fig. 179). By the end of the eighteenth century, British geographers and mapsellers supplied large atlases and maps about different parts of the globe to a flourishing domestic market stimulated by war and territorial growth. These works ranged from Robert Sayer and John Bennett’s lavish The West-India Atlas (1775) and The American Atlas (1775), which both collected maps first published by Thomas Jefferys in the 1750s, to William Faden’s sequence of maps of The United States of North America with the British & Spanish Territories According to the Treaty of 1784 (1783 to 1796), to James Rennell’s maps and atlases of India and Bengal in the 1780s (see fig. 588). The information for these maps came originally from Dutch and French sources but were increasingly supplied by Britain’s own imperial agents. The Board of Trade, the Crown committee that had oversight over the colonies in America and the West Indies, developed an important map collection under the guidance of its secretary, Wil-

liam Blathwayt, late in the seventeenth century. The committee eventually both commissioned and received new cartography, much of which was eventually disseminated to commercial printmakers (Edney 2008). The Royal Society (founded 1660), an organization of academic inquiry, issued a regular journal, the Philosophical Transactions, which included some important original geographical maps, such as Edmond Halley’s world map employing a series of arrows traversing the oceans to depict the directions of the trade winds (1686), considered to be the first published meteorological map (see fig. 776). Various colonial trading companies both produced and inspired important geographical cartography. The English East India Company, founded in 1600, was responsible for key maps of India and Southeast Asia. The Royal Africa Company, founded in 1660, produced many important maps of coastal West Africa, inspiring Samuel Thornton’s A Draught of the Coast of Africa from the Streights Mouth to Cape Bona Esprance (1702–7), which employed flags to identify the forts belonging to the companies owned by various nations. Likewise, Overton’s separately issued folio map of Africa (ca. 1730), dedicated to Queen Caroline, celebrates the Company’s activities (fig. 299). Many maps of Canada

Fig. 299. HENRY OVERTON’S SEPARATELY ISSUED FOLIO MAP OF AFRICA. Dedicated to Queen Caroline, ca. 1730. The surrounding insets show local customs (left) and British establishments (right).

Size of the original: 57 × 99 cm. Image courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps, La Jolla.

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resulted from the voyages conducted for the Hudson’s Bay Company (founded 1670), such as Jefferys’s A Map of Canada and the North Part of Louisiana with the Adjacent Countries of 1760 (Winearls 1996). More generally, the British public turned increasingly to geographical books to learn about the broader world. Their maps, whether bound into the books or as separate atlases, performed a major educational service throughout the eighteenth century (McCorkle 2009). As British explorers and adventurers played an increasingly consequential role in global discovery, the public’s interest in their exploits led to the publication of many travel books and collected travel accounts illustrated with maps. Best-selling early examples were the pirate-writer William Dampier’s A New Voyage Round the World (1697) and A Voyage to New Holland (1703); the latter contained the map Capt. Dampiers New Voyage to New Holland &c. in 1699 &c. Likewise, George Anson’s A Voyage round the World (1748) featured many popular maps. Most significantly, the explorations of Captain James Cook produced many books containing maps based on new discoveries, notably A General Chart: Exhibiting the Discoveries made by Captn. James Cook in His First, Second and Third Voyages (1784). The continued growth of Britain’s economy and its military and colonial engagements thus drove a significant increase in geographical mapping through the eighteenth century. London’s mapsellers produced large atlases, such as Bowen’s A Complete System of Geography (1744–47), which contained maps of places such as the East Indies and Georgia (the colony in America); some, like Moll, devoted themselves solely to geographical publishing (Reinhartz 1997). Large world maps also became popular (Armitage and Baynton-Williams 2012), and geographical mapping was increasingly deployed to metaphorical effect (Reitinger 1999). Moreover, geographical maps proliferated in the monthly periodicals that flourished after 1730, especially the Gentleman’s Magazine (founded 1731), London Magazine (1732), Universal Magazine (1747), and Scots Magazine (1739) (Jolly 1990–91). These publications were cheap, readily available, and did much to democratize cartography for the middling and even laboring classes. The largest single category of maps in these magazines were of the English counties, but they included many maps of other parts of the world (fig. 300). The growth in consumption of geographical maps was paralleled through the eighteenth century by a growing technical appreciation of the processes of geographical mapping. It was, however, an appreciation tinged with nationalism, as British authors increasingly sought to compete with the great geographers of France, notably Guillaume Delisle and Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville. The Irish-born John Green set the tone with his The Construction of Maps and Globes (1717); in his

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appendix he advocated for the reform of British geography by treating geographical maps with the same critical care as systematic texts in which authors carefully evaluate and sift their source materials. From the 1730s, British geographers increasingly took care to identify their sources. Most geographers with any pretension to be “scientific” displayed their sources on their maps, but a few prepared pamphlets about their sources. John Cowley, for example, accompanied his several maps of Scotland, including one comparing six different coastal outlines (see fig. 11), with a pamphlet, An Explanation of Four Several Maps Just Published (1734); other examples include Green, who prepared Remarks in Support of the New Chart of North and South America in Six Sheets (1753) and an Explanation for the New Map of Nova Scotia and Cape Britain (1755), Rennell, who prepared Memoir of a Map of Hindoostan explaining his two- and four-sheet maps of India (1783 and 1788), and Aaron Arrowsmith, who wrote A Companion to a Map of the World (1794) and Memoir Relative to the Construction of the Map of Scotland (1809). Alexand er J ames Co o k Johnson See also: Great Britain; Green, John; Jefferys, Thomas; Sibbald, Robert Bibliography Armitage, Geoff, with Ashley Baynton-Williams. 2012. The World at Their Fingertips: Eighteenth-Century British Two-Sheet DoubleHemisphere World Maps. Vaduz: Sylvia Ioannou Foundation; London: British Library. Delano-Smith, Catherine, and Roger J. P. Kain. 1999. English Maps: A History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Edney, Matthew H. 2008. “John Mitchell’s Map of North America (1755): A Study of the Use and Publication of Official Maps in Eighteenth-Century Britain.” Imago Mundi 60:63–85. Fleet, Christopher, Margaret Wilkes, and Charles W. J. Withers. 2011. Scotland: Mapping the Nation. Edinburgh: Birlinn. Fox, Adam. 2010. “Printed Questionnaires, Research Networks, and the Discovery of the British Isles, 1650–1800.” Historical Journal 53:593–621. Harley, J. B. 1997. “Power and Legitimation in the English Geographical Atlases of the Eighteenth Century.” In Images of the World: The Atlas through History, ed. John A. Wolter and Ronald E. Grim, 161–204. Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress. Hodson, Donald. 1984–97. County Atlases of the British Isles Published after 1703: A Bibliography. 3 vols. Tewin: Tewin Press. Jolly, David C. 1990–91. Maps in British Periodicals. 2 vols. Brookline: David C. Jolly. McCorkle, Barbara B. 2009. A Carto-Bibliography of the Maps in Eighteenth-Century British and American Geography Books. Online publication. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2007. “A New and Accurate Map of the English Empire in North America by a Society of Anti-Gallicans (London, 1755).” In Mappæ Antiquæ: Liber Amicorum Günter Schilder, ed. Paula van Gestel-van het Schip and Peter van der Krogt, 449–58. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Reinhartz, Dennis. 1997. The Cartographer and the Literati—Herman Moll and His Intellectual Circle. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Reitinger, Franz. 1999. “Mapping Relationships: Allegory, Gender and the Cartographical Image in Eighteenth-Century France and England.” Imago Mundi 51:106–30.

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Fig. 300. THOMAS KITCHIN, A NEW AND ACCURATE MAP OF BENGAL DRAWN FROM THE BEST AUTHORITIES (LONDON, 1760). A good example of the maps that appeared in popular periodicals in Britain from the 1730s onward. In this case, it informed the British public about the ex-

tent of the new territories acquired by the East India Company. From the London Magazine 29 (February 1760), opp. 64. Size of the original: 18.3 × 25.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

Skelton, R. A., comp. 1978. County Atlases of the British Isles, 1579– 1850: A Bibliography. Vol. 1, 1579–1703. Folkestone: Dawson. Tyacke, Sarah. 1978. London Map-Sellers, 1660–1720: A Collection of Advertisements for Maps Placed in the London Gazette, 1668– 1719, with Biographical Notes on the Map-Sellers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. Wallis, Helen. 1978. “Geographie Is Better than Divinitie: Maps, Globes, and Geography in the Days of Samuel Pepys.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 1–43. Berkeley: University of California Press. Winearls, Joan. 1996. “Thomas Jefferys’s Map of Canada and the Mapping of the Western Part of North America, 1750–1768.” In Images & Icons of the New World: Essays on American Cartography, ed. Karen Severud Cook, 27–54. London: British Library.

changed ownership and frontiers shifted, the task of mapping property and boundaries expanded. Conflict led to additional mapping. Maps such as those made of the upper Ohio Valley by George Washington and Christopher Gist at the outset of the French and Indian War (1754–63) provided essential strategic intelligence (Brown 1959, 90–91, 101–2). Measuring and delineating lands, whether for military or civil purposes, typically resulted in manuscript plans. For political or commercial reasons, some surveys were engraved and printed and thereby found a larger audience. Many of those transformed into print can be classified as medium-scale maps that depict transcolonial regions such as coasts and waterways or individual colonies and urban areas. Regardless of their content, the vast majority of published maps of eighteenth-century British America were engraved and printed in London or elsewhere in Europe.

Geographical Mapping in British America. The explorers and settlers who first arrived in British America faced the challenge of recording the locations of waterways, topographical features, coasts, and settlements. As land

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In contrast to European efforts, American mapmakers generated relatively few printed maps. Early in the century, many colonial American cities supported printing presses, but the capacity to produce engravings lagged far behind the ability to print. While a handful of American artisans generated currency, bookplates, portraits, and the like, cartographic engraving formed an insignificant portion of their work. William Hubbard’s map of New England, printed as a woodcut by John Foster of Boston in 1677, marks the beginning of published cartography in British America (Edney and Cimburek 2004). The engraving and printing of a copperplate map did not occur until 1717 when Cyprian Southack, a Boston merchant and ship pilot, issued a map of eastern North America (see fig. 129). In addition to a dearth of engravers, the high cost of local labor and imported paper made map publishing a financially risky enterprise that relatively few American mapmakers attempted (Bosse 2007, 5–6). Those who

did had their works published in a number of ways. Virginians Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson created a map at the request of a British colonial official, and its publication as A Map of the Most Inhabited Part of Virginia (ca. 1753) occurred through no direct involvement of their own (Cumming 1998, 266–69). Some mapmakers, such as John Henry of Virginia, put their manuscript into the hands of an English cartographic publisher after securing funds to pay for engraving and printing. Henry, who drew on his own surveys and those of others, contracted with Thomas Jefferys of London to engrave and print A New and Accurate Map of Virginia in 1770. American mapmakers also made arrangements with local engraver-printers to produce their works, often financing publication by subscription. A Plan of the City of New York (1731) by James Lyne, A Prospective Plan of the Battle Fought near Lake George (1755) by Samuel Blodget, and the map of West and East Florida (1774) by Bernard Romans (fig. 301) resulted from such col-

Fig. 301. EASTERN SHEET OF BERNARD ROMANS’S MAP OF EAST AND WEST FLORIDA, 1774. A map on three sheets, ca. 1:490,000, showing the coastal outline, with soundings, compass variation, and extensive notes about the sea bottom. A Dutch-born surveyor trained as an engineer, Romans worked for William Gerard De Brahm as a draftsman and mathematician in the Southern District of British America. He

surveyed East and West Florida independently for various employers. Romans compiled his survey work with data collected by others and published the flora and fauna of the region in his A Concise Natural History of East and West Florida (1775). Size of the sheet: 55.5 × 86.0 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 5-J-1774 Ro).

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laborations. In some cases the mapmaker, engraver, and printer were one and the same person, Thomas Johnston of Boston being a prime example. These enterprising but poorly capitalized Americans produced maps that addressed needs not met by available British or European commercial mapping: charts of waterways, city plans, and cartographic records of events, usually of a military nature. Geographical mapmakers in British America came from no single milieu in terms of their social or educational backgrounds. Whether physicians, soldiers, traders, or adventurers, they were all drawn by the opportunity to compile new medium- and small-scale maps to describe and communicate images of newly visited lands and expanding landscapes. A few of these geographers adhered to the developing expectations for critical mapping by preparing written accounts of their cartographic and literary sources and of the compilation process. While most such accounts remained in manuscript, or were expressed on the maps themselves, some were published as cartographic memoirs, as for example Lewis Evans’s An Analysis of a General Map of the Middle British Colonies in America (1755) (see fig. 235) and Thomas Hutchins’s A Topographical Description of Virginia, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and North Carolina (1778) accompanying his large map of the frontier (fig. 302). In his Summary, Historical and Political, . . . of the British Settlements in North-America (1747–52), William Douglass also provided an example of cartographic criticism in his assessment of the qualities of earlier outmoded maps (Edney 2003, 167–68). Ezra Stiles at Yale College created manuscript maps as memory devices, as illustrations of his political thought, and as images to support his historical research (fig. 303). All these authors reflected the desire for more support for mapping on the ground; indeed, Hutchins was himself a military engineer and surveyor who was appointed first geographer of the United States by Congress in 1781. Yet because of their expense, systematic surveys rarely formed the basis of American-made maps. Few colonial legislatures financially supported surveys such as those that resulted in the plan of Connecticut probably printed in New London, Connecticut, in ca. 1766 (fig. 304) (Harlow 1963). Most American mapmakers drew on a variety of sources, including personal observation, local surveys, astronomical measurements, written and oral reports, and other printed maps. John Bonner’s The Town of Boston in New England (1722) (see fig. 906), for example, was based on his knowledge of the town and sketches of fellow Bostonians. Bonner, a ship captain, made the first plan of a city printed in British America, filling it with pictorial renderings of buildings, wharves, etc. When Evans accompanied a diplomatic mission to the vicinity of Lake Ontario in New York, he mapped the route and collected topographi-

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cal information that would appear in his first published map, A Map of Pensilvania, New-Jersey, New-York, and the Three Delaware Counties (1749). Evans’s original surveys make the map particularly noteworthy, but he also incorporated manuscript and published sources into his work. Philadelphia merchant Joshua Fisher spent twenty years gathering information from mariners and local residents for his Chart of Delaware Bay from the Sea-Coast to Reedy-Island (1756) (Bedini 1975, 146–48) (see fig. 480). English cartographic publishers quickly duplicated Fisher’s chart and issued it for more than twenty years. Like their European contemporaries, some American map publishers simply copied British or other printed sources. Advertisements for Johnston’s A Chart of Canada River (1746), and A General Chart of all the Coast of the Province of Louisiana (1763), engraved by Henry Dawkins and issued by merchant and publisher Matthew Clarkson, state that they replicated unnamed captured French charts. Later in the century, derivative maps became far more common. In 1790, Matthew Clark of Boston published a set of nautical charts that mimicked, albeit rather unsuccessfully, selected charts in The Atlantic Neptune (1774–82). Far more prolific was fellow Boston engraver-publisher John Norman, whose numerous charts and atlases printed in the 1790s and early nineteenth century slavishly copied British publications. Prior to the American Revolution (1775–83), maps and charts published in British America exhibited certain parochial characteristics. The earliest printed maps issued from presses in Boston and New York (with the exception of Southack’s inaccurate map of North America) reflected local or regional interests. Colonial wars between France and England broadened the geographic scope of those interests when New England militia fought in Canadian campaigns. By the 1750s, Philadelphia had emerged as a center of cartographic publishing. Along with generating maps of the city, nearby waterways, and the colony of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia mapmakers looked west. The geopolitical and economic importance of the Ohio Valley to Pennsylvania and contiguous colonies is reflected in Evans’s landmark map, A General Map of the Middle British Colonies, in America (1755) (see fig. 235). But to the south of Philadelphia, cartographic publishing was virtually nonexistent. Consequently, few printed maps of the region or its constituent parts appeared until the end of the eighteenth century. Maps and other cartographic works issued in London and continental European publishing centers could readily be purchased by eighteenth-century American consumers and long remained in circulation in the absence of a comparable American product. The pervasiveness of European-made maps seemingly constrained commercial mapmaking in British America until the period following the American Revolution. In examining

Fig. 303. EZRA STILES, MANUSCRIPT MAP OF THE HISTORY OF NEW ENGLAND’S GRANTS. In his unpublished “Rights of the Crown of Great Britain to Lands in America & the Assignments Thereof,” 1762, 12. Stiles drew maps frequently to visualize his political and historical writings, to

(facing page) Fig. 302. THOMAS HUTCHINS, A NEW MAP OF THE WESTERN PARTS OF VIRGINIA, PENNSYLVANIA, MARYLAND AND NORTH CAROLINA (LONDON, 1778). On two sheets. This map was one of the first by the British to show the frontier lands west of the Appalachians in any detail.

memorialize current events, and to keep track of his property investments. Image courtesy of the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven (Ezra Stiles Papers, Miscellaneous papers and volumes series, #291).

Size of each sheet: 93.7 × 57.0 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 1-K-1778 Hu).

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Fig. 304. MOSES PARK, PLAN OF THE COLONY OF CONNECTICUT IN NORTH-AMERICA, CA. 1766. One of the few maps whose basic survey was supported financially by a colonial legislature. Park was authorized by the colonial government to survey the lines on private land and was as-

sisted by Asa Spaulding and Samuel Mott. The map’s engraver and printer are unknown, ca. 1:275,000. Size of the original: 54 × 74 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3780 1766.P3).

the output of American map publishers, it becomes evident that they selectively competed with European cartography. In the post-1783 era of nationalism, American mapmakers appealed to the prevailing patriotic sentiment toward local manufactures by issuing maps of the new republic and individual American states. These works found a receptive market, of which newly established cartographic publishers such as Mathew Carey and John Melish took advantage, to the detriment of British and other European mapmakers.

dors and Their Customers in Eighteenth-Century America.” Cartographica 42:1–51. Brown, Lloyd A. 1959. Early Maps of the Ohio Valley: A Selection of Maps, Plans, and Views Made by Indians and Colonials from 1673 to 1783. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Cumming, William Patterson. 1998. The Southeast in Early Maps. 3d ed., rev. and enl. Ed. Louis De Vorsey. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Edney, Matthew H. 2003. “New England Mapped: The Creation of a Colonial Territory.” In La cartografia europea tra primo Rinascimento e fine dell’Illuminismo, ed. Diogo Ramada Curto, Angelo Cattaneo, and André Ferrand de Almeida, 155–76. Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore. Edney, Matthew H., and Susan Cimburek. 2004. “Telling the Traumatic Truth: William Hubbard’s Narrative of King Philip’s War and His ‘Map of New-England.’” William and Mary Quarterly, 3d ser., 61:317–48. Harlow, Thompson R. 1963. “The Moses Park Map, 1766.” Connecticut Historical Society Bulletin 28:33–37.

D avid Bo s s e See also: British America; Evans, Lewis Bibliograp hy Bedini, Silvio A. 1975. Thinkers and Tinkers: Early American Men of Science. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Bosse, David. 2007. “Maps in the Marketplace: Cartographic Ven-

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Geographical Mapping in the Italian States. Through-

out the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, geographical mapping of Italy remained largely restricted to printed images, generally included in large atlases such as Giovanni Antonio Magini’s, published in Italy or by printers elsewhere in Europe (initially Flemish and Dutch and subsequently French). Magini’s map of Italy (1609) was followed by his atlas of regional maps, Italia, published posthumously in 1620 (Sereno 2007, 843; Woodward 2007, 791–92); thereafter, Italian cartographers did not construct any more innovative depictions of the peninsula. Only in the early decades of the eighteenth century were astronomical observations and geodetic measurements made by French and Italian scientists used to update existing cartography. Surprisingly, this task did not fall to the most prolific Italian cartographer of the day, the Venetian Vincenzo Coronelli, nor to Giacomo Cantelli da Vignola (L’Italia con le sue poste e strade principali, 1695). Rather, French geographers used the scant documentary sources and newly available geodetic and astronomic data to construct images that achieved a level of accuracy immediately hailed as innovative. In 1720 Guillaume Delisle produced L’Italie dressée sur les observations de Mrs : de l’Académie royale des sciences. Then Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville produced an even more influential work: L’Italie publiée sous les auspices de Monseigneur le duc d’Orleans prémier prince du Sang (1743), which established the model for the remaining century (see fig. 64). More precise in measurement and content with increasingly accurate depiction of borders and other topographical features, these French images of the peninsula and its regions enjoyed great commercial success. Even in Italy, enterprising printers and booksellers in Venice and Bassano, such as Paolo Santini and Francesco Santini, Antonio Zatta, and the Remondini family, published editions of these maps. The slow development of small-scale cartography in Italy may be easily explained: prior to unification, the various individual states made no public investment in commissioning a comprehensive geographical image of the peninsula based on geodetic surveying and celestial observations. In fact, there were hardly any astronomical observatories that could be put to such use; the observatory in Pisa was founded in 1739, followed by establishments in Florence (1750 and 1775), Milan (1760–64), and Padua (ca. 1777). In each case it took years for the observatory to become fully operational. Thus cartographers compiling medium- to small-scale maps faced insurmountable difficulties. Practices in the seventeenth century had changed little from the sixteenth: “the cartographer was fortunate, of course, if he could get access to more refined and detailed information, to restricted government documents such as those that [at the end of

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the sixteenth or beginning of the seventeenth century] the dukes of Mantua probably made available to Italy’s greatest cartographer, Giovanni Antonio Magini, when he was working on his atlas of Italy.” Furthermore, such “state maps—intended for military or political/ administrative use—were primarily geographical in nature and had been compiled from partial surveys carried out without the systematic application of criteria. This meant that any attempt to combine them to form a small-scale cartographic image of more extensive areas of territory ran the risk of falling into substantial approximations” (Mangani 2001, 364–65). In effect, the numerous cartographic depictions of the regions of Italy that appeared in the map collections printed in Italy and abroad during the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries continued to rely on works produced in the sixteenth century or slightly later, explaining their mediocre achievement in topographical detail and metric accuracy. To the middle of the eighteenth century, in all the small states of preunification Italy, “even the most expert and skilled cartographers [produced] an account of geographical reality in which there are clear, macroscopic geometrical distortions that are the result of the ad hoc methods adopted when taking on-site surveys of terrain; surveys of the countryside were based on direct or reported observations that, however careful or painstaking, totally failed to meet the necessary methodological criteria” (Arca 2004, 103). Only at the height of the Enlightenment would these criteria be applied with the necessary mathematical rigor. Defects and distortions are clear even in those regional cartographic products considered the best of their day, such as the Carta generale de stati di sva altezza reale, commissioned in the early 1670s by Carlo Emanuele II of Savoy, which provided an exceptional account of Savoyard Piedmont for the seventeenth century. Constructed by the military engineer Giovanni Tommaso Borgonio, engraved by Giovanni Maria Belgrano, and published in Amsterdam in 1680 by the heirs of the printer Joan Blaeu, it is sometimes referred to as the “Carta di Madama Reale” because it was published at the behest of the duke’s widow, Maria Giovanna Battista (Sereno 2007, 851–52) (see fig. 108). Significantly, the original manuscript is preserved in the classified portion of the state archive of Savoy (Turin, Archivio di Stato, Carte topografiche segrete, 18 A III rosso). Drawing on many large-scale official cartographic images available within the state administration, the map was also the fruit of actual on-site surveying carried out from 1675 onward using compass and traguardo (sighting vane), though not from the application of trigonometric measuring techniques. The scale (ca. 1:192,000) is large enough to allow substantial topographical detail, while

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the mountains are rendered in perspective view with lateral shading. While Borgonio’s map was immediately adopted as an instrument of state administration, it also expressed the prestige of the ruling dynasty. It was reengraved as late as 1772 by Giacomo Stagnone and published, with some necessary updates, under the title Carta corografica degli Stati di S. M. il Re di Sardegna data in luce dall’ingegnere Borgonio in 1683 [sic] corretta ed accresciuta nell’anno 1772 (Sereno 2007, 852, fig 33.11). This revised version, recognized as the best available account of the chorography of Piedmont, functioned as an instrument of political administration throughout the revolutionary and Napoleonic periods until the first years of the Restoration; it played a role in the large Carte générale du théatre de la guerre en Italie prepared by Louis Albert Guislain Bacler d’Albe in two parts, 1798–1802 (Pelletier 2001, 89, 114; Massabò Ricci and Carassi 1987, 277n15). Two other contemporary regional geographies also reflect Borgonio’s work in certain ways, being based on the original (though partial) on-site surveying and using strikingly modern systems of representation. Produced by José Chafrion, a Catalan military engineer employed by the Milanese government, these maps were published in Milan as Mappa geografica esattissima delle Provincie del Tortonese, Pauese, Allessandrino (ca. 1680) and Carta de la Rivera de Genova con sus verdaderos confines y caminos (1685) (Quaini 2007, 859–65, fig. 34.7). Compared to contemporary cartographic depictions, the maps display a greater degree of accuracy and unusually modern techniques for rendering topographical features, such as the quasi-realistic depiction of the orography (Barozzi 1981; Quaini 2007, 863–64). It could be argued that until the second half of the eighteenth century, Borgonio and Chafrion were the only mapmakers who gave a sufficiently detailed account of the areas they mapped (Piedmont and Liguria respectively), doing some justice to the complex array of numerous river basins and valleys of both regions. “Due to the stimulus to further knowledge exerted by the needs of war, the language of cartography was becoming not only more precise but also was adopting more complex symbolism: each inhabited center is classified according to size and military role; the navigability and fords of each watercourse are identified; woodlands as well as ‘main roads’ are indicated” (Quaini 1994b, unpaginated [4]). The Stati del serenissimo signor duca di Modena in Italia (1746, ca. 1:200,000), prepared by Domenico Vandelli and engraved by Andrea Bolzoni, “both in terms of completeness of information and technical skill, [is] the best and most detailed account of the Este duchy . . . produced since Marco Antonio Pasi’s manuscript map

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of 1571” (Federzoni 2006, 186). The Corso del Po per la Lombardia (1703), prepared by Agostino Cerruti, a sergeant major in the papal guard, has been described as “the first modern chorographical map of the Po valley identified as both a geographical and human entity, . . . [a river] navigable from Piedmont to the sea, it constitutes the axis of political and economic life” (Milanesi 1990, 102). Southern Italy was described in the less innovative Carte de’ Regni di Napoli e di Sicilia (1692), an atlas by Antonio Bulifon (republished by his grandson, Luigi, in 1734). The atlas included a general map, Accuratissima e nuova delineazione del Regno di Napoli, and various regional maps prepared and engraved by the Milan-born Francesco Cassiano de Silva (Valerio 1993, 67–71, 73n2). Agatino Daidone printed a map of Sicily in 1714–18 based on some partial on-site measurements and original data; Antonio Bova drew upon Daidone’s map for his own, published in Palermo in 1745, which included clear improvements and an inset map of the city of Palermo. In Bova’s work “there is a detailed and full depiction of the hydrographical networks [while] the account of the orography is rather imprecise, being rendered with groups of hills that do not reflect the real distribution of the mountains. . . . However, the characteristics of the coastline are well rendered, with the mouths of rivers, peninsulas, and islands off the coast, though with just a simple indication of archipelagoes. Great care and attention are paid to the depiction of inhabited centers” (Ioli Gigante 2001, 275–77, quote on 276). The manuscript depiction of Sicily produced initially at a scale of 1:40,000 by the Austrian baron Samuel von Schmettau, military engineer, has attracted some close study (Dufour 1995, 1999). Schmettau was sent by Prince Eugene of Savoy as quartermaster general to Sicily when the Habsburgs replaced the House of Savoy as rulers of the island. There from 1719 to 1720 he led a group of six topographical engineers to survey the island at a scale of ca. 1:40,000, using triangulation techniques and astronomical observations to establish latitudes of particular places (Dufour 1995, 25–29). Upon returning to Vienna in 1721, Schmettau supervised Lieutenant Michel (Miguel) Angelo de Blasco in the reduction of the original survey drawings to a large manuscript map, ca. 1:80,000, titled “Nova et accurata Siciliæ. Regionum, Urbium, Castellorum, Pagorum, Montium, Sylvarum, Planitierum, Viarum, Situum . . . Descriptio universalis,” in two copies. One copy was prepared on twenty-eight sheets for the emperor (Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, a.B.141, reproduced in Dufour 1995) and the other on thirty sheets for the council of war (Vienna, Kriegsarchiv) (Valerio 1993, 316–18; 2014, 68–70; Valerio and Spagnolo 2014, 2:409–13,

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no. 201). Clearly reflecting its military origins but also displaying economic interests, the map shows fortresses, coastal landing points and anchorages, the entire network of roads and inhabited settlements, and strategic woodlands (Ioli Gigante 1999, 20–22; Dufour 1995, 30–43; 1999, 83–85, pl. on 123–28, 131–36). Shortly after its preparation in 1722, the large manuscript map was reduced to ca. 1:312,000 and printed on two large sheets (fig. 305). It displayed the iconography of conquest with the inclusion of images of the fleet of the Austrian alliance, whose attacks seized the island from Spanish control. The plates were reprinted without the battle scenes around 1735; a later version, with additions, was printed on four sheets by Gian Giuseppe Orcel in about 1778 as Descrizione geografica del Regno di Sicilia e sue isole adiacenti (Valerio and Spagnolo 2014, 2:435–37, no. 219; 2:483–85, no. 250). “The eighteenth century marked a clear turning point in the history of Italian cartography, with a move from pregeodetic to geodetic cartography. This shift resulted in a radical change not only in the operative procedures employed in drawing up a map, but also in the theoretical bases for the science of cartography itself.” During the second half of the Enlightenment, “Italy would see the rapid establishment of cartographic procedures based upon application of geometrical frameworks for high-precision surveying. This marked the triumph of the procedure of triangulation, which henceforward would become the principal method for the geometricization of territory within Italy” (Arca 2004, 103). Aside from Schmettau’s survey in Sicily, the first examples of geodetic cartography are the printed map of the Papal States (Nuova carta geografica dello Stato Ecclesiastico, 1755) by the Jesuit Christopher Maire, based on the survey and observations by Maire and Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich (see fig. 90), and the body of cartographic depictions drawn up and printed by the Padua scientist Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni from ca. 1770 onward. Working on his own, Maire also prepared the detailed map of the Legazione di Urbino (1757), a treatment noteworthy for its accurate delineation of internal and external boundaries and its detailed depiction of the road network (Mangani and Mariano 1998, 194–95). During his long career, Rizzi Zannoni produced many important medium- to small-scale geographical works. The five-sheet Carta geografica della Sicilia prima o sia Regno di Napoli (finished by Rizzi Zannoni in 1769, ca. 1:400,000) was a project resolutely promoted by Ferdinando Galiani, an influential figure in the Neapolitan Enlightenment. Compiling a wide range of published and manuscript material, Rizzi Zannoni drew the map in Paris. Engraving began in 1767 and final publication brought great success, due not only to its elegance, leg-

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ibility, and convenient multisheet format, but also to its wealth of information and relative precision. Twentyfive years after d’Anville’s Italie, “the cartography of southern Italy now took a decisive step forward. It would not have been possible to do better without undertaking direct measurements on the ground” (Valerio 1993, 78–98, quote on 97). Rizzi Zannoni’s second achievement comprised La gran carta del Padovano (see fig. 422) and its companion, the precise Pianta della città di Padova (see fig. 908), both prepared between 1778 and 1781. Though the large-scale Gran carta (ca. 1:20,000) remained unfinished (in 1780–81, only four of the envisaged twelve sheets were published in Padua, engraved by Antonio Buttafoco [Buttafogo] and Giovanni Valerio Pasquali), it nevertheless exemplifies “truly modern topographical surveying” and must be considered “the first example in Italy of a large-scale topographical operation based on trigonometric procedures” (Valerio 1993, 112–16, quote on 116). In April 1781 Rizzi Zannoni moved to Naples in the service of the Bourbon monarch Ferdinand IV. There, with the help of a few assistants (including Antonio Moretti and Giovanni Ottone di Berger), he began the demanding project of mapping the entire kingdom at a scale of 1:114,545. The most impressive cartographic undertaking in eighteenth-century Italy, the Atlante geografico del Regno di Napoli, necessarily involved astronomical observations and trigonometric measurements. Between 1781 and 1786, Rizzi Zannoni set up an entire triangulation network, which may not have exemplified high-precision criteria but did provide the geometrical basis for the atlas, whose thirty-one plates were published in Naples from 1788 to 1812 (Arca 2004, 104; Cantile 2004, 106) (see fig. 270). Beginning with Calabria, the first plates were engraved primarily by the artist Giuseppe Guerra in 1787–89. However, because the work dragged on with necessary corrections to the original drawings, the publication was only completed in 1812. Nevertheless, the result was especially innovative in the representation of mountains, rendered with hatching and shading (Valerio 1993, 124–211). Thus, in the last two decades of the eighteenth century the Kingdom of Naples produced Italy’s most innovative cartography thanks to Rizzi Zannoni (Manzi 1987, 534). Although it was the first region in Italy equipped with geometrically based cadastral maps, Lombardy did not benefit from a similarly based geographical map until the end of the eighteenth century. Because the depiction of peripheral areas and especially borders in cadastral maps of Lombardy was so disproportioned, various projects advocating a new geometrical map based on triangulation were proposed to the Austrian

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government by Rizzi Zannoni and the astronomers of the Brera Observatory, among others. The project was finally adopted and refined in 1783–86 by the astronomer Barnaba Oriani using the large scale (ca. 1:86,400) of the Cassini Carte de France. Geodetic surveys provided results that were combined with astronomical observations by Giovanni Angelo de Cesaris and Francesco Reggio. From these data, the draftsman Giacomo Pinchetti and engraver Benedetto Bordiga began creating the final image in 1792–93. However, the ten-sheet Carta topografica del Milanese e Mantovano was not published until 1804–7 by Benedetto Bordiga and his brother Gaudenzio. Complete with refined ornamental scrolls and figures, this map celebrated the state’s power with a description of territory more detailed than that of the Carte de France; it distinguished four categories of roads and five categories of settlements, as well as land use: rice fields, bare and tree-lined fields of arable land, vineyards, heathland, pastureland, woods, vegetable gardens, the layout of farmland, and systems of terracing. The orography is rendered with shading from an overhead light source (Signori 1990, 43–45) (fig. 306; see also fig. 269). In 1797, the Habsburg rulers of the Republic of Venice “invested great effort in the regular surveying and cartographic depiction of the Veneto and Friuli territories it had recently acquired. The complex operation was . . . entrusted to a colonel (later general) of the Austrian General Staff, Anton von Zach. . . . The Topographischgeometrisch[e] Kriegskarte von dem Herzogthum Venedig was the product of a survey based on a regular geometrical division of territory calculated by Vincenzo Chiminello, a scientist at the Padua astronomical observatory, . . . and comprises 120 small plates (Sectionen) each at 1:28,800” (Cantile 2007, 36). For obvious political and military reasons, this large map was a highly classified document but served as the basis for Il Ducato di Venezia astronomicamente e trigonometricamente delineato (1806; 1:234,000) (Rossi 2005, 2007). Maps of Italy that altered the image established by d’Anville did not appear until the last decade of the eighteenth century and the early years of the nineteenth. Primary credit for this is due to Rizzi Zannoni for his skills in compilation and use of more recent observations and measurements. For this he may justifiably be ranked

with Delisle and d’Anville. However, credit should also go to the head of Napoleon’s office of cartography, Bacler d’Albe, and to the Bordiga brothers, who worked as engravers and cartographers in the French military mapping service. In 1795 Rizzi Zannoni published his Nuova carta della Lombardia (ca. 1:240,000), an important account of the entire Po River basin, incorporating Liguria and the northern Apennines. The French appreciated the work enough to requisition the copperplates in January 1799 and the extant printed copies in Rizzi Zannoni’s Naples workshop. A reduced-scale version (ca. 1:458,000) was reprinted as Nuova carta dell’Italia Settentrionale (1799–1800). Finally, in 1802, Rizzi Zannoni chose the Florentine Giuseppe Molini to publish his two-sheet map of Italy, intended to promote his more demanding project of a map of the peninsula in fifteen sheets at ca. 1:380,000. Ultimately, only sheet 11 (Naples) and sheet 14 (Sicily) were published (Valerio 1993, 179–81, 187–88, 200). The French Armée d’Italie established a topography department (or Deposito) in Milan in 1797–98 that required ingénieurs géographes (initially from France) to survey the whole Italian territory. The most wide-ranging project was for a map covering the entire theater of the Napoleonic Wars in Italy: the Carte générale du theatre de la guerre en Italie (1798, ca. 1:259,000) was coordinated by Bacler d’Albe and engraved by the Bordiga brothers. Given the limited time allowed, “the work had to be put together by reworking the already available maps”—for example, the French maps of Delisle and d’Anville, and various other mutually incommensurate cartographical images—“with previously acquired geodetic measurements being used for certain areas” (Signori 1987, 499). The draftsman Pinchetti coordinated the entire scheme, which initially covered only northern Italy in thirty sheets. But in 1802 Bacler d’Albe added a further twenty-two sheets, the Carte générale des Royaumes de Naples, Sicile & Sardaigne, to cover the rest of the peninsula, a work largely based on the maps of Rizzi Zannoni. Despite the lack of homogeneity within the final product, this map was long used for military, political, and administrative purposes, thanks primarily to the wealth of its topographical information: settlements, roads, watercourses, state and departmental

(facing page) Fig. 305. BARON SAMUEL VON SCHMETTAU, NOVA ET ACCURATA SICILIÆ . . . DESCRIPTIO UNIVERSALIS, PRESUMED VIENNA, CA. 1722–23. A reduction of the multisheet manuscript map of the island presented to the Holy Roman Emperor based on the strategic survey supervised by Schmettau from 1719 to 1720. The two vignettes show the Austrian-allied British fleet commanded by Admiral George Byng at the landing at Tindari (1719) (top right) and the Span-

ish fleet in retreat in the Battle of Capo Passero (1718) (bottom right), actions that both confirmed Austrian control of the island, further emphasized by the Imperial double-headed eagle in the cartouche. Size of the original: 90.5 × 122.0 cm (neat line; on 2 sheets). Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (Novacco 6F 34).

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Fig. 306. DETAIL OF THE AREA AROUND MILAN FROM THE CARTA TOPOGRAFICA DEL MILANESE E MANTOVANO ESEGUITA DIETRO LE PIÙ ESATTE DIMENSIONI GEOGRAFICHE ED OSSERVAZIONI ASTRONOMICHE. By the astronomers of Brera Observatory in Milan, engraved (1792–93), printed (1804–7), foglio 3. The first large-scale geometrically based map of Lombardy was modeled on the Cassini Carte de France but employs more detail in its display of different types of roads, settlements, and land

use. Printed map, engraved in copper in ten fogli (nine map sheets plus title sheet); scale 1:86,400. (For a different sheet from this map, see fig. 269.) Size of the entire sheet: 88 × 87 cm. Su concessione del Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze, Divieto di Riproduzione/ By courtesy of the Ministry of Cultural Heritage and Activities and Tourism (MiBACT), Central National Library of Florence, Ban of Reproduction (PALAT.Cart.geog.357).

boundaries, and orography (the latter obliquely lit and rendered using hatching) (Signori 1987, 500–501n13).

von Schmettau, 1720–1721. Palermo: Società Siciliana per la Storia Patria. ———. 1999. “Dalle piazzeforti al territorio; gli ingegneri militari e la cartografia in Sicilia tra ’500 e ’700.” In Effigies Siciliae: La rappresentazione della Sicilia tra Rinascimento e Illuminismo nella cartografia militare manoscritta, ed. Amelia Ioli Gigante, Liliane Dufour, and Corradina Polto, 69–88. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Federzoni, Laura. 2006. “Vandelli, Domenico.” In Geo-Grafie di un territorio: Studi e ricerche per un dizionario storico dei cartografi in Emilia-Romagna, ed. Marco Petrella, Chiara Santini, and Stefano Torresani, 184–87. Bologna: Pàtron. Ioli Gigante, Amelia. 1999. “La cartografia militare nel processo di conoscenza del territorio siciliano.” In Effigies Siciliae: La rappresentazione della Sicilia tra Rinascimento e Illuminismo nella cartografia militare manoscritta, ed. Amelia Ioli Gigante, Liliane Dufour, and Corradina Polto, 13–24. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. ———. 2001. “L’attività cartografica di Antonio Bova, incisore palermitano del secolo XVIII.” In La cartografia degli autori minori italiani, ed. Claudio Cerreti and Annalena Taberini, 275–83. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Mangani, Giorgio. 2001. “La questione della raccolta delle fonti cartografiche (secoli XVI–XVIII).” In La cartografia degli autori minori italiani, ed. Claudio Cerreti and Annalena Taberini, 361–69. Rome: Società Geografica Italiana. Mangani, Giorgio, and Fabio Mariano. 1998. Il disegno del territorio: Storia della cartografia delle Marche. Ancona: Il Lavoro Editoriale. Manzi, Elio. 1987. “Aree ‘trascurate’ e aree ‘centrali’ nella cartografia ufficiale pre-unitaria del Mezzogiorno.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 2:527–41. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. Massabò Ricci, Isabella, and Marco Carassi. 1987. “Amministrazione

L e o n a r d o Ro mbai See also: Italian States; Rizzi Zannoni, Giovanni Antonio Bibliograp hy Arca, Salvatore. 2004. “L’inquadramento geometrico del territorio nazionale.” In Il territorio nella società dell’informazione: Dalla cartografia ai sistemi digitali, ed. Andrea Cantile, 103–5. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Barozzi, Pietro. 1981. “La ‘Carta de la Rivera di Genova’ di Joseph Chafrion (1685).” In La Sardegna nel mondo mediterraneo, 2 vols., 1:143–65. Sassari: Gallizzi. Cantile, Andrea. 2004. “Italia cognita: Dall’eredità cartografica preunitaria ai nuovi strumenti per la conoscenza scientifica del territorio realizzati dall’IGM.” In Il territorio nella società dell’informazione: Dalla cartografia ai sistemi digitali, ed. Andrea Cantile, 106–13. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. ———. 2007. “Sulla nascita della cartografia ufficiale italiana: Gesuiti, scolopi, laici e militari, tra le esigenze della polemologia, le occorrenze dell’amministrazione e le necessità della scienza.” In La cartografia in Italia: Nuovi metodi e nuovi strumenti dal Settecento ad oggi, ed. Andrea Cantile, 31–57. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. De Felice, Pierluigi. 2006. “‘Terra di Lavoro’ nella cartografia napoletana dei secoli XVII–XIX.” In Atti del convegno di studi “La cartografia come strumento di conoscenza e di gestione del territorio,” Messina, 29–30 marzo 2006, ed. Corradina Polto, 351–62. Messina: Edizioni Dr. Antonio Sfameni. Dufour, Liliane, ed. 1995. La Sicilia disegnata: La carta di Samuel

Geographical Mapping dello spazio statale e cartografia nello stato sabaudo.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 1:271–314. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. Milanesi, Marica, ed. 1990. L’Europa delle carte: Dal XV al XIX secolo, autoritratti di un continente. Milan: Mazzotta. Pelletier, Monique. 2001. “Carte e potere.” In Segni e sogni della Terra: Il disegno del mondo dal mito di Atlante alla geografia delle reti, 80–129. Novara: Istituto Geografico De Agostini. Quaini, Massimo. 1994a. “La Liguria invisibile.” In La Liguria, ed. Antonio Gibelli and Paride Rugafiori, 41–102. Turin: Einaudi. ———. 1994b. “Ligurie di carta.” In La Liguria, ed. Antonio Gibelli and Paride Rugafiori, following 157 (unpaginated). Turin: Einaudi. ———. 2007. “Cartographic Activities in the Republic of Genoa, Corsica, and Sardinia in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:854–73. Rossi, Massimo, ed. 2005. Kriegskarte, 1798–1805: Il Ducato di Venezia nella carta di Anton von Zach. 3 vols. Treviso: Fondazione Benetton Studi Ricerche; Pieve di Soligo: Grafiche V. Bernardi. ———. 2007. L’officina della Kriegskarte: Anton von Zach e la cartografie degli stati veneti, 1796–1805. Treviso: Fondazione Benetton Studi Ricerche; Pieve di Soligo: Grafiche V. Bernardi. Sereno, Paola. 2007. “Cartography in the Duchy of Savoy during the Renaissance.” In HC 3:831–53. Signori, Mario. 1987. “L’attività cartografica del Deposito della Guerra e del Corpo degli ingegneri topografi nella Repubblica e nel Regno d’Italia.” In Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna, 2 vols., 2:493–525. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria. ———. 1990. “La carta della Lombardia austriaca realizzata dagli astronomi dell’Osservatorio milanese di Brera.” In L’Europa delle carte: Dal XV al XIX secolo, autoritratti di un continente, ed. Marica Milanesi, 42–45. Milan: Mazzotta. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. Società uomini e istituzioni cartografiche nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. ———. 2014. “Tre momenti di conquista nella cartografia siciliana.” In Sicilia 1477–1861: La collezione Spagnolo-Patermo in quattro secoli di cartografia, 2 vols., ed. Vladimiro Valerio and Santo Spagnolo, 1:67–75. [Naples]: Paparo Edizioni. ———, and Santo Spagnolo, eds. 2014. Sicilia 1477–1861: La collezione Spagnolo-Patermo in quattro secoli di cartografia. 2 vols. [Naples]: Paparo Edizioni. Woodward, David. 2007. “The Italian Map Trade, 1480–1650.” In HC 3:773–803.

Geographical Mapping in the Netherlands. Given that the Netherlands was a major center of commercial map production throughout the long eighteenth century, it will not be surprising that most of the general purpose, small- to medium-scale maps of the Netherlands and its provinces were commercial ventures. Indeed, the emphasis of Dutch mapsellers on supplying the European market with affordable atlases meant that none engaged in the costly intellectual effort of compiling new critical regional maps; it was easier to copy the work of French geographers. However, the local Dutch market did sustain an interest in new maps of the Netherlands and of its constituent regions. For general maps of the Republic of the Netherlands as a whole, H. A. M. van der Heijden and Dirk Blonk (2005) provide a comprehensive survey. The following summary of provincial geographical maps available during the period ignores, for the most part, derivative single-sheet maps. Of particular note are the maps engendered by boundary disputes or initiated

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by local surveyors who petitioned local governments for support; these maps are detailed elsewhere in this volume. The most important province of the Republic was Holland. The States of Holland never undertook to map their province, possibly because there were sufficient waterschappen (water management board) maps and commercial maps to satisfy any need. The main large overview wall map is the Nova et accvrata totivs Hollandiæ Westfrisiæq topographia by Balthasar Florisz. van Berckenrode, based on waterschappen maps, and published by Willem Jansz. Blaeu in 1621 (22 sheets, ca. 1:110,000). The Blaeu/Van Berckenrode map was reissued four times from the same plates, with changes, before 1682 (Schilder 1986–2013, 5:291–332, with fullsize reproduction; Blonk and Blonk-van der Wijst 2000, 36–48, 221–28). An enlarged and improved version, ’t Graefschap Holland by Jacob Aertsz. Colom, was published in 1639 (40 sheets, ca. 1:60,000) and reprinted, with some changes, by Frederick de Wit about 1720 and by Covens & Mortier at least as late as 1737 (Donkersloot-de Vrij 1981, 139, no. 704; Blonk and Blonk-van der Wijst 2000, 276–83, which describes over 100 maps of the province between 1542 and 1815). Friesland had (and retains) a highly developed sense of independence from the nation as a whole that is reflected in the mapping of the province. On the initiative of Christiaan Schotanus à Sterringa, all rural municipalities (grietenijen) were surveyed and mapped in the period 1658–62. These maps were issued from 1664 by Christiaan’s son Bernardus Schotanus à Sterringa in Christiaan’s book Beschryvinge van de heerlyckheydt van Frieslandt. The scales of the maps vary from 1:50,000 to 1:100,000 depending on the size of the respective grietenij. The states of the province were not very happy with the maps and in 1682 gave Bernardus a new commission to survey the grietenijen. After many years of work the maps were finally published in 1698 in the Friesche atlas, of which only 125 copies were printed. The atlas contains maps of the twenty-seven grietenijen (scales 1:25,000 to 1:43,000), maps of the three goën (districts), and information on occupation and land use and an extensive toponymy. In the well-known edition of 1718, Uitbeelding der heerlijkheit Friesland, the original thirty maps were revised and an overview and eight historical maps were added (reproduced at full size in Schotanus à Sterringa 1970) (fig. 307). The most important single-sheet map of Friesland in the eighteenth century was probably Abraham Allard’s Frisiæ dominium vernacule Friesland (ca. 1702, ca. 1:130,000) (De Rijke 2006, 279–83, which describes more than 100 maps of the province between 1545 and 1850). No official maps of the province of Groningen are known from the period. A commercial wall map was

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Fig. 307. BERNARDUS SCHOTANUS À STERRINGA, HEMELUMER OUDE VAART EN DE NOORT WOUDE, DE ACHTSTE GRIETENIJE VAN WESTER GOO, 1718. From Schotanus à Sterringa’s Uitbeelding der heerlijkheit Friesland (Leeuwarden: François Halma, 1718). Copper engraving; 1:35,000. The Frisian rural municipality of Hemelu-

mer Oldeferd lay in the southwestern part of the province of Friesland. Most of the land has been reclaimed and the average elevation is one or two meters below sea level. Size of the original: 43.5 × 47.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam (Bijzondere Collecties, OTM: HB-KZL I-2-A-7, map 40).

produced by the brothers Frederik and Wilhelm Coenders van Helpen (Geographische beschrivinge vande Pr: Stadt Gr. en Oml., ca. 1678, 4 sheets, ca. 1:100,000), but most of its detail came from the 1616 map of Balthold Wicheringe (Donkersloot-de Vrij 1981, 146, no. 743). The four-sheet map of Groningen and Ommelanden, 1781, by Theodorus Beckeringh (fig. 308) was based

partly on the map by the Coenders van Helpen brothers and partly on Beckeringh’s own observations (Koeman 1963, 33; Vredenberg-Alink 1974, 80–91, 130–34; Wijk 2006 describes 160 maps of the province from 1545 to 1900). Due to a boundary dispute between Groningen and Drenthe in 1634, a map of Drenthe and Wester-

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wolde (the southeastern part of Groningen) was made by Cornelis Pijnacker. Titled Drentia comitatus, one sheet, at ca. 1:200,000, it was included in the atlases of Mercator-Hondius-Janssonius and Blaeu (Donkerslootde Vrij 1981, 138, no. 701). The original copperplate continued to be used well into the eighteenth century by Petrus I Schenk and Gerard Valk and their successors and by Reinier and Josua Ottens. A border dispute with Drenthe led the States of Overijssel to commission a map of the province that was completed under the leadership of Nicolaas ten Have, deputy head of the Latin school in Zwolle. He crafted an excellent overview on a scale of approximately 1:100,000 that appeared in four sheets in 1650. The copperplates came into the possession of the Deventer publisher Jan de Lat, who published an updated edition

in 1743 (Donkersloot-de Vrij 1981, 138, no. 702; Hogenstijn 2012). Three of the four quarters (districts) of Gelderland belonged to the Republic: Arnhem (also called Veluwe), Nijmegen, and Zutphen. The fourth quarter, Roermond (also called the Upper Quarter), belonged to the Spanish Netherlands. The States of Gelderland never commissioned a map. The surveyor Nicolaas van Geelkercken made maps of the four quarters (ca. 1:170,000 to 1:210,000) and an overview map for the Historia Gelrica by Johan Isaaksz. Pontanus (1639) (Donkerslootde Vrij 1981, 142–43, no. 721). Basically, all provincial maps of Gelderland in the eighteenth-century were based on Van Geelkercken’s map. (For a general survey of the mapping of the province, see Vredenberg-Alink 1975.) The western part of the province of Utrecht often

Fig. 308. THEODORUS BECKERINGH, NOVA TOTIUS PROVINCIÆ GRONINGO-OMLANDIÆ TABULA, 1781. Ca. 1:60,000.

Size of the original: 105 × 134 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam (Bijzondere Collecties, OTM: HB-KZL I-2-A-7, map 60–63).

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appeared on maps of Holland (e.g., on the Van Berckenrode map) and also could be found on the waterschappen map of Rijnland. Commissioned by the States of Utrecht, the surveyor Bernard de Roij made the Nieuwe kaart van den lande van Utrecht (1696, 15 sheets, ca. 1:40,000). De Roij conducted the survey for this map largely himself, although he used the map of Rijnland by Steven van Broeckhuysen and Jan Jansz. Dou for the northwestern portion. The map was reprinted with only slight changes in 1743 (fig. 309) and 1799 and was reproduced at full size in 1973 (Sijmons 1973, which provides a list of general maps of the Province of Utrecht, 88 items, 1552–1837; Donkersloot-de Vrij 1981, 149, no. 754). As a private initiative the large wall map, Zelandiæ comitatus novissima tabvla, was compiled by Zacharias Roman and published by Nicolaas I Visscher in 1654/55 (9 sheets, ca. 1:40,000). It was reprinted three times in the Netherlands before 1725, and a French version, also

in nine sheets, appeared in 1747; a reduced-scale facsimile was published in 1973 (Donkersloot-de Vrij 1981, 154–55, no. 776; Blonk and Blonk-van der Wijst 2010, 62–68, 234–43). One of the many maps drawn and compiled by David Willem Coutry Hattinga and Anthony Hattinga was published on four sheets in 1753 as Kaarte van de provintie Zeeland en der selver stroomen geheel meetkundig opgenomen volgens speciale order (Koeman 1963, 33), but the copy at the Universiteitsbibliothek Leiden seems to be unique. The 1760 Atlas van Zeeland by Isaak Tirion was derived from the large manuscript atlas of the province assembled by the Hattingas (Blonk and Blonk-van der Wijst 2010 provides descriptions of 129 maps of the province between 1549 and 1860). Staats-Brabant, Staats-Vlaanderen, parts of the old Duchy of Brabant and County of Flanders, were assigned to the Republic in 1648; their boundaries followed the front line of military forces at the time. They

Fig. 309. DETAIL FROM BERNARD DE ROIJ, NIEUWE KAART VAN DEN LANDE VAN UTRECHT (AMSTERDAM: COVENS & MORTIER, 1743). Copper engraving on seventeen sheets; 1:40,000. This is the second edition of a map originally published in 1696. Even in its third edition (1799), a century after its original publication, the map proper was virtually unchanged.

Size of the entire original: 166 × 225 cm; size of each sheet: 56 × 37 cm; size of detail: ca. 15.5 × 25.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam (Bijzondere Collecties, OTM: HB-KZL I-2-A-1, map 18).

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were directly controlled by the States General, who never found it necessary to survey and map them. Until the end of the eighteenth century, maps of Flanders and Brabant often showed the regions in their old, undivided form. Roman and Visscher produced a map of Brabant in 1656 from existing material (Ducatus Brabantiæ novissima descriptio), which was reprinted at least until 1692 (Donkersloot-de Vrij 1981, 154, no. 775). In the same year, Visscher published a companion map of the county of Flanders, in twelve sheets (Comitatus Flandriæ nova descriptio; ca. 1:111,000) (Thorissen 2011). Blaeu’s six-sheet map of Flanders was published in the year of his death, 1638, and was kept in print up to about 1670 (Schilder 1986–2013, 4:118). The political history of Limburg is complex and chaotic. The current province only became part of the Republic in 1815, and the first map of Limburg with its (more or less) current borders did not appear until 1849. Prior to that, parts of northern Limburg appeared on maps of Brabant and of the Duchies of Jülich, Cleve, and Berg. Aegidius Martini made a map of Limburg in 1603 that formed the basis for most maps of the duchy in atlases well into the eighteenth century (Van Ermen et al. 1985 provides a brief survey). E l g e r He e r e a n d P e t e r va n d er Kro gt See also: Netherlands, Republic of the United B i bliogra p hy Augusteijn, Joost. 2004. “Cartobibliografie van de kaarten van Overijssel tot het jaar 1800.” Overijsselse Historische Bijdragen 119:12–56. Blonk, Dirk, and Joanna Blonk-van der Wijst. 2000. Hollandia comitatus: Een kartobibliografie van Holland. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. ———. 2010. Zelandia comitatus: Geschiedenis en cartobibliografie van de provincie Zeeland tot 1860. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Donkersloot-de Vrij, Marijke. 1981. Topografische kaarten van Nederland vóór 1750: Handgetekende en gedrukte kaarten, aanwezig in de Nederlandse rijksarchieven. Groningen: Wolters-Noordhoff; Bouma’s Boekhuis. Ermen, Eduard van, et al. 1985. Limburg in kaart en prent: Historisch cartografisch overzicht van Belgisch en Nederlands Limburg. Tielt: Lannoo; Weesp: Fibula-Van Dishoeck. Heijden, H. A. M. van der, and Dirk Blonk. 2005. De kaart van de Republiek der VII Provinciën, 1615–1797. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto/Repro-Holland. Hogenstijn, C. M. 2012. Een perfecte lantcaerte van Overijssel: De kaarten van Overijssel door Nicolaas ten Have in het licht van hun tijd. Kampen: IJsselacademie. Koeman, Cornelis. 1963. Handleiding voor de studie van de topografische kaarten van Nederland, 1750–1850. Groningen: J. B. Wolters. Rijke, P. J. de. 2006. Frisia dominium: Kaarten van de provincie Friesland tot 1850: Geschiedenis en cartobibliografie. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Schilder, Günter. 1986–2013. Monumenta cartographica Neerlandica. 9 text vols. and 9 plate vols. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Schotanus à Sterringa, Bernardus. 1970. Uitbeelding der heerlijkheit Friesland. Facsimile ed., intro. Cornelis Koeman, and biobibliographic description J. J. Kalma. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum; Leeuwarden: De Tille.

529 Sijmons, A. H. 1973. “Inleiding” and “De oudere cartografie van de Provincie Utrecht.” In Nieuwe kaart van den lande van Utrecht, by Bernard de Roij. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Thorissen, Emy. 2011. “De Roman-Visscher-kaart: Een cartographisch topstuk.” Brabant 2:32–35. Vredenberg-Alink, J. J. 1974. De kaarten van Groningerland: De ontwikkeling van het kaartbeeld van de tegenwoordige provincie Groningen met een lijst van gedrukte kaarten vervaardigd tussen 1545 en 1864. Uithuizen: Bakker. ———. 1975. Kaarten van Gelderland en de kwartieren: Proeve van een overzicht van gedrukte kaarten van Gelderland en de kwartieren vanaf het midden der zestiende eeuw tot circa 1850. Arnhem: Vereniging “Gelre.” Werner, Jan. 2013. Atlas der Neederlanden: Kaarten van de republiek en het prille koninkrijk, met Belgiën en coloniën. Voorburg: Asia Maior/Atlas Maior. Wijk, Piet H. 2006. Groninga dominium: Geschiedenis van de cartografie van de provincie Groningen en omliggende gebieden van 1545–1900. Groningen: Philip Elchers; Assen: Koninklijke Van Gorcum.

Geographical Mapping in Portugal. Although Portu-

gal contributed significantly to the production of maps related to Europe’s geographical discoveries from the fifteenth through the seventeenth centuries, in the restricted ambit of the Iberian Peninsula, Portuguese cartography of its own territory remained quite limited until the eighteenth century. The priority of imperial overseas cartography was largely responsible for this imbalance in geographical knowledge; contributing factors included the importance of Brazil (especially after the discovery of gold in the 1690s), the decreasing Portuguese presence in Asia, Portugal’s war against Spain (1640–68), and its participation in the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14). These factors help explain the essentially military nature of mapmaking in Portugal’s European territory between the Restoration of 1640 and the Napoleonic invasions of 1807. The initial period after the Restoration bore witness to a strong cultural heritage of earlier cosmographers and engineers, such as the Teixeira Albernaz and Pimentel families. Luís Serrão Pimentel’s school for fortifications and military architecture, founded in 1647, was one of the first institutions directly linked to military cartography. Such institutions produced military plans as well as maps of ports, rivers, and coastal segments that were indispensable tools for Portugal’s protracted wars against the Spanish, and they were frequently elaborated with the assistance of foreigners. João V’s interest in the sciences and arts, as well as his deft if sometimes contradictory political diplomacy, strengthened relations between Portugal and those European nations that had undergone significant technical, scientific, and cultural transformations. Several connections deserve special mention: the acquisition of texts, atlases, and engravings, especially of French extraction, for the royal library; the importance of astronomy as

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developed in the observatories in Lisbon and Coimbra; and regular contact with institutions such as the Paris Académie des sciences and the Royal Society of London, especially following Guillaume Delisle’s treatise, read at the Académie in 1720, that questioned the legitimacy of Portugal’s territorial possessions in South America (Delisle 1722). The inauguration of the Academia Real de História Portugueza in 1720 also spurred Portugal’s cartographic development. Under the patronage of Luís Caetano de Lima, the academy edited the Geografia historica de todos os estados soberanos de Europa (1734–36), which included the first map of Portugal published in Lisbon,  drawn and engraved by Charles de Granpré in 1729 (Coutinho 2007), as well as regional maps of six provinces—Entre-Douro-e-Minho, Trás-os-Montes, Beira, Estremadura, Alentejo, and Algarve—a city plan of Lisbon, and maps of fortresses near the border. The map of Portugal was compiled from several foreign (primarily French) maps (fig. 310). An especially important influence during this period was the work of Manoel de Azevedo Fortes. His Tratado do modo o mais facil, e o mais exacto de fazer as cartas geograficas (1722) taught the use of triangulation and field measurements in mapmaking. The maps resulting from his instructions were meant to complement the history of Portugal being planned by the Academia Real de História Portugueza. Despite frequent calls to supply the materials necessary, the maps were never produced. Through his agent, Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal, King José I (r. 1750–77) stimulated new functions for maps, diversifying their type and production. The exercise of absolutist power required improved maps in greater quantities and at various scales: not only nautical and military charts but also administrative maps, urban maps (especially after the Lisbon earthquake of 1755), and maps of streets, ports, and rivers. The Douro River was especially important because of the Port wine trade. The diversity of maps continued to increase over the course of the century, anticipating the division between topographic cartography, first undertaken using geodetic techniques in 1788, and thematic cartography. However, several factors prevent an analytic assessment of this profusion of maps. First, the descriptive titles pointing to a map’s genre are often complex and confusing. Simple expressions such as carta geográfica or mapa geral were normally reserved for maps of the country as a whole. For smaller regions, a map’s title could include the nature of the map (e.g., chorographic, topographic, military, hydrographic, fluvial, of a city, road, itinerary) or a more generic description (map, configuration, sketch, illustration) in addition to identifying the location itself. The indication of the map type in its

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title did not guarantee that it would be adequately classified. For example, a “topographical map” could show hydrographic features, while the ambiguous designation of “chorographic” could be applied to rivers, provinces, or even coastal areas. Despite the imperfection of available inventories, the maps listed in them may still be broadly categorized. The most numerous are hydrographic maps showing rivers and coastal features, including ports, sandbars, bays, coves, and other nautical elements. In roughly equal number are plans of cities, castles, and forts. Topographical maps, often poorly designed with imprecise features due to imperfectly conducted surveys, were produced in similar proportions to those of cities and fortresses. Though less numerous, route maps and itineraries charted much needed information. Fewer still in number were the so-called chorographic and geographic maps, whose paucity is likely due to the imprecision of these categories. Thematic maps were exceedingly rare, with the exception of route maps and some of José de Sande Vasconcelos’s maps of the Algarve showing soil usage. The dominance of manuscript over engraved maps is evident. Between 1729 and 1800 there were only a dozen maps engraved in Portugal, not counting copies of provincial maps after 1730. The late adoption of engraving can be considered the “original sin” of Portuguese cartography. The distinction between the author of a map and the person who compiled, designed, copied, engraved, printed, and edited a map is likewise often uncertain. For some cartographers there are clues, but for others little is known. Among the cartographers engaged in geographical mapping in Portugal were: Luís Serrão Pimentel (fifteen maps of the coast of Portugal and Spain, 1673); Manoel de Azevedo Fortes (Mondego, 1703; region of Lisbon, 1734); Charles de Granpré, engraver (map of Portugal, 1729; maps of the six provinces, plan of Lisbon, 1730; other undated maps of urban strongholds); João Baptista de Castro (promoted new versions of Granpré’s maps between 1754–58); João Silvério Carpinetti (principal diffuser of new versions of Granpré’s maps, 1762); Gonçalo Luís da Silva Brandão (topographical map of the territorial boundaries of the Minho region, 1758); José de Sande Vasconcelos (multiple original maps of the Algarve, 1771–97); José Carlos Mardel (topographical maps of Lisbon and uncultivated lands, 1773); Custódio José Gomes de Vilas Boas (maps of the Minho region, 1786–1803); Isidoro Paulo Pereira (topographical maps of the Alentejo region, 1768–97; several hydrographical and coastal maps, 1776–97; map of Catalonia, ca. 1794); Francisco António Ciera (triangulation maps; geographical maps of Lisbon and Portugal, 1791–1803); and Lourenço Homem da Cunha d’Eça (hydrographical and military maps, 1801–9; route map of Portugal, 1809).

Fig. 310. CHARLES DE GRANPRÉ, REYNO DE PORTUGAL, 1729. From Luís Caetano de Lima, Geografica historica de todos os estados soberanos de Europa, 2 vols. (Lisbon, 1734–36), vol. 1, opp. 183.

Size of the original: ca. 24.5 × 16.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington.

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The social diffusion of these maps has not been well studied. Their poor circulation may be due to the small degree of improvement in the country’s cartographic representation. Consumers of maps were few: the clergy and nobility to be sure, as well as some cultivated members of the bourgeoisie and those interested in the technical aspects of map production—a group whose numbers were increasing during the final decades of the eighteenth century. The institutions created by Maria I (r. 1777–92) represent another legacy of the Pombal period: Aula de Pilotos (1779), Academia Real da Marinha (1779), Academia Real das Sciências de Lisboa (1779), and Academia Real de Fortificação, Artilharia e Desenho (1790). Although it did not last long, the Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica para o Desenho, Gravura e Impressão das Cartas Hidrográficas, Geográficas e Militares, created in 1798, was nevertheless the site of the origin of Portugal’s modern cartographic institutions, connected with geodesy, topography, and printing. The adoption of geodetically based triangulation as the basis of cartography would only begin with Francisco António Ciera in the 1790s, and it found full expression in his edition of the Carta dos principaes triangulos das operaçoens geodezicas de Portugal (1803). The French invasions that began in 1807 marked a long interregnal period. It was not until 1830 that Pedro Folque and Filipe Folque took up Ciera’s work, beginning the next phase of cartography in Portugal. Ma r i a F e r n a n da Alegria See also: Portugal Bibliograp hy Alegria, Maria Fernanda, and João Carlos Garcia. 1991. “Etapas de evolução da cartografia portuguesa (séculos XV a XIX).” In La cartografia de la Península Ibèrica i la seva extensió al continent Americà, 225–79. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. Coutinho, Ana-Sofia de Almeida. 2007. “Imagens cartográficas de Portugal na primeira metade do século XVIII.” Masters diss., Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Daveau, Suzanne. 1992. “Algumas leituras para uma exposição.” In A pintura do mundo: Geografia portuguesa e cartografia dos séculos XVI a XVIII, Catálogo da Exposição, 11–20. Porto: Biblioteca Pública Municipal do Porto. Daveau, Suzanne, and Júlia Galego. 1995. “Difusão e ensino da cartografia em Portugal.” In Os mapas em Portugal: Da tradição aos novos rumos da cartografia, ed. Maria Helena Dias, 85–123. Lisbon: Edições Cosmos. Delisle, Guillaume. 1722. “Détermination geographique de la situation et de l’étenduë des differentes parties de la Terre.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1720: 365–84. Garcia, João Carlos. 1996. “A configuração da fronteira lusoespanhola nos mapas dos séculos XV a XVIII.” Treballs de la Societat Catalana da Geografia 41:293–321. ———. 2006. “Manoel de Azevedo Fortes e os mapas da Academia Real da História Portuguesa, 1720–1736.” In Manoel de Azevedo Fortes (1660–1749): Cartografia, cultura e urbanismo, ed. Mário Gonçalves Fernandes, 141–73. Porto: GEDES, Departamento de Geografia da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Mota, A. Teixeira da. 1962. “Novos elementos sobre a cartografia de

Portugal continental no século XVII.” Boletim da Academia das Ciências de Lisboa 34:164–84.

Geographical Mapping in Portuguese Africa. The Portuguese presence in Africa during the eighteenth century was quite restricted. In the Atlantic archipelagos and along the coast a series of small-scale fortifications are legacies of the Portugal-India maritime route (Cape Verde, Mozambique Island). Some were used as staging points for the trade in slaves and products from the interior of the continent (Guinea, São Tomé, and Luanda). Larger regions traversed by the Portuguese were along the west coast, stretching from Congo to Angola and in the east in the valley of the Zambezi River. Although a sixteenth-century alliance with Ethiopia disappeared from Portugal’s geopolitical interests, geographic curiosity in the region remained. Copies and published variants of the map of Ethiopia made by the Jesuit Manuel de Almeida (ca. 1645; published 1660) were produced in foreign editions through the end of the seventeenth century (Alegria et al. 2007, 1025–28). These images served as the basis for new maps of that area for many years. The archipelago of Cape Verde was the subject of one of the few maps printed in Lisbon late in the eighteenth century. The Plano das ilhas de Cabo Verde (1790) by Francisco António Cabral was censored in 1799 by the recently founded Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica, whose remit was to control the production of Portuguese cartography; Cabral’s map was criticized for being too incorrect (Guerreiro 1985). This censure did not prevent Cabral from editing Memória hydrographica in 1804, complementing his earlier map, although that work was also criticized by the same institution. The northern islands in the Cape Verde archipelago, which had greater economic importance early on, became the objects of more detailed maps, such as those drawn by Manuel Isidoro Marques in 1768 (Santa Luzia, São Vicente, and Santo Antão) or by António Carlos Andréis at the end of the century (São Vicente, Santo Antão, Sal, Santa Luzia, and Maio). However, these manuscript maps were not widely circulated (Teixeira da Mota 1961). Portuguese presence in the Gulf of Guinea began in the fifteenth century, and since then many Portuguese maps have shown its coasts and archipelagos in detail. For the island of Príncipe there exists a chart by José António Caldas from 1757, and for Fernando Pó (Bioko) there is an anonymous chart dated 1772 (Cortesão 1971). Portugal ceded this island to Spain by the Treaties of San Ildefonso (1777) and El Pardo (1778). As for the southwestern coast of Africa, and Angola in particular, the Portuguese geographical image was formed by a series of separate regional maps that

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Fig. 311. FELIX XAVIER PINHEIRO DE LACERDA, “PLANTA TOPOGRAFICA DO PAIZ DO MARQUEZ DO MOSULLO E DE BOMBE,” 1791. This example of regional colonial cartography provides a detailed image of northwest Angola based on several itineraries.

Size of the original: 29 × 44 cm. Image courtesy of Portugal/Gabinete de Estudos Arqueológicos da Engenharia Militar/Direção de Infraestruturas do Exército, Lisbon (4218-3-41-56).

provided a fragmented view of the area due to both the absence of territorial unity among the African kingdoms and the minimal European interest in and knowledge of these spaces (Santos 1998). The maps, at small or medium scale, portray the coast, the hydrographic network, and the various expeditions carried out for military, economic, and scientific purposes, such as those of the naturalist Joaquim José da Silva in the Benguela region in 1785–86. These documents provided the knowledge necessary for the political and economic domination of the region, especially providing a better understanding of the fluvial networks in the valleys of the Zaire (Congo) and Cuanza Rivers, which were essential components of commercial routes to the interior of the continent. Control of these principal hydrographic basins and of the communities who lived there, along with the agriculture and minerals they produced, was fundamental to European power (Santos 2010). The “Planta topografica do Paiz do Marquez do Mosullo” (1791; ca. 1:70,000) by Felix Xavier Pinheiro de

Lacerda is one of the best examples of this regional colonial cartography. It was based on several itineraries and provides a detailed image of northwest Angola (fig. 311). The second visconde de Santarém had the map revised, edited, and published in Lisbon in 1855 on the occasion of diplomatic negotiations with other colonial powers concerning the mouth of the Zaire River. International political pressure during the last quarter of the eighteenth century contributed to more detailed surveys regarding the territories, exemplified by the work led by Luís Cândido Cordeiro Pinheiro Furtado (from 1773), who coordinated the combined survey of Angola and Benguela in 1790, advancing work carried out decades earlier by explorers and merchants that had resulted in various regional maps. A new image of that kingdom was achieved in manuscripts distributed to military officials, diplomats, and administrators. Furtado’s “Mappa geografico da costa occidental de Africa” (1790) was engraved in London in 1824 and in Paris in 1825, for lack of printing facilities in Lisbon.

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Similar efforts resulted in another important map of the southern Benguela territory, which reflected the occupational strategy along the coastal areas of the desert of Moçâmedes (present-day Namibe province in Angola): “Mappa de uma parte da costa occidental de Africa compreendida entre a cidade de S. Filipe de Benguela e a anciada de Arêas” (1786). Along the eastern coast of southern Africa, the Portuguese presence extended from Cape Delgado in the north to Delagoa Bay (Maputo Bay) in the south. Unlike the situation in Angola, the regional maps depicting the future territory of Mozambique were fewer in number and their content not as rich. The Portuguese occupation along the coast was discontinuous, and the interior was explored only along the principal river, the Zambezi (Catálogo 1960). Among important historical sources for this area is the “Carta do Cabo de Boaesperança ate Monbasa com a demonstracaõ do Rio Zanbeze” by João Teixeira Albernaz II, from 1677. By the eighteenth century, more detailed regional maps began to appear, such as the “Carta dos Rios de Sena” (1745) by Inácio Caetano Xavier. Scientific expeditions also produced maps, including the twenty-three carefully rendered manuscript maps made by Francisco José de Lacerda e Almeida of his journey between Tete and Cazembe in East Africa in search of a route to cross the continent (1797–99). His maps note magnetic compass variations and topographical detail, and several mark precise longitude and latitude readings. They illustrate his travel diary (“Instrucçoens, e diario da viagem q’ fez ao centro d’Africa, o governador q’ foi dos Rios de Sena Francisco Joze d’ Lacerda e Almeida, no anno ae 1798,” now in Rio de Janeiro, Biblioteca Nacional do Brasil). The diary was published in Annaes Maritimos e Coloniaes (1844– 45). The complete image of Mozambique would only be elaborated in the second half of the nineteenth century. J oão C a r lo s Garcia and J o r g e Mac ieir in h a Ribeiro See also: Portuguese Africa Bibliograp hy Alegria, Maria Fernanda, et al. 2007. “Portuguese Cartography in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:975–1068. Catálogo das cartas existentes na Junta de Investigações do Ultramar: Provincias ultramarinas portuguesas. 1960. 2 vols. Lisbon: Centro de Documentação Científica Ultramarina. Cortesão, Armando. 1971. Descobrimento e cartografia das ilhas de S. Tomé e Príncipe. Coimbra: Junta de Investigações do Ultramar. Guerreiro, Inácio. 1985. A Sociedade Real Marítima e o exame das cartas hidrográficas: Censura da carta de Cabo Verde, de Francisco António Cabral (1790). Coimbra: Instituto de Investigação Científica Tropical. Mota, A. Teixeira da. 1961. Cinco séculos de cartografia das ilhas de Cabo Verde. Lisbon: Junta de Investigações do Ultramar. Santos, Catarina Madeira. 2010. “Administrative Knowledge in a Colonial Context: Angola in the Eighteenth Century.” British Journal for the History of Science 43:539–56.

Santos, Maria Emília Madeira. 1998. Nos caminhos de África: Serventia e posse (Angola século XIX). Lisbon: Instituto de Investigação Científica Tropical.

Geographical Mapping in Portuguese America. From the

end of the seventeenth century, Brazil was considered the most important part of the Portuguese Empire, even though through the first half of the eighteenth century Portuguese America corresponded to a discontinuous space with various centers of power and ill-defined borders. The Treaties of Utrecht (1713–15), which ended the War of the Spanish Succession, recognized Portuguese dominion over the region north of the Amazon basin and in 1715 returned to Portugal the Colónia do Sacramento in the Río de la Plata estuary from occupation by Spain. The treaty negotiations presented Portuguese diplomats with an urgent need to commission new maps of Brazil. The Portuguese responded quickly, spurred on by two events. First, in 1720 Guillaume Delisle presented to the Académie des sciences in Paris his “Détermination geographique de la situation et de l’étenduë des differentes parties de la Terre” (published 1722). Using new longitudinal calculations, Delisle placed the line of Tordesillas, which divided Spanish and Portuguese territory, much farther to the east than the Portuguese Crown wished. Second, news arrived concerning the advance of Spanish Jesuit settlements along the Paraguay River near the region where gold had been discovered in 1718. Thus in 1722, the Portuguese Crown contracted two Jesuit mathematicians from Italy, Giovanni Battista Carbone and Domenico Capassi, to create new maps of Portuguese America based on geographic coordinates established with new scientific instruments. In 1729 the king decided to keep Carbone in his service in Lisbon and replaced him with Diogo Soares, a Portuguese Jesuit, who was sent to Brazil with Capassi to map Portuguese America from the Maranhão to the Río de la Plata, to propose new boundaries between different captaincies and bishoprics, and to prepare for a future border treaty with Spain. The result was an unfinished project, the “Novo atlas da América portuguesa,” comprising a series of maps covering the South American coast between Río da la Plata and the Cape of São Tomé, at scales of ca. 1:350,000 for bays and estuaries and ca. 1:900,000 for larger parts of the coast (fig. 312). Notable maps in this collection include those of Minas Gerais, one of which is a map of the diamond area (ca. 1734; ca. 1:350,000), and a group of four maps at ca. 1:900,000 corresponding to an area of about 140,000 square kilometers between the latitudes 16°30ʹS and 21°30ʹS. No less relevant is a map of the captaincy of Rio de Janeiro (ca. 1730) by Capassi, and especially the “Nova e 1.a carta da terra firme, e costas do Brasil ao meridiano do

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Fig. 312. DIOGO SOARES, “CARTA 10 DA COSTA D’BRASIL: AO MEREDIANO DO RIO DE JANEIRO,” CA. 1740. Scale: ca. 1:900,000. This map is part of the unfinished project of the “Novo atlas da América portuguesa” and exemplifies the quality of the Jesuit mathematicians’ cartogra-

phy. Note the prime meridian marked over the bay of Rio de Janeiro. Size of the original: ca. 20.0 × 32.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (GR 6 M U.21.7.F.83 [7]).

Rio de Janeiro, desde o R.o da Prata athe Cabo Frio” (ca. 1740, ca. 1:3,500,000) by Soares, which synthesizes most of the cartographic work accomplished along the coast (Almeida 2001a, 100–142). The interior of the country, and particularly the outlines of the Paraná and Paraguay River basins, was based on the Paraquariæ provinciæ Soc. Iesu, a map published in Rome in 1732 (Almeida 2001b, 45–49) (see fig. 757). Around 1740, Luís da Cunha, the Portuguese ambassador in France, commissioned Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville to create a map of South America that would include a line of demarcation between Brazil and Spanish territories. In 1747, an initial manuscript version of the map was sent to the Portuguese ambassador in Madrid, but it seemingly was not used in the boundary negotiations with Spain. D’Anville’s map Amérique méridionale, based on Portuguese manuscript maps as well as Spanish and French cartography, was printed in Paris in 1748, although it circulated only after 1750. It was reprinted several times throughout the eighteenth century and copied by other

European cartographers (Cortesão 2009, 2:260–61, 269–72; Furtado 2012). To serve as the basis for the Treaty of Madrid in 1750, the “Mapa dos confins do Brazil com as terras da Coroa de Espanha na America meridional” (1749, ca. 1:8,500,000) (see fig. 447), also known as the “Mapa das Cortes,” was created in Lisbon through a synthesis of various sources, both cartographic and verbal: the contributions of sketch maps by sertanistas that were used in maps compiled under the auspices of colonial governors, namely the “Descripçam do continente da America meridional” (1746); the work of Soares and Capassi for Brazil’s coast; the reports on the Amazon and Rio Negro by Portuguese Carmelites; the efforts of Spanish Jesuits as found in the 1732 Paraquariæ provinciæ; and French contributions as found in CharlesMarie de La Condamine’s map of the Amazon (Ferreira 2007) (see fig. 431). The Treaty of Madrid compelled the Crown to commission teams of surveyors to establish the borders of Brazil based on colonial occupation and so-called nat-

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ural borders. But a good part of this ill-defined space was entirely unknown. The cartographic effort entered a new phase after the Treaty of San Ildefonso (1777), which, with a few alterations, confirmed the borders defined in 1750. Thus, during the second half of the eighteenth century, the territory of Brazil was constructed by the creation of new maps based on topographical surveys by military engineers, as well as the creation of a network of new cities and towns. This policy was followed above all in Grão-Pará and Maranhão and in the new captaincies of Mato Grosso and Goiás, created in 1748. Important maps were subsequently prepared on a regional scale, between ca. 1:500,000 and ca. 1:2,500,000, along with maps of the principal rivers, namely the Amazon and the Paraguay with their tributaries. For Grão-Pará, notable maps include the “Mapa geografico do Rio das Amazonas” (1758, ca. 1:1,500,000) by João André Schwebel, and the “Mappa geral do bispado do Pará” (1759) by Henrique Antonio Galluzzi, and later, after 1780, numerous maps of the Amazon, Negro, Branco, and Japurá river basins completed by José Simões de Carvalho, Manuel da Gama Lobo d’Almada, and José Joaquim Victorio da Costa. In the captaincy of Goiás, the first governor, Marcos José de Noronha e Brito, commissioned Francisco Tosi Colombina to prepare a general map of the captaincy. This map, known as “Mapa geral da capitania de Goyaz,” was finished in 1751 but was largely based on preexisting sources. In 1778 Thomas de Souza drew a new map titled “Plano geografico que mostra a capitania de Goyaz huma das do centro da America meridional e Domínio Portuguez” (ca. 1:2,600,000), which marked the administrative divisions of Goiás and the borders with the adjacent captaincies (Garcia 2002, 390–91). However, in the captaincy of Mato Grosso, a key territory connecting south and north Brazil, where the border was established by the creation of new settlements, cartographic activity was more intense, especially under Governor Luís de Albuquerque de Melo Pereira e Cáceres. Between 1778 and 1781, he was personally involved in the preparation of several important maps that combined previous maps with observations and measurements made on site. Among these were the “Mapa de todo o vasto continente do Brazil ou America Portugueza” (1778, ca. 1:2,700,000) (Garcia 2002, 346–47), followed by the “Carta topographica de huma parte da vasta capitania de Mato Grosso” (1781, ca. 1:600,000) and the “Carta geographica dos extenços territorios e principaes Rios do Governo, e Capitania General do Matto Grosso” (1781, ca. 1:900,000) (Garcia 2002, 394–95, 404–5; Araujo 2015). These maps furthered his project of defining the border between Portuguese and Spanish control in the region (Araujo 2000,

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1:467–539). From 1782, he could rely on the work of mathematicians and military engineers who arrived at Mato Grosso to establish the boundaries according to the treaty of 1777. The transfer of the capital of Brazil from Bahia to Rio de Janeiro in 1763 gave rise to a new interest in mapping the city and its port as well as the captaincy. In 1767, the viceroy, Conde da Cunha (António Álvares da Cunha), commissioned a series of new topographical charts and a map of the captaincy of Rio de Janeiro. An important area of the interior of the captaincy of São Paulo was mapped during the rule of Luís António de Sousa Botelho Mourão, fourth Morgado de Mateus (1765–77), who commissioned a general map of the region around 1773. In the captaincy of Minas Gerais, José Joaquim da Rocha is notable for creating from 1777 to 1793 a general map of the captaincy (ca. 1:1,600,000), followed by the “Carta geographica da capitania de Minas Geraes” of Caetano Luís de Miranda (1804, ca. 1:1,600,000) (Costa 2004, 145–61, 190; Garcia 2011, 102). In the extreme south in Rio Grande de São Pedro, which only became a separate captaincy in 1760, the exploration of the territory and settlement was affected by the war between Spain and Portugal (1763–77). The process of urbanizing this territory intensified during the final three decades of the eighteenth century, a period in which several important maps were produced by military engineers, including the “Carta da capitna. do Rio Grande de S. Pedro e suas circunvisinhanças athé o Ro da Prata” (1778) by Francisco João Roscio, the Plano topografico do continente do Rio Grande e da Ilha de Santa Catarina (1797, ca. 1:1,000,000) by José Correia Rangel de Bulhões (Garcia 2001, 120–21), and the “Mappa corographico da capitania de S. Pedro” (1801) by José de Saldanha. In 1789, Cáceres sent to Martinho de Melo e Castro, secretary of state for the navy and the overseas territories, the “Nova carta da América meridional,” compiled under his direction by the mathematicians Francisco José de Lacerda e Almeida and António Pires da Silva Pontes Leme. This map was the culmination of an extended effort to represent the border of Mato Grosso vis-à-vis the remaining territory of Brazil (Safier 2009, 149–55; Araujo 2015) (fig. 313). Finally, in 1795, Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho, secretary of state for foreign affairs, commissioned José Joaquim Freire and Manuel Tavares da Fonseca to create, in Lisbon, a general map of Brazil under the direction of Pontes Leme, professor of mathematics at the Academia Real da Marinha. This map of South America, titled “Carta geografica de projecção espherica da Nova Lusitania ou America portugueza e estado do Brazil” (1797) (see fig. 633), constitutes a monumental synthesis of all the efforts to map the territory of Brazil, resulting

Fig. 313. FRANCISCO JOSÉ DE LACERDA E ALMEIDA AND ANTÓNIO PIRES DA SILVA PONTES LEME, “NOVA CARTA DA AMÉRICA MERIDIONAL,” 1789. The map is dedicated to the governor of the Mato Grosso, Luís de Albuquerque de Melo Pereira e Cáceres, who ordered its compila-

tion in order to be sent to the secretary of state for the overseas territories. Manuscript in two sheets. Size of each sheet: 152.5 × 274.5 cm. Image courtesy of The National Archives of the U.K. (TNA), Kew (MR 1/649).

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from the borders established by the treaties of 1750 and 1777 (Corrêa-Martins 2011). A n d r é F e r r a n d d e Almeida See also: Portuguese America Bibliograp hy Almeida, André Ferrand de. 2001a. A formação do espaço brasileiro e o projecto do Novo atlas da América portuguesa (1713–1748). Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. ———. 2001b. “Entre a guerra e a diplomacia: Os conflitos lusoespanhóis e a cartografia da América do Sul (1702–1807).” In A Nova Lusitânia: Imagens cartográficas do Brasil nas colecções da Biblioteca Nacional (1700–1822): Catálogo, ed. João Carlos Garcia, 37–65. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Araujo, Renata. 2000. “A urbanização do Mato Grosso no século XVIII: Discurso e método.” 2 vols. PhD diss., Universidade Nova de Lisboa. ———. 2015. “Os mapas do Mato Grosso: O território como projeto.” Terra Brasilis, n.s. 4. Online publication. Corrêa-Martins, Francisco José. 2011. “As várias ‘faces’ da ‘Nova Lusitania,’ de Antonio Pires da Silva Pontes Leme.” In IV Simpósio LusoBrasileiro de cartografia histórica; Territórios: Documentos, imagens e representações. Online publication. Cortesão, Jaime. 2009. História do Brasil nos velhos mapas. 2d ed. 2 vols. Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional–Casa da Moeda. Costa, Antônio Gilberto, et al. 2004. Cartografia da conquista do território das Minas. Ed. Antônio Gilberto Costa. Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG; Lisbon: Kapa Editorial. Ferreira, Mário Olímpio Clemente. 2007. “O Mapa das Cortes e o Tratado de Madrid: A cartografia a serviço da diplomacia.” Varia Historia 23:51–69. Furtado, Júnia Ferreira. 2012. Oráculos da geografia iluminista: Dom Luís da Cunha e Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville na construção da cartografia do Brasil. Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG. Garcia, João Carlos. 2001. “O Brasil impresso na cartografia portuguesa, 1748–1821.” In A Nova Lusitânia: Imagens cartográficas do Brasil nas colecções da Biblioteca Nacional (1700–1822): Catalogo, ed. João Carlos Garcia, 107–30. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. ———, ed. 2002. A mais dilatada vista do mundo: Inventário da colecção cartográfica da Casa da Ínsua. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. ———, ed. 2011. Cartografia do Brasil na Biblioteca Pública Municipal do Porto: Catálogo. CD-ROM. Porto: Biblioteca Pública Municipal do Porto; Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Safier, Neil. 2009. “The Confines of the Colony: Boundaries, Ethnographic Landscapes, and Imperial Cartography in Iberoamerica.” In The Imperial Map: Cartography and the Mastery of Empire, ed. James R. Akerman, 133–83. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Geographical Mapping and Topographical Surveying in the Portuguese East Indies. In contrast with the late six-

teenth and early seventeenth centuries, only a few general nautical charts were produced in the Portuguese East Indies after 1650. André Pereira dos Reis, a native of Goa who served the Portuguese Crown as a soldier and pilot, is the only cartographer known to have attempted a systematic representation of the coasts between the Cape of Good Hope and Timor. His surviving work is gathered in an atlas of ten charts (1654) and in a

codex of eighteen charts and views (1656–60) (Cortesão and Teixeira da Mota 1960–62, 5:27–30). Apart from these works, there are great numbers of manuscript maps and charts on a larger scale representing particular areas under Portuguese administration or influence, mostly places under pressure from other European nations or regional powers. The production of these maps and charts can often be related to moments of intensified diplomatic and military activity of the state (Estado da Índia), such as the handover of Bombay (Mumbai) to the British (1661–65), the increasing pressure from local powers on Bassein (late 1600s) and the Maratha attacks on major Portuguese possessions in the so-called Northern Province of India (Daman, Bassein, Tana [Thāne], and Chaul, 1720s to 1740s). While some of these maps show extensive stretches of the coastlines and inland territory, others were conceived in order to detail the physical contours of strategic places and illustrate particular sieges. Most seem to have been made in haste and with limited use of high-quality measuring and surveying instruments. Another relatively coherent corpus of manuscript maps was produced between the mid-1740s and late 1780s mostly in the context of the Portuguese territorial conquests around Goa. A typical set would include three to four sheets of paper displaying richly colored and decorated maps and views and plans of particular fortresses and their surroundings in varying scales and perspectives; many of these plans were also accompanied by textual, often propagandistic narratives of military campaigns. A few exceptionally large works representing the Goan territories as a whole were painted in oil on canvas during the eighteenth century (fig. 314). Although some of these panoramic maps were made in Portugal, they were clearly based on charts or sketches originally produced in the East Indies. The increasing detail and accuracy of maps may be related to the reforming activities of the enlightened Portuguese government of Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal (1750s–70s), which found fertile ground in Goa. An unsigned manuscript geographical map of the Goan territories made in 1784 corresponds to one of the earliest medium-scale surveys executed by a professional body of military engineers and draftsmen explicitly working for the authorities of Lisbon and Goa (fig. 315). These included quite sophisticated representations of the relief, vegetation, paths, hydrographic networks, and urban centers of the conquered territories. The results were further improved in a map prepared in 1801 by the engenheiro de Sua Magestade (royal engineer) João António Águia Pinto Sarmento and in a series of large-scale manuscript maps signed in 1812–18 by the engineer Francisco Augusto Monteiro Cabral, as well as

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Fig. 314. “MAPA TIPOGRAFICO DAS ILHAS E PROVINCIAS DE GOA E DAS TERRAS DOS SEVS VEZINHOS,” [1760s–70s]. Map of the Goan territories based on an IndoPortuguese model, ca. 1:79,000, oil on canvas.

Size of the original: 104 × 145 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, Lisbon (cota INV-10922).

a general chart of the Goan territory printed in 1814 under the supervision of James Garling, a British engineer from Madras (Teixeira da Mota 1979, 35–37, 52–55). Contemporary British and French cartographers usually relied on Portuguese maps for the representation of the Portuguese possessions (e.g., Alexander Dalrymple, 1775 and later). Comparable attempts to improve the quality of maps during the Enlightenment took place in East Africa, historically a part of the Portuguese Indies (Thomaz 1994, 207–43; Saldanha 2016, 368–72), but this occurred most notably after the separation of this region from the Estado governed by Goa (1752). While earlier charts, maps, and views of Inhambane, the Monomotapa Empire, Sofala, Quelimane, Mozambique and Ibo Islands, and Cape Delgado reveal serious technical limitations, the surveys carried out from the 1750s by the

military engineers António José de Mello and Gregório Taumaturgo de Brito among others greatly increased the available data. During a pioneering though incomplete cross-continental scientific expedition in 1797–99, initiated by the governor of the Portuguese Zambezi region, Francisco José de Lacerda e Almeida generated the first set of accurate astronomic observations made within the African continent, recorded in a series of twenty-three topographical sketch maps covering an area from Tete to Kazembe, which accompanied the manuscript diary of his journey (Rio de Janeiro, Biblioteca Nacional do Brasil, published in 1844–45). Dispersed and varied samples of maps and cartographic sketches also cover the remaining areas of Portuguese interest in the East Indies, including Meliapor (Mylapore), Laos, Timor, Macao, and maritime South China. Very few maps were printed until the 1820s,

Fig. 315. “CARTA GEOGRAPHICA DOS ESTADOS DE GOA LEVANTADA EM OS ANNOS 1776, 1777, E 1778,” 1784. An unsigned manuscript map of Goan territories, reflecting the military training of the engineers who surveyed the region.

Size of the original: 50 × 70 cm. Image courtesy of Portugal/ Gabinete de Estudos Arqueológicos da Engenharia Militar/ Direção de Infraestruturas do Exército, Lisbon (1233/ I-2A-24A-111).

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except for some seventeenth-century items in books (e.g., Ceylon, Ethiopia). Large collections of manuscript maps may be found in repositories in Lisbon (Sociedade de Geografia, Biblioteca Nacional, Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Arquivo Histórico Militar, and others), Évora, Porto, Paris, and London. There are at present no comparable collections in Asia or the Americas. F r a n c i sc o R oq ue d e O liveira a n d Z oltá n B ied ermann See also: Portuguese East Indies B i bliogra p hy Cortesão, Armando, and A. Teixeira da Mota. 1960–62. Portugaliae monumenta cartographica. 6 vols. Lisbon. Reprinted with an introduction and supplement by Alfredo Pinheiro Marques. Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional–Casa da Moeda, 1987. Magalhães, Joaquim Romero. 1998–2000. “As tentativas de recuperação asiática” and “Os territórios africanos.” In História da expansão portuguesa, 5 vols., ed. Francisco Bethencourt and K. N. Chaudhuri, 3:43–59 and 60–83. Lisbon: Temas e Debates. Mota, A. Teixeira da. 1979. Cartas antigas da Índia existentes em Portugal (séculos XVIII, XIX e XX). Lisbon: Junta de Investigações Científicas do Ultramar. ———. 1985. Cartas antigas do Estado da Índia existentes em Paris e Londres. Lisbon: Instituto de Investigação Científica Tropical. Saldanha, António Vasconcelos de. 2016. “Estado da Índia.” In Dicionário da expansão portuguesa, 1415–1600, 2 vols., ed. Francisco Contente Domingues, 1:368–72. Lisbon: Círculo de Leitores. Thomaz, Luís Filipe F. R. 1994. De Ceuta a Timor. Lisbon: Difel. Vasconcellos, Ernesto de, ed. 1904. Exposição de cartographia nacional (1903–1904): Catalogo. Lisbon: Sociedade de Geographia de Lisboa.

Geographical Mapping in Russia. Until the early eighteenth century, the main form of mapping in Russia was geographical drawing (chertëzh) performed in a distinctively artistic manner, almost always without strict mathematical references and with the inclusion of a great number of place-names and various explanatory notations. About 1,300 such Russian drawings survive, all of them in manuscript except for six printed examples (Kusov 1993). Most are large-scale maps prepared for inventories and recording borders. There are few medium- and small-scale drawings representing large parts or the whole of Russia. Their notations indicate distances between settlements and describe towns and villages, but generally do not show orientation with cardinal points. The mapping of Siberia was actively pursued after the mid-seventeenth century. Maps covering the whole of Siberia were compiled under Pёtr Ivanovich Godunov (untitled, 1667); by an anonymous author, Chertёzh vsey Sibiri do Kitayskago tsarstva i do Nikaskago (ca. 1672); by Nikolay Gavrilovich Spafariy (untitled, 1678); by Semёn Ul’yanovich Remezov (untitled, 1698); and others (Goldenberg 2007, 1873–83). The drawing of the whole of Siberia on canvas by Remezov is the largest among them measuring 213 × 277 centimeters with 5,110 geographical names (Goldenberg 2007, 1892).

The “Chertëzhnaya kniga Sibiri,” an atlas compiled in 1701 by Remezov on the order of Peter I, represented a historical turning point in the development of Russian cartography. This atlas included twenty-three drawings representing the whole of Siberia, its uyezds, their capitals, and the town of Tobol’sk, as well as a valuable summary of distances from Tobol’sk to other Siberian towns. The maps and atlases by Remezov demonstrate a particular technique of mapmaking in the era of Peter I, based on river networks, the use of the compass, and data on distances by river and land in sazhen’ (1 sazhen’ = 2.134 m) (Goldenberg 2007, 1884–1902). The compilation of maps of the entire course of a river constituted a form of atlas production that heralded later more geographically oriented works. Instrumental river surveys had been performed in Russia from the late seventeenth century. Up to the 1720s, they were carried out mainly by foreign officers in Russian service. The survey of the Don River, performed by Viceadmiral Cornelis Cruys and Peter I personally in 1699, was used as a basis for the compilation of an atlas of the river consisting of seventeen maps with explanatory text. Published in Amsterdam by Hendrik Doncker in 1703 or 1704, the atlas had titles in both Russian and Dutch: Prilezhnoye opisaniye reki Donu / Nauw-keurige afbeelding vande rivier Don. The bilingual approach continued in its dedication to czarevich Aleksey Petrovich in Dutch, a discourse on the Don River and the city of Azov with interesting historical and ethnographic information about the Cossacks, profiles of the Black Sea coasts, a general map of the Don with inscriptions in Dutch, and detailed maps of individual sections of the Don River with geographical names in Dutch and Russian, as well as maps of the Azov and Black seas with notations in Dutch. Many geographical names on the maps are supplemented by explanations; there is also information on a planned canal aimed to connect the Don with the Volga River. The atlas illustrates the transition from the methods of simple drawing to those based on instrumental measurement and observation. The reforms of Peter I encouraged the adoption of such methods of mapmaking in tune with developments in Western Europe. With the establishment in 1701 of the Moscow mathematical navigation school, Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola, geodesists who initiated the instrumental surveys of the country were trained in Russia. The first maps and atlases based on Western European sources were compiled by Vasiliy Onufriyevich Kipriyanov and printed in his Moscow printing house, Grazhdanskaya tipografiya, founded in 1705 (Bagrow 1975, 135). Between 1706 and 1717, Kipriyanov issued thirteen educational maps of the world, its continents, and individual countries. Five maps of this set (the world in

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hemispheres, Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas constituted the first printed Russian atlas of the world, Atlas mira (1713). The maps of the atlas had no common title page and were unbound; nevertheless, these five map sheets were an integrated edition that can justifiably be called an atlas. The maps were mainly reprinted copies of Dutch maps (of Theodorus and Justus Danckerts and Frederick de Wit) with geographical names translated into Russian; they were supplemented by some new engravings and texts. In 1711, Kipriyanov compiled, personally engraved, and printed Guberniya Moskovskaya with statistical data on homesteads throughout the whole area (see fig. 428). Geographical maps were also printed in St. Petersburg by Mikhail Avramov’s Grazhdanskaya tipografiya (1714–27), the Morskaya akademiya printing house (after 1721), and by the printing house in St. Petersburg of the Akademiya nauk (after 1732). By order of Peter I, astronomical and topographical field surveys and the compilation and publishing of maps were subordinated to the senate, the highest state authority under the czar after 1711. Instrumental regional surveys had begun in Russia in 1715 when geodesist Fëdor Molchanov surveyed the area along the Irtysh River (Goldenberg and Postnikov 1990, 31). A systematic instrumental survey of the whole country for the compilation of the first precise geographic map of Russia began with the senate order of 9 December 1720. The survey was carried out in accordance with a special instruction concerning the use of the quadrant, astrolabe, and a thirty-sazhen’-long measuring chain and was based exclusively on astronomical observations for latitude. Longitudes were determined through geometrical calculations. There was no standard meridian for longitudes; in some cases it was an uyezd capital or the meridian of Ferro (Hierro Island, westernmost of the Canary Islands) or Dagö (Hiiumaa Island in the Baltic Sea, the westernmost point of the Russian Empire at the time). The maps were compiled on a conic projection. Astronomical reference points were plotted by coordinates on the geographical grid, while the area in question was surveyed by bearings with the use of protractor and by distances measured in the field or determined through local inquiries. There was no single scale prescribed for map compilation. The first maps of three Russian uyezds were compiled as early as 1722; thirty uyezds already were mapped by the beginning of 1725; and all 190 uyezds by 1744. The first countrywide survey covered about 40 percent of European Russia; in Siberia the survey mainly followed the principal rivers. Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov, the ober-sekretar’ of the senate, played a significant role in the mapping of Russia during 1720s and 1730s. He compiled a map of northeastern Siberia and the Kamchatka Peninsula in 1724 (“Tabula geographica”) with Latin notations and at a

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scale of ca. 1:1,800,000. Kirilov published three editions of the Atlas vserossiyskoy imperii, in 1731, 1732, and 1734. The first edition consisted of ten maps of individual guberniyas of European Russia printed from 1724 to 1731 and was bound as a single volume. Each subsequent edition added new maps to the previous edition. The second edition consisted of twelve guberniya maps, while the third included fourteen guberniya maps of European Russia and a general map of Russia (see fig. 737). Kirilov’s main sources for this atlas were uyezd maps produced from the first instrumental surveys in Russia; seven latitudinal-longitudinal astronomical reference points served as a mathematical basis of the maps. The maps are decorated with title cartouches designed with symbolic and ethnographic elements. Geographical names are noted in Russian and Latin. For Russia at this time, Kirilov’s atlas incorporated the scientific practices of the era. Joseph-Nicolas Delisle joined the St. Petersburg Akademiya nauk in 1726. He quickly developed guidelines for the compilation of Russia maps in 1727–28 (Gnucheva 1946, 120–31) and later began to compile an atlas and a general map of Russia. He also contributed to the geographical mapping of Russia by delivering in 1732 to the Akademiya nauk a map accompanied by a memoir describing the best routes for exploration of the western coast of North America. In 1737, Akademiya nauk issued his small-sized (22 × 26 cm) world atlas under the title Atlas sochinennyy k pol’ze i upotrebleniyu yunoshestva i vsekh chitateley vedomostey i istoricheskikh knig containing twenty-two maps compiled on the basis of foreign and Russian sources, drawings of the cosmological systems as conceived by Claudius Ptolemy, Tycho Brahe, and Nicolaus Copernicus, as well as images of armillary spheres and of the wind rose. There are few geographical names on the maps, and they do not agree with each other on different maps. For example, the water area between Korea and the Japanese Islands is shown on four maps and labeled differently on each. The Akademiya nauk established a geographical department, Geograficheskiy departament, for cartographic works in 1739; in 1745 it published the Atlas Rossiyskoy, sostoyashchey iz devyatnattsati spetsial’nykh kart in three editions: Russian, Latin and French, and German. This was the first atlas of Russia to cover the entire country, including the first general map of Russia compiled by the academy (fig. 316) as well as thirteen maps of European Russia and six maps of Siberia. This atlas is distinguished from Kirilov’s atlas of 1734 by richer and more accurate content and by the presence of maps of Asian Russia (i.e., Siberia). The maps of the 1745 atlas were based on sixty-two astronomical reference points. It was the first Russian atlas to contain a table of conventional signs (forty-eight items) (fig. 317).

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Fig. 316. THE FIRST GENERAL MAP OF RUSSIA BASED ON EXTENSIVE RUSSIAN SURVEYS. Mappa generalis totius imperii Russici from the German edition of Atlas Rossiyskoy, Rußischer Atlas published by the Akademiya nauk (St. Petersburg: Academie der Wissenschafften, 1745).

Size of the original: 55 × 97 cm. Image courtesy of the David Rumsey Map Collection, David Rumsey Map Center, Stanford Libraries.

Basic data for compiling the maps were drawn from instrumental surveys performed by geodesists during the reign of Peter I; they surveyed 190 uyezds (66 percent of Russia’s area), while Kirilov’s atlas was based on surveys of 115 uyezds (45 percent of the area). The Atlas Rossiyskoy successfully fulfilled a principal task of state cartography: to compile a complete map of Russia on the basis of systematic countrywide instrumental surveys. The maps of the Atlas Rossiyskoy are characterized by internal consistency in methods of compilation, a rich variety of conventional signs, unified design, and high-quality engraving. The critical processing of source materials was supported by the newest cartographic materials from the Russian expeditions led by Vitus Bering to America’s northwestern coasts in 1733–44 (they are depicted on the general map), Morten Spangberg to the Kuril Islands and the northern part of Japan in 1738–39, and others. The atlas has an interesting foreword, explaining the projection used and the methods of compilation. By depicting the physical extent of Russia based on precise instrumental surveys by Russian geodesists, the Atlas Rossiyskoy constituted a major achievement. Mikhail Vasil’yevich Lomonosov headed the Geo-

graficheskiy departament of the Akademiya nauk from 1757 to 1765; he led work on a new atlas of Russia (Rossiyskiy atlas) that was to comprise sixty to eighty beautifully decorated special maps and a detailed political and economic description of the whole empire. The new atlas set out to correct one of the chief deficiencies of the 1745 atlas, that the most populated and economically developed central parts of European Russia were depicted on only two maps. Many maps showed only a small number of extant populated places. For the new atlas, Lomonosov organized expeditions to carry out astronomical observations to determine longitudes and latitudes of various places in Russia and to undertake geographical descriptions and meteorological observations. Twelve of the maps were published in the 1770s. Lomonosov’s own cartographic work was limited to a tsirkumpolyarnaya karta of 1763 (see fig. 440), a circumpolar map of the Arctic Ocean intended to guide the first polar expedition organized by Lomonosov and led by Vasiliy Yakovlevich Chichagov in 1765–66. Astronomical observation expeditions of the Akademiya nauk in the third quarter of the eighteenth century determined the latitudes and longitudes of fifty points

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Fig. 317. ENGRAVED TABLE OF CONVENTIONAL SIGNS. Detail from the preface to the Atlas Rossiyskoy (St. Petersburg: Akademiya nauk, 1745), 20. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Cartographical Department, Code No. Ko 108/II-2).

by 1773 and provided valuable geographical and cartographic information. The results of these expeditions were incorporated in a set of general maps of Russia: Pochtovaya karta Rossiyskoy imperii (1771), General’naya karta Rossiyskoy imperii, po noveyshim nablyudeniyam i izvestiyam sochinennaya (1776), and Novaya karta Rossiyskoy imperii, razdelennaya na namestnichestva (1786; in Latin 1787); this last depicted changes in the administrative territorial divisions of the country. Based on materials from the academy’s expeditions, the Geograficheskiy departament compiled and published many new maps of the different regions of Russia as well as several atlases, including the atlas of the Volga River from Tver to Dmitrov (Geograficheskoye opisaniye reki Volgi ot Tveri do Dmitriyevska) in 1767, Karmannyy atlas Rossiyskoy imperii in 1773, and Atlas Kaluzhskago namestnichestva in 1782 (Gnucheva 1946) (see fig. 687). Mathematician and physicist Leonhard Euler carried out scientific research in mathematical cartography and theoretical geodesy at the Geograficheskiy departament in the 1770s and 1780s. His detailed mathematical study in 1777 of the conic projection, known as the Delisle

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projection, led him to propose his own conic equidistant projection with a secant cone and to develop a general theory of all conic projections and a general equation of all equal-area conic projections. He also modeled the curvature of the earth’s surface. The exact measurement of Russia’s area on the spheroid was performed by Wolfgang Ludwig Krafft in 1786 and by Fёdor Ivanovich Shubert in 1795 (Gnucheva 1946, 89). The Geograficheskiy departament of the Akademiya nauk published 324 printed maps in 1726–1800. During the eighteenth century it was the only Russian scientific geographic mapping center that combined scientific research with practical work for the government. After the establishment of the General Staff in 1763 and the beginning of the general land survey, General’noye mezhevaniye, in 1765, the majority of state mapping was performed by these institutions (fig. 318). Paul I assumed oversight of cartographic activities in the country in 1796. Ego imperatorskogo velichestva chertёzhnaya, the imperial majesty’s drawing office, was established in late 1796 and transformed into the map depot, Ego imperatorskogo velichestva depo kart, in August 1797. During the eighteenth century, medium- to small-scale mapping was also carried out by other institutions. The Orenburg Expedition (later Commission) was established by Kirilov in 1734, and a geographical department within the office of the Orenburg Commission, created in 1741, issued the first General’naya karta Orenburgskogo kraya in 1742 and Atlas Orenburgskoy guberniy in 1755. The Komissiya ob uchrezhdenii narodnykh uchilishch, a commission on public schools established in 1782, published educational atlases of Russia (1787) and Europe (1790). To create a complete set of maps of the Russian Empire, a special cartographic authority (Geograficheskiy departament) was established within the cabinet in 1786 under Catherine II and headed by the director of the mining school (Gornoye uchilishche) in St. Petersburg, Pёtr Aleksandrovich Soymonov. The printing house of the Gornoye uchilishche published all the scientific reference atlases of Russia compiled by the cabinet’s Geograficheskiy departament, including Rossiyskoy atlas iz soroka chetyrekh kart in 1792, which was compiled by Aleksandr Mikhaylovsky Vil’brekht and served as a basis for all other atlases of the Russian Empire; Atlas Rossiyskoy imperii i sostoyashchiy iz 46 kart in 1792; Atlas Rossiyskoy imperii i sostoyashchiy iz 52 kart in 1796; as well as two educational atlases: of the world, Novyy atlas ili sobraniye kart vsekh chastey zemnogo sharain 1793; and of Russia, Atlas rossiyskoy imperii, izdannoy in 1794. These atlases of Russia were the standard reference works of their time and reflected current methods of mapmaking and design as well as a high degree of engraving skill. The cabinet’s Geograficheskiy departament was transferred to the authority of the senate in 1797 and to the Depo kart in 1800.

Fig. 318. GEOGRAFICHESKAYA KARTA MOSKOVSKOY PROVINTSII, 1774. Map of Moscovy at 1:252,000.

Size of the original: 90 × 120 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Cartographical Department, Code No. Ko 111/IV-4).

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The development of Russian geographical mapping demonstrated that despite the large extent of the territory it was possible to coordinate and direct large survey teams to acquire sufficient data to produce several atlases of the realm and to fill the archives with mediumto large-scale maps. Such achievements portended further successes in the century to come. N i ko l ay N . K o med ch ikov See also: Delisle Family; Euler, Leonhard; Kipriyanov, Vasiliy Onufriyevich; Kirilov, Ivan Kirilovich; Lomonosov, Mikhail Vasil’yevich; Pallas, Peter Simon; Russia; Tatishchev, Vasiliy Nikitich Bibliograp hy Bagrow, Leo. 1975. A History of Russian Cartography up to 1800. Ed. Henry W. Castner. Wolfe Island: Walker Press. Fel’, S. Ye. 1960. Kartografiya Rossii XVIII veka. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Geodezicheskoy Literatury. Gnucheva, V. F. 1946. Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka. Ed. A. I. Andreyev. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Goldenberg, L. A. 1976. “Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk i sozdaniye pervogo Akademicheskogo atlasa (1739–1799 gg.).” In Ocherki istorii geograficheskoy nauki v SSSR, 47–60. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” ———. 1983. “Petrovskiye geodezisty Senata—sostaviteli obzornoy karty Rossii (K 250-letiyu sozdaniya General’noy karty Rossiyskoy imperii).” Geodeziya i Kartografiya 6:58–61. ———. 2007. “Russian Cartography to ca. 1700.” In HC 3:1852–1903. Goldenberg, L. A., and Alexey V. Postnikov. 1990. Petrovskiye geodezisty i pervyy pechatnyy plan Moskvy. Moscow: “Nedra.” Knyazev, G. A., and K. I. Shafranovskiy. 1965. “Pervaya polnaya istoricheskaya karta Rossiyskoy imperii.” In Puteshestviya i geograficheskiye otkrytiya v XV-XIX vv., 68–75. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Kusov, V. S. 1993. Chertezhi zemli russkoy, XVI–XVII vv. Moscow: “Russkiy Mir.” ———. 2007. Moskovskoye gosudarstvo XVI—nachala XVIII veka: Svodnyy katalog russkikh geograficheskikh chertezhey. Moscow: Russkiy Mir. Narskikh, R. S. 1976. “Russkaya Akademicheskaya kartografiya (1724–1917).” Izvestiya Akademii Nauk SSSR, Seriya Geograficheskaya. 3:133–44. Postnikov, Alexey V. 1985. Razvitiye kartografii i voprosy ispol’zovaniya starykh kart. Moscow: “Nauka.” Shibanov, F. A. 1964. “Geograficheskiy departament Kabineta.” Vestnik Leningradskogo Universiteta, Seriya Geologii i Geografii 4:132–39. ———. 1966. “General’noye mezhevaniye—novyy etap kartografirovaniya territorii Rossii posledney treti XVIII v.” Vestnik Leningradskogo Universiteta, Seriya Geologii i Geografii 4:125–28. ———. 1971. Ocherki po istorii otechestvennoy kartografii. Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Leningradskogo Universiteta.

Geographical Mapping in Spain. Geographical mapping of Spain does not appear to have been a preoccupation of the last Habsburg monarch. Carlos II (r. 1665–1700) had other more pressing worries, following military defeats, economic decline, and the resulting exhaustion of the country. The need to map Spain began with the Bourbons (Felipe V, r. 1700–1746; Fernando VI, r. 1746– 59; Carlos III, r. 1759–88; and Carlos IV, r. 1788–1808)

and some of their ministers, who had decisive policies of centralization and territorial intervention. The desire for administrative and economic reforms to develop a modern state emphasized the gravity of the situation. By the last decades of the century, the fruits of this change in policy were exemplified by the Atlas geográfico de España (completed in 1792) by Tomás López and the Atlas marítimo de España (1789) by Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel (Capel 1982). The policy of secrecy adhered to by many sixteenthcentury monarchs contributed to the extinction of a brilliant tradition of marine chartmaking that had enjoyed well-earned prestige and had created a favorable atmosphere for political and economic expansion. Its harmful effects were felt in terrestrial and marine mapping in the lack of projects and leaders and, above all, in the absence of a demand that would have encouraged cartographic production. Not until the dawn of the eighteenth century was the poor state of the country’s cartographic representation acknowledged and actions taken. The first steps to remedy the situation were taken by the Cuerpo de Ingenieros Militares (created 1711), but these proved ineffective. What proved more effective was sending young students supported by the state—pensionados— to Paris and instructing them in cartographic drawing and engraving (1752–60). The result was that by the last years of the eighteenth century, although lacking the rigor demanded by academic circles, there were printed maps of all regions of Spain (Hernando 2005). Despite the lack of Spanish maps of the country throughout the eighteenth century, foreign geographers continued to produce images of all or part of the Iberian Peninsula. These were obsolete compositions, compiled from sixteenth- or early seventeenth-century maps cosmetically enhanced with data from Baroque or Enlightenment literary sources. The maps that appeared in the Spanish editions of the atlases of Johannes Janssonius (Nuevo atlas, 1653–66) and Joan Blaeu (Atlas nuevo/ Atlas mayor, 1659–72) are just two examples. Given the potential profits to be made, French geographic publishers produced similar cartographic collections focused on Spain. The first was by Nicolas Sanson (L’Espagne, descrite en plusieurs cartes, in his atlas La France, l’Espagne, l’Italie, l’Allemagne, et les Isles Britanniqves, 1651); much later, Roch-Joseph Julien published maps by Jean-Baptiste Nolin in his Atlas d’Espagne et de Portugal (1762). Careful examination of the data contained therein shows that the vast majority of information came from a previous period (Hernando [1995], 189–215; 2005, 18–19). Regarding maps of Spain drawn in Spain during this period, the oldest one (1706) is very simple and quite decorative, with an unconventional design produced for an erudite audience (fig. 319). A second example, cited as “España y Portugal por [Gregorio] Fosman” and of

Fig. 319. CLEMENS PUICHE, DESCRIPCIÓN DE ESPAÑA Y SUS REYNOS, 1706. This is the only known example of a map of Spain from the early eighteenth century. It has an unusual western orientation but little is known about its publication and it remains unstudied. Scale ca. 1:2,200,000; 10 leguas [=3.3 cm] (Madrid: Casa de Santiago Ambrona).

Size of the original: 61 × 44 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [1599]).

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Fig. 320. CARLOS MARTÍNEZ AND CLAUDIO DE LA VEGA, “EXPOSICION DE LAS OPERACIONES GEOMETRICAS” OF THE IBERIAN PENINSULA. Manuscript map in thirty-six sheets; scale ca. 1:445,800. This incomplete map shows only the eastern half of the peninsula.

Size of the original: 225 × 228 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid (SG/M.XXXIII no 224).

unknown date, is not extant but is listed in an 1808 sales catalog of Juan López (Hernando 2008, 204). Not until the middle of the eighteenth century was there a stream of diverse images of Spain composed by Spanish authors. An early one is a modest print from 1765 by Pablo Minguet with geographical text along the side to allow the audience to better assimilate its informa-

tion. Others include those by Tomás López, produced in single sheets and inserted in several compilations. To these we should add other simple cartographic prints illustrating literary works. There is an enigmatic, large but unfinished manuscript wall map of the entire Iberian Peninsula; however, the circumstances of its production are unknown (fig. 320).

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Its cartouche gives the authors as Jesuit priests of the Colegio Imperial de Madrid, Carlos Martínez and Claudio de la Vega, who executed it between 1739 and 1743 on the orders of Zenón de Somodevilla y Bengoechea, marqués de la Ensenada (Núñez de las Cuevas 1987, 54–55; Líter Mayayo, Martín-Merás, and Sanchis Ballester 2001, 109–11, no. 20). Maps produced of some regions, especially those of the old Crown of Aragon such as Valencia (by Francisco Antonio Cassaus, 1693; Tomás López, 1762 and 1788; and Antonio José Cavanilles, 1795), Catalonia (by Josep Aparici, 1720, reedited 1769; Oleguer de Taverner i d’Ardena, comte de Darnius, 1726; Francisco Xavier de Garma y Durán, ca. 1760; and Tomás López, 1776), and Majorca (by Antoni Despuig i Damento, 1785), were of greater significance. Other regions, such as Galicia, Castile, Extremadura, and Andalusia, lacked printed singlesheet representations until those produced by Tomás López, although detailed manuscript maps of provinces such as Galicia were compiled during this period and served as sources for Tomás López’s later printed maps (Manso Porto 2010–11). Aragon, for example, was represented by the continued reprinting of the drawing by João Baptista Lavanha (1620) and by those of Juan Seyra y Ferrer (1715) and Tomás López (1765). Military engineers drew a few regional maps, such as the large manuscript “El Principado de Cattalvña y condados de Rossellon y Cordaña” (1687) by Ambrosio Borsano (Líter Mayayo, Martín-Merás, and Sanchis Ballester 2001, 133–35, no.  30) or the printed Mapa del Reynado de Sevilla (1748) by Francisco Llobet, while civil engineers mapped the water canals. Land surveyors produced simple drafts of areas affected by irrigation projects, such as water canals, particularly in Valencia. There was also mapping of some episcopal dioceses, such as that of Toledo (by Luis Manuel Fernández de Portocarrero, 1681). As for urban cartography, warfare was the main reason behind the mapping, with illustrations of cities and towns appearing in foreign atlases. Many remained in manuscript form with some exceptions, such as Madrid (by Pedro Teixeira Albernaz, 1656), Valencia (by Tomás Vicente Tosca, ca. 1738), Seville (by Francisco Manuel Coelho, 1771), and Granada (by Francisco Dalmau, 1796; see fig. 928). When the Spaniards Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa joined the French expedition charged with measuring the arc of the meridian near the equator (1735–43), a new period in geographical mapping began. The resounding success of this mission and the increased fame of the Carte de France by the Cassinis encouraged these two government advisors to propose a carta geomética de España (Reguera Rodríguez 2000). However, the lack of qualified personnel, the economic resources required for its production, and the absence of a learned society or academy to support it prevented this project

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from flourishing in the eighteenth century. Nonetheless, an administrative desire for cartographic images of territories to aid implementation of reforms remained, producing results that, in the long run, proved to be more appropriate and more efficient. Tomás López and Juan de la Cruz Cano y Olmedilla, after their training as pensionados in Paris, undertook the preparation of maps required by government officials and the country. Tomás López’s cartography visualized the diverse landscapes of the Iberian Peninsula. Cano y Olmedilla, on the other hand, lacking the intuition, capacity, or good fortune of his colleague, prepared fewer maps. The Atlas marítimo de España (1789) attained greater fame. This project, directed by Tofiño, mapped the Spanish coast on a consistent scale. General agreement about the potential benefit for allocating human and economic resources led to the creation of the Depósito Hidrográfico (1789). Its task was to update information in these charts and to expand mapping into the colonies in America and the Philippines. These were the significant maps, proposals, activities, and individuals related to geographical mapping in Spain during the Enlightenment. At the turn of the century, contacts with French scholars, who traveled to Spain to establish the Dunquerque-Barcelona arc (1792–1810), encouraged inquisitive youth to emulate their work and resuscitate the execution of the much desired carta geomética de España. The results of these efforts did not appear until the map of Galicia (1845) drawn by Domingo Fontán. Agus t í n H ernando See also: López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás; Spain; Tofiño de San Miguel y Vandewalle, Vicente Bibliography Capel, Horacio. 1982. Geografía y matemáticas en la España del siglo XVIII. Barcelona: Oikos-tau. Hernando, Agustín. [1995]. El mapa de España, siglos XV–XVIII. [Madrid]: Ministerio de Fomento, Instituto Geográfico Nacional, Centro Nacional de Información Geográfica. ———. 2005. El Atlas geográfico de España (1804) producido por Tomás López. Madrid: Dirección General del Instituto Geográfico Nacional. ———. 2008. El geógrafo Juan López (1765–1825) y el comercio de mapas en España. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Ediciones Doce Calles. Líter Mayayo, Carmen, Luisa Martín-Merás (Verdejo), and Francisca Sanchis Ballester, eds. 2001. Tesoros de la cartografía española: Exposición con motivo del XIX Congreso Internacional de Historia de la Cartografía, Madrid, 2001. [Salamanca]: Caja Duero; [Madrid]: Biblioteca Nacional. Manso Porto, Carmen. 2010–11. “Cartografía histórica de José Cornide en la Real Academia de la Historia: El mapa general del Reino de Galicia y los de sus diócesis (1760–1772).” Abrente 42–43:237–302. Núñez de las Cuevas, Rodolfo. 1987. “Cartografía española en el siglo XVIII.” In Astronomía y cartografía de los siglos XVIII y XIX, 53–70. Madrid: Observatorio Astronómico Nacional. Reguera Rodríguez, Antonio T. 2000. “Las Reglas o Instrucciones de Jorge Juan y Antonio de Ulloa para la formación de los mapas generales de España.” Llull 23:473–98.

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Geographical Mapping in Spanish America. The spatial construction of Spanish American territories between 1650 and 1800 is a substantial topic, explored here through the specific example of the geographical mapping of New Spain. Four distinct and simultaneous sets of mapping processes fulfilled the needs of the Spanish Crown during the period. Various institutions and individuals expanded the use of these map genres in an increasingly complex Spanish administration so that a large number and variety of maps of American territories were produced by the end of the colonial period. The presence of many early maps in the archives offers new insights into the study of the Spanish Enlightenment and opens new lines of questioning about established problems in colonial inquiry (Moncado Maya 2009). In the first mapping genre, the Spanish considered their American territories to be fragmented into discrete provinces and communities. These smaller regions were mapped, starting in the second half of the sixteenth century and continuing into the eighteenth, as part of the relaciones geográficas de América. Following traditional practices, the relaciones geográficas comprised answers to standardized questions that were printed in Madrid and circulated to the colonial authorities throughout Spanish America. The questions addressed multiple topics and also requested the preparation of regional and communal maps. Preparation of the answers fell to the political officials familiar with the local geographies; they questioned the most prominent people in each locale, who remembered the vestiges of a world ruined by biological and religious conquest. After the seventeenth century, administrative officers of the Crown replaced the key indigenous sources in the ongoing surveys, producing imbalanced reports: they varied widely in their descriptions of human characteristics, the quantity and quality of the information, and the number of their maps. The maps in the relaciones geográficas were consistently syncretic, combining indigenous with European modes of graphic expression; this syncretism did not give way in the eighteenth century to an overtly European form of cartography. The painted maps survive today as an independent body of images that link each territory with indigenous traditions of color signification and spatial models (Mundy 1996; Ruiz Naufal 2000, 63–69). The image presented in the relaciones geográficas of the vast and disproportionate space of New Spain gave rise to a more uniform genre of ecclesiastical mapping in the work of José Antonio de Villaseñor y Sánchez, a criollo who became comptroller of taxes and of mining revenues in New Spain. As tensions between the Bourbon Crown and the Church increased, questions about the work of the missionaries across Spanish America pushed Felipe V to seek information about the state and progression of the Catholic missions. In 1743, Villaseñor y Sánchez was given the further title of cosmographer of

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New Spain and commissioned to prepare and distribute a questionnaire among the prominent mayors and governors of each jurisdiction; he compiled their responses into his two-volume Theatro americano, descripcion general de los reynos, y provincias de la Nueva-España, y sus jurisdicciones (1746–48), published in only fifty copies in Mexico City (Antochiw 2000, 73–77; Carrera 2011, 50–56, who also analyses the emblematic globe on the title page). The Theatro described an “ecclesiastical republic” (Villaseñor y Sánchez 2005, 127). For each bishopric— of Mexico, Puebla, Michoacán, Oaxaca, Guadalajara, and Durango, but excluding Yucatán—it reported the status of the towns and ranches, including names, distances, boundaries, and geographical coordinates. It noted the number of families and the priests and vicars of each religious order (Franciscans, Augustinians, and Dominicans) with their convents, churches, and parishes. For each region it noted estates, language, commerce, livestock, agriculture, and minerals (Villaseñor y Sánchez 2005). While the Theatro itself did not contain graphic maps, Villaseñor y Sánchez’s patient information gathering, and his access to maps produced by Franciscan and Jesuit missions in the north, allowed him to construct a new general map of New Spain in 1746 (fig. 321) that would in turn serve as the basis for future maps (Trabulse 1983, 23–24). For example, in 1767, the criollo Jesuit mathematician and educator José Antonio de Alzate y Ramírez, who was a member of the Parisian Académie des sciences, extended Villaseñor y Sánchez’s geographical frame considerably, so as to accommodate the province’s territorial growth northward while maintaining the territorial organization of New Spain by bishoprics (fig. 322). Alzate y Ramírez’s work would also be published in Paris after 1775 (Antochiw 2000, 76–82; Carrera 2011, 59–60). The greatest challenge for Spain was the need to map and understand the vast extent of the Spanish American coastline, producing the third genre in the geographical mapping of New Spain, that of maritime territory. In the second half of the eighteenth century, marine expeditions under the auspices of the Crown surveyed these strategic territories, and the secretary of the Marine in Madrid ordered the preparation of marine charts and more general maps of the Gulf of Mexico, Florida, the Tierra Firme, and the Antilles for the use of naval officers to protect and defend Spanish American possessions in anticipation of a growing English and Russian presence on American shores (Martín-Merás 2008). The Portulano de la America septentrional (1809) resulted from this work and comprised 112 detailed regional maps in four sections: the Antilles (15 maps); Colombia, Florida, and Gulf of Mexico (41 maps); Cuba (34 maps); and Haiti and Jamaica (22 maps) (Orozco y Berra 1871, 216–22). In addition to the treatment of coastlines, the

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Fig. 321. JOSÉ ANTONIO DE VILLASEÑOR Y SÁNCHEZ’S 1746 MANUSCRIPT MAP OF NEW SPAIN. The map’s title—“Yconismo hidroterreo, o mapa geographico de la America septentrional”—did not refer to its nature as an ecclesiastical geography of the missions, convents, and churches of New Spain.

Size of the original: 48 × 68 cm. Image courtesy of España, Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte, Archivo General de Indias, Seville (MP, México, 161).

maps provided the Spanish Crown with a precise image of the system of fortresses constructed by military engineers for the defense of the Atlantic shore. Between 1806 and 1810, sailors and officers used primary observations and surveys to complete the Derrotero de las islas Antillas, de la costas de Tierra Firme y de las Seno Mexicano (1810). These expeditions produced small-scale maps of the Atlantic Ocean, medium-scale regional maps of the eastern coasts of America, and large-scale plans of areas around the ports (Martín Merás 2008). Bourbon reforms and economic transformations in Spain led to the creation of a corps of military engineers that added to the technical transformation of geographical mapping, producing the fourth genre of geographical mapping in New Spain. Totaling nearly a thousand individuals and divided into different military ranks, the corps was trained in engineering and artillery at the Real Academia Militar de Matemáticas de Barcelona (opened

1720). From 1720 to 1808, ninety-five military engineers were employed in New Spain to construct a defensive circle throughout the Caribbean and the Antilles, creating a socioeconomic territory represented instrumentally in a series of maps of the region. The engineers were charged with directing public works of major economic importance in the ports and in the colonial cities, a veritable catalog of Enlightenment architectural improvements, comprising customs and money houses, town halls, academies, and even botanical gardens, tobacco factories, grinding mills, and foundaries of iron and steel. Their labors also included studies of the mineral districts and maps of the mines (Moncada Maya 1993). Their activity coincided with the desire of the Spanish Crown to extend its influence over the economic bounty of its American colonies. The Bourbon “reforms” under Carlos III in Madrid modified the political map of New Spain by breaking up the vast centralized power of the

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Fig. 323. DETAIL FROM THE “MAPA DE TODA LA FRONTERA DE LOS DOMINIOS DEL REY EN LA AMERICA SEPTENTRIONALE,” CA. 1768. A huge manuscript map of New Spain’s northern frontiers by military engineers Nicolás de Lafora and José de Urrutia.

Size of the entire original: 148 × 345 cm; size of detail: ca. 95 × 172 cm. Image courtesy of the Mapoteca Manuel Orozco y Berra, Servicio de Información Agroalimentaria y Pesquera, SAGARPA, Mexico City (1138, mapero 40, varilla 2, parciales 721).

viceroy. In 1786 new territorial divisions were introduced, establishing twelve new political units, or intendencias: Sonora, Guadalajara, Valladolid, Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí, Zacatecas, Durango, México, Puebla, Oaxaca, Veracruz, and Yucatán. Each enjoyed its own jurisdictional power and authority in the person of the intendente, who ruled autonomously from the political class of the New Spanish capital. Within this new balance of power, some military engineers were stationed in the more distant, inhospitable, and unpopulated northern territories of New Spain, where they traveled extensively, inspecting roads and various other building projects. Their reports allow for the interpretation and construction of the the economic space of these regions; they contained numerous economic valuations and suggestions for populating the land and were accompanied by maps of the New Spanish ports, from San Blas to the coast of California and the large territorial extensions of Sinaloa, Sonora, Chi-

huahua, upper and lower California, New Mexico, and also from the north coast of the Pacific (fig. 323) (Orozco y Berra 1881; León García 2009). The work of the military engineers in the southern regions represents the techniques of using more precise measuring instruments, the application of geometrical principles of surveying, and the addition of explanatory texts to accompany maps. These modernizing techniques were applied by the Spanish Crown not only in the older more distant colonial areas but, more importantly, in its strategy and new economic approach for the American territories, where the Crown sought to build up its finances in order defend itself against the growing and ever-enhanced power of the European states. The work of Spanish geographer Tomás López reflected the technical debate surrounding new approaches to compilation mapping. His Atlas geografico de la America septentrional y meridional (1758) dedicated eight of its thirty-eight maps to New Spain: provinces of México,

(facing page) Fig. 322. JOSÉ ANTONIO DE ALZATE Y RAMÍREZ, “NVEVO MAPA GEOGRAPHICO DE LA AMERICA SEPTENTRIONAL ESPAÑOLA . . . DIVIDIDA EN OBISPADOS Y PROVINCIAS,” 1767. Alzate y Ramírez listed his

many sources on this large manuscript map of Spanish North America. Size of the original: 177 × 210 cm. Image courtesy of the Museo Naval de Madrid (7-A-8).

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Mechoacán, and Pánuco; provinces of Yucatán, Tabasco, Guaxaca, and Tlascala; provinces of Guadalajara, Jalisco, Chiametlán, and Zacatecas; provinces of Nueva Vizcaya, Culvacán, and Sinaloa; provinces of Guatemala, Soconusco, Chiapa, and Vera Paz; and the more distant territories, like Nuevo México, California, and Nuevo Reyno de León; and Nueva Navarra, Pimeria, Sonora, Hiaqui, and Mayo. In his preface, López outlined some of his sources for the contents of the atlas, which provided an image of New Spain to a wider audience. Hé c tor Men d o za Vargas See also: Spanish America Bibliograp hy Antochiw, Michel. 2000. “La visión total de la Nueva España: Los mapas generales del siglo XVIII.” In México a través de los mapas, ed. Héctor Mendoza Vargas, 71–88. Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, UNAM; Plaza y Valdés. Carrera, Magali M. 2011. Traveling from New Spain to Mexico: Mapping Practices of Nineteenth-Century Mexico. Durham: Duke University Press. León García, María del Carmen. 2009. “Cartografía de los ingenieros militares en Nueva España, segunda mitad del siglo XVIII.” In Historias de la cartografía de Iberoamérica: Nuevos caminos, viejos problemas, ed. Héctor Mendoza Vargas and Carla Lois, 441–66. Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, UNAM. Martín-Merás (Verdejo), Luisa. 2008. “La expedición hidrográfica del Atlas de la América septentrional, 1792–1805.” Journal of Latin American Geography 7, no. 1:203–18. Moncada Maya, José Omar. 1993. Ingenieros militares en Nueva  España: Inventario de su labor científica y espacial, siglos XVI a XVIII. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. ———. 2009. “Construyendo el territorio: El desarollo de la cartografía en Nueva España.” In Historias de la cartografía de Iberoamérica: Nuevos caminos, viejos problemas, ed. Héctor Mendoza Vargas and Carla Lois, 161–82. Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, UNAM. Mundy, Barbara E. 1996. The Mapping of New Spain: Indigenous Cartography and the Maps of the Relaciones Geográficas. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Orozco y Berra, Manuel. 1871. Materiales para una cartografía mexicana. Mexico City: Imprenta del Gobierno, en Palacio. ———. 1881. Apuntes para la historia de la geografía en México. Mexico City: Imprenta de Francisco Diaz de Leon. Ruiz Naufal, Víctor Manuel. 2000. “La faz del terruño: Planos locales y regionales, siglos XVI–XVIII.” In México a través de los mapas, ed. Héctor Mendoza Vargas, 33–69. Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, UNAM; Plaza y Valdés. Trabulse, Elías. 1983. Cartografía mexicana: Tesoros de la Nación, siglos XVI a XIX. Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. Villaseñor y Sánchez, José Antonio de. 2005. Theatro americano: Descripción general de los reynos y provincias de la Nueva España y sus jurisdicciones. Ed. and prelim. Ernesto de la Torre Villar. Intro. study Alejandro Espinosa Pitman. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México.

Geographical Mapping in Sweden-Finland. Until the

1740s, the Orbis arctoi nova et accurata delineatio, the large map of Northern Europe in six sheets by Andreas Bureus published in 1626 (Mead 2007, 1801 [fig. 60.18]), was the only domestically printed geographical map of quality to cover Sweden-Finland. Its unchanged copperplates were used for decades to print new copies

for use mainly in Sweden-Finland. Bureus’s work served as the basis for many atlas and wall maps published elsewhere in Europe. The Bureus map was copied first in Holland by Claes Jansz. Visscher (1630) and Willem Jansz. Blaeu (1634). In 1635 Henricus Hondius published a six-sheet edition by Hessel Gerritsz. and Isaac Massa. It corrected some mistakes made by Bureus (mainly in Denmark), but as a map of Sweden-Finland it was not better than the original. New mistakes were introduced, especially in Lapland and eastern Finland. Practically all printed general maps of Sweden-Finland up to 1747 were based either on the original Bureus map or its Gerritsz.-Massa edition. One of the tasks of the surveyors sent to the Swedish provinces from 1628 onward was to draw geographical maps of each region (Mead 2007, 1802). During subsequent decades they sent to Stockholm maps of administrative regions, coastal maps, road maps, lake maps, and military maps. These maps usually lacked a coordinate system, although Carl Gripenhielm’s compilation map of 1688 is an exception (see fig. 811). The emphasis was on Sweden proper; in Finland and in the Baltic provinces mapping went more slowly. In the eighteenth century, the military became active as both map consumer and producer. After the RussoSwedish War of 1741–43 Finland received higher priority. A civilian mapping commission was sent there in 1747 to produce manuscript maps of every parish at a scale of 1:20,000. The production of printed geographical maps was almost nonexistent in Sweden-Finland during the years 1627–1738. One small general map of the kingdom was issued by Erik Dahlbergh (Nova et accvrata orbis arctoi tabvla geographica, 1696), and a provincial map showing Count Per Brahe’s possessions in northeastern Finland was also published (Tabella geographica Caianiæ, illustrissimi et generosiss . . . ). From 1739 onward, printed geographical maps were published by Landtmäterikontoret (the land survey office) and by its employees privately—especially by Georg Biurman. The source materials for these maps included the maps sent to Stockholm by the surveyors and geodetic data produced from the 1730s. The following regional maps were printed: Lake Mälaren (1739), Uppland (1742), Västmanland (1742), Stockholm (1743), Södermanland (1743), Närike (1745), Bay of Finland (1742, 1788), Skåne (1752), watersheds surrounding the country (1771; 2 maps), Lake Vänern (1773), Lakes Vänern and Vättern (1774), southern Sweden (1778), episcopacy of Linköping (1779), Skaraborg province (1781), Älvsborg province (1781), Karlstad province (1783), Stockholm and Uppsala provinces (1785), Jönköping province (1788), Kronoborg province (1788), Blekinge province (1788), Åland Islands (1789), Heinola province (1793) (Lönberg 1903). Of these twenty-four maps only five depicted Finland.

Fig. 324. GEORG BIURMAN, SVEA OCK GÖTA RIKEN MED FINLAND OCK NORLAND (STOCKHOLM, 1747). Copper engraving, ca. 1:2,500,000. This was the first domestic accurate general map of the country since the Bureus map of 1626. It corrected the worst mistakes of Bureus and became

the model for European mapmakers during the second half of the eighteenth century. Size of the original: 57 × 50 cm. Image courtesy of Kungliga biblioteket, Stockholm (KoB 1 ab).

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Fig. 325. CARL ERIK ENAGRIUS, CHARTA ÖFWER SWERIGE MED TILGRÄNSANDE LÄNDER (STOCKHOLM, 1797). The engraved map of Scandinavia in the Hermelin atlas was the first general map of the country giving it a “modern” look.

Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge CC 2618).

In 1747 Biurman published the first domestically produced accurate map of Sweden-Finland since Bureus (fig. 324). The map was not large but included enough correct details to surpass every earlier map. The major shortcomings of the Bureus map, the exaggerated extent of the country in the east-west direction and the faulty orientation of the Bay of Bothnia, were corrected. Biurman earlier issued a small general map of SwedenFinland (1742) and two road maps (1743). The only

Swedish world atlas of the period was a small school atlas, Atlas Juvenilis, by Anders Åkerman (first edition 1768). Åkerman also made the first Swedish globes (1759) (Lönborg 1903, 179; Bratt 1968). A new era started in 1797 with the publication of the first comprehensive atlas of the kingdom, Geographiske chartor öfver Swerige, containing thirty-three provincial and general maps (fig. 325). The atlas was a private effort by its initiator, Samuel Gustaf Hermelin. Hermelin

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appointed a young Finnish cartographer, Carl Petter Hällström, as the “main geographer” (editor-in-chief) of the project, and he completed twenty-two of the atlas’s maps; Hällström has a good claim to be “the most prominent cartographer of Sweden and Finland ever” (Strang and Harju 2005, 3, 21). The geographical maps of Sweden-Finland were made either on the conic projection or without any projection at all. Bureus had calculated longitude from the Azores. From the 1740s, the prime meridian or zero longitude was designated as the observatory at Uppsala. Scale was usually in Swedish miles (10.688 km). In the peace treaties of 1721 and 1743, SwedenFinland surrendered southeastern Finland (Finnish Carelia; Swedish Karelia) to Russia. The civilian surveying and mapping in Russian Finland became very similar to that on the Swedish side, but normally lagged about twenty years behind. The following double-page folio geographical maps were printed by Russian authorities: Russo-Swedish boundary (Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov, 1724), Viipuri/Viborg province (Kirilov, 1724; Jacob-Friedrich Schmidt, 1772; Aleksandr Mikhaylovsky Vil’brekht [Wilbrecht], 1792 and 1800), Käkisalmi/Kexholm province (Kirilov, 1727), Finland (Johann Elias Grimmel, 1743), Ingria and Carelia (Grimmel, 1743), Gulf of Finland (Schmidt, 1770), and Southern Finland (Vil’brekht, 1788) (Strang 2014). Smaller maps were also printed. J a n S trang See also: Sweden-Finland B i bliogra p hy Bratt, Einar. 1968. En krönika om svenska glober: Anders Åkerman och hans efterföljare jämte en inventering av historiska glober i Sverige. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Hermelin, Samuel Gustaf. 1797–1815. Geographiske chartor öfver Swerige. 4 vols. Stockholm. Lönborg, Sven. 1903. Sveriges karta, tiden till omkring 1850. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell. Mead, William R. 2007. “Scandinavian Renaissance Cartography.” In HC 3:1781–1805. Strang, Jan. 2014. Venäjän Suomi-kuva: Venäjä Suomen kartoittajana, 1710–1942. Helsinki: Antiikki-Kirja. Strang, Jan, and Erkki-Sakari Harju. 2005. Suomen karttakirja 1799: C. P. Hällströmin Suomi-kartasto. [Vantaa]: Genimap.

Geographical Mapping in Switzerland. See Switzerland

Geographical Mapping in the Ottoman Empire. See Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the

Geography and Cartography. The intersection between the spheres of cartography and geography in the age of the Enlightenment could appear, in definitional terms, so close as to amount to synonymy. At one level, this is driven by semantics: the history of language use shows “cartography” as a term did not exist in the En-

glish or French language until the mid-nineteenth century (Edney 2019). While Samuel Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language (1755), for example, contains entries for “map” and “chart,” the former being a land map, the latter a sea map, there is no entry for “cartography.” Equally, this is not mere semantics: the lack of the need for a separate term for the realm of mapmaking indicates the extent to which it was perceived as an activity that could be understood under the rubric of geography. Enlightenment definitions of geography bear out this contention in that they either (and most commonly) suggest that the making of maps is a subset of the total set of geography’s activities or (less frequently) make geography out to be the science of mapmaking wherein the congruence between geography and mapmaking is closer still. That both variants exist in contemporary definitions suggests the extent to which the precise relationship between geography and cartography remains blurred and untheorized. A good example of the first position, that mapmaking is a subset of geography’s activities, is contained in Johnson’s Dictionary, which in its approach reflects the web of interrelations established by a host of lexicographical projects in the Enlightenment. Johnson’s definition of “geography” is taken from the popular pedagogical tracts of Isaac Watts: “Geography, in a strict sense, signifies the knowledge of the circles of the earthly globe, and the situation of the various parts of the earth. When it is taken in a little larger sense, it includes the knowledge of the seas also; and in the largest sense of all, it extends to the various customs, habits, and governments of nations” (Johnson 1755). The first two clauses in this definition clearly could pertain to cartography, or at least suggest that cartography would have a major role in geographical instruction. Yet even here, to the extent that geography concerns knowledge of the globe and the seas, it is at some potential distance from the graphic representation of that knowledge that maps and globes represent. The final clause in Johnson’s definition sets up a still more apparent gap between the entirety of the project of geography and that of cartography, suggesting the centrality to geography of essentially prose-based forms of description in the arena we can designate (anachronistically) as human geography. If geography is more than that encompassed by mapmaking, however, in Johnson’s definitions mapmaking is entirely subsumed by geography: “Map . . . A geographical picture on which lands and seas are delineated according to the longitude and latitude” (Johnson 1755). In essence, Johnson’s Dictionary and many like it retain a definition of geography’s scope and practice derived from Strabo, wherein there will always be a larger set of activities for the subject than can be encompassed by the information encoded in maps and globes. The second definitional position common in the

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Enlightenment, wherein geography is closer to being encompassed by the activities of the mapmaker, is derived from the Ptolemaic understanding of the scope and methods of geography. If dictionaries tended to the Strabonic position, encyclopedias and dictionaries of the arts and sciences perhaps unsurprisingly moved toward the Ptolemaic position, concentrating as they did on the scientific and craft skills by which objects were made. A good example of this can be found in the treatment of geography in Ephraim Chambers’s influential encyclopedia, Cyclopædia (1728). The “Preface” explains geography as “the Doctrine of the Earth , or Globe: its Circles; Parallel, Tropic, Horizon, Axis, Poles, &c . . . Instruments relating thereto, Globe, Map, &c” (Chambers 1728, 1:v). This definition of geography is selfevidently couched in the language of cartographic representations. It also makes a close connection between geographical knowledge and the manner in which that knowledge is represented, either in the form of a globe or map—a consideration that is entirely missing from Johnson’s lexicographical approach but fits neatly with Chambers’s desire to produce a dictionary of the crafts in Enlightenment Europe. This understanding of the cartographic practices of geographical representation as being central to the definition of geography is reinforced by a long entry concerning the construction of maps that addresses questions of map projection for global and small area maps. Yet Chambers’s entry concerning geography makes a clearer categorical distinction between two ways to define geography: geography can be “the Doctrine or Knowledge of the Earth” or it can be “a Description of the Terrestrial Globe” (Chambers 1728, 1:140). These definitions suggested geography was not only a discipline that subsumed mapmaking but was also a broader activity concerned with the real nature of the earth, not just its description (as Johnson suggests). These definitions create a further distinction in that geography could be described in prose as well as in maps and globes. During the Enlightenment, description equally embraced prose or graphic forms, such that definitions of geography as a descriptive subject by no means excluded that description being in the form of maps or globes. Care should therefore be taken not to project the restrictive modern prosaic understanding of the word “description” onto the Enlightenment term. Either approach to defining the relationship between geography and mapmaking—the Strabonic or the Ptolemaic—however, makes it apparent why the Enlightenment did not develop a semantic field for cartography as a separate discipline or practice: mapmaking was a mathematical craft whose disciplinary location was squarely within geography. The point of contention was whether geography was an inquiry far broader than mapmaking, concerning knowledge rather than its modes of repre-

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sentation, not whether mapmaking was to be seen as an essentially geographical descriptive practice. This sense of geography and cartography as being either synonymous or of mapmaking being a subset of geography is confirmed by two further sets of evidence. First, the attempts to develop encyclopedic trees of knowledge throughout the age of the Enlightenment persistently fail to locate mapmaking as a separate practice or realm of knowledge (even where, as in Chambers’s Cyclopædia, they have an entry about the principles of mapmaking and globemaking), but they do include a definition of geography that allows for the subsumption of cartography under that rubric (fig. 326). From the time of Johann Heinrich Alsted’s Cursus philosophici encyclopaedia (1620) through to the celebrated Encyclopédie of Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert (1751–72), geography is consistently placed in the realm of “mixed” (i.e., applied) mathematics (Hotson 2000, 71; Withers 1996) (see fig. 226). This positioning ignores the Strabonic aspect of geography as the “eye” of history, one of the great commonplaces of Enlightenment geography books, preferring to locate geography through its Ptolemaic definition as a mathematical inquiry. Within such divisions of knowledge, cartography is not given an independent role, but is implicitly central to geography, being the graphic representation of the findings of an applied mathematical inquiry. Second, the Enlightenment sees the first attempts at consolidated histories of geography as a discipline that also allies geography and cartography. Most influential was Didier Robert de Vaugondy’s Essai sur l’histoire de la géographie (1755), which meshed together a history of exploration with advances in the theory of map projections, taking this to amount to a history of geography. For Robert de Vaugondy it was self-evident that the history of maps was an element of the history of geography (Godlewska 1999, 33–34). Closely comparable and the most notable contribution to this genre in the English tradition was John Blair’s “On the Rise and Progress of Geography” of 1768 (reprinted as Blair 1784), an essay that was used extensively in the construction of the entry on geography in the second edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica (1778–83). In Blair’s account, the titular “progress” in geography is equated with the development of more skilled mapping techniques and more accurate maps. Blair elides any separation between maps and geography because, akin to encyclopedic trees of knowledge, he views geography as a mixed mathematical subject with close relations to astronomy: “It is not my present Intention to register all the particular Discoveries of Astronomy, but only to explain such of them as are intimately connected with the Progress of Geography; for their Advances were so often made by the same Steps, that the one is not to be clearly

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Fig. 326. CLASSIFICATION OF KNOWLEDGE IN EPHRAIM CHAMBERS’S CYCLOPÆDIA. From the preface to Chambers’s Cyclopædia: Or, An Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences, 2d ed., 2 vols. (London: Printed for D. Midwinter et al., 1738), 1:iii.

Size of the detail: 16 × 19 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

understood without the other” (Blair 1784, 14). Blair’s History narrates the advancement in the techniques for determining longitude and latitude and the increasing mathematical sophistication of the maps this facilitated, true to the Enlightenment spirit of optimism in progress, but he concludes that “Geography is a Science even still many Stages removed from Perfection” because “every new Map . . . seems to blast all those that went before them” (Blair 1784, 183–84). For Blair, Robert de Vaugondy, and the Enlightenment historians of geography in general, maps at the very least were the key surviving archival evidence for a narrative of geography’s ad-

vancement, and often by conflation the history of maps simply amounted to the history of geography. Pedagogic theory and educational practice in the Enlightenment largely supports the intersection of geography and cartography, which the lexicographical and encyclopedic evidence canvassed so far suggests. Mapmaking and map reading had no separate space in the curricula of the era, but they were so central to geographical instruction as to amount to its entirety in the accounts of some educationalists and at the very least to the key means of geographical instruction for most writers. Vital here was John Locke’s Some Thoughts Con-

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cerning Education (1693). Locke depicted geography as a subject suitable to young boys because it could be taught (at least in its rudiments) as an ocular subject, using only maps and globes: “Geography, I think, should be begun with: For the learning of the Figure of the Globe, the Situation and Boundaries of the Four Parts of the World, and that of particular Kingdoms and Countries, being only an exercise of the Eyes and Memory, a child with pleasure will learn and retain them” (Locke 1989, 235). Some Thoughts Concerning Education was probably the most influential educational treatise in the Enlightenment (Pickering 1981, 9–12), and its strictures concerning geography, tying the discipline inextricably to maps and globes, ramified across the world and down the long eighteenth century. Thus the influential French educationalist Charles Rollin maintained that the simplest, easiest, and most memorable way to teach geography was to point out places on a map (Rollin 1735, 21–22), while a century after Locke, Vicesimus Knox’s image of liberal education in geography was still entirely Lockean: “I would not place a geographical treatise in his [the pupil’s] hands. I would not burden his memory. . . . I would, at first, only give him a map of Europe, a map of Italy, and a map of Greece” (Knox 1781, 159). This conjunction of geography and maps was not merely in the realm of pedagogic theory but demonstrably impacted actual teaching practice at all ages and in all educational contexts. Thus in grammar schools John Clarke reported on his curriculum in Hull suggesting the subject was learned “with a great deal of Ease and Pleasure: For the Sight of a Map is as entertaining to them as a Picture” (Clarke 1730, 93–94). Likewise, university education in geography, while not a formal part of the curriculum, pivoted around the use of globes and maps, drawing on the previously mentioned connection between geography and astronomy (Withers and Mayhew 2002). John Keill’s astronomical lectures at Oxford University, for example, encompassed the “doctrine of the sphere” and included a lecture on the description and use of globes, together with a set of trigonometrical problems based on longitudes and latitudes on the globe (Keill 1721, 218–31, 381–96). A century later, precisely the same material was a key part of the Cambridge tripos examination, details of which could be found in Cambridge Problems (1821), the published version of past examination questions, which included sections on “projection of the sphere” and the “figure of the earth” (40, 194). In the less privileged world of self-education, Thomas Wise recommended the use of maps in discussing “how to learn Geography without the directions of a Master” (Wise 1754, 240). Likewise, it was the Lockean depiction of geography as an easy subject to learn via ocular demonstration that made it generally accepted as a subject suitable for female education in the sciences

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Fig. 327. FRONTISPIECE FROM BENJAMIN MARTIN, THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN AND LADY’S PHILOSOPHY, 2 VOLS. (LONDON: W. OWEN, 1759–63), VOL. 1. Image courtesy of the American Philosophical Society, Philadelphia.

in the Enlightenment, with works such as Benjamin Martin’s The Young Gentleman and Lady’s Philosophy (1759–63) catering to this market (Mayhew 1998) (fig. 327). It was only at the end of the Enlightenment period that the symbiosis between maps and geographical education was called into question together with so many other educational truisms of the age by Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Émile, ou de l’éducation (1762). In Émile, Rousseau argued that geography had to be learned by directly experiencing real environments rather than through the mediations of prose or graphic representations: “In the first operations of the mind let the senses always be its guides. No book other than the world. . . . You want to teach ge-

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ography to this child, and you go and get globes, cosmic spheres, and maps for him. So many devices! Why all these representations? Why do you not begin by showing him the object itself, so that he will at least know what you are talking to him about?” (Rousseau 1979, 168). Powerful as this clarion call was, the majority of Enlightenment pedagogy chose to retain Locke’s map-driven approach to geographical education. It was only in the nineteenth century that Rousseau’s ideas, compounded and inflected by the ideas of Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi and Philipp Emanuel Fellenberg, began to uncouple geographical education from maps (Elliott and Daniels 2006). As print practices, the intersections between geography and cartography in the Enlightenment were rather more vexed and complicated than the harmonious synergy that definitional and educational evidence suggests. Furthermore, the nature of the intersection varied over time and space because of the varied print cultures of different nations in the Enlightenment. Comparing England and France, for example, one finds widely divergent relations between geography and maps driven by the different print practices in the two nations and by differing conceptions of the sphere of geography (Withers 2007). In Britain, printing was driven by cutthroat commercial considerations: booksellers had sovereign authority in a system where authors were paid pro rata, a system encouraging recycling and plagiarism if authors were to survive and booksellers were to make their margins (St Clair 2004). The result for geographical publishing in particular was the endless recycling of geographical publications with little new in them except a new title page in the hope of clearing stocks (Mayhew 2000, 25– 42). The result for cartographic publishing was much the same: “Copying, reengraving, and selling someone else’s labor were lifeblood to the map trade throughout the eighteenth century” (Pedley 2005, 96). This commonality between the print practices for maps and geography books was in good part because the British print tradition did not develop the concept of a specialist map printer-publisher; the Grub Street publishers of textual and cartographic geographical descriptions were often one and the same. Putting the two together, the maps contained in geographical texts were often of very low quality, being copied from previous editions or even simply carried over from other projects. As a result, the maps in geographical textbooks sometimes contradict the text itself and frequently embody information that does not correlate with the places and patterns contained in the prose description. A good example of the sorts of conjunctions between geographical text and maps encouraged by British Grub Street publications is provided by Richard Blome (Mayhew 2010). In A Geographical Description of the Four Parts of the World (1670), Blome had spliced together his translation of

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Bernhardus Varenius’s Geographia generalis (1650) with material translated from Nicolas Sanson, as well as twenty-eight global, continental, and national maps taken from Sanson’s French original. This was not commercially successful, so in 1682 he enlarged it to two volumes with the title Cosmography and Geography. When this also failed to sell, Blome then conjoined it with a set of John Speed’s county maps of England, reissuing the whole as a new edition in 1693 with fifty maps in the hope of clearing his stocks and recouping his invested capital. Clearly, the three geographical projects had no coherence and were not designed to be conjoined, working as they did at different spatial scales, from the global (which was normally defined as the appropriate scale for geography in the Enlightenment) to the local in Speed’s maps (which was normally deemed to be a separate inquiry in this era, that of chorography). They also conflated contradictory conceptions of geography in that Varenius’s mathematical approach and Sanson’s descriptive understanding of the geographer’s task were juxtaposed, the two texts being translated without their contradictions being addressed. The cartographic element of the project was likewise chaotic, splicing together two sets of maps with no real interrelation, local maps being appended exclusively to the description of Britain in a text that otherwise (as was standard for geographical descriptions) contained only global, continental, and national maps. The project also conjoined maps from very different eras, none of them being originally designed for Blome’s project, Speed’s maps first having been published nearly a century prior in 1606, well over half a century before Sanson’s. The commercial pressures of English print culture made such projects entirely common in the world of geographical and cartographic publishing. Commercial expediency led to the juxtaposition of cartographic and geographical material in British publishing that was dissonant or contradictory rather than the harmonious ocular demonstration of geographical information via maps and globes that education theory proposed. French print practices differed considerably from those in England and created a different and far closer interaction between the spheres of geography and cartography in the age of the Enlightenment (Godlewska 1999). First, France had a set of engravers who specialized in map production. Furthermore, French privilege seems to have been more effective in securing intellectual property rights in maps than was the English copyright system (Pedley 2005). Likewise, French geographers were trained humanists where their English counterparts tended to have no specific affinity for geography, merely having turned to it to make a commercially viable product. Partly as a result of the training French geographers received, French geographical culture defined the role of

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the geographer differently and less commercially than did British print culture. In France, geography revolved around the creation of maps, which involved the scholar in sifting through textual accounts of places and previous maps for information wherein contradictions were adjudicated and reconciled to create a final, authoritative map. The geographer’s task was the collation that led to a cartographic construction—not, as in England, the creation of a freestanding (mainly plagiarized) prose geographical description to which maps (often wholly contradictory or simply unrelated) were then appended. “The defining feature of a French map from the first half of the eighteenth century was the printed mémoire, explaining how the map was made” (Pedley 2005, 29). Looked at the other way around, the main genre of geographical writing in France was the mémoire, whose rationale was wholly map-led: “in the eighteenth century, geography straddled map and text and measurement and erudition. . . . In form and function they share a single descriptive purpose which makes the texts read like maps and the maps difficult to evaluate without their textual context” (Godleswka 1999, 37). This model influenced some British geographers, notably James Rennell (Mayhew 2000, 193–206), but it was the mainstay of French geographers such as Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville and Philippe Buache, and the great geographical dynasties, the Delisles and the Robert de Vaugondys. As a result, in French print practice geography was inextricably tied to cartography, the two projects forming a seamless unity that was unthinkable in Britain thanks to the different training deemed necessary for the geographer and the different print culture in which the production of geographical and cartographic works occurred. In sum, during the Enlightenment, geography was understood to subsume mapmaking within itself, the only question being the extent to which geography amounted to more than the science of graphically representing the earth. Educational theory and practice in the wake of Locke reinforced this intellectual filiation, making cartography the key conduit for instruction in the essentially ocular realm of geographical education throughout the eighteenth century. As descriptive practices, the relationship between geography and cartography varied considerably between places because of different educational and print regimes. R o b ert J . Mayh ew See also: Education and Cartography; Encyclopedias; Geographical Mapping; History and Cartography; Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages; Map Trade; Public Sphere, Cartography and the Bibliograp hy Blair, John. 1784. The History of the Rise and Progress of Geography. London: T. Cadell and W. Ginger. Cambridge Problems: Being a Collection of the Printed Questions Proposed to the Candidates for the Degree of Bachelor of Arts at

the General Examinations, from 1801 to 1820, Inclusive. 1821. Cambridge: J. Deighton and Sons. Chambers, Ephraim. 1728. Cyclopædia: Or, An Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences. 2 vols. London: Printed for James and John Knapton et al. Clarke, John. 1730. An Essay upon the Education of Youth in Grammar-Schools. 2d ed. London: Arthur Bettesworth. Edney, Matthew H. 2019. Cartography: The Ideal and Its History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Elliott, Paul, and Stephen Daniels. 2006. “Pestalozzi, Fellenberg and British Nineteenth-Century Geographical Education.” Journal of Historical Geography 32:752–74. Godlewska, Anne. 1999. Geography Unbound: French Geographic Science from Cassini to Humboldt. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hotson, Howard. 2000. Johann Heinrich Alsted, 1588–1638: Between Renaissance, Reformation, and Universal Reform. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Johnson, Samuel. 1755. A Dictionary of the English Language. 2 vols. London: Printed by W. Strahan. Keill, John. 1721. An Introduction to the True Astronomy: Or, Astronomical Lectures, Read in the Astronomical School of the University of Oxford. London: Bernard Lintot. Knox, Vicesimus. 1781. Liberal Education: Or, a Practical Treatise on the Methods of Acquiring Useful and Polite Learning. London: Charles Dilly. Locke, John. 1989. Some Thoughts Concerning Education. Ed. John W. Yolton and Jean S. Yolton. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Mayhew, Robert J. 1998. “Geography in Eighteenth-Century British Education.” Paedagogica Historica 34:731–69. ———. 2000. Enlightenment Geography: The Political Languages of British Geography, 1650–1850. Basingstoke: Macmillan. ———. 2010. “Printing Posterity: Editing Varenius and the Construction of Geography’s History.” In Geographies of the Book, ed. Miles Ogborn and Charles W. J. Withers, 157–87. Farnham: Ashgate. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pickering, Samuel F. 1981. John Locke and Children’s Books in Eighteenth-Century England. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Rollin, Charles. 1735. New Thoughts Concerning Education. London: A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. 1979. Emile: Or On Education. Intro., trans., and notes Allan Bloom. New York: Basic Books. St Clair, William. 2004. The Reading Nation in the Romantic Period. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wise, Thomas. 1754. The Newest Young Man’s Companion. Berwick: R. Taylor. Withers, Charles W. J. 1996. “Encyclopaedism, Modernism and the Classification of Geographical Knowledge.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 21:275–98. ———. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Withers, Charles W. J., and Robert J. Mayhew. 2002. “Rethinking ‘Disciplinary’ History: Geography in British Universities, c. 1580–1887.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 27:11–29.

Geological Map. See Thematic Map: Geological Map German States. As used in the present volume, the “German states” approximate the political realities of Central Europe in the period between 1650 and 1800.

German States

Contemporaries distinguished between two ambiguous regional concepts. First, Deutschland or Teutschland— Germania (Latin), Allemagne (French), Germany (English)—referred to the lands of the German people or Volk, itself an idealization, and as such drew on classical and medieval conceptions of the extent of the ancient German tribes as well as the more contemporary understanding of the extent of speakers of the German language. This multifaceted region was territorially indistinct. As Friedrich Schiller and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe observed in 1797, “Deutschland? But where is it? I know not how to find the country” (quoted in Reed 1980, 87). What Schiller and Goethe would have found on maps was the Reich, the Holy Roman Empire of the German nation. Even in the eighteenth century, after many provinces, notably the Dutch Republic and the Swiss cantons, had broken away or had been annexed by France, the Reich extended far beyond the Germanspeaking areas to embrace the Southern Netherlands (today’s Belgium and Luxemburg), the mixed-linguistic Kingdom of Bohemia (the only kingdom within the Reich), and much of northern Italy (although the precise borders were disputed). As an institution, the Reich retained many of its feudal characteristics. The German emperor and his nominated successor, the so-called King of the Romans (Römischer König), had always been elected. With extensive territories within and beyond the Reich, the Catholic Austrian Habsburgs had long controlled the imperial throne. Territorial authority was dynastic in nature and was divisible and inheritable. Over the centuries, the Reich had fragmented into a Flickenteppich (patchwork carpet) of almost three hundred imperial estates (Reichsstände), each ruled by a Landesherr, who variously enjoyed the titles of prince (Fürst), duke, or count. In the eighteenth century, eight or nine Landesherren were also electors (Kurfürsten), who selected each new emperor. The 1648 Treaties of Münster and Osnabrück—forming the Peace of Westphalia that ended the Thirty Years’ War (1618– 48)—ensured freedom of confession within the Reich for Catholics and Protestants alike. But in doing so, the treaties promoted the autonomy of the Landesherren, permitting the most powerful of the territorial magnates to contest the authority of the emperor and the imperial system. Even so, the Reich continued to organize the estates within ten regional Kreise (circles), by which the imperial judiciary, taxes, and military levies were coordinated. The major Landesherren tried to ignore the authority of the Kreise assemblies, in which they were outnumbered by the minor Landesherren, but the Kreise remained an important counterweight to the magnates’ increasing autonomy. The resultant Kleinstaaterei, or “petty particularism” (Wilson 2004, 5), lasted until 1801, when the Reich’s

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system of military levies and mutual defense, organized through the Kreise, finally broke down during the French Revolutionary Wars and when the smaller estates began to be rapidly absorbed by both Napoleon and the greater magnates. The Reich itself formally dissolved in 1806. The Habsburgs’ own disparate territories extended far beyond the Reich and formed a largely distinct political entity; for this period, the Habsburg territories are most appropriately known as the Austrian monarchy. Thus, between 1648 and 1801, the German states made up the Reich, with the addition of Brandenburg’s Prussian territories, but not the territories of the Austrian monarchy, which are the subject of separate entries in this volume. The literature elucidating and detailing all the nuances of the Reich’s organization and history in this period is understandably extensive; Peter H. Wilson (2004) provides a detailed and comprehensive overview. After 1648, the Landesherren asserted their own independence, contested the emperor’s authority, and participated in wider European politics and wars, even as they competed among themselves for new titles and status that only the emperor could grant. The greatest prize, of course, was the position of elector. The largest autonomous estate was that of the Calvinist Hohenzollern dukes of Brandenburg, in the north. Already electors, the dukes progressively challenged the Habsburg emperors directly: they used their possession of lands to the east of the Reich to secure sovereign status in European political affairs, first through their recognition by the Polish Crown to be kings in Prussia in 1701 and then, after the First Partition of Poland-Lithuania in 1772, as kings of Prussia; in between, they annexed Habsburg Silesia during the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48). The Lutheran Welf dukes of Brunswick-Lüneburg were created electors of Hanover in 1692, largely as a counterweight to the Calvinist electors of Brandenburg; in 1714, Elector Georg Ludwig succeeded the Protestant Stuart dynasty as George I of Great Britain. The Lutheran electors of Saxony converted to Catholicism to enable their election as kings of Poland between 1697 and 1763. A few other imperial estates were large enough to sustain the pretensions of their rulers, such as the Wittelsbachs, different branches of which were dukes and electors of both Palatine and Bavaria. Rather than seeking foreign titles, the Wittelsbachs consolidated their power by obtaining election to ecclesiastical positions for their younger sons, often acquiring territories and electoral rights in the process. Indeed one Wittelsbach, Charles  VII, reigned as Holy Roman Emperor between 1742 and 1745. But most of the estates were quite small, some only a few square miles in extent. In total, the eighteenth-century Reich comprised ten Kreise with over two hundred estates, ruled by various electors,

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Fürsten, dukes, counts, and prelates; fifty-one largely autonomous imperial cities, including Augsburg, Nuremberg, Frankfurt, and Hamburg; and some 1,500 tiny estates held by imperial knights (Wilson 2004, 10, 41). Cartographic activities in the eighteenth-century German states were very much shaped by these political, territorial, and historical trends. It took many decades for the economy to regain its former vibrancy after the devastation wrought by the Thirty Years’ War. The war had reduced Central Europe’s population by a staggering 25 to 40 percent and had severely disrupted agriculture, manufacturing, and trade throughout the Reich. As suggested by the slow expansion of commercial map production in the imperial cities, the economy remained weak even as late as 1750. Without a major stake in colonial designs or world trade, there was little impetus for Germans to sustain or develop a detailed interest in the geography of overseas countries. German geographical practice thus remained dominated by an intellectual approach to the systematic description of the entire world, as in Anton Friedrich Büsching’s huge geographical works, and by the pragmatic elucidation of the German states’s territorial complexities. To accomplish the latter, geographers adhered to the traditional division of the Reich into its ten Kreise. In the early 1700s, Johann Baptist Homann did attempt a new, “natural” definition of Germania made up of the watersheds of major rivers (see fig. 296), but otherwise he adhered to the established practice of presenting first the Reich in its entirety (see fig. 375) and then each Kreis in turn. Maps of the Habsburg and Hohenzollern provinces outside of the Reich were therefore arranged within separate sequences of maps of Eastern Europe. Early eighteenth-century bibliographies of the best maps available to German consumers followed the same organization: Reich, Kreise, and then, within each Kreis, any maps that had been produced of particular estates (Gottschling 1711, 86–96; Gregorii 1713, 474– 522; Hauber 1724, 70–91). Eighteenth-century atlases published outside the Reich used the same territorial organization of Reich and Kreise (fig. 328). The fragmentation of territorial responsibilities between the estates and Kreise, and the lack of a standing Reich-wide imperial army, meant that there were no attempts to topographically survey and map the Reich as a whole in the way that the Habsburgs mapped their own territories. Detailed surveying and mapping were a function of each individual estate, and only a few were large enough either to carry on such surveys or to support the absolutist ambitions of the Landesherren who sought to emulate the prestige of the French kings. The major Landesherren actively redesigned and expanded their main residence-towns (Residenzstädte), such as Berlin, Munich, and Hanover. These administrative-military centers became boomtowns, growing much faster than

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the established manufacturing centers in the imperial cities. The growth of the residence-towns, and their rulers’ grandiose plans, drove much of the urban mapping in the German states during the eighteenth century. The wealthier Landesherren were also able to establish new scientific academies and universities that became centers of cartographic thought and practice. In Brandenburg-Prussia, Friedrich I created the Societät der Wissenschaften in Berlin in 1700 to promote the natural sciences and the humanities and also to stimulate mapping projects. For example, the academy undertook the first German marine atlas for the government after Brandenburg-Prussia acquired the coastal territories of East Frisia and Emden in 1749. In 1734, Elector Georg August of Hanover (i.e., George II of Great Britain) founded Göttingen University to promote scholarship censored only by the ruler and not by any church. In the 1750s, the university attracted several members of the privately organized and cartographically active Kosmographische Gesellschaft in Nuremberg, notably the astronomer and geographer Tobias Mayer, who would focus on the lunar observations needed to solve the problem of determining longitude at sea. What most estates undertook were detailed topographical and property surveys. Both kinds of surveying were marked by the steady development not only of standards but also of a coterie of trained individuals who moved across the German states, the Austrian monarchy, and other states beyond the Reich. Property mapping was primarily a local affair, carried on by landowners and also by administrations interested in rationalizing their finances. Not all property surveys, not even the cadastral surveys of large estates, were intended to produce graphic property maps; rather, assessments of quality and area measurements remained in written tabular form, as for example with the cadastral survey of the Duchy of Württemberg (1713–36). Moreover, the cadastral surveys were concerned only with the properties from which the estates took income, and so did not provide comprehensive coverage of each estate. Topographical mapping for military purposes was widely undertaken, especially mapping fortifications and their environs, but the Seven Years’ War revealed the lack of more systematic topographical knowledge. A variety of new surveys were undertaken during the war, as when Brandenburg-Prussia occupied and mapped a large part of Saxony, and more surveys were undertaken after the conflict. Most lacked a triangulated basis, as was the case with Friedrich Wilhelm Carl von Schmettau’s survey of Brandenburg-Prussia and neighboring territories from 1767 to 1787 (Flint and Jordan 2009; Scharfe 1972, 48–90). French-style triangulation-based surveys were progressively adopted: César-François Cassini (III) de Thury’s 1761–62 triangulation from Paris to Vienna proved too inaccurate to serve as the foundation

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Fig. 328. GERMANY AS THE REICH. Non-German geographers generally mapped Germany as the Holy Roman Empire: La Germania divisa ne suoi circoli di nuova projezione, originally published in 1776, from Antonio Zatta, Atlante novissimo, 4 vols. (Venice, 1779–85[99]), vol. 2.

Size of the original: 37 × 48 cm. Image courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University, Providence.

for the survey of Bavaria, but promoted the concept of such a work (Schlögl 2002, 99–107). At the end of the century, the French Revolutionary Wars led to a series of triangulation-based surveys at 1:86,400 or larger, in Swabia (after 1793), in Westphalia by BrandenburgPrussia (1796–1805), and in Bavaria and the Rhineland by the French (after 1801) (Meurer 1986, 1:170). Only after 1763, in conjunction with this new wave of mapping, were topographical surveys routinely compiled into detailed smaller-scale regional maps of each estate. Older concerns for secrecy gave way as estates sought to modernize and reform. Landesherren engaged in a variety of cartographic exercises to control territory, clarify boundaries, and marshal economic resources. Large estates such as Bavaria pursued such work (Schlögl 2002) (see fig. 191), as did smaller ones, such as the bishopric of Augsburg (Wolfart 2008).

Given the nature of the eighteenth-century Kleinstaaterei, German scholars have necessarily focused on the progressive mapping of each estate or particular region before 1800. Ingrid Kretschmer (1987, 1), Wolfgang Scharfe (1997, 23–25), and Markus Heinz (2010, 187– 88) have all argued that this dominant historiographic pattern originated with the region-by-region historical accounts of Gottschling (1711), Gregorii (1713), and Hauber (1724). The local character of the relevant archives has perpetuated the several regional foci, as has a persistent German localism (Heinz 2010, 190). The result is the distribution of the literature on German cartography in the long eighteenth century across a variety of local history journals, monographs published by local societies, the proceedings of the Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium (1982–), and also the Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie, with its par-

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ticular emphasis on Central Europe (Kretschmer, Dörflinger, and Wawrik 1986). Recent studies that have sought to understand eighteenth-century mapping activities in terms of the Enlightenment absolutism of the major Landesherren have adopted a narrow focus in their spatial extent (e.g., Schlögl 2002; Fieseler 2013). Such fragmentation has informed the entries in the present volume that deal with the larger-scale detailed mapping modes (property, urban, and topographical mapping), and more conclusive statements about the character of cartographic practices as pursued across the German states await further comparative archival research. M atth ew H . Ed ney See also: Academies of Science; Austrian Monarchy; Büsching, Anton Friedrich; Geographical Mapping; Map Trade; Marine Charting; Military Cartography; Poland-Lithuania, Partitions of; Property Mapping; Thematic Mapping; Topographical Surveying; Urban Mapping Bibliograp hy Fieseler, Christian. 2013. Der vermessene Staat: Kartographie und die Kartierung nordwestdeutscher Territorien im 18. Jahrhundert. Hanover: Verlag Hahnsche Buchhandlung. Flint, Oliver, and Lothar Jordan, eds. 2009. Friedrich Wilhelm Carl von Schmettau (1743–1806): Pionier der modernen Kartographie, Militärschriftsteller, Gestalter von Parks und Gärten. Frankfurt: Kleist-Museum; Potsdam: Landesvermessung und Geobasisinformation Brandenburg. Gottschling, Caspar. 1711. Versuch von einer Historie der LandCharten. Halle im Magdeburgischen: Renger. Gregorii, Johann Gottfried. 1713. Curieuse Gedancken von den vornehmsten und accuratesten Alt- und Neuen Land-Charten nach ihrem ersten Ursprunge / Erfindung / Auctoribus und Sculptoribus, Gebrauch und Nutzen entworffen. Frankfurt: Ritschel. Hauber, Eberhard David. 1724. Versuch einer umständlichen Historie der Land-Charten: Sowohl von denen Land-Charten insgemein. Ulm: Bartholomäi. Heinz, Markus. 2010. “Versuch einer umständlichen Historie der Historie der Land-Charten.” In Die Leidenschaft des Sammelns: Streifzüge durch die Sammlung Woldan, ed. Gerhard Holzer, Thomas Horst, and Petra Svatek, 185–96. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Kretschmer, Ingrid. 1987. “Kartographiegeschichte als wissenschaftliche Teildisziplin.” In Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium Wien ’86, 29.–31. Oktober 1986: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe, Ingrid Kretschmer, and Franz Wawrik, 1–10. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. Kretschmer, Ingrid, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, eds. 1986. Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg. 2 vols. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. Meurer, Peter H. 1986. “Deutschland.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 1:167–73. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. Reed, T. J. 1980. The Classical Centre: Goethe and Weimar, 1775– 1832. London: Croom Helm. Scharfe, Wolfgang. 1972. Abriss der Kartographie Brandenburgs, 1771–1821. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. ———. 1997. “Approaches to the History of Cartography in GermanSpeaking Countries” and “Surveys of German Territories from the Late 18th to the Early 20th Centuries.” In La cartografia dels països

de parla Alemanya: Alemanya, Àustria i Suïssa, 19–41, 69–86. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. Schlögl, Daniel. 2002. Der planvolle Staat: Raumerfassung und Reformen in Bayern, 1750–1800. Munich: Verlag C. H. Beck. Wilson, Peter H. 2004. From Reich to Revolution: German History, 1558–1806. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Wolfart, Philip D. 2008. “Mapping the Early Modern State: The Work of Ignaz Ambros Amman, 1782–1812.” Journal of Historical Geography 34:1–23.

Globe. Glo bes in th e Enligh tenment Terres trial Glo be Celes tial Glo be Ins tructio nal Texts fo r th e Use o f Globes Po cket Glo be Lunar Glo be Relief Glo be Cultural and S o cial S ignificance o f Globes

Globes in the Enlightenment. Globes were a pervasive

element of the material culture of Europe’s elites and middling sorts throughout the Enlightenment, serving prominently as symbols of power, authority, and knowledge. Most commonly, they were produced in pairs, following the practice developed in the Renaissance in which globes representing the terrestrial and celestial spheres were mounted in identical stands (Dekker 2007, 136). At the same time, the globe concept was understood generically; the Encyclopædia Britannica (1771, 2:722) accordingly offered the definition of “an artificial spherical body, on the convex surface of which are represented the countries, seas, &c. of our earth; or the face of the heavens, the circles of the sphere, &c.” The concept could therefore be applied to other phenomena, notably the moon (lunar globes), and to new, specialized forms (particularly relief globes and precession globes, a form of celestial globe). This entry reviews the overall character of Enlightenment globes and globe production; the following entries provide more specific discussions of the types and uses of globes. In addition to symbolizing earth and the heavens, terrestrial and celestial globes served as didactic, problemsolving devices with which to demonstrate a whole series of phenomena as described in numerous instructional manuals. In this respect, the standard globe pair was a very successful formula that was barely affected by the Copernican idea that the earth moves around its own axis and around the sun. Instead, the standard globes perpetuated the Ptolemaic understanding that placed the earth at the universe’s immobile center. Joseph Harris (1734, 37) represented most globemakers when he justified this persistent practice: the cosmos is observed from a geocentric perspective, so it is more effective to explain it with Ptolemaic models. When moved, the spheres of

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Fig. 329. JOHANN BAPTIST HOMANN, SPHÆRARVM ARTIFICIALIVM TYPICA REPRÆSENTATIO, CA. 1710. A relatively common image of the three interrelated “artificial spheres”: left to right, celestial globe, armillary sphere, and terrestrial globe.

Size of the original: 56 × 64 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preuβischer Kulturbesitz (Kart. 27290). Permission courtesy of bpk Bildagentur/Art Resource, New York.

the standard pair should always be turned around the axis of the world from east to west, in keeping with the motion of the so-called First Mover (that is, the apparent motion of the sun, the planets, and the stars, reflecting the daily motion of the earth around its own axis). Indeed, the standard globe pair is closely connected to the Ptolemaic armillary sphere, the main circles of which are marked on both terrestrial and celestial globes to express the correspondence between them all; moreover, globes and armillary spheres were generally mounted in the same way, within a meridian ring, with an hour circle on top or below, and resting in a stand supporting a horizon ring (fig. 329).

In some designs, even the spherical shape of the earth or the heavens could be disregarded. In 1785 Christlieb Benedict Funk von Hartenstein, of Leipzig, made a globe consisting of a central cylinder representing the zone between the tropics and two truncated cones for the zones north and south of the tropics (Dolz 1994, 45–46). One invention that particularly emphasized the immobility of the earth was the globe designed by Roger Palmer, earl of Castlemaine, and described in his The English Globe: Being a Stabil and Immobil One, Performing What the Ordinary Globes Do, and Much More (1679). It featured a terrestrial globe without the usual horizon ring, meridian ring, and hour circle. Because it is im-

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mobile it was said to represent the earth more naturally. As a problem-solving device the English globe could compete with the common globe, by using it as a sort of sundial for solving time-related phenomena (Dekker 1996, 547–48). After 1700, a few attempts were made to convert globes to the Copernican perspective. Clockwork-driven globes maintaining the basic features of the matching pair were produced in which the terrestrial globe was made to rotate from west to east in 24 hours (mean solar time) and the celestial globe from east to west in 23 hours 56 minutes (sidereal time). Such a pair was described by the Amsterdam watchmaker Denys Audebert in a 1736 treatise on mobile globes written in Dutch and French. The celestial globe was a continuation of the clockwork-driven globes produced in the Renaissance. The terrestrial globe was supposed to model the diurnal motion of the earth around its own axis, but this was not actually compatible with a sphere placed in a conventional stand with a fixed horizon: in the Copernican model the horizon of a place on earth moves in conjunction with that place. Even so, a number of pairs of clockwork-driven globes were produced, especially in France (Betts 1999, 64–66). For a student to solve problems by turning the sphere of the terrestrial globe from west to east, in agreement with the true rotation of the earth around its own axis, George Adams Sr. proposed new methods in midcentury for operating globes, but this new approach was not very useful from an educational point of view (Dekker 1996). The question remained of how to make a proper Copernican globe. George Adams Jr. pursued a logical solution by borrowing techniques used in a tellurian (see fig. 72), although he made only one pair of globes, in about 1790, for Martinus van Marum, director of the Teylers Museum in Haarlem (fig. 330). Another Copernican globe was designed around 1800 by Cornelis Covens (Dekker 1996, 554–62). Globes were occasionally produced in manuscript for special purposes. For example, in 1725 an anonymous Austrian painted a terrestrial globe, “Sciatherion cosmicum seu horologiu[m],” on a metal sphere and mounted it with eight sundials as a time measurement device (Dekker 1999, 225–27). But the great majority of Enlightenment globes were consumer objects, made from gores printed from copperplates, generally 30–45 centimeters in diameter, and published in Ptolemaic pairs by a variety of mapmakers, instrumentmakers, and astronomers. They were produced all over Europe, serving mostly local markets (Zögner 1989; Dekker and Van der Krogt 1993; Allmayer-Beck 1997; Dahl and Gauvin 2000). In Austria and Sweden, globemaking was a very incidental affair. Peter Anich, a cartographer from Oberperfuss, and Anders Åkerman, a member of the Swedish Cosmografiska Sällskapet in Uppsala, are known to

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Fig. 330. COPERNICAN TERRESTRIAL GLOBE BY GEORGE ADAMS JR., 1789/91. Diameter of the original: 45.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Teylers Museum, Haarlem (FK 726).

have produced pairs of globes in the 1750s and 1760s (Dekker 1999, 250–55; Dekker and Van der Krogt 1993, 84–87). A fragmented market existed in Germany. In the early 1700s, astronomers Georg Christoph Eimmart and Erhard Weigel were involved in globemaking, but not as major producers. The same can be said of Johann Ludwig Andreae and his son Johann Philipp. Johann Baptist Homann in Nuremberg issued only small (pocket) globes; the Homann Heirs published some globes by Georg Moritz Lowitz from 1747 to 1818 (see fig. 7). Matthäus Seutter set up his own firm for globe production in Augsburg in 1707. The most widely distributed German globes were published in Nuremberg after 1730 by the astronomer Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr in collaboration with Johann Georg I Puschner; their production was continued by Johann Georg II Puschner. At the turn of the eighteenth century Johann Georg Klinger, a Nuremberg art dealer and publisher, reissued globes by Johann Philipp Andreae and collaborated with the engraver Johann Bernard Bauer and his sons Carl Johann Sigmund and Peter in the production of small globes. Luxury celestial and terrestrial globes were published by David Beringer in Nuremberg in 1790 and 1792 respectively. These globes, based on the work of the astronomer Johann Elert Bode and the geographer Daniel Fried-

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rich Sotzmann, were reissued by Johann Georg Franz in the first decade of the nineteenth century (Hagen 2002). In the Netherlands, the tradition established by the Blaeu firm in the seventeenth century was continued after 1700 by Gerard Valk together with his son Leonard. After Gerard’s death in 1726, the business was continued first by his widow Maria and then by Leonard. The globe factory was taken up in 1746 by Leonard’s widow Maria Schenk and was subsequently acquired by her nephew Petrus Schenk Jr. Toward the end of the century Cornelis Covens took over the Valk globe factory. With his death in 1825, globe production in the Netherlands came to an end (Van der Krogt 1993, 299–336). In France, the instrumentmaker Nicolas Bion began to produce globes—rather cheap examples on simple pedestals—at the turn of the seventeenth century. He was soon followed in the new century by quite a number of other globemakers: Guillaume Delisle, Jean Antoine Nollet, Jacques-Nicolas Baradelle, Jacques Hardy, and Hardy’s successor Louis-Charles Desnos. Of all the globes they produced, Delisle’s stood out for their high scientific standards. In the middle of the eighteenth century Didier Robert de Vaugondy gave new ambition to the French globe industry with the production of luxury globes. His firm was taken over by Jean Fortin and subsequently by CharlesFrançois Delamarche, the most successful French  entrepreneur in globemaking (Pelletier 1987). Delamarche also incorporated the stock of Jean Lattré, who had in 1775 and 1783 published pairs of globes based on the work of the astronomer Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande and the hydrographer Rigobert Bonne. The Italian globemaker Vincenzo Coronelli acquired international fame—and an international market—by making in 1683 the pair of grand manuscript globes (390 cm diameter) for Louis XIV (see fig. 182). Working in Venice, he produced many other globes, ranging from 5 to 108 centimeters diameter, and in many forms; in particular, his 108-centimeter globes found a market across Catholic Europe (see fig. 187). Coronelli’s innovative approach to globemaking was exemplified by his Libro dei globi (1701), an atlas containing the printed gores of a number of his globes. With his death in 1718, Italian globemaking ceased until the end of the century, when Giovanni Maria Cassini again started to produce globes (Valerio 2005). Great Britain possessed the most competitive market for globes in Europe, a condition related to the boom in instrumentmaking induced by the triumph of Newtonian experimental philosophy. Even before this trend fully developed, the publisher Joseph Moxon had already begun to design and produce globes. He was soon followed by globe- and mapmakers such as Robert Morden, William Berry, and Philip Lea. Of the next generation of globemakers in the early eighteenth century— Charles Price, John Senex, and Richard Cushee—only

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Senex seems to have been successful in business. Most of Senex’s copperplates were bought after his death in 1740 (auctioned in 1755 by Senex’s widow) by James Ferguson, a lecturer in popular science (Millburn with King 1988, 79–81). By then, manufacturers were creating all sorts of demonstration astronomical models, to which globemaking was a successful adjunct. However, Ferguson was not successful as a globe producer and in 1757 he passed Senex’s copperplates on to Benjamin Martin, another London lecturer and instrumentmaker (Millburn 1976, 103). Martin’s main competitor was George Adams Sr., who published a similar array of instruments that included, after 1766, a pair of newly designed globes. After Adams died in 1772 his sons George Jr. and Dudley Adams continued globe production. Important globes were also published ca. 1780 by Gabriel Wright, who may have been initially in charge of the manufacture of Martin’s globes, and William Bardin, who started out as a “cordwainer” or shoemaker (Clifton 1999, 45–57, esp. 47). Their collaboration seems to have ended by 1794–95. Business was thereafter continued by Bardin and his son, Thomas Marriott Bardin. Around 1798, the Bardin firm extended its globe production to include so-called New British globes that were made in collaboration with the firm of William Jones and his brother Samuel. At the turn of the eighteenth century globemaking firms, such as the Cary and Newton families, entered the market and carried globemaking until far into the nineteenth century. Elly Dekker See also: Astronomical Models; Consumption of Maps; Education and Cartography; Geographical Mapping; Science and Cartography Bibliography Allmayer-Beck, Peter E., ed. 1997. Modelle der Welt: Erd- und Himmelsgloben. Vienna: Brandstätter. Betts, Jonathan. 1999. “Clockwork Globes.” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 59–67. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Clifton, Gloria. 1999. “Globe Making in the British Isles.” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 45–57. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Dahl, Edward H., and Jean-François Gauvin. 2000. Sphæræ mundi: Early Globes at the Stewart Museum. [Sillery]: Septentrion; [Montreal]: McGill–Queen’s University Press. Dekker, Elly. 1996. “The Copernican Globe: A Delayed Conception.” Annals of Science 53:541–66. ———. 1999. “Western Manuscript Globes” and “Western Printed Globes and Planispheres.” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 199–243 and 245–534. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. ———. 2007. “Globes in Renaissance Europe.” In HC 3:135–73. Dekker, Elly, and Peter van der Krogt. 1993. Globes from the Western World. London: Zwemmer. Dolz, Wolfram. 1994. Erd- und Himmelsgloben: Sammlungskatalog. Dresden: Staatlicher Mathematisch-Physikalischer Salon.

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Hagen, Friedrich von. 2002. “Nürnberger Verleger kartographischer Produkte vom späten 17. bis zur Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts.” In “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848, ed. Michael Diefenbacher, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, 48–61. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Harris, Joseph. 1734. The Description and Use of the Globes, and the Orrery: To which is Prefixed, by Way of Introduction, a Brief Account of the Solar System. 3d ed. London: For Thomas Wright and E. Cushee. Krogt, Peter van der. 1993. Globi Neerlandici: The Production of Globes in the Low Countries. Utrecht: HES. Millburn, John R. 1976. Benjamin Martin: Author, Instrument-Maker, and Country Showman. Leiden: Noordhoff International. Millburn, John R., in collaboration with Henry C. King. 1988. Wheelwright of the Heavens: The Life & Work of James Ferguson, FRS. London: Vade-Mecum Press. Pelletier, Monique. 1987. “From the Luxury Item to the Current Consumption Product: Development of French Globe Publishing in 18th–19th Centuries.” Der Globusfreund 35–37:131–44. Valerio, Vladimiro. 2005. “Giovanni Maria Cassini’s Globe Gores (1790/1792)—A Study of Text and Images.” Globe Studies (English version of Der Globusfreund) 51–52:73–84. Zögner, Lothar, ed. 1989. Die Welt in Händen: Globus und Karte als Modell von Erde und Raum. Berlin: Kiepert.

Terrestrial Globe. The standard terrestrial globe pro-

duced during the Enlightenment was a sphere onto whose convex surface were pasted printed gores showing the distribution of lands and seas; like the matching celestial globes with which they were paired, terrestrial globes were usually mounted in a meridian ring with an hour circle on top or below and resting in a stand that supported a horizon ring (fig. 331). Conceptually a terrestrial globe mounted in this way can be seen as a model of the earth only if seen from a Ptolemaic perspective. Once the globe has been set according to the local meridian and latitude, the earth ball has to be considered immovable. Terrestrial globes have always displayed new geographical knowledge. After 1700, they became, in particular, vehicles to display the rapid growth of improved geographical knowledge prompted by the program of the Académie royale des sciences to improve the measurement of geographic longitudes (Dekker and Van der Krogt 1993, 68–83). The first terrestrial globe based on the new data was published by Guillaume Delisle in 1700 (Dahl and Gauvin 2000, 154–59). Delisle removed all hypothetical features from his globe, left unexplored areas blank, and added the tracks followed by famous navigators, from Ferdinand Magellan in 1520 to William Dampier in 1686 (Dekker 1999, 325–27). Voyages of exploration became a popular feature on globes. In particular, the journeys made by Captain James Cook in 1768–79 to the great South Seas were never lacking on globes produced during the last quarter of the eighteenth century (Dekker 1999, 585–86). Distinct national styles developed for terrestrial globes during the eighteenth century. French and British globemakers preferred to use the vernacular for labeling their

Fig. 331. TERRESTRIAL GLOBE BY GUILLAUME DELISLE, 1700; REISSUED AFTER 1708. Diameter of the original: 32.5 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (GLB0146). The Image Works.

works, whereas Dutch and German globemakers continued to use Latin. In Italy, Vincenzo Coronelli declared his international ambitions by using Latin in addition to his native tongue. The choice of the prime meridian, initially a matter of convention, was another point of differentiation. French geographers and globemakers had to use the most westerly point of the Canary Islands for a prime meridian— with Paris at precisely 20° east longitude—as Louis XIII had decreed in 1634. The prestige of French scientific geography induced other continental globemakers to follow suit. Most eighteenth-century British globemakers, however, ran the prime meridian through either London or Greenwich. They also counted longitude 180° east and west from London, a convention that reflected the impact of the techniques proposed for finding the longitude at sea, which determined longitudinal distance east or west of a zero point. By contrast, continental globemakers generally counted a full 360° of longitude in an easterly direction (Dekker 1999, 36–37). Another feature of navigational interest seen exclusively on British (pocket) globes is the pattern of the trade winds and the monsoons, indicated by arrows

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and shading, which Edmond Halley had first presented in 1686 (Dekker 1999, 35–36). The trade winds disappeared from globes around 1800. British globes further distinguished themselves from continental ones by adding an analemma, to show the sun’s declination and place in the zodiac for each day of the year, and by using a new type of hour circle placed below the meridian ring instead of on top of it (Dekker 1999, 411–12; Edney 2019). French makers, on the other hand, preferred to mark antique features, such as the correspondence between declinations and climates on the meridian ring and the points of the rising and setting sun in summer and winter on the horizon ring. The debate over the size and figure of the earth concluded when the French expeditions to Peru and Lapland in the 1730s successfully showed that the earth was flattened at its poles. Louis XV ordered Didier Robert de Vaugondy to construct a model of the flattened earth. The model could only have been symbolic: for a 180-centimeter-diameter globe, the polar axis would be just 12 millimeters shorter than the equatorial axis. Because of lack of money this flattened globe was never built (Pedley 1992, 43–44). Elly D ekker See also: Geographical Mapping B i bliogra p hy Dahl, Edward H., and Jean-François Gauvin. 2000. Sphæræ mundi: Early Globes at the Stewart Museum. [Sillery]: Septentrion; [Montreal]: McGill–Queen’s University Press. Dekker, Elly. 1999. “The Navigator’s Globe” and “Western Printed Globes and Planispheres.” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 33–43 and 245–534. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Dekker, Elly, and Peter van der Krogt. 1993. Globes from the Western World. London: Zwemmer. Edney, Matthew H. 2019. “‘Analemmas’ on Globes.” Globe Studies 64–65:37–58. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications.

Celestial Globe. The standard celestial globe produced during the Enlightenment was a sphere onto whose convex, outer surface were pasted printed gores to show the stars and constellations; like the matching terrestrial globes with which they were paired, celestial globes were usually mounted in a meridian ring with an hour circle on top or below and rested in a stand supporting a horizon ring. Such globes show the sky from an external or convex perspective; they accordingly require that the orientation of the stars with respect to each other is the mirror image of their configuration when seen in the sky and that each constellation is shown from the rear. Although it does not correspond to the real sky, the convex presentation maintains the overall properties of the real

world in the sense that—when the globe is properly oriented—the stars move from true east to true west. This makes it possible to demonstrate the daily and annual celestial phenomena reliably. A properly geocentric mapping of the celestial vault, as if viewed from inside the sphere, was provided on the concave inner surfaces of the cases of some (but not all) pocket globes. Similarly, Vincenzo Coronelli designed gores for the insides of larger globes that could be opened up for instructional purposes. If made, such globes do not survive; the concave gores were pasted onto the convex, outer side of spheres to make improperly oriented celestial globes (Dekker 2004, 61–62, 179). A much larger concave presentation was achieved on the interior surface of the huge Gottorp (Gottorf) globe (311 cm diameter; see fig. 163), whose outer convex surface forms a terrestrial globe; one sat inside the sphere while it rotated to show the daily motion of the stars (Lühning 1997). Enlightenment astronomers charted the many stars made visible by increasingly powerful telescopes. The major star catalogs by Johannes Hevelius (1,888 stars visible to the naked eye for the epoch 1661) and John Flamsteed (2,934 stars to 7m for the epoch 1690), and the new data of the southern sky collected by abbé NicolasLouis de La Caille (1,930 stars to 6m and nebulas for the epoch 1750) provided globemakers with ample material. They only had to correct those data by a simple adjustment for precession, the phenomenon by which the position of the vernal equinox shifts—as Tycho Brahe had shown—at a constant rate of about one degree of longitude over seventy-two years. In the new heliocentric worldview, precession was seen as the reflection of the motion of the equatorial polar axis of the earth. This was certainly one of the incentives for European globemakers to start making “precession globes,” or globes mounted in such a way that one could set them for any desired epoch (Dekker 2003). For example, Erhard Weigel mounted his heraldic globes with new constellations in addition to the classical ones in a kind of armillary sphere that made it possible to set the globe for a desired epoch. In France the astronomer Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) designed a precession globe in 1708 very similar to Weigel’s. Cassini left it to the globe- and instrumentmaker Nicolas Bion to realize such a globe but no copy is known to survive; a description of Cassini’s precession globe was included in later editions of Bion’s globe manual, L’usage des globes celestes et terrestres, et des spheres. Subsequently, precession globes were constructed to solve historical problems. This trend started as a response to the posthumous publication of Isaac Newton’s Chronology of Ancient Kingdoms Amended (1728). By comparing ancient accounts of the colures with the positions of specific stars for the epoch 1689, Newton

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Globe Lühning, Felix. 1997. Der Gottorfer Globus und das Globushaus im “Newen Werck.” Vol. 4 of Gottorf im Glanz des Barock: Kunst und Kultur am Schleswiger Hof, 1544–1713. Schleswig: SchleswigHolsteinisches Landesmuseum.

Instructional Texts for the Use of Globes. Manuals ex-

Fig. 332. CELESTIAL GLOBE BY JOHN SENEX, CA. 1730. Diameter of the original: 68 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (GLB0139). The Image Works.

derived a date of 939 b.c. for those accounts. The ancient colures were subsequently marked on the 68centimeter celestial globes issued by John Senex after 1730 (fig. 332) (Dekker 1999, 493–95). In 1738 Senex published a description of a precession globe of which at least one copy survives. Around 1800, the Dutch professor Jacob de Gelder suggested a new construction for a precession globe that was produced by Cornelis Covens (De Gelder 1819). Elly D ekker See also: Astronomical Models; Celestial Mapping; Constellations, Representation of Bibliograp hy Dekker, Elly. 1999. “Western Printed Globes and Planispheres.” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 245–534. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. ———. 2003. “Precession Globes.” In Musa Musaei: Studies on Scientific Instruments and Collections in Honour of Mara Miniati, ed. Marco Beretta, Paolo Galluzzi, and Carlo Triarico, 219–35. Florence: Leo S. Olschki. ———. 2004. Catalogue of Orbs, Spheres and Globes. Florence: Giunti. Gelder, Jacob de. 1819. Algemeene sterre- en natuurkundige aardrijksbeschrijving . . . alles opgehelderd door de beschrijving en het gebruik der kunstige aard- en hemelsglobe en het tellurium. 2 vols. The Hague: Gebroeders van Cleef en W. van Bergen.

plaining the manifold uses of globes were first produced in the Renaissance. They explained how to adjust the globe for local conditions, to align the globe’s meridian ring to the local meridian, to direct the globe’s polar axis to the North Pole, and to adjust the pointer of the hour circle to local time. After that, many interesting properties of the heavens and the earth could be demonstrated by using the globes as analog computers. For example, one could determine the time difference between one’s location and an arbitrary place elsewhere or the visibility of a star throughout the year. Globe manuals generally embedded the use of globes within short treatises on cosmography. In early manuals, the relations between heaven and earth were explained from a geocentric or Ptolemaic perspective. In the seventeenth century, the heliocentric Copernican worldview increasingly became a topic of discussion and inevitably affected the contents of globe manuals. The first treatise of interest in this respect is Willem Jansz. Blaeu’s instruction in the use of celestial and terrestrial globes, Tweevovdigh onderwiis van de hemelsche en aerdsche globen (1634). Six editions of this work appeared in Dutch, ten in Latin, and three in French (Van der Krogt 1993, 627–28). The first part of the treatise teaches the use of globes in keeping with the Ptolemaic worldview and follows the tradition established in the sixteenth century. An English translation of this first part was published by Joseph Moxon in 1654 (Moxon 1978, xxii–xxiii), and Gerard Valk published a reworked version as ’t Werkstellige der sterre-konst in ca. 1700 (Van der Krogt 1993, 308–12). The second part of Blaeu’s globe book was devoted to explaining two astronomical models based on the Copernican worldview: the Copernican sphere and the tellurian. This part had little to offer for the use of the common pair of globes. However, because of the growing interest in England in Copernican spheres, Moxon published an adaptation of the second part of Blaeu’s manual in 1665 (Moxon 1978, xxiv). Blaeu’s globe book was distributed all over Europe and set the trend for the many manuals published during the Enlightenment. Most of these included a discussion of both the heliocentric and geocentric world systems. An example is Nicolas Bion’s L’usage des globes (1699), which went through six editions and was translated into German in 1736. Since globes are especially useful for explaining phenomena as seen from a geocentric perspective, the geocentric worldview continued to be discussed in globe manuals. The topics treated in globe manuals continued to change over the course of

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the eighteenth century. Sometimes a description of an orrery was added to the use of globes, as, for example, in the English treatise by Joseph Harris (1731), which went through twelve editions by 1783. Other manuals, such as those by George Adams Sr. in 1766 and Cornelis Covens in 1802, addressed the problem of how to construct and use globes in keeping with the Copernican hypothesis (Dekker 1996). The regular discussions of the Copernican system in globe manuals such as these helped significantly in promoting the acceptance of this system outside scientific circles. The background of authors also changed during the eighteenth century. Initially globe manuals were written by or for globemakers who used them to advertise their products (fig. 333). Gradually the globemakers were replaced by schoolmasters who had very little to do with globe production and who were accordingly less constrained in their treatment of the structure of the universe. In his New Treatise of the Use of Globes, or A Philosophical View of the Earth and Heavens (1805),

Fig. 333. FRONTISPIECE OF JOHANN LUDWIG ANDREAE, MATHEMATISCHE UND HISTORISCHE BESCHREIBUNG DES GANTZEN WELT-GEBÄUDES: ZUM NÜTZLICHEM GEBRAUCH_ ZWEYER AUF EINE NEUE ART VERFERTIGTEN HIMELS- UND ERD-KUGELN (NUREMBERG, 1718). Such emblematic frontispieces were commonly used in instructional texts to exemplify the use of celestial and terrestrial globes in astronomy and geography. Size of the original: 19.5 × 16.5 cm. Courtesy of Adler Planetarium & Astronomy Museum, Chicago.

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Thomas Keith, a private teacher of mathematics and geography, discussed many earth-related physical phenomena such as earthquakes and the tides in addition to the structure of the solar system and the motion of the earth therein. Although Keith did not diminish the computational role of globes, and described sixty-four problems to be performed by terrestrial globes and thirty-eight by celestial globes, his realignment of topics foreshadowed the decline in the intellectual prominence of globes in the following centuries. Elly Dekker See also: Education and Cartography; Geographical Mapping; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Science and Cartography Bibliography Bion, Nicolas. 1699. L’usage des globes celestes et terrestres, et des spheres suivant les differens systemes du monde. Paris: l’Auteur. Blaeu, Willem Jansz. 1634. Tweevovdigh onderwiis van de hemelsche en aerdsche globen. Amsterdam: Willem Blaeu. Dekker, Elly. 1996. “The Copernican Globe: A Delayed Conception.” Annals of Science 53:541–66. Harris, Joseph. 1731. Description and Use of the Globes, and the Orrery: To Which is Prefixed, by Way of Introduction, a Brief Account of the Solar System. London: Printed for Thomas Wright . . . and E. Cushee. Krogt, Peter van der. 1993. Globi Neerlandici: The Production of Globes in the Low Countries. Utrecht: HES. Moxon, Joseph. 1978. Mechanick Exercises on the Whole Art of Printing (1683–4). 2d ed., reprinted. Ed. and intro. Herbert Davis and Harry Carter. New York: Dover.

Pocket Globe. The first mention of a pocket globe was by Joseph Moxon in his single-sheet Proves of Several Sorts of Letters Cast by Joseph Moxon, 1669. It is from this description that the definition of the pocket globe is usually derived: “Concave Hemispheres, wherein is depicted all the stars and constellations in heaven. And serves as a Case for a Terrestrial globe. Made portable for the Pocket. By Joseph Moxon, Hydr.” Moxon reported in 1672 that he himself had made such a pocket globe (Wallis and Robinson 1987, 32). Some scholars believe that the small terrestrial globe of 2 inch (5.3 cm) diameter from ca. 1625, attributed to Willem Jansz. Blaeu, was the precursor of Moxon’s pocket globe; this terrestrial globe, in a case, is related to the pocket globe of the same size published by Abraham van Ceulen in 1697 (Van der Krogt 1993, 367–70, 524, 545). Pocket globes express in a very elementary way the spherical shape of the world. These cheap globes were within reach of many and quickly found a place in the marketplace next to the common globe. The success of the pocket globe lies in its symbolic value. To carry the whole world in your pocket expressed an intellectual commitment to the new Newtonian experimental philosophy. In this respect, it did not really matter that in many English pocket globes, including Moxon’s (fig. 334), the celestial vault was actually presented by convex instead of the proper concave gores. This was because the globemakers used the same set of (convex)

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Fig. 334. POCKET GLOBE OF JOSEPH MOXON, GORES DESIGNED CA. 1680; GLOBE MADE AFTER 1706–7.

Diameter of the original: ca. 7.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bildarchiv Preuβischer Kulturbesitz (Inventar-Nr.: K 4706)/ Art Resource, New York.

gores for both pairs of miniature globes and pocket globes; however, a few makers of pocket globes did take the trouble to design concave gores to represent a correct view of the heavens. Although the production of pocket globes as the gentleman’s toy par excellence was predominantly a British affair, a few continental globemakers produced them as well. In Amsterdam, in addition to Van Ceulen, Johannes Deur and Gerard Valk each published a pocket globe in the first quarter of the eighteenth century (Van der Krogt 1993, 569–72). In the same period, Johann Baptist Homann in Nuremberg produced a variant pocket globe with an armillary sphere added inside the terrestrial globe (Mokre 2002, 138–39). Nevertheless, total continental output was negligible compared to that in Britain. The manufacture of pocket globes in Great Britain has a complex history (Dekker 1999, 128–32; Edell 1985; Van der Krogt 1985). Among the first after Moxon to

produce such a globe in England were Charles Price and John Senex, who cooperated to publish a pocket globe in the first decade of the eighteenth century. When their collaboration ended in 1710, and they divided their copperplates between them, Price retained those for the terrestrial part of the pocket globe and Senex those for the celestial part; both then had new plates engraved to replace the missing ones. The new Senex pocket globe was acquired in 1755 by George Adams Sr., who further adapted it and published it under his own name. Herman Moll issued a pocket globe in 1719, an updated version of which appeared in ca. 1775 as A Correct Globe with the New Discoveries. The plates of the concave celestial gores of the pocket globe published in 1731 by Richard Cushee were reused by Nicolas Lane in 1776, with newly engraved plates for the terrestrial globe. In the beginning of the second half of the eighteenth

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century, Nathaniel Hill and James Ferguson further increased the number of pocket globes that were for sale. Their pocket globes also appeared in various updated states under different names: the one by Hill is known in two editions of 1783, one by William Palmer and John Newton, and another by Newton alone. Ferguson was the first, in about 1757, to make globes with a diameter of exactly three inches. His copperplates were subsequently used in the last quarter of the eighteenth century by Dudley Adams and in the early nineteenth century by the Lane firm; these Ferguson-Adams-Lane pocket globes were often sold by retailers who pasted their own labels on them. After 1800, globemakers continued to produce miniature globes, especially terrestrial ones, primarily for children’s education, but the pocket globe boom was over. Elly D ekker See also: Consumption of Maps B i bliogra p hy Bryden, D. J. 1997. “Capital in the London Publishing Trade: James Moxon’s Stock Disposal of 1698, a ‘Mathematical Lottery.’” Library, 6th ser., 19:293–350. Dekker, Elly. 1999. “‘Uncommonly Handsome Globes.’” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 87–136. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Edell, Stephen. 1985. “Concave Hemispheres of the Starry Orb.” Bulletin of the Scientific Instrument Society 7:6–8. Krogt, Peter van der. 1985. “Globes, Made Portable for the Pocket.” Bulletin of the Scientific Instrument Society 7:8–15. ———. 1993. Globi Neerlandici: The Production of Globes in the Low Countries. Utrecht: HES. Mokre, Jan. 2002. “Große Pläne, kleine Kugeln—Globen im Verlag Homann.” In “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848, ed. Michael Diefenbacher, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, 138–49. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Moxon, Joseph. 1669. Proves of Several Sorts of Letters Cast by Joseph Moxon. London. This broadsheet is reproduced in the facsimile edition of Moxon’s Mechanick Exercises on the Whole Art of Printing (1683–4), ed. Herbert Davis and Harry Carter. London: Oxford University Press, 1958. Wallis, Helen, and Arthur H. Robinson, eds. 1987. Cartographical Innovations: An International Handbook of Mapping Terms to 1900. Tring: Map Collector Publications in association with the International Cartographic Association.

Lunar Globe. Mapping the moon is complicated by its libration, an oscillating motion that causes small changes in its orientation and subsequently in the angle at which the sun’s light strikes its surface. Thus, the moon continually shows a slightly different face and the shadows cast by its mountains vary constantly; no two full moons ever look exactly the same. In this context, a lunar map offered astronomers the potential of a constant and unchanging image of the moon, but a lunar globe has the additional potential of demonstrating the changing surface of the moon under the influence of libration. In the 1640s, the authors of the first substantial lunar maps—

Michael Florent van Langren and Johannes Hevelius— separately discussed the desirability of publishing a lunar globe, but neither of them succeeded in constructing one (Whitaker 1999, 37–46, 50–60). The first lunar globe to be constructed was made for Charles II in 1661 by Christopher Wren, newly appointed Savilian professor of astronomy at Oxford. The globe is known only from archival records; it is said to have been made in relief and, when turned to the light, showed the phases of the moon and the shadows of the craters and mountains as well. Wren’s globe was part of the king’s cabinet and is reported to have been sold in 1749 (Whitaker 1999, 72–73). Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande (1792, 3:310, no. 3291) mentioned that at the turn of the seventeenth century Philippe de La Hire had another lunar globe made according to Hevelius’s proposal. Now lost, La Hire’s globe was still part of the collection of the Académie des sciences in 1745. In the 1740s, Tobias Mayer developed a method to create a lunar map for mean libration; he finished the map in about 1750. He worked in parallel on a lunar globe (41 cm diameter), to be published by the Kosmographische Gesellschaft in Nuremberg founded by the Homann Heirs, as a more exact image of the moon. However, professional distractions after 1751 meant that he could complete only eight of twelve gores. Six gores were engraved in mezzotint in Nuremberg (Oestmann 1999). The earliest lunar globes still surviving were designed by the English artist and astronomer John Russell (Ryan 1966). As a painter of miniature portraits, Russell was attracted by the varying lights and shades cast by the mountains and valleys of the moon, making his first drawing of the moon in 1764. Russell did not underestimate the work involved in the astronomical project of mapping and modeling the moon. He completed a large map, drawn in pastels and constructed according to Mayer’s method, in 1795. He carefully shaded the mountains and valleys both to indicate their elevations and to express the picturesque sentiments he had experienced when first observing the gibbous moon through a telescope. Russell stipple-engraved the derivative twelve-inch (30 cm) globe gores himself. It was Russell’s ambition to do better than making a simple lunar globe. His Selenographia was not just a three-dimensional map; it was, according to the subtitle of his Description of the Selenographia (1797), “an Apparatus for Exhibiting the Phenomena of the Moon” (fig. 335). Russell’s lunar globe stands out for the mechanical construction by which all possible states of libration can be reproduced. In this respect, Russell’s mechanical lunar globe is unique; no comparable model of the moon was ever made, and only twelve copies are known to survive. In addition to his Selenographia, Russell constructed a globe in relief. Russell’s brother-in-law, the geographer William Faden—whose portrait by Russell, now in the

Fig. 335. JOHN RUSSELL’S SELENOGRAPHIA, 1797. The gores of this lunar globe were printed from stipple-engraved plates and hand-colored. Not shown in this image is the unseen far side of the moon, which Russell of course left blank. Russell placed a small terrestrial globe on a separate gear in

order to demonstrate the various relative motions of the moon and the earth. Diameter of the original: 30 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (GLB0140). The Image Works.

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British Library, shows him with a lunar globe—reported that he made one for his friend Sir Henry Englefield, but this relief globe does not survive (Ryan 1966, 39). Elly D ekker See also: Astronomical Models; Celestial Mapping B i bliogra p hy Dekker, Elly, et al. 1999. Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Lalande, Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de. 1792. Astronomie. 3 vols. 3d ed., rev. and enl. Paris: Chez la Veuve Desaint; De L’Imprimerie de P. Didot L’Ainé. Oestmann, Günther. 1999. “Der Mondglobus Tobias Mayers (1723– 1762).” Der Globusfreund 47–48:221–28. Ryan, W. F. 1966. “John Russell, R.A., and Early Lunar Mapping.” Smithsonian Journal of History 1:27–48. Whitaker, Ewen A. 1999. Mapping and Naming the Moon: A History of Lunar Cartography and Nomenclature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

nisms to teach the blind. When he opened the Institution Royale des Jeunes Aveugles de Paris in 1784, Lartigue made a relief map of Europe for its students; this was perhaps the earliest tactile map. Relief globes appeared to be a perfect means to teach geography to blind pupils, and relief globes would be made in Germany and Britain early in the nineteenth century to benefit the blind (Wallis and Robinson 1987, 70–71; Zögner 2003). Destombes mentioned that Lartigue made a relief globe for the king and another one for the director of the Imprimerie royale (later nationale) au Louvre. This last globe is possibly the relief globe that is attributed to Lartigue (Duprat 1973, 208, no. 131). Another relief globe, of nearly eighty centimeters diameter, is part of a double globe made in 1786–88 for Louis XVI by Edme Mentelle, professor at the École royale militaire (fig. 336) (Duprat 1973, 208, no. 137). This globe consists of two hemispheres that can be opened to reveal a second relief globe inside. A depiction of the celes-

Relief Globe. A relief globe shows raised and indented

features to present variations in elevation of the surface of earth, the moon, or other heavenly bodies. Three lunar globes are known to have been made in relief in the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but none are known to survive. A celestial globe with constellations in relief was produced at the turn of the seventeenth century by Erhard Weigel (Dekker 1999, 220–21). The production of terrestrial globes in relief started in the eighteenth century. Marcel Destombes (1978) explained in detail that it was a predominantly French enterprise. It seems to have started with a marble globe decorating the garden of the Parc de Meudon in Paris early in the century; still known in 1777, it is now lost. In 1753, Philippe Buache announced to the Académie des sciences that the construction of a relief globe nine feet (2.75 m) in diameter was under way in the dome de Luxembourg, the observatory of Joseph-Nicolas Delisle (Buache 1757). The purpose of the globe was to demonstrate Buache’s theory of the structure of the earth, in which mountain chains continued between continents under the oceans. This large globe was never finished, but Buache did present a reduced version (32 cm diameter) to the Académie des sciences on 12 November 1757 (Buache 1762). This globe has not survived. Another attempt to build relief globes was undertaken by Buache’s pupil Pierre Lartigue. Lartigue concentrated especially on the techniques involved in making relief globes and experimented with various materials. The first globe that came out of these trials was made of plaster, had a diameter of fourty-four centimeters, and took three years to complete; it was presented on 16 July 1777 to the Académie des sciences. Unfortunately, Lartigue’s works are now lost. Lartigue was inspired by the ideas of Valentin Haüy, a well-known member of the Académie des sciences who after 1771 sought mecha-

Fig. 336. TERRESTRIAL RELIEF GLOBE BY EDME MENTELLE, 1786–88. The globe is part of a complex apparatus created for Louis XVI. Size of the original: 2.4 m × 1.3 m. Château de Versailles, France/Bridgeman Images.

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tial sphere, with figures of the constellations and signs of the zodiac, is drawn on the inside of the two outer hemispheres. Although relief globes were made outside France after 1800, such globes have always remained rare items in globemaking, not only because of the technical problems involved in relief molding, but also because by definition such globes are huge exaggerations of the true variations in depth. Elly D ekker See also: Heights and Depths, Mapping of: (1) Relief Depiction, (2) Relief Map Bibliograp hy Buache, Philippe. 1757. “Parallèles des fleuves des quatre parties du monde, pour servir à déterminer les hauteurs des montagnes du globe physique de la Terre, qui s’exécute en relief au dôme du Luxembourg.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1753: 586–88. ———. 1762. “Observations géographiques et physiques, où l’on donne une idée de l’existence des terres Antarctiques, & de leur mer glaciale intérieure; avec quelques remarques sur un globe physique en relief, d’un pied de diamètre, qui sert de modèle pour celui de neuf pieds.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1757: 190–203. Dekker, Elly. 1999. “Western Manuscript Globes.” In Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, by Elly Dekker et al., 199–243. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum. Destombes, Marcel. 1978. “Globes en relief du XVIIIe siècle.” Der Globusfreund 25–27:225–31. Duprat, Gabrielle. 1973. “Les globes terrestres et célestes en France.” Der Globusfreund 21–23:198–225. Wallis, Helen, and Arthur H. Robinson, eds. 1987. Cartographical Innovations: An International Handbook of Mapping Terms to 1900. Tring: Map Collector Publications in association with the International Cartographic Association. Zögner, Lothar. 2003. “August Zeune (1778–1853)—Geographie für Sehende und Blinde.” Verhandlungen der Gesellschaft für Erdkunde zu Berlin, 26–30.

Cultural and Social Significance of Globes. In 1683 Vin-

cenzo Coronelli, the Franciscan cosmographer from Venice, crafted a large pair of terrestrial and celestial globes in Paris for the French cardinal César d’Estrées as a gift to impress Louis XIV, the so-called Marly globes (see figs. 175 and 182). Each globe measured almost four meters in diameter and was elaborately engineered. By owning such large globes and elaborate mechanisms, a ruler displayed prestige and power. Since antiquity and throughout the Renaissance a globe had been a symbol of both universal knowledge and worldly dominion, evoking the perfection of the cosmos, the knowledge of the learned, and the power of the mighty. Lavishly decorated globes allowed viewers to see the magnitude of the whole planet and enabled princes and rulers to gaze upon the world they wished to master. Globes imposed visions of spatial order across lands and seas, peoples and environments.

The symbolism of the globe in the visual arts has a long and varied history, continuing into the period of the Enlightenment. In Western visual culture a globe in the hand of a ruler has marked the monarch’s sovereignty over the world. In many works of European art, Christ, as the Savior of the world, holds a globe in his hand or God the Father has his feet on a globe. A globe can be found as the attribute of mythological and allegorical figures including Apollo, Cybele, Cupid, Truth, Astronomy, Urania, Fame, Abundance, Justice, Philosophy, and Fortune. In Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia, the widely used collection of personifications first published in 1593 and translated into English in 1709, Geography has a terrestrial globe at her foot. A globe could indicate the profession of philosophers, theologians, astronomers, geographers, and explorers. In the Enlightenment, the image of the globe kept the complexity of its symbolism, its several meanings, and the variety of roles it played in the artistic domain. A globe could represent the whole universe or just the planet earth, and its image carried ambivalent messages. Celestial globes offered visions of the eternal but were also reminders of the passing of time. In the hands of God a terrestrial globe evoked the order of creation: it was a perfect geometric figure, offering an image of harmony and completeness, beyond the scale of perspective and human experience. Associated with the devil, the globe was a symbol of evil and chaos. For instance, in the first engraving in a very popular Jesuit text, Antoine Sucquet’s Via vitæ æternæ iconibvs illvstrata per Boëtium a Bolswert (1620, with many editions and translations), a burning globe (with a cross on top) laying on its side stands for the pointless desire of worldly things and the inversion of values. Since the world is both mankind’s home and a temporary dwelling where people die, a terrestrial globe could indicate both the perfection and the corruptibility of man. Globes often feature in allegorical still-life paintings suggesting the vanity of human life, as in the vanitas pictures by the Dutch Baroque artists Adam Bernaert (ca. 1665, Walters Art Museum, Baltimore) and Maria van Oosterwijck (1668, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna). A globe was above all a symbol of wealth, power, and imperial ambitions. In Andrea Pozzo’s allegory of the Jesuit missionary work throughout the world, Ignatius of Loyola is raised to Christ and receives light from him at the center of the four continents. The personification of Europe holds a globe in her left hand and a scepter in her right hand to signify the superiority of Europe and her right to rule over Asia, Africa, and the Americas (fig. 337). Europe as a queen with a terrestrial globe appears also in the fresco painted in the middle of the eighteenth century by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo in the Würzburg Residence.

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Fig. 337. DETAIL FROM ANDREA POZZO, APOTHEOSIS OF SAINT IGNATIUS. Painted fresco on the ceiling in the church of Sant’Ignazio, Rome, ca. 1685–94. Detail shows Europe holding the globe.

Scala/Art Resource, New York.

As a cartographic document, a globe is a sphere on which a map of the world or the heavens is represented. The cultural and social context in the Enlightenment, however, was fundamentally different from earlier ages that produced globes. The transition from a Ptolemaic to a Copernican worldview, the invention of increasingly sophisticated mechanical devices to show the structure of the solar system, a renewed interest in science (in its widest sense) that was spreading through all levels of society, and the emphasis on the need of exact geographical and astronomical observations all had a significant impact on globemaking and encouraged a widespread educational use of globes. Once a mere cartographic document, by the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the globe became an instrument for scientific demonstration. No longer seen as just an attribute of historical, allegorical, and mythological figures, the globe increasingly assumed the appearance of a distinct three-dimensional object, important in its own right. Significant in this context is the renewed interest in the only extant

globe from antiquity, the large celestial globe held on the shoulders of a second-century Roman statue of Atlas, acquired in the sixteenth century by Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, the so-called Farnese Atlas, essential to the Grand Tour and an object of study and replication (Lippincott 2011). Globes appeared in all sizes and functioned not only as decorative objects and pointers to social and cultural status but as scientific instruments. In 1788 architect Etienne-Louis Boullée submitted to Louis XVI a plan to renovate the Bibliothèque du Roi. Above the main portal on the building’s facade Boullée designed a giant globe, reminiscent of Coronelli’s work (Coronelli’s grand globes were meant to be displayed in the royal library). Large globes also decorated the exterior of the 1726 building of the Viennese Kaiserliche Hofbibliothek (1726), which housed some Coronelli globes. Globes also featured in libraries of religious institutions. Other exemplars of Coronelli’s artifacts were kept for instance in the Benedictine Melk Abbey in Lower Austria and in the Camaldolese Classe Abbey in

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Ravenna. Both globes and books were seen as playing a crucial role in the learning and educational process. Images of the world have always played a significant role in the visual arts, but after the seventeenth century, pictures of globes multiplied in all artistic media (including architecture and book illustration), reflecting the boom of globe production and marketing in Northern Europe and the role of the globe in contemporary scientific enquiry. When, in 1741, the German traveler Johann Georg Keyssler visited Paris, he read on the pedestal of the celestial globe made for Louis XIV a Latin inscription engraved to celebrate the power of “the French monarch, who with his finger moves both heaven and earth.” For Keyssler, the inscription was “gross and fulsome” flattery (Keyssler 1756–57, 3:312; Lee 1998, 406). He commented that, in fact, anyone could easily turn the Marly globes on their axes without effort, not only the Sun King. His amusement, however, can be seen as having wider implications. By Keyssler’s time, miniature globes, which began to be produced in England in the late seventeenth century, came into vogue and were available on the European market. These globes, invented by the English polymath Joseph Moxon, allowed seventeenth- and eighteenth-century users to hold the world in their hands, as Christian rulers were seen to do in works of art designed to celebrate their authority. The portable globe often reproduced not only the ordering of the lands on the outer surface of the sphere representing the earth, but, as happened with the much larger globes, also the entire expanse of the starry sky on its inner, concave surface. The universe itself, heaven and earth, could be in anyone’s pocket. The pocket globe, a fashionable gadget attractive for its cheaper price, showed the whole cosmos on a very small scale. Originally luxury items individually commissioned for royalty or collected by wealthy patrons, in the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries globes of any size became massproduced and available as fashionable items to a wider public. Commercial globemaking boomed as part of the wider consumer revolution, with its increasing demand for high quality goods. In 1783, for example, Antoine de Rivarol wrote that “women style their hair with globes, small societies form around globes, small theaters perform [plays] about globes” (Rivarol 1783, 19). Moreover, globes were meant to make the new Copernican and Newtonian world system understandable to the public. As demonstration models, globes served not only as depictions of the surface of the earth and a map of the heavens but as explanations of the principles of geography and astronomy. Globes could still be seen as pieces of furniture stored in special rooms devoted to valuable items and intended to present the owner as a learned and refined individual. But globes attracted a wide market and brought natural science to popular culture. By the eighteenth century, an educated European

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member of the bourgeoisie was expected to be familiar with the outline of the heavens and the distribution of land and sea on earth. Since knowledge of geography and astronomy was recognized as an essential part of a gentleman’s education, globes became classroom objects, as Pietro Longhi’s painting The Geography Lesson (1752; see fig. 224) testifies. Terrestrial and celestial globes were used as models to aid popular understanding not only at home, but also in schools and universities, in academies and learned societies, and during public lectures, providing evidence of both the growth of popular interest in scientific matters and the rise of geography as an integral part of Enlightenment inquiry. Not by chance, globes, as well as other prestigious objects that had been stored in royal collections of curiosities, became part of the newly established national museums and libraries during the Enlightenment. Globes became the most widely used educational instruments, and manuals were published on their use. Joseph Harris, in The Description and Use of the Globes and the Orrery (first ed., 1703), one of the most popular textbooks of the eighteenth century, explained the use of globes as teaching devices and models for scientific speculation: “The principal Uses of these Globes, (besides their serving as Maps to distinguish the outward Parts of the Earth, and the Situations of the Fixed Stars) is to explain and resolve the Phænomena arising from the diurnal Motion of the Earth round its Axis” (1738, 37). Manuals on the use of globes also included advertisements that bear witness to the increased interest in globemaking and globe production for the general public. Harris’s book has a frontispiece showing an engraving of the great orrery (four feet in diameter) made by the instrumentmaker Thomas Wright to advertise “Orrerys of different sorts” sold at Wright’s shop. On the verso of the title page in the 1738 edition, a text praises Wright’s skill and craftsmanship in making these devices. As may be gathered from Harris’s text, the workshop produced large orreries on commission (for King George II, the Watts Academy, the Royal Academy at Portsmouth, and “Noblemen and Gentlemen”) and small orreries for teaching purposes. But Wright, as the text on the verso of the title page reads, also had “some ready made by him, of different Prices.” Preceding Harris’s chapter on “The Description and Use of the Celestial and Terrestrial Globes” is an engraving featuring a pair of terrestrial and celestial globes, “Made and Sold by Richard Cushee” (fig. 338). Wright published his own manual, The Use of the Globes (1740), to promote (on the end page, for example) other books, instruments, and even private tuition offered to “Gentlemen and Ladies.” The book also included advertisements for globes, maps, and books sold at the shop of John Senex, fellow of the Royal Society,

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Fig. 338. “NEW AND CORRECT GLOBES ACCORDING TO THE LATEST OBSERVATIONS.” Advertisement of globes sold by Richard Cushee and Thomas Wright. From Harris 1738, facing 35. Image courtesy of the Warburg Institute Library, London; photography by Ian Jones, London.

a most successful cartographer and engraver who specialized in making globes and published Wright’s handbook. On the frontispiece the globes sold at Senex’s shop are advertised with their prices (fig. 339). Senex charged ten shillings for a pocket globe in a case (three-inch diameter). Obviously, the price increased with the size: a basic pair of nine-inch diameter terrestrial and celestial globes on stands cost two pounds; twelve-inch diameter, three pounds; seventeen-inch diameter, six pounds. Senex would charge twenty-five guineas (twenty-six pounds and five shillings) for a pair of larger globes, featuring—as advertised—all the discoveries on earth and the observations in the sky, thus “fit to adorn the Libraries of the Curious.” This pricing shows that pocket globes were aimed at the popular market, whereas the high prices of larger globes indicate a business targeted toward the elites. New markets opened as society changed. A strong and highly competitive globemaking industry flourished in Northern Europe. Globemakers were often part of a family firm (the Blaeu, Valk, and Adams families, for instance). There were, of course, differences between European nations. In England, for example, the manufacture of globes developed within the context of the instrumentmaking trade, whereas in continental Europe the globemaking industry was part of the cartographic tradition. Throughout Europe, however, globes attracted a diversity of groups, not only royals or specialists. Spectacular globes were still exhibited in royal palaces and libraries, but globes also appeared in the meeting rooms

Fig. 339. “THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE.” Advertisement of globes sold at John Senex’s shop. From Wright 1740, frontispiece. © The British Library Board, London.

of learned societies and in private studies, playing various and more common roles in European culture. Alessand ro Scafi See also: Consumption of Maps; Cosmographical Map; Education and Cartography; Geographical Mapping; Medals, Maps on; Public Sphere, Cartography and the Bibliography Allmayer-Beck, Peter E., ed. 1997. Modelle der Welt: Erd- und Himmelsgloben. Vienna: Brandstätter. Cosgrove, Denis E. 2001. Apollo’s Eye: A Cartographic Genealogy of the Earth in the Western Imagination. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Dekker, Elly, and Peter van der Krogt. 1993. Globes from the Western World. London: Zwemmer. Dekker, Elly, et al. 1999. Globes at Greenwich: A Catalogue of the Globes and Armillary Spheres in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich. Oxford: Oxford University Press and the National Maritime Museum.

582 Harris, Joseph. 1738. The Description and Use of the Globes, and the Orrery: To Which is Prefixed, by Way of Introduction, a Brief Account of the Solar System. 4th ed. London: Printed for Thomas Wright . . . and E. Cushee. Hofmann, Catherine, and Hélène Richard, eds. 2012. Les globes de Louis XIV: Étude artistique, historique et matérielle. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Keyssler, Johann Georg. 1756–57. Travels through Germany, Bohemia, Hungary, Switzerland, Italy, and Lorrain. 2d ed. 4 vols. Trans. from German. London: Printed for A. Linde. Krogt, Peter van der. 1984. Old Globes in the Netherlands: A Catalogue of Terrestrial and Celestial Globes Made prior to 1850 and Preserved in Dutch Collections. Trans. Willie ten Haken. Utrecht: HES. La Hire, Philippe de. 1704. Description et explication des globes qui sont placés dans les pavillons du château de Marly. Paris: L. V. Thiboust. Lee, Paula Young. 1998. “Standing on the Shoulders of Giants: Boullée’s ‘Atlas’ Facade for the Bibliothèque du Roi.” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 57:404–31. Lippincott, Kristen. 2011. “A Chapter in the Nachleben of the Farnese Atlas: Martin Folkes’s Globe.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 74:281–99. Milanesi, Marica, and Rudolf Schmidt, eds. 2007. Sfere del cielo, sfere della terra: Globi celesti e terrestri dal XVI al XX secolo. Milan: Electa. Pelletier, Monique. 1987. “From the Luxury Item to the Current Consumption Product: Development of French Globe Publishing in 18th–19th Centuries.” Der Globusfreund 35–37:131–44. Rivarol, Antoine de. 1783. Lettre à Monsieur le président de***: Sur le globe airostatique, sur les têtes parlantes, & sur l’état présent de l’opinion publique à Paris. Paris: Cailleau. Utsunomiya, Yojiro. 1999. “Terrestrial Globes Depicted in Images— The Globe as a Communicative Instrument of Information and Allegory.” Der Globusfreund 47–48:89–106. Withers, Charles W. J. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wright, Thomas. 1740. The Use of the Globes. London: Printed for John Senex.

Grand Tour. See Travel and Cartography Graphomètre. See Instruments for Angle Measuring: Theodolite, Graphomètre, and Similar Instruments

Great Britain. The commonality of cartographic institutions and practices across the British Isles belies the region’s lack of political and administrative unity throughout the period 1650–1800. Oliver Cromwell united the kingdoms of England (including Wales), Scotland, and Ireland within the Commonwealth after Charles I’s execution in 1649; Charles II’s restoration in 1660 also restored the three kingdoms’ official independence from each other. The 1707 Act of Union combined England and Scotland to create Great Britain per se. Ireland remained distinct until the creation of the United Kingdom under the 1801 Act of Union. The other territories of the English and British monarchs remained distinct and are treated separately in this volume: the several colonies that comprised British America; the South Asian terri-

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tories of the East India Company; and, after 1714 when the elector of Hanover also became George I, parts of northern Germany. With its greater population and economy, England’s social institutions dominated those of Scotland and Ireland. That dominance was maintained physically by large standing armies garrisoned in Ireland and Scotland and morally by the extension of English culture, including mapping practices, from London to the peripheries. Yet political power was highly fractured, with Parliament progressively undermining the Crown’s powers and with local officials wielding significant authority. Territorial responsibility was so decentralized that there was little governmental capacity for statewide surveys (Pedley 2005, 81–83). British cartography was thus overwhelmingly the result of private enterprise and its development was in large part regulated by the economy. The small economy at the time of the Restoration could not easily support the era’s enthusiasm for ambitious cartographic projects. The post-1690 era of steady economic growth led to early efforts in internal improvements, overseas trade, and industrialization that in turn fueled the post-1750 era of economic expansion, global power, and domestic affluence. The “general mediocrity” of British cartography before 1750 was thus alleviated by only a few exceptional “highlights” (Woodward 1978, 192; Barber 1989). But after 1750, mapmakers’ ambitions could increasingly be sustained, both by a stable marketplace and an increasingly active government, and British cartography became ever more sophisticated. This periodization can be seen first in the history of Britain’s map trade. Until the early eighteenth century, the map trade suffered from a lack of skilled manpower, was undercapitalized, had a very limited client base (albeit one that already appreciated the instrumental and symbolic functions of maps) (Barber 1990), had scant access to new surveys and fresh source material, and was heavily indebted to older Dutch models. With the notable exception of John Ogilby’s famous atlas of road maps, Britannia (1675) (see figs. 614 and 866), and James and John Knapton’s Atlas maritimus & commercialis (1728), early projects for folio atlases and large globes generally proved overly ambitious and bankrupted their publishers. Despite the financial risk, the map trade gradually developed a skilled labor pool, with an apprenticeship system supported by the guild system, augmented by the immigration of Huguenots experienced in the print trades. In order to limit costs and exposure, mapsellers created new schemes to raise money through subscriptions, published atlases serially, entered into partnerships with Dutch mapsellers, and plagiarized continental mapmakers extensively. Mapsellers benefited from the liberalization of the book trade in 1695, when official censorship and re-

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Fig. 340. AN IRISH COPY OF AN ENGLISH MAP. James Barlow engraved A New and Correct Chart of the Sea Coast of England Scotland & Ireland [1746], copied from Samuel Thornton’s 1708 map of the same name, for the second of

two pirated editions of The English Pilot, the Second Part that George Grierson published in Dublin in 1746. Size of the original: 45.3 × 53.2 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps 177.d.1 [22.]).

strictions on presses were ended; however, the map trade did not receive the copyright privileges that were extended to letterpress works in 1710 until 1733. The growth of the public sphere supported the publication of ever larger atlases addressing political interests (Harley 1997), national atlases organized by county (Hodson 1984–97), and the proliferation of maps within a wide variety of books and, after 1730, in the new monthly journals (Jolly 1990–91). By century’s end, London’s map trade was varied and sophisticated, and the small, guild-based firms were transforming into institutionalized companies. Moreover, after 1750 provincial markets for printed works grew sufficiently to support local map publication and to offset the dominance of the London map trade; in particular, because British copy-

right law did not extend to Ireland, Dublin booksellers plagiarized many London publications, including maps (fig. 340). At first sight, British marine charting appears not to have followed this periodization. The central government was strongly interested in improving the Royal Navy and navigation generally. Thus, Charles II founded the Royal Observatory at Greenwich in 1675 to undertake celestial observations that would serve as the basis for determining longitude at sea and also directed the Admiralty to undertake the first entire survey of Britain’s coasts, begun by Captain Greenvile Collins in 1681. Yet these innovations were poorly implemented. Lacking consistent institutional support and funding, Collins worked intermittently until 1688 and then was

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able to have fewer than half of his charts published in his Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot (1693) (see fig. 515). John Adair’s surveys of the Scottish coasts in the 1680s, supported in part by the Scottish Parliament, remained unpublished until 1703. With no means or will to train hydrographers, the Admiralty encouraged mariners to undertake new surveys, mostly after 1750, by holding out the prospect of promotion and lucrative appointments. Great strides were made independently by Scottish schoolteacher Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder, who undertook a triangulation survey of the Orkney Islands, which was published in 1750 (see figs. 80 and 759); his later Treatise of Maritim Surveying (1774) determined new standards for maritime surveying. But only in 1795 did the Admiralty establish the Hydrographical Office (Robinson 1962, 40–46, 71–86, 102). As for the Royal Observatory, it too developed slowly (the first astronomer royal had to provide his own instruments) and only attained a firm institutional footing over the course of the early eighteenth century. Here too, the government encouraged private efforts to determine longitude at sea through the prospect of a huge reward offered under the 1714 Longitude Act. Production of marine charts was dominated by commercial enterprise. The growth of the merchant marine led to the slow eclipse of the so-called Thames School of manuscript chartmakers. Initial collections of charts, starting with Joseph Moxon’s A Book of Sea-Plats (1657), simply reprinted Dutch charts. Only after 1700 did the publishing dynasty of Mount and Page find a ready market for larger works, such as the various volumes of The English Pilot begun by John Seller in 1671. Commercial mapsellers also produced and disseminated the results of hydrographic surveys so that by 1800 London was the European center of chart production. The detailed mapping of Britain was largely a commercial and civil affair. Organized by the basic territorial unit of the county, regional mapping before 1750 has been characterized as a “century of re-publishing” earlier maps based ultimately on surveys of England and Scotland from the period 1570–1620 (Delano-Smith and Kain 1999, 75–81; Fleet, Wilkes, and Withers 2012, 66–69). The growing interest in agricultural improvements, all privately capitalized, spurred new topographical surveys in support, first, of draining the extensive fenlands of eastern England and then within established county boundaries, starting with Joel Gascoyne’s A Map of the County of Cornwall (1699) on a scale of 1 inch to 1 mile (1:63,360). County surveys were greatly stimulated by the premiums offered by the Society of Arts after 1759 to reward the production of detailed base maps of each county, leading to the remapping not only of England but Scotland as well (Delano-Smith and Kain 1999, 81–97; Fleet, Wilkes, and Withers 2012, 128–33).

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By contrast, military mapping before 1750 was almost completely limited to the topographical and architectural mapping of fortifications. William Roy and David Watson’s famous military survey of the Scottish highlands after the Jacobite rebellion in 1745 offered a general view of the military situation of roads and forts. The recurring threat of French invasion after 1756 led to a number of detailed regional military surveys, notably the map of southeastern England by Roy, Watson, and David Dundas (1765) and Charles Vallancey’s intermittent surveys of southern Ireland (after 1776). As master general of the Ordnance, Charles Lennox, third duke of Richmond, promoted a further round of such surveys after 1782, using civilian surveyors. Recognizing the public need for such information, he reorganized the surveys in 1791 with the goal of publishing the resultant maps, giving rise to what would eventually be called the Ordnance Survey. Large-scale property and infrastructure mapping also experienced a significant upsurge in activity after 1750, as landowners became more accustomed to maps and as the landscapes of England and Scotland were significantly transformed by enclosures, forest management, reclamation of marshes and heaths, the growth of rural industries, the creation of planned villages, and the construction of new roads, canals, and harbors (fig. 341). Intended for only small groups of users, large-scale maps remained almost entirely in manuscript. As ever, Parliament was disinclined to fund large infrastructure programs and consequently devolved administrative and financial responsibility for such enterprises to private corporations (Delano-Smith and Kain 1999, 112– 32; Fleet, Wilkes, and Withers 2012, 134–43). The acute shortage by 1780 in the domestic supply of ship timbers for the Royal Navy did prompt governmental intervention; the Crown Land Revenues Act of 1786 ordered the systematic mapping and inventorying of the royal woods as an aid to scientific methods of silviculture and conservation, leading to the production of seventeen land revenue reports (1787–93) that included the first comprehensive forestry maps made in Britain. Finally, the age of improvement was reflected in an upsurge in detailed urban mapping (Delano-Smith and Kain 1999, 200–214; Fleet, Wilkes, and Withers 2012, 107–11; Kain and Oliver 2015). The British government supported mapping activities by its expansion of overseas empire, colonies, and trade. The repeated wars with Catholic France, from the Nine Years’ War (also known as the War of the League of Augsburg, 1688–97) to the Napoleonic Wars (1803– 15), led to an ever-increasing appreciation of the value of maps for strategic, tactical, and logistical planning. Indirectly, the increasingly global scope and cost of the wars fueled an ever-increasing public debt, which in

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Fig. 341. CANAL SYSTEM BY JOHANN LUDEWIG HOGREWE, 1778. Although the electors of Hanover were also kings of England, in 1714–37 there were very few cartographic connections between the two territories. One was the engineer Hogrewe, whom George III brought to Britain in the 1770s. Hogrewe investigated Britain’s burgeoning canal system and

published an account, Beschreibung der in England seit 1759. angelegten, und jetzt gröstentheils vollendeten schiffbaren Kanäle (1780); the king’s collections contain many manuscript canal maps by Hogrewe. Size of the original: ca. 25.5 × 41.5 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Western Manuscripts, Kings MS 46, plan VII).

turn encouraged public political debate and the public consumption of maps (Edney 2008); the growth of the public sphere also entailed a geographical discourse that emphasized Scotland’s distinctive national identity, especially in light of the union with England (Withers 2001). After 1750, the acquisition of extensive overseas territories prompted major surveys in British America and in India, by the East India Company; increased support for scientific inquiry prompted a series of oceanic explorations by James Cook and others. As a result, London became a major clearinghouse for new geographical information. Map historians have understandably emphasized the ambitious projects of the Restoration, the post-1750 cartographic achievements of an industrial and imperial Britain, and the engravers and publishers who made up the map trade throughout the period. Given the dominance of the English economy, such histories have focused on the production of maps in London or as directed by London-based institutions. However, overviews of how the British Isles were mapped have

been written according to national territorial divisions (Delano-Smith and Kain 1999; Andrews 1997; Fleet, Wilkes, and Withers 2012) with little consideration of the commonalities of cartographic practice. Alexand er J ames Co o k Johnson See also: Academies of Science; Administrative Cartography; British America; Celestial Mapping; East India Company (Great Britain); Geodetic Surveying; Geographical Mapping; Hudson’s Bay Company (Great Britain); Map Collecting; Map Trade; Marine Charting; Military Cartography; Property Mapping; Thematic Mapping; Topographical Surveying; Trade and Plantations, Board of (Great Britain); Urban Mapping Bibliography Andrews, J. H. 1997. Shapes of Ireland: Maps and Their Makers, 1564–1839. Dublin: Geography Publications. Barber, Peter. 1989. “British Cartography.” In The Age of William III & Mary II: Power, Politics, and Patronage, 1688–1702: A Reference Encyclopedia and Exhibition Catalogue, ed. Robert P. Maccubbin and Martha Hamilton-Phillips, 95–104. Williamsburg: College of William and Mary. ———. 1990. “Necessary and Ornamental: Map Use in England under the Later Stuarts, 1660–1714.” Eighteenth Century Life 14, no. 3:1–28.

586 Delano-Smith, Catherine, and Roger J. P. Kain. 1999. English Maps: A History. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Edney, Matthew H. 2008. “John Mitchell’s Map of North America (1755): A Study of the Use and Publication of Official Maps in Eighteenth-Century Britain.” Imago Mundi 60:63–85. Fleet, Christopher, Margaret Wilkes, and Charles W. J. Withers. 2011. Scotland: Mapping the Nation. Edinburgh: Birlinn. Harley, J. B. 1997. “Power and Legitimation in the English Geographical Atlases of the Eighteenth Century.” In Images of the World: The Atlas through History, ed. John A. Wolter and Ronald E. Grim, 161–204. Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress. Hodson, Donald. 1984–97. County Atlases of the British Isles Published after 1703: A Bibliography. 3 vols. Tewin: Tewin Press. Hodson, Yolande. 2009. “Maps, Charts and Atlases in Britain, 1690– 1830.” In The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, Volume V, 1695–1830, ed. Michael F. Suarez and Michael L. Turner, 762–80. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jolly, David C. 1990–91. Maps in British Periodicals. 2 vols. Brookline: David C. Jolly. Kain, Roger J. P., and Richard Oliver. 2015. British Town Maps: A History. London: British Library. Related online Catalogue of British Town Maps. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Robinson, A. H. W. 1962. Marine Cartography in Britain: A History of the Sea Chart to 1855. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Withers, Charles W. J. 2001. Geography, Science and National Identity: Scotland since 1520. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Woodward, David. 1978. “English Cartography, 1650–1750: A Summary.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 159–93. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Green, John. John Green was the leading British proponent of critical geography in the early eighteenth century. His work has an intellectual unity that stands in marked contrast to the work of his contemporaries (Crone 1949); even French geographers approved of his pioneering cartographic memoirs (Robert de Vaugondy 1755, 179–80). Yet his notorious character meant he was only ever a geographer-for-hire. The sparse evidence indicates a womanizer, probable bigamist, and gambler (Crone 1951). He was actually born Bradock Mead, before 1688, to a respectable Dublin family; he perhaps attended Trinity College but, if so, he did not graduate. Moving to London before 1717 and adopting the name “Rogers,” he worked as a researcher and writer, notably for Ephraim Chambers’s Cyclopædia (1728). Soon thereafter, his role in the kidnapping of an Irish heiress sent him to jail. By 1735 he was free and, as “John Green,” editing geographical texts and maps for a series of London booksellers, falling out with each in turn, and rarely signing his work. He committed suicide in 1757. Green’s interest in maps stemmed from his editing of geographical texts, for which carefully constructed maps were essential. His first known publication—the anonymous The Construction of Maps and Globes (1717)—

Green, John

was originally the preface for a putative collection of geographical voyages. His textual sensibilities permeated this monograph on map projections: if British geography was ever going to advance beyond its hackneyed state, in which derivative works were routinely passed off as new, maps and texts should be subjected to the same critical practices, and geographers should explain that criticism in detailed memoirs. Thus, for the English translation of Jean-Baptiste Du Halde’s 1735 account of China, published as Description of the Empire of China and Chinese-Tartary (1738–41), Green recompiled Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville’s associated maps according to revised values for longitude; his explanation of his geographical editing was appended to the translators’ preface (Foss 1985, 366–73). This explanation was probably the first critical statement prepared by a British geographer. When finally permitted full rein by Thomas Jefferys, Green wrote a volume of Remarks in conjunction with his six-sheet Chart of North and South America (1753) and an Explanation of his New Map of Nova Scotia, and Cape Britain (1755). Yet his self-conscious pursuit of geographical truth is marred by his four-sheet Map of the Most Inhabited Part of New England (1755), whose statement of sources is quite fraudulent and obscures how the map was in fact copied from others (Edney 2003, 158–59). Green’s maps were quite unlike contemporary British work. He advertised the quality of his work by listing his source materials and underlining the key locations to which he had fitted them (one line if only latitude was known, two for longitude). He favorably compared his own work to that of the leading French mapmakers (fig. 342). This critical style, together with some contemporary references to his authorship, has permitted the reliable attribution of some sixteen books and separate maps to him (Edney 1998). Those contemporary references suggest, no matter how obscure he has become, that Green’s scholarship was then well regarded. In this respect, his mapping practices seem to have set a standard to be emulated as British geography grew increasingly rigorous after 1763 in the service of a burgeoning empire. Matth ew H. Edney See also: Geographical Mapping: (1) Enlightenment, (2) Great Britain; History of Cartography; Memoirs, Cartographic Bibliography Crone, G. R. 1949. “John Green: Notes on a Neglected Eighteenth Century Geographer and Cartographer.” Imago Mundi 6:85–91. ———. 1951. “Further Notes on Bradock Mead, alias John Green, an Eighteenth Century Cartographer.” Imago Mundi 8:69–70. Edney, Matthew H. 1998. “John Green, Geographer.” In The ‘Percy Map’: Maps and Military Strategy during the Revolution. Online publication, on the website of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education, University of Southern Maine (updated through 2012). ———. 2003. “New England Mapped: The Creation of a Colonial

Fig. 342. DETAILS OF THE NORTH COAST OF SOUTH AMERICA AND THE WEST INDIES FROM SHEET SIX OF JOHN GREEN’S A CHART OF NORTH AND SOUTH AMERICA. From Thomas Jefferys, A General Topography of North America and the West Indies (London: Robert Sayer, 1768). Originally published in 1753, this map shows Green’s practice (above) of using underlining to identify places of known latitude (one line) and latitude and longitude (two

lines). Green also supplied tables (below) of the key locations as used on “this chart” as compared with the works of major French and Spanish mapmakers. Size of the entire sheet: ca. 54.5 × 61.5 cm; size of each detail: ca. 9.5 × 17.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G1105 .J4 1768).

588 Territory.” In La cartografia europea tra primo Rinascimento e fine dell’Illuminismo, ed. Diogo Ramada Curto, Angelo Cattaneo, and André Ferrand de Almeida, 155–76. Florence: Leo S. Olschki Editore. Foss, Theodore N. 1985. “The Editing of an Atlas of China: A Comparison of the Work of J.-B. d’Anville and the Improvements of John Green on the Jesuit/K’ang-hsi Atlas.” In Imago et mensura mundi: Atti del IX Congresso internazionale di storia della cartografia, 3  vols., ed. Carla Clivio Marzoli, 2:361–76. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. Robert de Vaugondy, Didier. 1755. Essai sur l’histoire de la géographie, ou sur son origine, ses progrès & son état actuel. Paris: Antoine Boudet.

Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain). One of the great unsolved problems in the seventeenth century was finding longitude at sea so that ships could be navigated when out of sight of land. A theoretical solution was the method of lunar distances, in which the moon’s position among the stars could be used to determine time at a fixed meridian. When compared with local time, this would give the longitude. But it required more accurate moon and star positions than were then available. For this reason the Royal Observatory at Greenwich was founded by King Charles II in 1675, with John Flamsteed as its first astronomical observator. The choice of Greenwich as the site was dictated by convenience and economics, rather than by science. The foundations of a derelict building already existed in the Royal Park, which was close to London and with suitable building materials nearby at the Tower of London and Tilbury Fort (fig. 343) (Forbes 1975, 19–24). Most of Flamsteed’s time as astronomer royal (the title to which astronomical observator was later changed) was spent in making the observations required to compile an accurate new catalog of star positions to replace that of Tycho Brahe, which had been made without telescopic aid. It was not until 1725, over five years after Flamsteed’s death, that the catalog was completed by his assistant Joseph Crosthwait and published as Historia coelestis Britannica. Meanwhile, a pirate copy had been published in 1712 by Isaac Newton, based on data loaned him for his private use by Flamsteed. After winning a court case, Flamsteed was given all the unsold pirate copies, which he destroyed—after removing those sections that might be useful to him. The star positions were also plotted on charts in the 1729 Atlas coelestis, on a projection devised by Flamsteed and now known as the Sanson-Flamsteed projection (Nicolas Sanson was a prolific French cartographer). The second astronomer royal was Edmond Halley. Despite their earlier friendship and collaboration, Flamsteed would not have favored Halley because of his close association with Newton. Nevertheless, Halley came to the post in 1720 at the age of sixty-four,

Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain)

having already distinguished himself as one of England’s greatest scientists. Among his many achievements were important cartographic contributions including charts of the southern stars, trade winds, and magnetic declination, but, of these, only his chart of the observed path in England of the 1724 total eclipse was made during his time at Greenwich. Halley’s work as astronomer royal was chiefly concerned with measuring the position of the moon to complete the second requirement of the method of lunar distances. After replacing the astronomical instruments (those of Flamsteed had been removed by his widow), Halley lived to observe the moon over a full nineteen-year Metonic cycle (Cook 1998, 377–404). The urgency of the longitude problem had been emphasized by the British government’s offer in 1714 of a huge prize for its solution. Despite this, the lunar distance method was not ready for implementation at sea until the publication in 1766 of the first Nautical Almanac by Nevil Maskelyne, the fifth astronomer royal, which gave predictions of the moon’s position among the stars for the year 1767. Updated predictions would be published in each new annual edition of the Almanac. Equipped with a sextant, to measure the angular distances between the moon and certain stars, and after some heavy calculations drawing on values provided by the Almanac, the mariner could determine longitude at sea, east or west of Greenwich. But Maskelyne failed to win the prize, which was awarded in 1773 after considerable prevarication, to John Harrison for the alternative technology of the marine chronometer. Though vastly more expensive and less widely available than the Nautical Almanac, the chronometer method was popular with mariners because of its relative simplicity of application and its endorsement by James Cook. In 1784, Major General William Roy undertook the measurement of the distance between the Greenwich and the Paris observatories. He started from a baseline on Hounslow Heath and triangulated from there to the transit circle at Greenwich, then on to Dover and the French coast. César-François Cassini (III) de Thury, director of the Paris Observatory, had already supervised the triangulation from there to the French coast (Roy 1790). The Greenwich Observatory continued to publish the Nautical Almanac and contribute to astronomy, but it was never in the business of producing charts. The meridian of the Greenwich Observatory was adopted for defining standard global time by an international conference in 1884, which lead to its adoption as a prime meridian for official mapping by many countries in the twentieth century. Stuart M alin

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Fig. 343. THE OCTAGON ROOM OF THE ROYAL OBSERVATORY AT GREENWICH, CA. 1676. Etching by Francis Place after Robert Thacker.

Size of the original: 46 × 61 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London. The Image Works.

See also: Academies of Science; Flamsteed, John; Greenwich-Paris Triangulation; Halley, Edmond; Longitude and Latitude; Meridians, Local and Prime B i bliogra p hy Cook, Alan H. 1998. Edmond Halley: Charting the Heavens and the Seas. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Forbes, Eric G. 1975. Greenwich Observatory, Volume 1: Origins and Early History (1675–1835). London: Taylor & Francis. Howse, Derek. 1975. Greenwich Observatory, Volume 3: The Buildings and Instruments. London: Taylor & Francis. Roy, William. 1790. “An Account of the Trigonometrical Operation, Whereby the Distance between the Meridians of the Royal Observatories of Greenwich and Paris Has Been Determined.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London 80:111–270.

servatories, both producers of astronomical data (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], xii–xiii). The Royal Society (William Roy in particular) was interested in measuring the difference between the prime meridians of London and Paris (Widmalm 1990, 188). French navigators and astronomers were equally interested because of their need to use and compare data from Greenwich to establish the longitudes of observed locations (Chapuis 1999, 271), even though the Connoissance des temps used the Paris meridian as reference for lunar distances from 1786 (the edition for the year 1789) (Chapuis 1999, 70). In the summer of 1784, Roy measured an initial baseline on Hounslow Heath, southwest of London, for a chain of triangles running from the British capital to Dover. From there, the chain extended across the Channel to the French coast to join a similar chain of triangles based on the Paris meridian (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], xii–xiii). Thus, these two coun-

Greenwich-Paris Triangulation. In a mémoire sent to the British government in 1783, César-François Cassini (III) de Thury proposed extending to England the triangulation of France in order to determine the difference in longitude between Europe’s two famous ob-

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tries began an exemplary cooperative venture characterized by an exactitude unprecedented in the history of geodesy. Such accuracy was possible because of improvements in instrumentation made during the 1780s, notably the increased quality of the steel for surveyor’s chains and of platinum and brass for rods used to measure baselines. At the end of the eighteenth century, these standards were verified by a comparator of length measures, created by Étienne Lenoir, which was precise to within about twenty microns. This same margin of error was achieved by Jean-Charles Borda; his rods made of a brass-platinum alloy had a variation in dilation of nearly just twenty microns with a variation of one degree in temperature (Chapuis 1999, 272). In England, the theodolite benefited from several technical advances, including the division of circles, which made it possible to obtain high-quality results from instruments of moderate radius. Between 1784 and 1787, Jesse Ramsden worked to produce his remarkable theodolite, whose scope was mounted on a horizontal axis and equipped with a micrometer and a source of light for use at night (Taylor 1966, 244) (see fig. 412). On the zenithal circle graduated in half-degrees, it was possible to read the angular displacement of the scope to within three seconds (Daumas 1953, 247). Once the theodolite was ready and paid for by George III, the English government invited French commissioners to collaborate in joining the triangles between Dover and Calais during the summer of 1787 (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], xiv). For the French, this undertaking provided an opportunity for Jean-Dominique Cassini (IV), Pierre-FrançoisAndré Méchain, and Adrien-Marie Legendre to test Borda’s new astronomic circle, which was produced by Lenoir and had just been used on the border between France and Spain (Daumas 1953, 243) (see fig. 541). Cassini IV described the instrument, which had been paid for by Louis XVI, as “just a whole circle, a foot in diameter, and thus of a very portable and very convenient size, which can be placed anywhere, set up without difficulty on the smallest support, in the narrowest space and which, in spite of its small size, provides more exactitude than one could expect from large quarter circles [i.e., quadrants]” (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], 23). The French mission also carried a quadrant of 2.5foot radius. Méchain used both instruments, but all the measurements confirmed the clear superiority of Borda’s smaller circle (Mascart 1919, 489). The astronomical circle (also called repeating circle or cercle répétiteur; not to be confused with Borda’s similar “reflecting circle”) was a little less exact than the English theodolite, but it had the enormous advantage of being one-third the size, therefore less cumbersome, with its

Greenwich-Paris Triangulation

32-centimeter diameter and weighing only 20 pounds compared to the theodolite’s 200 pounds (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], xvi, 57; Widmalm 1990, 194). The progress for geodesy was considerable: “One evaluated at about ten toises [19.49 meters] the error that geodesic measurements might yield over a distance of sixty lieues [266,700 meters]. . . . It will be possible to reduce this error by more than half” (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], xi). The triangulation also supported Roy’s ambition to initiate a national survey for Great Britain (Widmalm 1990, 188, 195). In the autumn of 1787, the junction of the two triangulations took place with great precision (fig. 344). “The Paris meridian found itself rejoined to the Greenwich meridian by a continuous chain of forty-two triangles, which, extended to a base historically measured to the north of Dunkirk, gave its [the base’s] length to within a foot [pied = 324.84 mm] of what had been determined earlier using the chain of triangles from the Paris meridian, an agreement as surprising as it was satisfactory between two operations departing from two points as widely separated as London and Paris” (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], xvi). The astronomers thus established a difference in longitude of about 2°20ʹ between the Paris and Greenwich observatories. On the French side, the first result obtained was 2°19ʹ29.2ʺ and the second measured was 2°20ʹ9.4ʺ. Across the Channel, Roy obtained 2°19ʹ42ʺ. These results were very good, since the value later accepted was 2°20ʹ14ʺ (Chapuis 1999, 273). In the long term, these results influenced a growing rhetoric of accuracy and exactness that distinguished discussions of surveying and cartography (Widmalm 1990, 195–200). The Greenwich-Paris triangulation was a remarkable instance of two countries, competitive on commercial and military fronts, cooperating in the name of science. O li vi er Chapuis See also: Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France, (3) Great Britain; Instruments for Angle Measuring Bibliography Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique, Pierre-François-André Méchain, and Adrien-Marie Legendre. [1791]. Exposé des opérations faites en France en 1787, pour la jonction des observatoires de Paris et de Greenwich. Paris: Institution des Sourds-Muets. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Daumas, Maurice. 1953. Les instruments scientifiques aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Mascart, Jean. 1919. La vie et les travaux du chevalier Jean-Charles de Borda (1733–1799): Épisodes de la vie scientifique au XVIIIe siècle. Lyon: Rey; Paris: Picard. Reprinted Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2000. Roy, William. 1785. “An Account of the Measurement of a Base on Hounslow Heath.” Philosophical Transactions 75:385–480.

Guettard, Jean-Étienne

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Fig. 344. PLAN OF THE TRIANGLES WHEREBY THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THE ROYAL OBSERVATORIES OF GREENWICH AND PARIS HAS BEEN DETERMINED. From William Roy, “An Account of the Trigonometrical Operation, Whereby the Distance between the Meridians of the Royal Observatories of Greenwich and Paris Has Been

Determined,” Philosopical Transactions 80 (1790): 111–270, pl. IX. Size of the original: 31.6 × 64.6 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

Taylor, E. G. R. 1966. The Mathematical Practitioners of Hanoverian England, 1714–1840. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Widmalm, Sven. 1990. “Accuracy, Rhetoric, and Technology: The Paris-Greenwich Triangulation, 1784–88.” In The Quantifying Spirit in the 18th Century, ed. Tore Frängsmyr, J. L. Heilbron, and Robin E. Rider, 179–206. Berkeley: University of California Press.

l’Angleterre) as an abridged version of the whole work (Guettard 1751, 364, 384). The maps displayed data collected from various excursions showing the nature and location of the terrain at a glance. The work demonstrated Guettard’s emphasis on patterns in the distribution of substances across the earth’s surface. Drawn by Philippe Buache, the maps employed two types of graphic representations: point symbols for locating mineral beds and three wide bands (bandes) that identified schists and metallic ores, marl, and sand deposits. This cartographic method, which depicted general landforms and evoked stratification, generated new perspectives; Guettard used the technique again to present mineralogical data that he had collected on North America, Switzerland, Poland, the Middle East, and France to the Académie royale des sciences in 1763 (Rappaport 1969, 278). From the early 1760s, Guettard deliberated over what scale would allow the most precise depiction of land detail. He finally chose 1:180,000 and began field trips accompanied by his assistant, the young AntoineLaurent de Lavoisier. The contrôleur general, HenriLéonard-Jean-Baptiste Bertin, took an interest in this detailed atlas project in which mines could be depicted, and he decided to finance an undertaking to map all

Guettard, Jean-Étienne. Jean-Étienne Guettard (1715– 86) was a prolific naturalist whose efforts to map the surface configuration of land established his reputation as a pioneer of geological cartography. Thanks to the support of Bernard de Jussieu, the young Guettard from Estampes was introduced to the world of Parisian naturalists during the 1740s. Guettard benefited from the protection first of René Antoine Ferchault de Réaumur, becoming his assistant in 1741, and then from the Orléans family in 1747. The quality of Guettard’s early work won him an appointment to the Académie royale des sciences as an assistant botanist on 3 July 1743. Three years later, he presented his “Mémoire et carte minéralogique” to colleagues at the Académie; it was later published with two maps (Carte minéralogique sur la nature du terrein d’une portion de l’Europe and the larger-scale Carte minéralogique, Où l’on voit la nature et la situation des terrains qui traversent la France et

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Fig. 345. JEAN-ÉTIENNE GUETTARD, CARTE MINERALOGIQUE DE PRESQUE TOUTE LA BRIE ET PAYS ADJACENTS, 1767. Prepared and executed by Jean-Louis Dupain Triel père. Two columns frame each map: the left column displays the key to symbols used by Guettard to represent mineralogical resources; the right column presents a cross-section

based on barometric measurements performed by Lavoisier. From Jean-Étienne Guettard and Antoine-Grimoald Monnet, Atlas et description minéralogiques de la France (Paris: Didot, Desnos, Jombert, 1780), F. 41. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (Case folio G1838.G84 1780).

of France in this way. However, the 1:180,000 scale slowed the project’s pace. In 1770, only sixteen maps were printed, which barely covered the northwest portion of the territory (fig. 345). The maps combined the point symbols favored by Guettard with the verticality of the sections defended by Lavoisier. They perpetuated thematic methods that had become traditional in eighteenth-century mineralogical maps, but they also attempted to depict stratification using a technique other than the bandes devised in 1746. The Atlas et description minéralogiques de la France, by Guettard and Antoine-Grimoald Monnet (1780), included these sixteen maps plus twenty-nine others drawn by Monnet. Other volumes were announced but never published. Though not completed, the project showed how the map was progressively thought of as an administrative tool and how the localization of resources and the configuration of terrain were intertwined deeply with mineralogical cartography in the second half of the eighteenth century.

See also: Thematic Map: Geological Map; Thematic Mapping: France Bibliography Ellenberger, François. 1983. “Recherches et réflexions sur la naissance de la cartographie géologique, en Europe et plus particulièrement en France.” Histoire et Nature 22–23:3–54. Guettard, Jean-Étienne. 1751. “Mémoire et carte minéralogique sur la nature & la situation des terreins qui traversent la France & l’Angleterre.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1746: 363–92. Laboulais, Isabelle. 2004. “Les voyages en France de Guettard et Lavoisier: Étude sur la construction des savoirs minéralogiques à la fin du XVIIIe siècle.” In Le voyage à l’époque moderne, 65–82. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris–Sorbonne. Rappaport, Rhoda. 1969. “The Geological Atlas of Guettard, Lavoisier, and Monnet: Conflicting Views on the Nature of Geology.” In Toward a History of Geology, ed. Cecil J. Schneer, 272–87. Cambridge: M.I.T. Press.

I sa b elle Labo ulais

Gulf Stream. The Gulf Stream is the best-known portion of the North Atlantic current gyre; it is the most studied, for reasons of navigation, and was mapped during the Enlightenment as an object of scientific investi-

Gulf Stream

gation (Withers 2006). Transatlantic voyagers from Columbus onward were aware of subtle surface currents affecting their navigation. Their accounts of the North Atlantic revealed two of the most easily perceived qualities of the Gulf Stream—its velocity and its relatively warm temperature. Although sailors like Nantucket’s whalers used the current and passed the knowledge on locally without the need of descriptive maps, it is remarkable that over two-and-a-half centuries passed before any comprehensive charts showing the current were published in the late eighteenth century. Some writers have suggested that seventeenth-century charts by Athanasius Kircher (1665) and Eberhard Werner Happel (1685) show the Gulf Stream, but their arguments and the maps are unconvincing (De Vorsey 1976, 118n4). Early in the eighteenth-century, mariners began to mention the current and eventually depict it on their charts. In 1705, in his Voyages and Descriptions, William Dampier commented on the current that ran always to the north through the Gulf of Florida (Withers 2006, 63). In 1735, a chart of Chesapeake Bay by Walter Hoxton noted a strong northeast flowing current offshore that was recommended to speed northbound navigators, but it was too limited in size to include any graphic depiction of the Gulf Stream. The first chart to show the Gulf Stream clearly as a major feature of the North Atlantic was prepared at Benjamin Franklin’s request by his cousin, Timothy Folger, a Nantucket whaling captain (De Vorsey 1976). In London in his role as deputy postmaster for the American colonies, Franklin had been asked why the mail packets often spent longer crossing the Atlantic than did merchantmen. Folger told Franklin that the packet skippers were often seen sailing against the Gulf Stream, while the merchantmen steered to avoid it. Franklin had Folger draw the current, which was then engraved on a copperplate of an old Atlantic chart. These in-house copies were sent to the packet commanders in Falmouth, who appear to have ignored them. Printed in a limited number, probably in early 1769 (Cohn 2000, 128–32), this first Folger-Franklin chart was never published, and only three copies are known to exist. Much later Franklin went on to publish the Folger view of the Gulf Stream. The first was a French version, prepared and engraved by Paris map publisher Georges-Louis Le Rouge probably in 1783 (fig. 346) (Cohn 2000). An English version, A Chart of the Gulf Stream, appeared in 1786 with Franklin’s letter to Alphonsus le Roy (Franklin 1786). This chart, engraved by James Poupard, was enormously influential and frequently copied and reprinted. It is largely responsible for the incorrect although widely held opinion that

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Franklin was author of the first published Gulf Stream chart. The first published and widely circulated chart of the Gulf Stream, however, was prepared by William Gerard De Brahm, Britain’s German-born surveyor general of the Southern District of North America (De Brahm 1974). In a 1771 Atlantic crossing he had studied the current’s course and speed by means of a chronometer and, in 1772, published the first map to show the Gulf Stream as a major feature of the North Atlantic Ocean. De Brahm’s Hydrographical Map of the Atlantic Ocean, . . . Shewing the differ.t Variations of the Compass, the Setting and Changes of the Currents in the Ocean, . . . Perform’d in 1771, appeared in his book of sailing directions, The Atlantic Pilot (1772), some sixteen years before Benjamin Franklin published his own better-known A Chart of the Gulf Stream. When the Franklin and De Brahm depictions of the Gulf Stream are compared they show considerable differences in style and content largely due to their dissimilar genesis; Franklin’s chart was based on Folger’s knowledge of the width of the current by cruising along its edges looking for whales and observing its velocity from the speed of whaling boats in the current while his ship was outside its flow. Franklin’s chart indicates the Gulf Stream’s velocity in several places from the Carolina coast to the Newfoundland Banks. Mail packet navigators bound for American ports were most liable to be impeded by the northeasterly current, which Franklin painstakingly determined to be warmer than the waters through which it flowed. Thus, the FolgerFranklin charts and their derivatives portray a broad, river-like, warm current with distinct edges. De Brahm, on the other hand, was familiar with the Gulf Stream through his experiences while carrying out detailed hydrographic surveys along the Florida coast. Significantly, the only coastlines sketched on his chart are those of southern Florida north to Charleston and the southwestern approaches to his destination, the English Channel. While Franklin’s motivation centered on aiding ships bound for America in avoiding the Gulf Stream’s impeding flow, De Brahm’s ambition was to aid ships bound for Europe by employing the current’s easterly flow to accelerate their crossing time. Through accurate celestial navigation and inference, De Brahm determined the Gulf Stream’s location and velocity. On his innovative chart he symbolized the Gulf Stream as a dark ribbon of flow lines of constant width indicating the course of the current from the Gulf of Mexico to the north and northeast until it joined with a broader current issuing from the Arctic. This combined current is shown to flow southeast around the Azores before beginning to curve southwestwardly to complete a North Atlantic current gyre.

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Fig. 346. THE UNTITLED FOLGER-FRANKLIN MAP OF THE GULF STREAM, AS PUBLISHED IN PARIS BY GEORGES-LOUIS LE ROUGE CA. 1783.

Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OS-1782-2).

De Brahm’s flow lines highlighted what later oceanographers would term the Gulf Stream’s centerline, where its maximum reliability and velocity are found. By the closing decades of the eighteenth century the nature, location, and significance of the Gulf Stream had been made known to the burgeoning maritime science of the Enlightenment thanks to the efforts of De Brahm and Franklin and their maps. Their pioneering endeavors were carried forward by others including Franklin’s nephew and shipboard associate Jonathan Williams, who pioneered the use of a thermometer to find the exact edges of the Gulf Stream (fig. 347), American na-

val officer Thomas Truxton, Massachusetts governor Thomas Pownall, British physician and scientist Charles Blagden, British naturalist William Strickland, and British hydrographer James Rennell. L o ui s De Vorsey See also: De Brahm, William Gerard; Thematic Mapping Bibliography Cohn, Ellen R. 2000. “Benjamin Franklin, George-Louis Le Rouge and the Franklin/Folger Chart of the Gulf Stream.” Imago Mundi 52:124–42. De Brahm, William Gerard. 1788. Recherches faites par ordre de sa Majesté Britannique, depuis 1765 jusque’en 1772, pour rectifier les

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Fig. 347. JONATHAN WILLIAMS’S MAP OF THE GULF STREAM, 1793. From Jonathan Williams, “Memoir of Jonathan Williams, on the Use of the Thermometer in Discovering Banks, Soundings, &c.,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 3 (1793): 82–100, map between 84

and 85. The map shows the Gulf Stream with the tracks of five ships. Size of the original: 19.5 × 40.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (AS 36 A 532 v.3).

cartes & perfectionner la navigation du Canal de Bahama. Paris: n.p. ———. 1974. The Atlantic Pilot: A Facsimile Reproduction of the 1772 Edition. Ed., intro., and index by Louis De Vorsey. Gainesville: University Presses of Florida. De Vorsey, Louis. 1976. “Pioneer Charting of the Gulf Stream: The Contributions of Benjamin Franklin and William Gerard De Brahm.” Imago Mundi 28:105–20. Franklin, Benjamin. 1786. “A Letter from Dr. Benjamin Franklin,

to Mr.  Alphonsus le Roy, . . . Containing Sundry Maritime Observations.” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 2: 294–329. Richardson, Philip L. 1980. “The Benjamin Franklin and Timothy Folger Charts of the Gulf Stream.” In Oceanography: The Past, ed. Mary Sears and Daniel Merriman, 703–17. New York: Springer-Verlag. Withers, Charles W. J. 2006. “Science at Sea: Charting the Gulf Stream in the Late Enlightenment.” Interdisciplinary Science Reviews 31:58–76.

H Halley, Edmond. Born 29 October 1656 at Haggerston in the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, during the Commonwealth (Interregnum), Edmond Halley died at Greenwich 14 January 1742. On 20 April 1682 Halley married Mary Tooke; they had two daughters and a son. Halley lived during the reigns of seven English monarchs. From each of these Halley, “a truly great man of prodigious versatility and most attractive personality,” received favors (Bullard 1956, 189). Halley’s father (also Edmond) was a wealthy merchant (Salter’s Company member), a Yeoman Warder of the Tower, and a property owner in London, where young Halley’s formal education began when he entered St. Paul’s School. There he was influenced by the high master, Thomas Gale, a notable classical scholar who also appreciated scientific learning. It was as a schoolboy at St. Paul’s in 1672 that Halley made his first recorded observation. This was on the variation of the magnetic compass, the difference between true (astronomical) and magnetic (compass) north, which was published with other such observations in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London in 1683. In 1673 Halley entered Queen’s College, Oxford University. There he continued his scientific observations with astronomical instruments his father provided for him. In 1676, while still an undergraduate, Halley published the first of many scientific papers he was to contribute to the Philosophical Transactions. Before receiving a BA degree, Halley left Oxford to join an East India Company ship, which would take him to the island of Saint Helena. There he spent a year observing constellations visible in the Southern Hemisphere. As on his outward voyage, during his return Halley made magnetic observations. He also observed the directions of prevailing winds, published as “An Historical Account of the Trade Winds” (Philosophical Transactions, 1686), including a chart (see fig. 776).

Almost immediately upon his return to England from Saint Helena, Halley set about putting his astronomical observations into published form. This work, Catalogus stellarum australium (1679) was accompanied by a large star chart, or celestial planisphere (see fig. 154). Copies were presented to King Charles II, who ordered that Halley be awarded the MA degree without “performing any previous or subsequent exercises for the same” (Thrower 1981, 1:20). Halley was also elected a fellow of the Royal Society on 30 November 1678. On behalf of the Royal Society, but at his own expense, Halley then traveled in Europe, visiting the astronomer and cartographer Johannes Hevelius in Danzig, where they observed together in 1679 and subsequently corresponded. At the end of 1680 Halley departed on his “grand tour,” visiting the astronomer and cartographer Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) at the Paris Observatory on the way. Talented in foreign languages, he became clerk to the secretaries of the Royal Society. On being denied appointment in 1691 to the vacant Savilian Professorship of Astronomy at Oxford for which he had applied, Halley requested from the joint monarchs, King William III and Queen Mary II, a ship in which to pursue his magnetic observations over the deep oceans. For this purpose, he was appointed as a temporary captain in the Royal Navy and as commander of a small vessel, the pink HMS Paramore. During two voyages, 1698 to 1700, Halley observed and mapped the earth’s magnetic field in the Atlantic from 50°00′N to 52°24′S latitude. Often considered as one of the earliest purely scientific voyages, Halley returned to England with a rich harvest of data. These were published in 1701 as a sea chart with “Curve-Lines” depicting lines of constant magnetic variation or isogones (fig. 348). Halley’s map is credited as the first published isoline map of any phenomena (Thrower 1981, 1:57). Two Dutch manuscript isobathic river charts (by Pieter Bruinsz., 1584, and by Pierre Ancelin, 1697) predate Halley’s isogonic map of the Atlantic, but Halley was unlikely to have known of these. In 1702 Halley published an isogonic chart of the Atlantic and Indian Oceans, with data for the latter supplied mainly by captains of East India Company vessels. Because magnetic

Fig. 348. GEOMAGNETIC MAP. Edmond Halley, A New and Correct Chart Shewing the Variations of the Compass in the Western & Southern Oceans. An early state of the first edition, copper engraved and hand colored, from about 1701.

Size of the original: 58.5 × 49.5 cm. Image courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps, La Jolla.

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variation itself varies over time, such charts have to be periodically updated, as Halley advised in the letterpress description that accompanied the map and explained its use (Thrower 1981, 1:365–67) (see fig. 442). But Halley was not yet finished with his naval activities, and he requested the use of the Paramore for a third voyage to study the tides in the English Channel. This was approved, and he spent from June through September 1701 on this assignment. Unlike previous surveys of the phenomena, where the magnetic compass had been used to measure directions of the tides, Halley used the sun, a more accurate method, to determine the angles. He also provided a formula for estimating the height of the tides at certain places and times, as detailed on his resulting chart. Halley’s last important map is of the shadow of a solar eclipse over England, 1715 (see fig. 793). By the time it was published, Halley had reentered academic life through his appointment as Professor of Geometry at Oxford University in 1704. This was the period of Halley’s observations on comets that have overshadowed all of his other accomplishments, including those in cartography. In 1713 Halley became secretary of the Royal Society. After the death of John Flamsteed in 1719, Halley was appointed the second astronomer royal at Greenwich Observatory in 1720. Halley wrote a foreword, “To the Reader,” for the Atlas maritimus & commercialis (1728), with recommendations on the uses of map projections. He opined there and elsewhere that the Mercator projection of 1569 ought to be called the “Nautical” projection (Thrower 1981, 1:78n1). Perhaps he knew that Erhard Etzlaub had anticipated Mercator in this projection in 1513, and that Edward Wright, in Certaine Errors in Navigation (1599) explained its mathematics for the first time. Throughout his life, Halley was interested in, and contributed greatly to, the science of mapmaking. N o r ma n J . W. Th rower See also: Celestial Mapping: Great Britain; Eclipse Map, Solar; Geographical Mapping: Great Britain; Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain); Isoline; Longitude and Latitude; North, Magnetic and True; Science and Cartography; Thematic Mapping: Great Britain Bibliograp hy Bullard, Edward Crisp. 1956. “Edmond Halley (1656–1741).” Endeavour 15:189–99. Cook, Alan H. 1998. Edmond Halley: Charting the Heavens and the Seas. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Halley, Edmond. 1932. Correspondence and Papers of Edmond Halley. Ed. Eugene Fairfield MacPike. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Thrower, Norman J. W., ed. 1981. The Three Voyages of Edmond Halley in the Paramore, 1698–1701. 2 vols. London: Hakluyt Society. ———, ed. 1990. Standing on the Shoulders of Giants: A Longer View of Newton and Halley. Berkeley: University of California Press. Waters, David Watkin. 1990. “Captain Edmond Halley, F.R.S., Royal Navy, and the Practice of Navigation.” In Standing on the Shoulders

of Giants: A Longer View of Newton and Halley, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 171–202. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Hase, Johann Matthias. Johann Matthias Hase (Haas, Hasius) was born in 1684 in Augsburg and died on 24 September 1742 in Wittenberg. He studied theology and mathematics in Helmstedt (1701–4) and in Leipzig (1704–7) with Christian Wolff, where he earned the title of Magister philosophiae in 1707. After returning to Augsburg in 1708 as house tutor for the aristocratic von Schnurbein family, he moved to Leipzig with his employer’s son, Gottfried von Schnurbein, where he soon began lecturing at the university. By the end of 1719 Hase had become mathematics professor at the University of Wittenberg, where he also filled the roles of rector (1728) and dean of the philosophy faculty (1737) until his death (Bonacker [1967], 276–78). Hase is regarded as one of the most innovative cartographers of the eighteenth century. As he emphasized in the posthumously published Anmerkungen über seine Landkarten von den grossen Weltreichen (in Kosmographische Nachrichten und Sammlungen auf das  Jahr 1748, 1750), he followed the path determined by Guillaume Delisle, applying stringent critical interpretation of all materials available to him. Thus, he created distinctive maps that distinguished him among German cartographers of his time and placed him in the intellectual trajectory from Delisle to Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville. Hase’s map of Africa (fig. 349), which incorporated only reliable information, is a noteworthy illustration of his approach, foreshadowing by twelve years d’Anville’s Afrique (1749), which would provoke great sensation. In addition, Hase’s numerous historical maps mark a paradigm shift in historical cartography by breaking from the “Ortelian pattern,” in place from the end of the sixteenth century (Goffart 1995; 2003, 147–49, 256– 59). Hase treated not only the common subject of antiquity but also the Middle Ages and contemporary time, thus demonstrating a universal historical interest: in his De magnitudine comparata et determinata urbium (appended at the end of his Regni Davidici et Salomonæi descriptio geographica et historica, 1739) twenty-four urban maps compare ancient cities like Babylon and Rome to modern cities like St. Petersburg, Stockholm, Lima, Beijing, and Tokyo. To illustrate political territorial relationships in different time periods, Hase employed separate copperplates for the six maps of his Regni Davidici et Salomonaei descriptio geographica et historica. Each plate overprinted a base map to show respective time periods by changing the borders of the extent of the kingdoms.

Hase, Johann Matthias

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Fig. 349. JOHANN MATTHIAS HASE, AFRICA SECUNDUM LEGITIMAS PROJECTIONIS STEREOGRAPHICÆ REGULAS (NUREMBERG, 1737). First state, copper engraving, ca. 1:20,000,000.

Size of the original: ca. 47 × 56 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (Kart. GfE I 1,50).

Hase had already planned an historical atlas by 1728, although the work did not appear until 1743, one year after his death. The Tabvlae geographicae . . . de svmmis imperiis that illustrated the third part of his Historiae universalis politicae (1743) comprised twenty-eight maps in quarto that treated the development of great empires from antiquity to the eighteenth century (see fig. 83). Using twentieth-century time divisions, about a third of the maps dealt with antiquity, close to one half with the Middle Ages, and just under a fifth with modern times, with only four maps. Eleven of the maps illustrate Arabic, Mongolian, and Ottoman Turkish history from the eighth to eighteenth century. Hase’s historical maps,

published between 1739 and 1750 by the Homann Heirs in separate editions, were integrated with his seven maps of the history of France and of the Holy Roman Empire of Charlemagne to Charles VI (the Tabvlae IV. Imperii Francici vel Imp. Romano-Germanici s. Romani Occidentalis, Schemata I–VII) in his Atlas historicvs (1750). René Tebel See also: Atlas: Historical Atlas; Geographical Mapping: Enlightenment; Historical Map; Homann Family Bibliography Bonacker, Wilhelm. [1967]. “Johann Matthias Haas (1684–1742), sein Leben, seine Schriften und Karten.” Zeitschrift des Historischen Vereins für Schwaben 59–60:271–309.

600 Dörflinger, Johannes. 2003. “Das geschichtskartographische Werk von Johann Matthias Hase (Hasius)–Paradigmenwechsel in der Historischen Kartographie (?).” In Geschichtsdeutung auf alten Karten: Archäologie und Geschichte, ed. Dagmar Unverhau, 221–54. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Goffart, Walter. 1995. “Breaking the Ortelian Pattern: Historical Atlases with a New Program, 1747–1830.” In Editing Early and Historical Atlases, ed. Joan Winearls, 49–81. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. ———. 2003. Historical Atlases: The First Three Hundred Years, 1570–1870. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sandler, Christian. 1890. “Die homännischen Erben: Im Anschluss an ‘Johann Baptista Homann’ dargelegt.” Zeitschrift für Wissenschaftliche Geographie 7:333–55, 418–48.

Height Measurement. Alt i me t ry L e ve l i n g

Altimetry. Although altimetry, or hypsometry, is gener-

ally understood to mean any measurement of height, it has in modern times come to refer specifically to height measurement with instruments other than those commonly used by surveyors. In the long eighteenth century, this meant the use of mercury barometers and, very occasionally, thermometers in the study of the atmosphere and mountains (Broc 1969, 71–96; Feldman 1985). Such barometry was fraught with error and ambiguity for several reasons. Until the refinements publicized by Jean-André Deluc in 1772, the portable barometer remained an inexact instrument (Middleton 1964, 134– 39). Each set of barometric observations was necessarily calibrated against other height determinations, whether by leveling or geometrical calculations, which were often of poor quality. The rules advanced to relate changes in pressure to changes in height were therefore not robust and were routinely refined in light of each new round of barometric observations (Feldman 1985 gives full details). Not until 1796 did Pierre-Simon de Laplace advance a simple and universal model of atmospheric behavior that could support a pragmatic and straightforward methodology. Before Laplace, geography and cartography benefited only indirectly from altimetry, but his work enabled Alexander von Humboldt to embark on a comprehensive barometric mapping of the Andes that finally integrated altimetry within cartography (Feldman 1985, 188–95). Barometric height determination originated in the so-called Torricellian experiment. In June 1644, Evangelista Torricelli described an experiment to create a vacuum by inverting a meter-long glass tube filled with mercury so that it stood upright in a mercury-filled basin. He concluded that the vacuum caused at the top of a tube was limited not by nature’s horror vacui but by the weight of air pressing down on the basin, which forced

Height Measurement

the column of mercury just so far up the tube. He also inferred that the lesser weight of air atop a mountain would result in a lower height of mercury. Torricelli’s inference was demonstrated in 1648 when Florin Périer, at the behest of his brother-in-law Blaise Pascal, found that the height of a Torricellian tube atop the Puy-de-Dôme in the Auvergne was 3 pouces 1.5 lignes (8.5 cm) lower than that in a second tube left in Clermont, far below. Already, two instruments were being used to determine relative differences in pressure and so height within a constantly changing local air mass (Middleton 1964, 19–32; Feldman 1985, 129–30). There quickly followed a widespread effort to correlate differences in height and pressure in order to investigate the hydrostatic properties of air, to determine the height of the atmosphere, and to develop models of atmospheric behavior. Thus, Jacques Cassini (II) took numerous barometric readings atop mountains throughout the early eighteenth century, not to assist in the geodetic survey of the arc of the meridian but to test the law relating the pressure and volume of gases independently developed by Robert Boyle and Edme Mariotte. Several natural philosophers—including Edmond Halley, Mariotte, and Cassini II—proposed rules of atmospheric behavior (Feldman 1985, 131–38). More overtly cartographic was the use of barometers during the expedition to Peru, when Pierre Bouguer and Charles-Marie de La Condamine used a complex mix of geometry and barometry to determine the height of their primary baseline and so reduce their measured length of a degree to the desired equivalent at sea level (Broc 1969, 83–85). In 1705–6, an interest in natural history and a desire to prove that the Alps were indeed the highest mountains in Europe led Johann Jakob Scheuchzer to measure the heights of a number of the lower Alps; to do so he used a crude Torricellian barometer calibrated against a single inexact measurement of the height of a cliff (Feldman 1985, 137–38). Scheuchzer did not include his results in his several maps, save for a lone spot height on his Nova Helvetiae tabula geographica (1712; see fig. 771), but his work seems to have prompted Christopher Packe to use barometry in studying the relief and hydrology of eastern Kent (Packe 1743, 81–83, 92–94). Packe located many spot heights on his own map (fig. 350). In the first volume (1749) of his Histoire naturelle, générale et particulière, Georges-Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon, argued that the earth’s rotation meant that the tallest mountains would be in the tropics, the lowest in polar regions (Broc 1969, 78–79). Although Buffon later retracted this claim, it established a concern with the comparative distribution of mountains as a factor in understanding orogenesis. The issue led Deluc, a Genevan textile merchant, to begin barometric measurements of the Alps in 1754. Aghast at the inexact procedures and idiosyncratic

Height Measurement

Fig. 350. SOME OF THE SPOT HEIGHTS ON CHRISTOPHER PACKE’S A NEW PHILOSOPHICO-CHOROGRAPHICAL CHART OF EAST-KENT (LONDON, 1743). Packe determined all his heights in feet above sea level with a portable barometer compared against a stationary barometer of similar manufacture kept at his home; he calibrated his portable barometer against the height of the main tower at Canterbury Cathedral. Note that Packe disturbed the planimetric form of his map with only a few lines of imprecise hills drawn in profile to indicate the main ridge lines. Otherwise he delineated the courses of streams and rivers so he could readily locate spot heights precisely. The full four-sheet map is reproduced as figure 622. Size of each sheet: 60 × 65 cm; size of detail: ca. 16.0 × 8.5  cm. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh (EME.s.130).

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results of barometry, Deluc began an exhaustive program to perfect the portable barometer, its use, its correction with the thermometer, and its calibration against carefully leveled heights. His approach was strictly empirical and inductive: he reduced his field observations into a rule relating height differences to atmospheric pressure without reference to the nature and behavior of the atmosphere. Deluc also investigated the use of the thermometer to determine heights by measuring the temperature of boiling water; the instrument he designed for this purpose, the hypsometer, would be widely used in the nineteenth century (Feldman 1985, 152–56; 1998). Deluc’s exhaustive treatise, Recherches sur les modifications de l’atmosphère, finally appeared in 1772 in two volumes. At about the same time, the collapse of the Genevan economy led him to migrate to Britain. London proved fertile ground for his empirical approach, prompting first William Roy and then George Shuckburgh (Sir George Evelyn-Shuckburgh) to undertake extensive barometric measurements. Roy seems to have been particularly interested in developing a better topographical understanding of Britain. In 1774 and 1776 Roy and Shuckburgh together tested Deluc’s procedures and rule at Schiehallion, the site of Nevil Maskelyne’s measurement of gravitational attraction, for which Maskelyne had used a portable barometer made by Jesse Ramsden (Feldman 1985, 153–56, 162–77). Deluc’s extensive improvements to the portable barometer might have made barometric measurements more reliable, but his work still did not provide any certainty over atmospheric behavior, and Roy and Shuckburgh promptly modified his rule. Further work in the Alps, especially by Shuckburgh and Horace-Bénédict de Saussure, continued to complicate matters (Feldman 1985, 178–79). The proliferation of work in the Alps is apparent from the first published list of mountain heights, compiled by the French military engineer François Pasumot. Pasumot listed 107 mountain heights, as determined both by geometry and barometers, not counting another 45 Alpine heights provided by Jacques-Barthélemy Micheli du Crest, whose measurements he found manifestly untrustworthy. To compare the heights of mountains of the Eastern and Western Hemispheres, which he summarized in a diagram (fig. 351), Pasumot drew on La Condamine’s observations in Peru, those by Cassini II and himself in France, and a variety of work by Scheuchzer, Deluc, Schuckburgh, Saussure, and others in the Alps (Pasumot 1783). In 1796, Louis François Elisabeth Ramond de Carbonnières began his own barometrical observations in the Pyrenees. At the same time, Laplace cut through all the empirical complexities when he analyzed atmospheric behavior from first principles and derived, in just two pages in his Exposition du système du monde, a universal rule complete with simple corrections for

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Fig. 351. THE FIRST COMPARATIVE DIAGRAM OF THE HEIGHTS OF MOUNTAINS IN THE NEW AND OLD WORLDS. François Pasumot, “Table comparative des principales montagnes dont on a mesuré ou observé les hauteurs en Amerique, en France, dans les Alpes,” in Pasumot 1783, opp. 240. This diagram accompanied the first listing of mountains whose heights had been determined by barometric and geo-

metrical measurements; barometric measurements were limited to peaks below the horizontal lines indicating the highest ascents by climbers. Size of the original: 15.3 × 21.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

temperature (Laplace 1796, 1:144–45). Ramond de Carbonnières thought Laplace’s key coefficient too small when compared with his own observations, leading him to undertake more tests and correct Laplace’s coefficient. In a series of memoirs, presented in 1804–9 and published together as Mémoires sur la formule barométrique de la Mécanique céleste (1811), he further simplified the process of barometric height determination to make it usable by any observer in the field. Only then could altimetry fulfill its promise as a fast and easy process well suited for areas as yet unmapped by the laborious process of high-order triangulation (Feldman 1985, 179–86).

Feldman, Theodore S. 1985. “Applied Mathematics and the Quantification of Experimental Physics: The Example of Barometric Hypsometry.” Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences 15, no. 2: 127–95. ———. 1998. “Hypsometer.” In Instruments of Science: An Historical Encyclopedia, ed. Robert Bud and Deborah Jean Warner, 318–19. New York: Science Museum, London, and National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution, in association with Garland. Laplace, Pierre-Simon de. 1796. Exposition du système du monde. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Cercle-Social. Middleton, W. E. Knowles. 1964. The History of the Barometer. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press. Packe, Christopher. 1743. Ανκογραϕια, sive Convallium Descriptio . . . (as an Explanation of a New Philosophico-Chorographical Chart) of East-Kent. Canterbury: Printed and sold by J. Abree. Pasumot, François. 1783. “Lettre aux auteurs du Journal de physique.” Observations sur la Physique, sur l’Histoire Naturelle et sur les Arts 23:193–201.

M atth ew H . Ed ney See also: Geodetic Surveying; Heights and Distances, Geometric Determination of; Packe, Christopher Bibliograp hy Broc, Numa. 1969. Les montagnes vues par les géographes et les naturalistes de langue française au XVIIIe siècle: Contribution à l’histoire de la géographie. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale.

Leveling. Leveling is the process of determining how much higher or lower one point on the earth’s surface is than another one. These points are related to a line (a

Height Measurement

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Fig. 352. LEVELING USED TO DETERMINE WATER FLOW. From William Davis, A Complete Treatise on Land Surveying, by the Chain, Cross and Offset Staffs Only, 2d ed. (London: Printed by Knight and Compton, 1802), pl. 7, fig. 3 (between 286 and 287). This diagram shows how to deter-

mine whether water can be brought from a spring at M to a reservoir at N by leveling at each end and at five intermediate stations. Size of the entire original: 18.8 × 19.8 cm; size of detail: 3.2 × 16.5 cm.

great circle) equidistant at every point from the earth’s center. Because the radius of the earth is large, a small arc of this great circle is considered to be a straight and level line. Many seventeenth- and eighteenth-century surveying textbooks describe the technique and give examples of its use in determining the flow of water (fig. 352), drainage work and the construction of canals, and military applications. The principles underlying the methods of leveling have remained unchanged since the seventeenth century. If the two points whose heights are to be compared can both be observed from the same station, then the first point is sighted and a vertical staff erected there. The height is read at which a horizontal line from the instrument to the point crosses the staff. Then, a vertical staff is erected at the second point and the height read at which the horizontal line from the instrument (which, depending on the instrument, might have had to be rotated 180°) crosses the staff. The difference in elevation is equal to the difference in the readings on the two staffs. If the two points are not both visible from the same station, then intermediate leveling points must be used. The instrument is placed midway between the first two points and the differences in elevation read as before and recorded in a log. The first staff is then moved to the second point, the second staff to the third point, and the instrument placed between them. A sight is read back to the second point and forward to the third and the elevations recorded again. This process is repeated until the end point is reached. The overall difference in elevation is the difference in readings between all the measurements made on the first staff and all of those made on the second. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, most authors recommended that the horizontal distances between the staffs be measured using a chain. There was little discussion about making corrections for the curvature of the earth and for refraction, subjects that were more frequently discussed in texts published from the nineteenth century onward.

In the seventeenth century, leveling was often carried out over short distances and with unsophisticated instruments. A plumb bob or long needle was used to ensure that the instrument was level with the horizontal. Several water levels were developed; credit for the invention of the spirit level using a bubble is usually given to Melchisédech Thévenot in 1666, but its introduction was slow both in continental Europe and in England because of difficulties in constructing the containing tube (Richeson 1966, 136–37). Before the introduction of telescopic sights, a small circular board about ten centimeters in diameter was fixed on the leveling staff and covered with white paper with a black line drawn across the middle. This was moved up and down the staff until the black line could be seen through the sights on the instrument. While the water level remained in use throughout the eighteenth century, especially in France, an increasingly popular instrument had telescopic sights leveled by a bubble or spirit level. Jonathan Sisson and Thomas Heath competed in devising improved instruments and publicized them in surveying texts. Sisson’s Y level, communicated to the Royal Society in 1736 and published in William Gardiner’s Practical Surveying Improved the following year, became the standard into the nineteenth century. Foresights and backsights could be taken without rotating the instrument and thus introducing errors. S arah Bendall See also: Instruments for Distance Measuring: Level; Topographical Surveying; Transportation and Cartography: Canal Survey Bibliography Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Kiely, Edmond R. 1947. Surveying Instruments: Their History and Classroom Use. New York: Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Leybourn, William. 1722. The Compleat Surveyor, or, The Whole Art of Surveying of Land, by a New Instrument Lately Invented. 5th ed.

604 Ed. Samuel Cunn. London: Printed for Samuel Ballard . . . , Aaron Ward . . . , and Tho. Woodward. Richeson, A. W. 1966. English Land Measuring to 1800: Instruments and Practices. Cambridge: Society for the History of Technology and MIT Press.

Heights and Depths, Mapping of. Re l i e f De p i c t i on Re l i e f Map I s o bat h Bat hyme t r i c Ma p

Relief Depiction. The cartographic depiction of the

physical shape of the landscape in the Enlightenment perpetuated the same proliferation and inconsistency of signs as had been deployed on Renaissance maps (Delano-Smith 2007, 531–32). A review of the maps reproduced throughout this volume reveals significant variation according to the intended functions of the maps and the particular styles and skills of individual surveyors, draftsmen, and engravers. Even so, the institutional growth of topographical engineers throughout the eighteenth century led to significant efforts to standardize procedures for relief depiction, at least for largerscale topographical maps. Thus, as Eduard Imhof (1965, 10) observed, the eighteenth century was the era with the greatest variation in forms for depicting relief on maps. At the smaller geographical scales of maps of regions and of the entire world, relief was conceptualized in terms of ranges of hills and mountains, whether as areas of little settlement or as barriers to movement and communication. Renaissance geographers had developed a number of strategies for depicting hill ranges, whether nonpictorial linear signs or small icons of individual mountains, perhaps shown individually but commonly arrayed in lines or grouped en masse (Delano-Smith 2007, 547–51). Enlightenment geographers followed suit, and the great majority continued to use icons but without any consistency. The icons generally featured shading to enhance the sense of oblique or bird’s-eye perspective but otherwise differed according to their spacing or grouping; their shape: from rounded “molehills” to sharply peaked mountains; their size: from small, delicate outlines to large, baroque masses; their aesthetic complexity: from simple triangles to “realistic” renditions with multiple peaks; their angle of view: some icons in profile, most oblique; and whether particular mountains were emphasized by being drawn larger than surrounding hills. The eighteenth-century innovation in small-scale relief depiction, informed by larger-scale practices, was to sketch the planimetric extent of slopes and escarpments with hachures or form lines (Schraffen, Geländestriche, or hachures figuratives). The bands of these hachures, in which the lines run down the slope, enclose the hills to

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give an impression of the overall landscape (fig. 353). At smaller scales, this practice produced the caterpillar-like ridge delineations with which Philippe Buache and Edme Mentelle indicated the distribution of mountain chains (see figs. 133 and 291) and which would become common on nineteenth-century regional maps. The larger-scale detailed mapping of landscapes and urban places by military and civil engineers featured a fundamental tension between two representational strategies for depicting relief that was not resolved even by the end of the eighteenth century. Echoing previous commentators, Louis-Nicolas de Lespinasse specifically noted in his Traité du lavis des plans (1801, 41) that the topographical engineer could choose whether to represent the geometrical measure of a landscape feature in a proportionally correct orthographic plan or by the visual appearance of the feature in profile or as an oblique or perspectival view (Bousquet-Bressolier 1995, 105; Godlewska 2003). Perspective depictions of relief were built on long-established artistic practices that sought “realistic” imitations of landscape. Such perspectives were sometimes referred to as perspective cavalière (Kavalierperspektive) because they had originated in the elevated viewpoint of an observer mounted on horseback; they would later be geometrically codified as a form of lowangle perspective without a vanishing point, in which distant features do not get smaller. But in cartographic practice, perspective views of relief gave rise to “heterogeneous and hybrid images” (Nuti 1995, 65) that combined multiple visual angles and scales (fig. 354). Orthographic relief depiction had also developed in the Renaissance, with the use of both hachures and shading to indicate the extent and perhaps degree of slopes. Various attempts were made during the eighteenth century to regularize and refine those techniques, but in practice styles were varied and depended on personal ability, on techniques and training, and on the progressive institutionalization of military topographical efforts. The limitations of printing in rendering manuscript shading and color further influenced developments in depiction. Some novel works were produced, such as Christopher Packe’s 1743 map of eastern Kent, in which he mapped all streams, down to the smallest rills, leaving ridge lines in white (see figs. 350 and 622), but these lacked wider influence. In much of Europe, and especially in France, topographical engineers sought to resolve the tension between profile and planimetric views by perfecting a method of shaded relief depiction. This approach was codified, building on principles of architectural drawing, by Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson in his La science des ombres par rapport au dessin (1750), L’art de lever des plans (1763), and Le Spectacle de la campagne (augmenting his La science de l’arpenteur dans toute son étendu starting with the 1775 edition). Drawing slopes

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Fig. 353. DETAIL OF ESCARPMENTS AND SLOPES. From Carsten Niebuhr, Karte von dem groessten Theil des Landes Jemen, new ed. (Vienna: Franz Anton Schrämbl, 1789), ca. 1:200,000.

Image courtesy of the Delft University of Technology (TRL 7.3.1.25).

from an orthographic perspective, topographers darkened the eastern and southern slopes as they would be in shadow were the sun located to the north and west. The darkening was accomplished by color (in manuscript), by cross-hatching (in print), or by varying the width of the still impressionistic hachures. For more level surfaces, however, where they needed to distinguish surface features, from fields and woods to towns and fortresses, topographers continued to sketch in slopes and escarpments (Bousquet-Bressolier 1995). Such techniques were applied to many of the topographical maps produced by French engineers, such as the seventy-six-sheet map at 1:28,800 including the border regions with Italy, from Nice to Grenoble, produced in 1749–54 under the direction of Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet (Konvitz 1987, pls. 1-2). In Switzerland, shaded relief was used for the multisheet Atlas Suisse (1796–1802) by Johann Heinrich Weiss and Joachim Eugen Müller, financed by Johann Rudolf Meyer. The maps’ authors succeeded in creating a surprisingly vivid map image dominated by the blue glaciers that were printed with a second copperplate (see fig. 861). This was the first application of multicolor printing to relief depiction and set the trend for

nineteenth-century developments (Klöti 1997, 24). The steeper sections are accented by black cross-hatching, and in the high mountains there were often deviations from the originally planned vertical illumination; the northwest illumination accentuated the narrow ridges. German military topographers did not use shaded relief, but rather sought to apply planimetric hachures in a more meaningful way by varying their thickness according to the steepness of the terrain. The goal was to give staff officers an immediate view of those places where the ground was too steep for troop movements. Rather than long, figurative form lines, this process produced sets of shorter hachures (Böschungsschraffen or hachures normalisées). The development can be traced in several maps produced in the German states, from Isaac Jacob von Petri’s twelve-sheet Accurate SituationsCharte von einem Theile des Churfürstenthums Sachsen (1759–60), at 1:32,000, undertaken as a result of Prussia’s invasion of Saxony, to the 270-sheet “Schmettausche Kabinettskarte” of Prussia (1775–87), at 1:50,000 (see fig. 829), to the 445 Meilenblätter (mile sheets) of Saxony (1780–1825) at 1:12,000, begun by Friedrich Ludwig Aster (fig. 355). The especially large scale of the

Fig. 354. LE SIEUR ROUSSEL, “PLAN DES RETRANCHEMENTS DU CAMP DE PRALY AU BOUT DE LA VALLÉE DE ST. MARTIN,” 1704, CA. 1:3,000. The map has a complex mix of perspective views of relief. A note on the verso indicates that this plan was sent by Roussel from the camp of Louis

d’Aubusson de La Feuillade at Pignarol (Pinerolo), near Turin, on 24 July 1704 during the Savoy campaign of the War of the Spanish Succession. Size of the original: 53 × 37 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 4658).

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Fig. 355. KÖNIGSTEIN AND OTHER TOWNS ON ONE SHEET OF THE SÄCHSICHE MEILENBLÄTTER, 1782.

Size of the original: ca. 57 × 57 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin—Preußischer Kulturbesitz (Kart. M 14433, Blatt 332).

Meilenblätter allowed for detailed terrain representation covering not only the mountainsides but also valley floors—a level of comprehensive detail enabled by a triangulation framework and the measurement of relative relief (Brunner 2010). Implicit in such work was the conceptual division of slopes into bands of equal height. When implemented rather crudely, this led to hills being depicted as slabs arranged in steps (see figs. 41 and 353). A more refined development of the technique led, at the very end of

the century, to Johann Georg Lehmann’s scheme, first developed in 1793, to construct slope hachures according to strict mathematical rules. Lehmann explained the scheme in detail in his Darstellung einer neuen Theorie (1799): each hachure would run in the direction of slope between imaginary contours at constant intervals, so that flat terrain received long hachures and steep terrain short hachures; moreover, hachures would vary in thickness according to the angle of slope, so that the steeper the slope, the darker the representation

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Fig. 356. CONSTRUCTION OF VARIABLY SPACED HACHURES VIA CROSS-SECTIONS AND EXAMPLE MAPS. From Johann Georg Lehmann, Darstellung einer neuen Theorie der Bezeichnung der schiefen Flächen im Grundriß oder der Situationszeichnung der Berge (Leipzig: Johann Benjamin

Georg Fleischer, 1799), figs. 20–23. These images demonstrate the connection between Lehmann’s scheme and the results of shaded relief and field sketching. Image courtesy of the Lehigh University Libraries Special Collections, Bethlehem.

(fig. 356). Lehmann first taught this scheme to Saxon army cadets in Dresden. Following his rules, several topographers could work on the same map series without any noticeable difference in style in depicting relief. However, Lehmann’s system eliminated the immediacy of the topographer’s sketching of landscape in the field by requiring the hachures to be carefully constructed in the office from heights defined by extensive leveling and triangulation surveys. The topographers’ division of relief into bands of constant relative height, evident in figures 355 and 356, seems to have given rise to some of the proposals from the later eighteenth century—all apparently made independently of each other—to draw only the lines that represent the boundaries between the bands as they intersect with the earth’s surface, which is to say contours. The relationship is evident in John Churchman’s proposal of 1804 that contours could be directly surveyed

with a theodolite fitted with a level (Ravenhill 1987). It is also evident in French practices for mapping fortifications: in 1749 Louis Milet de Mureau proposed a scheme of determining multiple spot heights around a fortress, measured from below the local high ground (the highest point being zero), which were then colorcoded within bands of relief; Milet de Mureau’s scheme was widely implemented after 1761 (see fig. 231). In order to be able to compare plans of different fortifications, Jean-Baptiste Meusnier de La Place proposed in 1777 that the spot heights be determined above sea level, and he further suggested that contours should be interpolated from those spot heights; however, he was able to implement his scheme only for a bathymetric survey of Cherbourg harbor in 1789 (Dainville 1958, 202–5; Konvitz 1987, 96–99) (see fig. 363). Other schemes for the construction of contours were not beholden to topographical practices. Like Meusnier

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de La Place, Charles Hutton, in 1778, also interpolated contours between the spot heights created for the 1773–74 survey of Schiehallion in collaboration with Nevil Maskelyne’s attempt to measure gravity; professor of mathematics at the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich, Hutton may have developed his ideas based on military renderings of topography (see figs. 267 and 745). That contours and isobaths actually represent the same phenomenon—different levels of inundation as the sea rises and falls—was realized by Marc Bonifas, dit Du Carla, apparently as early as 1765, as part of his general

studies of geophysics. In his Expression des nivellemens (1782), published by Jean-Louis Dupain-Triel père, Du Carla addressed the concepts of the contour (arc de niveau) and of using sea level as a baseline, despite its innate variability, but he did not explain how contours were actually to be constructed. Perhaps motivated by his father’s work in preparing a mineralogical map of France, Jean-Louis Dupain-Triel fils soon used the results of the triangulation of France and the leveling undertaken by the Ponts et Chaussées to apply Du Carla’s concepts to a map of France in 1791 (fig. 357), which he

Fig. 357. JEAN-LOUIS DUPAIN-TRIEL FILS, LA FRANCE CONSIDÉRÉE DANS LES DIFFÉRENTES HAUTEURS DE SES PLAINES (PARIS, 1791). The map accompanies Dupain-Triel’s Recherches géographiques sur les hauteurs des plaines du royaume (1791).

Size of the original: 46.0 × 53.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 15126).

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described in terms of the established topographical concept of relief as stepped planes (Dainville 1958, 201–2; Konvitz 1987, 77–81; Lamandé 2009, 24–25). By the end of the eighteenth century, several methods for relief depiction competed for the attention of topographical engineers. Reviewing the options in 1802–3, the French Commission topographique offered unanimous support for the use of contours but abandoned the idea because of the rigorous training required of surveyors and the length of time required to make sufficient observations. In addition, the commission thought that the average map reader would not be able to easily interpret relief from contours (Lamandé 2009, 24, 29), in a manner similar to when the Académie des sciences had rejected Du Carla’s proposal in 1771. Instead, the commission recommended contours be used only for the large-scale and limited scope of fortification plans and that shaded relief be used at all other scales; but after staff officers objected, because they found the false northwestern illumination to be unnatural, the French military shifted to Lehmann-style planimetric shading in 1818. Ma d l e n a C av elti H ammer See also: Commission topographique of 1802; Engineers and Topographical Surveys; Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Isobath; Isoline; Military and Topographical Surveys; Military Cartography; Military Map: Plan-relief; Packe, Christopher; Topographical Survey Map; Topographical Surveying; Urban Map: Urban View Bibliograp hy Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine. 1995. “De la ‘peinture géometrale’ à la carte topographique: Évolution de l’héritage classique au cours du XVIIIe siècle.” In L’oeil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 93–106. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Brunner, Hans. 2010. “Die Geschichte der sächsischen Messtischblätter.” Sächsische Heimatblätter 56:153–63. Cavelti Hammer, Madlena, Hans-Uli Feldmann, and Markus Oehrli, eds. 1997. Farbe, Licht und Schatten: Die Entwicklung der Reliefkartographie seit 1660. Sonderheft 13. Murten: Cartographica Helvetica. Dainville, François de. 1958. “De la profondeur à l’altitude: Des origines marines de l’expression cartographique du relief terrestre par cotes et courbes de niveaux.” In Le navire et l’économie maritime du Moyen Age au XVIIIe siècle principalement en Méditerranée, ed. Michel Mollat, 195–213. Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N. Reprinted, International Yearbook of Cartography 2 (1962): 151–62. Delano-Smith, Catherine. 2007. “Signs on Printed Topographical Maps, ca. 1470–ca. 1640.” In HC 3:528–90. Godlewska, Anne. 2003. “Resisting the Cartographic Imperative: Giuseppe Bagetti’s Landscapes of War.” Journal of Historical Geography 29:22–50. Imhof, Eduard. 1965. Kartographische Geländedarstellung. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Klöti, Thomas. 1997. “Das Probeblatt zum ‘Atlas Suisse’ (1796).” Cartographica Helvetica 16:23–30. Konvitz, Josef W. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lamandé, Pierre. 2009. “Lacroix: Les lignes de niveau à l’appui d’une nouvelle vision de la géographie physique.” Le Monde des Cartes, no. 199:23–34.

Lespinasse, Louis-Nicolas de. 1801. Traité du lavis des plans, appliqué principalement aux reconnaissances militaires. Paris: Magimel. Nuti, Lucia. 1995. “Le langage de la peinture dans la cartographie topographique.” In L’oeil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 53–70. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Ravenhill, W. L. D. 1987. “Contouring: An English Contribution.” Journal of the Royal Society of Arts 135, no. 5366:160–63.

Relief Map. A relief map replicates the forms and contours of the earth’s surface in three dimensions, employing a variety of materials and formats. These threedimensional scale models, called simply “models” or “reliefs” or “plans in relief,” were prized for furnishing princes and military commanders with all-encompassing visions of places, facilitating the perception and immediate comprehension of a territory and its topography, of a city, and of a city’s fortifications. This type of relief cartography at various scales was practiced throughout Europe during the period 1500–1800 with three styles of models: fortified cities, theoretical fortifications, and topographic models. The most common type of three-dimensional relief map of the period was the scale model of a fortified city. These models had multiple uses: they were at once tools for conceiving fortification projects and for assessing at long distance the management of ongoing work; they were aids for following and studying siege operations directed against a stronghold; finally, they were expressions of royal power over a city and embodied the material evidence for centralized control over the defense of territorial frontiers (see the articles in Corvisier 1993 for discussion of many of the following fortified city models and collections). The first known three-dimensional relief map designed for military use could be that of Rhodes, created in 1521 for Pope Leo X in order that he might follow the Ottoman Empire’s ultimately successful siege of the city. In subsequent years numerous models were created throughout Europe, most frequently intended for collections, but sometimes created as isolated works (for example, the plan-relief from the middle of the sixteenth century of the citadel of Jülich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum, Munich, and the plan-relief of the Siege of Ostende of 1603, Museo Nazionale di San Marco, Florence). These collections and individual models, created from the end of the seventeenth and through the eighteenth century, were initiated by enlightened sovereigns, ministers, or military men of culture, smitten with the sciences. Between 1568 and 1574 the cabinetmaker Jakob Sandtner created five highly detailed wooden models of the cities of Bavaria for its sovereign, Albert V. Another collection preserved in the Museo Storico Navale, Venice, was constituted between 1571 and 1707 to represent the twenty fortresses belonging to the Re-

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Fig. 358. WOOD MODEL OF THE CITY OF FAMAGUSTA. It is mistakenly identified as Maina in Morea and is dated 1686. The model was restored in 1872. From the collection of the Republic of Venice.

Museo Storico Navale, Venice, Italy/Cameraphoto Arte Venezia/ Bridgeman Images.

public of Venice, situated in the Aegean and Adriatic Seas (fig. 358). In France the collection of plans-reliefs of Louis XIV, initiated in 1668 but not completed until 1870, was the most prestigious in Europe for its breadth of coverage and for the detail of its execution. In Sweden, General Erik Dahlbergh had fifteen relief models built between 1674 and 1703, representing the fortresses of the Swedish provinces in northern Germany and the Baltic states. They were created to show to the king and his government the situation of strongholds in faraway parts of the kingdom, just after their final construction campaigns. The Kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia assembled a collection of its principal fortifications as of 1717. Of the fifteen scale models created in Italy, only three are preserved today: one in the Musée des Plans-reliefs,

Paris, and two others in the Istituto Storico e di Cultura dell’Arma del Genio, I.S.C.A.G., Rome. The ambitious program of the Spanish Crown to create scale models of its fortifications, both on the Iberian Peninsula and in its South American possessions, was established in 1723 and taken up again in 1777, but never fully developed. Carlos III of Spain created a Gabinete de relieves designed to develop and house a collection of models of fortresses of Spain based on the French model. The effort was short lived, and only one model was created, Cádiz (Museo Histórico Municipal, Cádiz), on the very large scale of ca. 1:252 and covering 100 square meters, dimensions that proved too costly to either transport or store (Granado-Castro and MartínPastor 2016). Around 1740–50 Charles Alexandre, duc de Lorraine,

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governor of the Austrian Netherlands, ordered the creation of an ensemble of seventy models in sculpted wood of small dimensions, which was preserved in the Grande Bibliothèque of the Palais d’Orange, Brussels. They represented the strongholds in Hungary, in the Balkans, in the Rhine Valley, and in northern Italy: the principal theaters of European wars of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The collection was destroyed in 1780. In the same period, Giovanni Carafa, duca di Noja, celebrated author of the first topographical survey and map of Naples (1775), created for Carlos III of Spain, king of Naples and Sicily, a group of very precise models of ten forts of the king’s territories. Eight are still preserved in their respective cities (L’Aquila, Bari, Trani, Barletta, Syracuse, Sant’Elmo di Napoli, Monopoli, and Porto Longone [Porto Azzurro]). The relief models mentioned here fall into two distinct groups. The first, of simple manufacture, show only the outlines of the fortifications and in a summary way the urban blocks with painted rectangles or in relief (e.g., the collection in Venice, and those of Dahlbergh in Stockholm). Those created in the eighteenth century go to greater pains to show the interior of cities and fortifications with some precision in imitation of the collection of plans-reliefs of Louis XIV. Only the French collection represents extensive territory around each stronghold. The second type of scale model, the theoretical fortification model, was progressively created in Europe from the early 1600s and used by the military to teach the art of fortification to student engineers in the army, a practice that parallels the pan-European growth of military academies and engineering training schools. The Flemish mathematician and engineer Simon Stevin seems to have been the first to advocate for the use of scale models for pedagogical purposes. At the behest of Prince Maurits van Nassau, in 1600 within the University of Leiden he created a school for military engineers, the Nederduytsche Mathematicque. His program of instruction stipulated that the students should build scale models of fortresses in wood or clay in order to put into practice the forms and measurements studied in their theoretical courses (Van den Heuvel 2004, 110). Elsewhere in Europe, there are collections of models representing the design of fortifications and fortification systems that were created from the beginning of the eighteenth century. These theoretical models reproduced in three dimensions the plans, perspective views, and profiles found in different treatises on fortification, both printed and manuscript, then circulating in Europe. The models allowed students to study and compare, in a simple yet lifelike way, the forms and evolution of different fortification systems proposed and elaborated by wellknown European engineers of the sixteenth century. Thus, in 1711 Count Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli,

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Fig. 359. TWO MODELS OF THEORETICAL FORTIFICATION SYSTEMS. The systems of Francesco de Marchi (above) and Daniel Specklin (below). From the collection of Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli (cataloged as “Marsili”); wood. Size of each original: 60 × 103 cm. Both photographic reproductions were provided by the Museo di Palazzo Poggi– Sistema Museale di Ateneo–Alma Mater Studiorum Università di Bologna (MPPAM084 and MPPAM092).

military officer and man of science, established the Istituto delle Scienze in the Palazzo Poggi in Bologna, starting with his own collection of natural and scientific history. Among the collections still in the Palazzo (now Museo) is a group of forty-two scale models built between 1702 and 1711, which served as the basis for the curriculum of this military school dedicated to the teaching of artillery officers and engineers (fig. 359). In Spain, numerous pedagogical models in woods, designed for teaching geometry, fortification, stereotomy, and siegecraft, were created between 1720 and 1776 in the heart of the Real Academia Militar de Matemáticas de Barcelona, opened in 1720. In Istanbul, the French-trained engineer François Kauffer built relief models of fortifications for pedagogic purposes in the school of mathematics, Hendesehāne ˘ (later Mühendishāne) (Hitzel 2000, 238). ˘ In France, the gallery of plans-reliefs of the king produced some fortification models from 1712, parallel to the fabrication of plans-reliefs of strongholds. These

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scale models reproduced the theoretical fortified forms as conceived by French and foreign engineers. This collection was considerably enriched and diversified in the course of the nineteenth century (Warmoes 2013, 35–46). Finally, topographical relief models of extensive territories at a small scale began to appear in the course of the last third of the eighteenth century. These models seem to have been produced in response to the problems of representing topographical relief on two-dimensional maps, particularly for mountainous regions. Swiss cartographers were the pioneers in the development of this type of topographical cartography designed for nonmilitary use. The oldest relief map of this type, known as the “Relief der Urschweiz,” is preserved in the Gletschergarten in Lucerne, Switzerland. It was created between 1762

and 1786 by Franz Ludwig Pfyffer, an officer in the Swiss Guard, for the king of France. The model represents in three dimensions the region of the Lake of the Four Cantons (Lake Lucerne) in the center of Switzerland, a territory of more than 3,500 square kilometers (Bürgi 2007b). In order to create it, Pfyffer used the techniques of triangulation survey for the first time in the Swiss Alps (fig. 360). Some years later, between 1789 and 1797, Joachim Eugen Müller, a self-educated cartographer, created a large model at ca. 1:60,000 that represented a large part of the Swiss Alps. Because of its great precision, the model, which was destroyed in 1903, served as the basis for the creation of the Atlas Suisse by Johann Rudolf Meyer and Johann Heinrich Weiss, published between 1796 and 1802 at ca. 1:120,000. This atlas remained the best map of Switzerland until the middle of the nineteenth century. The fabrication of

Fig. 360. TOPOGRAPHICAL RELIEF MODEL, THE “RELIEF DER URSCHWEIZ.” Created between 1762 and 1786 by Franz Ludwig Pfyffer using techniques of triangulation survey to assemble the data. Plaster, sand, beeswax, wire, fragments of brick and ceramic, and cloth; ca. 1:11,500.

Size of the original: 3.9 × 6.7 m; 26 square meters. Image courtesy of the Glacier Garden (Gletschergarten), Lucerne.

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geographical, topographical, and even geological relief maps was an important development in Switzerland and the rest of Europe throughout the nineteenth century. I sa b elle Warmo es See also: Globe: Relief Globe; Military Map: Plan-relief Bibliograp hy Bürgi, Andreas, ed. 2007a. Europa Miniature: Die kulturelle Bedeutung des Reliefs, 16.–21. Jahrhundert = Il significato culturale dei rilievi plastici, XVI–XXI secolo. Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung. ———. 2007b. Relief der Urschweiz: Entstehung und Bedeutung des Landschaftsmodells von Franz Ludwig Pfyffer. Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung. Corvisier, André, ed. 1993. Actes du colloque international sur les plans-reliefs au passé et au présent. Paris: SEDES. Granado-Castro, Gabriel, and Andrés Martín-Pastor. 2016. “An Unsuccessful Spanish Cartographical Project of the Eighteenth Century: New Data on the Plan-relief Ministry of Charles III.” Imago Mundi 68:183–95. Heuvel, Charles van den. 2004. “Le traité incomplet de l’art militaire et l’instruction pour une école des ingénieurs de Simon Stevin.” In Simon Stevin (1548–1620): L’émergence de la nouvelle science, 103–13. Turnhout: Brepols. Hitzel, Frédéric. 2000. “François Kauffer (1751?–1801): Ingenieurcartographe français au service de Selim III.” In Science in Islamic Civilisation: Proceedings of the International Symposia “Science Institutions in Islamic Civilisation” & “Science and Technology in the Turkish and Islamic World,” ed. Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu and Feza Günergun, 233–43. Istanbul: Research Centre for Islamic History and Culture. Warmoes, Isabelle. 2001. “De l’utilité pédagogique des plans-reliefs (XVIIe–XIXe siècles).” In Portefeuilles de plans: Projets et dessins d’ingénieurs militaires en Europe du XVIe au XIXe siècle, ed. Vincent Maroteaux and Émilie d’Orgeix, 177–84. Bourges: Conseil Général du Cher. ———. 2013. “La production de modèles de fortification à l’usage des écoles militaires.” In Les savoirs de l’ingénieur militaire et l’édition de manuels, cours et cahiers d’exercices (1751–1914), ed. Émilie d’Orgeix and Isabelle Warmoes, 35–46. Paris: Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, Direction des Patrimoines, Musée des Plans-reliefs.

Isobath. An isobath (also named depth contour or

bathymetric contour) may be defined as: “A line on a map joining points on the bed of the sea, or other body of water, situated at an equal vertical distance beneath the surface” (Neumann 1997, 174). The isobath developed as one type of isarithm (isoline). In 1584, Dutch cartographer Pieter Bruinsz. drew a single line through points of equal water depth on his manuscript map of the Spaarne River and thus receives credit for using the first isobath on a map for navigation purposes (Wallis and Robinson 1987, 224). It was over a century later that Pierre Ancelin, on his map of the Maas River and environs in 1697, is given credit for the next extant map depicting an isobath. Perhaps the earliest printed map with an isobath appears in Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli’s Histoire physique de la mer (1725) (fig. 361) (Gercsák 2009). Published on two sheets in Leiden in 1729–30, Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius’s isobathic map of the Mer-

wede River was the first to use a series of isobaths created from a large number of depth soundings to illustrate submarine features (see fig. 33). Cruquius’s map employed a fully developed use of a series of isobaths to depict the river bottom and could be used for navigation purposes. The use, need, and eventual requirement for maps with isobaths by city-states and nations gradually evolved during the eighteenth century. The isobath technique is inferential. It uses data from soundings to allow users to infer qualities and characteristics about the sea bottom the details of which cannot be seen or accurately known. The difficulty in producing a map with isolines lay in securing a sufficient number of accurate points to create a meaningful chart. The use of isobaths parallels the slower development of isolines for land surface topography in the form of contours. While it was equally difficult to measure height consistently and accurately to acquire the number of data points necessary for useful contours, the land surface configuration could be observed, whereas the sea bottom topography could not. The technique of using multiple isobaths spread from its use for navigation of rivers and estuaries to the representation of the depth of open waters of seas and oceans; it became a tool of analysis and hypothesis about the nature of the ocean floor and submerged land connections. Philippe Buache depicted multiple isobaths on his chart of the English Channel, Carte physique et profil du canal de la Manche et d’une partie de la mer du Nord, presented to the Académie royale des sciences in 1737 and published in 1756 (see fig. 133). Johan Carl Wilcke similarly used isobaths on his chart of Landskrona Harbor in his presentation to the Kungliga Vetenskapsakademien in 1775 to show possible submarine land connections across a channel (Ehrensvard 1991) (fig. 362). By the end of the eighteenth century, hydrographers began to respond to growing requirements for maps with multiple soundings in open waters, but the collection of such data was limited by the dearth of personnel sufficiently capable of locating soundings accurately. The isobath would not become the standard means of expressing depth until the nineteenth century. J o el L. M orrison See also: Cruquius, Nicolaas Samuelsz.; Isoline; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation Bibliography Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 1991. “Ett batymetriskt pionjärarbete i Landskrona hamn år 1770.” Ymer (Oceanerna) 111:106–13. Fockema Andreae, S. J., and Bert van ’t Hoff. 1947. Geschiedenis der kartografie van Nederland van den Romeinschen tijd tot het midden van de 19e eeuw. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. Gercsák, G. 2009. “The First Printed Isobath Map.” Acta Geodaetica et Geophysica Hungarica 44:17–26. Neumann, Joachim. 1997. Enzyklopädisches Wörterbuch Kartographie in 25 Sprachen. 2d ed. Munich: KG Saur.

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Fig. 361. LUIGI FERDINANDO MARSIGLI, CARTE DU GOLFE DE LION, 1725. From Marsigli’s Histoire physique de la mer (Amsterdam, 1725), foldout between pages 2 and 3. This is an early and perhaps the first printed map to use isobaths—in this case a single line connecting the depth measurements of 60 to 70 brasses (a sea depth of between 95 and 130 meters). The thicker line in the eastern portion of the gulf

was based on Marsigli’s direct measurements; the thinner line in the western portion on measurements reported to him by others. On this particular copy, added color emphasizes the change of depth on either side of the contour line. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Réserve livres rares R-1024).

Robinson, Arthur H. 1976. “Nathaniel Blackmore’s Plaine Chart of Nova Scotia: Isobaths in the Open Sea?” Imago Mundi 28:137–41. Wallis, Helen, and Arthur H. Robinson, eds. 1987. Cartographical Innovations: An International Handbook of Mapping Terms to 1900. Tring: Map Collector Publications in association with the International Cartographic Association.

14), which were used for the first edition of Le Neptune françois in 1693 (Chapuis 1999, 101). The atlas included soundings of a density theretofore unequalled (Chapuis 2007, 110). However, soundings remained quite scattered on most maps, and isolines only delimited banks or reefs; anything else was pure experimentation. Hydrography took the lead from topography to express relief (Dainville 1958, 207), but the same could not be said regarding triangulation and the positioning of soundings (Chapuis 1999, 31, 87–132). Beginning in the seventeenth century, maps regularly represented lines of highest and lowest tides (Chapuis 2007, 88), constituting the first de facto contour lines (Dainville 1958, 198), as did the representations of

Bathymetric Map. In addition to its etymologic sense— measuring depth—bathymetry translates the topography of the ocean floor into a graphic configuration of submarine relief, often by using isobaths (lines joining points of equal depth, a type of isoline) or contour lines. Its first expression on maps was accomplished by means of soundings. During the 1670s in France, Jean-Baptiste Colbert ordered coastal surveys (Chapuis 2007, 107–

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Fig. 362. JOHAN CARL WILCKE, MANUSCRIPT CHART OF THE HARBOR AT LANDSKRONA IN SKÅNE, 1775. After his investigation of the harbor in 1770, Wilcke prepared a 265-page manuscript report, “Historiska och physiografiska underrättelser om Landscrona stad och hamn” (1770), and he drew two similar manuscript charts of the harbor in 1775. The chart shown here, titled “Modell-karta öfver hamnbankarna

och sjöbottnen omkring Landskrona,” contains a breakwater in the middle that is not shown on the other version (reproduced in Ehrensvard 1991, 111 [fig. 2]). Size of the original: 73 × 105 cm (sheet); ca. 67.5 × 80.0 cm (to neatline). Image courtesy of Krigsarkivet, Stockholm (Svenska stads och fästningsplaner Landskrona 387).

riverbeds in estuaries by Pieter Bruinsz. (1584) and Pierre Ancelin (1697). However, the delineation of shoals that developed during this period might be considered pseudo-isobaths (Chapuis 2007, 101). Englishman Edmond Halley had already used isolines to indicate points of equal magnetic declination (see fig. 348); other earlier exponents included Italian Jesuit Cristoforo Borri, who taught navigation in Portugal and used curved isogonic lines around 1620 on a map now lost (Jonkers 2007, 432–33). Nathaniel Blackmore used isolines on his manuscript map of Nova Scotia in 1715 (Robinson 1976).

Nonetheless, close study shows he did not provide them with an explicit key or with the correct progressive soundings except around Cape Sable (see fig. 862). The Histoire physique de la mer (1725) by the Italian Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli contained the Carte du Golfe de Lion with one isobath (see fig. 361). Marsigli had taken soundings of up to 250 meters at a time when one rarely went deeper than 100 fathoms (162.40 m) to 150 fathoms (243.60 m) and usually not nearly that deep (Dainville 1958, 199). The limit of the continental shelf was the single isobath traced on Marsigli’s map.

Fig. 363. MEUSNIER DE LA PLACE AND LA BRETONNIÈRE, “CARTE DE LA RADE DE CHERBOURG,” 1789. Manuscript map, surveyed at a scale of ca. 1:4,320 for the soundings and reduced to ca. 1:7,200 for the outlines of the isobaths (at an interval of one foot, i.e., the pied du roi, whose value is now determined at 324.84 mm). These two scales are

exceptionally detailed for the hydrography of this period and make this a foundation for the representation of terrestrial relief in the nineteenth century. Size of the original: 96 × 139 cm. Image courtesy of the Cartothèque, Institut géographique national, Saint-Mandé (IGN 232-D).

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The Dutch engineer Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius—who encountered Marsigli in Holland during his 1721–22 visit—imagined true contour lines using an interval of ten feet; they appear on his 1729–30 map of the Merwede River and on his 1733 map of the island of Goeree (Dainville 1958, 199, pls. IV, V) (see figs. 33 and 190). In 1737 the French geographer Philippe Buache presented to the Académie des sciences his manuscript “Cartes et coupe du canal de la Manche” showing “la pente du fond” (the slope of the bottom) of the English Channel. Published in the Mémoires de l’Académie, année 1752 (1756) as Carte physique et profil du canal de la Manche et d’une partie de la Mer du Nord (see fig. 133), it employed isocurves equidistant (10 brasses = ca. 16 m) from one another based on the soundings taken from Le Neptune françois and from the work of Halley (Dainville 1958, 200–201, pl. VI). In 1771, Marc Bonifas, dit Du Carla, submitted his system of contour lines to the Académie des sciences, along with a theoretical map (see fig. 419); both were published in 1782 in the Expression des nivellemens, ou Méthode nouvelle pour marquer rigoureusement sur les cartes terrestres & marines les hauteurs & les configurations du terrein (Dainville 1958, 201–2, pl. VIII). In 1777, the abbé Jacques-François Dicquemare, native of Le Havre, deposited at the Académie de marine his “Mémoire sur le fond de la mer et les cartes qui le représentent” (Service historique de la Défense, Ms. ARM, cor., t. II, f. 21–33). However, the most remarkable works were undoubtedly those of Jean-Baptiste Meusnier de La Place, ingénieur du Génie and adjoint of Gaspard Monge at the École du Génie de Mézières. Meusnier de La Place and lieutenant de vaisseau Louis-Bon-Jean de la Couldre de La Bretonnière produced the “Carte de la rade de Cherbourg,” 1789 (fig. 363). They had overseen the surveys of the Channel first in 1771 and then in 1776 along with Pierre-François-André Méchain. In 1777, they were at Cherbourg, where later the difficult construction of the seawall began in 1784 (Chapuis 2007, 221). Meusnier de La Place and La Bretonnière used horizontal, equidistant contour lines on their map, surveyed at a scale of 1:4,320 for soundings and then reduced to 1:7,200 for the drawing of isobaths. The interval between isobaths was one foot, making it an exceptional document at this scale for the period; it was not intended for navigation as it was too thick with details (Chapuis 2007, 262–63). Monge referred often to this foundational map in his lectures on descriptive geometry, given first at the École normale, then at the École polytechnique during the French Revolution (Chapuis 1999, 554). In the nineteenth century, it became a model for the representation of terrestrial relief, appearing two years before the 1791 map of France by Jean-Louis Dupain-Triel fils, the first with contour lines, framed with pseudo-isobaths

Heights and Distances, Geometric Determination of

(see fig. 357). On French marine maps the representation of isobaths experienced a true and systematic development only with Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré between 1801 and 1804 (Chapuis 1999, 552–54). O li vi er Chapuis See also: Isoline; Marine Chart; Marine Charting; Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation Bibliography Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. ———. 2007. Cartes des côtes de France: Histoire de la cartographie marine et terrestre du littoral. Douarnenez: Chasse-Marée. Dainville, François de. 1958. “De la profondeur à l’altitude: Des origines marines de l’expression cartographique du relief terrestre par cotes et courbes de niveau.” In Le navire et l’économie maritime du Moyen-Age au XVIIIe siècle principalement en Méditerranée, ed. Michel Mollat, 195–213. Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N. Trans. Arthur H. Robinson, “From the Depths to the Heights,” Surveying and Mapping 30 (1979): 389–403. Jonkers, A. R. T. 2007. “Magnetism.” In The Oxford Encyclopedia of Maritime History, 4 vols., ed. John B. Hattendorf, 2:430–37. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Robinson, Arthur H. 1976. “Nathaniel Blackmore’s Plaine Chart of Nova Scotia: Isobaths in the Open Sea?” Imago Mundi 28:137–41.

Heights and Distances, Geometric Determination of. Geometrical surveying techniques provide the ability to determine both the distance to and the relative height of an otherwise inaccessible place. The techniques of measuring distances directly, with rods, chains, or perambulators, could not be used to measure the width of a river; nor could the direct techniques of leveling or altimetry be used to measure the heights of high mountains that had yet to be climbed. The two problems came together in the artilleryman’s need to establish the horizontal and vertical distances to a target that could not be approached. The basic geometrical techniques were developed in the Renaissance and were codified after 1650 for a wide variety of instruments, from the quadrant to the plane table (notably in Manesson-Mallet 1702). If just one unknown were to be found, whether the height of or the distance to a feature, then surveyors could use a simple technique based on the geometry of similar triangles (fig. 364). This was the technique used, for example, in 1754 by Jacques-Barthélemy Micheli du Crest when held prisoner in Aarburg. He constructed a seven-meter-long water level (equivalent to DC in fig. 364) equipped with a vertical, graduated “sight” at one end; looking from the other end of the level to mountains in the Alps, Micheli du Crest used the sight to measure the “height” (CE) of each peak. He took the distance from Aarburg to each peak (DA) from Johann Jakob Scheuchzer’s Nova Helvetiae tabula geographica (1712; see fig. 771). These values allowed him to calculate the

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a single triangle to determine the height of Tinto Hill in order to calibrate a barometer for further altimetric measurements. He measured the vertical angle from Glasgow (equivalent to J in fig. 365) to the hill’s summit (C) and took the locally accepted value for the distance to the hill from the city (JD); from these he calculated the hill’s

Fig. 364. THE USE OF SIMILAR TRIANGLES TO FIND A SINGLE UNKNOWN LENGTH. To find the height of the wall, AB, the surveyor places a vertical stick CE in the ground and then finds point D such that E and B are aligned; the triangles ECD and BAD are similar, so the ratios of their sides will be the same: DC/CE = DA/AB. The lengths DC and DA are measured, CE is known, so AB can be calculated as DA × CE/ DC, as shown in the lower left corner. From Manesson-Mallet 1702, 21 (pl. 9). Size of the original: 14.3 × 10.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

relative height difference (AB) from Aarburg to each of the Alps, although not with great accuracy; he established the height of Aarburg above the Mediterranean Sea by barometric measurement. Micheli du Crest published his results in a 1755 panorama, Prospect geometrique des montagnes neigées (Rickenbacher 1995). Other geometrical techniques made use of observed angles and trigonometrical functions. Tables for these functions (sine, cosine, and tangent) and for their logarithmic versions were completed in the early seventeenth century and were available in a variety of printed versions after 1650, although their use required a greater mathematical competency than that required for common surveying. For example, in Glasgow in 1661, George Sinclair used

Fig. 365. THE KINDS OF TRIANGLES THAT COULD BE SOLVED WITH TRIGONOMETRY. In the middle of this image, an unmarked observer (who for convenience can be labeled as J) is shown forming a single triangle with a vertical tower. If the distance JD from the observer to the tower is known, then the height of the tower CD is JD × tangent(vertical angle at J). At the rear of the image, the measured horizontal angles at G and H and baseline GH can be used to determine the lengths of the sloping sides GB and HB via the law of sines: HB = GH × sine(angle at G) ÷ sine(angle at B [i.e., 180°−G−H]). From these sides, plus the vertical angles from G or H to B, the surveyor can then calculate the horizontal distance, from G, as GB × sine(vertical angle at G), and the vertical distance, from G, as GB × cosine(vertical angle at G). Those results can then be used in a similar manner to determine horizontal and vertical distances from both B and G to A. From Manesson-Mallet 1702, 3 (pl. 1). Size of the original: 14.9 × 10.2 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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Fig. 366. PROFILES OF THE ANDES MOUNTAINS, MEASURED GEOMETRICALLY. Pierre Bouguer and Charles-Marie de La Condamine calculated the relative heights of each mountain above their baseline at Yaruquí by geometry; CCCC marks the permanent snow line. They determined the height of the baseline above sea level (AAAA in the figure) by a complex mixture of geometry and barometric altimetry. From Pierre Bouguer, La figure de la Terre, déterminée par les observations de Messieurs Bouguer, & de la Condamine, de l’Académie

royale des sçiences, envoyés par ordre du roy au Pérou, pour observer aux environs de l’equateur (Paris: Charles-Antoine Jombert, 1749), unnumbered plate opp. cx. La Condamine also provided his own profile in plate 2 of his Mesure des trois premiers degrés du méridian dans l’hémisphere austral (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1751). Size of the original: ca. 21 × 47 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

height (CD) as 500 paces (762  m) (Cajori 1929, 501– 2). If the distance from the observer to the hill or tower could not be measured or was otherwise unknown, then a baseline could be measured pointing directly at the target; measuring the angular heights of the target from each end of the baseline permitted calculation of horizontal and vertical distances (Manesson-Mallet 1702, 67, pl. 30, center image and diagram lower left); Louis Feuillée used this technique in 1724 to measure the height of the peak of Teneriffe as 2,213 toises (4,313 m) (Cajori 1929, 496–97). Alternatively, a lateral baseline could be used (as in the upper part of fig. 365), either in isolation or as the first step in a triangulation. During their geodetic survey in Peru, in the 1730s-40s, Pierre Bouguer and Charles-Marie de La Condamine used these procedures to determine the relative heights of the stations in their triangulation but also to determine the heights of mountains too high to climb. They each presented the results in profiles of the Andes Mountains (fig. 366). Increasing interest in the natural history of mountains and in the comparison of the heights of the mountains in the new and old worlds led after 1750 to sustained efforts to measure mountain heights by geometry, altimetry, and leveling (Broc 1969, 71–96). In some cases, engineers prefigured the work of nineteenth-century gov-

ernment surveys by constructing detailed topographical models from triangulated frameworks. In particular, a French-trained general, Franz Ludwig Pfyffer, undertook a triangulation of Central Switzerland (Uri, Schwyz, Obwalden, Nidwalden, Zug, and Lucerne cantons) for this purpose in 1760–61, which he described in correspondence in 1761 with Micheli du Crest. A careful triangulation between intervisible stations formed the primary geometrical framework, supported by a primary baseline 5.5 kilometers long with five more baselines across Central Switzerland with which to check his work; from this he observed horizontal and vertical angles to particular points to establish a dense field of locations with known heights with respect to the surface of Lake Lucerne. From this work he created both a remarkable 7 × 5 meter relief model of Central Switzerland, finished in 1786 (see fig. 360), and his Carte en perspective du nord au midi (1786) (Bürgi 2007). Mad lena Cavelti Ham m er See also: Height Measurement; Instruments for Angle Measuring; Topographical Surveying Bibliography Broc, Numa. 1969. Les montagnes vues par les géographes et les naturalistes de langue française au XVIIIe siècle: Contribution à l’histoire de la géographie. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale. Bürgi, Andreas. 2007. Relief der Urschweiz: Entstehung und Bedeu-

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tung des Landschaftsmodells von Franz Ludwig Pfyffer. Zurich: Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung. Cajori, Florian. 1929. “History of Determinations of the Heights of Mountains.” Isis 12:482–514. Manesson-Mallet, Allain. 1702. La géometrie pratique, tome seconde: Contenant la trigonometrie, ou le mesure des distances par les instrumens géometriques. Paris: Chez Anisson. Rickenbacher, Martin. 1995. Das Alpenpanorama von Micheli du Crest—Frucht eines Versuches zur Vermessung der Schweiz im Jahre 1754. Sonderheft 8. Murten: Cartographica Helvetica.

Hevelius, Johannes. Born into a prosperous brewing family in Gdańsk, Poland, on 28 January 1611, Johannes Hevelius acquired a particular interest in mathematics as a child in secondary school. The astronomer Peter Crüger tutored him outside of school, and, in addition to teaching him the basics of astronomy, advised Hevelius to learn drawing, engraving, and instrument construction—talents that would fortuitously prove useful later in life. He studied at the University of Leiden for one year in 1630 and then traveled to London in 1631 and France in 1632, making the acquaintance of many of the prominent scientists with whom he would later correspond. Returning to Gdańsk in 1634, he concentrated on the brewing industry until Crüger’s death in 1639 inspired him to return to studying astronomy. While juggling his brewing career, his duties as a town magistrate and councilman, and his scientific endeavors, Hevelius was able to construct an elaborate observatory that spanned the tops of three adjacent townhouses. In the same space, Hevelius built workshops for instrumentmaking, engraving, and printing in order to produce his own equipment and publications. After the death of his first wife, Katharina Rebeschke, in 1662, he married the much younger Catherina Elisabetha Koopman; the latter began to serve as her husband’s astronomical assistant (fig. 367) and is considered to be one of the earliest accomplished female astronomers in Europe. Through his extensive correspondence, famed observatory, and numerous lavish publications, Hevelius gained a considerable reputation among his contemporaries and received pensions from both Louis XIV of France and Jan III Sobieski of Poland. A disastrous fire in 1679 destroyed his home and observatory, and little was saved except for many of his books and manuscripts. After the fire, he rebuilt the observatory and continued his observations and publications, but at a reduced scale. Nearly a decade later he died on his seventy-sixth birthday, 28 January 1687. Although he produced many magnificent publications that were well received during his day, Hevelius is perhaps best known to the history of astronomy for his argument with Robert Hooke over the value of open sights versus telescopic sights, a dispute spurred by Hooke’s

Fig. 367. JOHANNES HEVELIUS AND HIS WIFE ELISABETHA OBSERVING TOGETHER. From Machinæ coelestis pars prior (Gdańsk: Simon Reiniger, 1673), fig. O (following 254). Image courtesy of the Smithsonian Libraries, Washington, D.C.

publication of Animadversions on the First Part of the Machina Coelestis of . . . Astronomer Johannes Hevelius (1674). Although an avid telescope user himself (for observations of the moon, comets, and other such celestial bodies), Hevelius thought that at the time telescopic sights would introduce too much error to be of use in making stellar observations (due to optical distortions). Hevelius was also known for his particularly keen eyesight—he was said to have had the eyes of a lynx by colleagues (Béziat 1875, 598)—which perhaps allowed him to achieve more precision of measurement with the naked eye than his contemporaries. Because the bulk of his work was observational rather than theoretical, and what theories he did propose proved to be unremarkable, Hevelius is often neglected in studies of Enlighten-

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ment science. Yet he was a dedicated observer who produced detailed observations of the moon, constellations, sunspots, comets, and a variety of other astronomical phenomena. He innovated a number of forms of cartographic representation of such observations and refined and expanded others. Hevelius’s Selenographia, sive lvnæ descriptio (1647) may be his greatest cartographic work, featuring over sixty-five maps of the moon that are considered to be among the finest ever produced. Most of his lavishly illustrated volumes feature maps, including those on subjects such as comets, solar and lunar eclipses, transits, and occultations. Prodromus astronomiæ cum catalogo fixarum & firmamentum Sobiescianum (1690), Hevelius’s star atlas and catalog (see fig. 153), is notable for being the last produced entirely from observations made with the naked eye (with the exception of the inclusion of Edmond Halley’s telescopically observed data from the Southern Hemisphere), and as such was quickly eclipsed by John Flamsteed’s atlas a quarter century later. In his catalog and atlas, Hevelius introduced eleven new constellations to the canon, seven of which are still used today including the eponymous Lynx. A n n a F e lic ity Fried man See also: Celestial Mapping: Enlightenment Bibliograp hy Béziat, L. C. 1875. “La vie et les travaux de Jean Hévélius.” Bullettino di Bibliografia e di Storia delle Scienze Matematiche e Fisiche 8:497–558, 589–669. MacPike, Eugene Fairfield. 1937. Hevelius, Flamsteed and Halley: Three Contemporary Astronomers and Their Mutual Relations. London: Taylor and Francis. Seidemann, G. A. 1864. Johannes Hevelius: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Astronomie des 17. Jahrhunderts. Zittau. Volkoff, Ivan, Ernest Franzgrote, and A. Dean Larsen. 1971. Johannes Hevelius and His Catalog of Stars: The Millionth-Volume Acquisition, the J. Reuben Clark, Jr., Library. Provo: Brigham Young University Press. Westphal, Johann Heinrich. 1820. Leben, Studien und Schriften des Astronomen Johann Hevelius. Königsberg: Universitäts-Buchhandlung.

Historical Atlas. See Atlas: Historical Atlas Historical Map. “Historical map” refers to two very different objects: maps having intrinsic historical or documentary value (typically, city plans of contemporary date); and maps retrospectively illustrating historical lands, scenes, or moments (such as “The Biblical Exodus” or “Europe after the Treaty of Westphalia”). Only historical maps in the second sense are discussed here; maps as historical documents are treated elsewhere in this volume. “Historical cartography” has only recently acquired its current, illustrative sense. Until the nineteenth cen-

tury, ancient geography, “classical and sacred,” was considered no more or less historical than modern geography, and comparisons of the two were a frequent and admired exercise. When ancient geography became outmoded, all maps of ancient, biblical, medieval, and modern history turned into the homogeneous subbranch of mapmaking that they are today. In the Enlightenment, however, the majority of historical maps probably fell within the purview of ancient geography. The idea of projecting historical, primarily Holy Land, information onto maps reaches back at least to late antiquity (the Madaba map) and continued to be implemented in the Middle Ages (for example, the Hereford world map). By the 1650s, a large printed repertory had accumulated in the modern Ptolemy-derived style. Its subjects included not only biblical history, but also lands and moments of classical antiquity and even two postclassical scenes—the Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy and the Empire of Charlemagne (Goffart 2003, 52–57, 69–74). This stock was often reprinted and continually augmented, sometimes with improved geographical backgrounds. Cartographers in the Enlightenment were not innovative in the design of historical maps; they are more noteworthy for bringing the historical atlas to its mature form. The main seventeenth-century home of historical maps was France, where Nicolas Sanson and his associates dramatically enlarged the sacred and classical repertories. The very extensive copying of Sanson maps outside France in the century after his death, and their adaptation by such successors as Gilles Robert Vaugondy, have left a singularly large mark in historical cartography. Outside the Sanson tradition, the forays of Guillaume Delisle into this branch were particularly skilled and original in choice of subjects (fig. 368). The contribution of German publishers, such as Homann Heirs and Seutter, became considerable in the eighteenth century, notably in the evocation of medieval German territories. In France again, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville gave an especially scientific cast to ancient geography. Many minor and anonymous cartographers were also involved. Historical maps functioned mainly as aids to reading; few of them embodied discernible ideological motives. Delisle compiled but did not publish maps of early France for schooling the underage Louis XV; pedagogy tended to be monopolized by maps of ancient geography. Besides appearing in single sheets, historical maps illustrated Bibles, editions of the classics, and other books. The dispersal of map illustrations among countless books impedes any attempt to identify the full range of historical maps, which atlases only imperfectly reflect. The lavish borders of figured roundels and other pictorial schemes that sometimes graced early historical

Fig. 368. GUILLAUME DELISLE, THEATRUM HISTORICUM AD ANNUM CHRISTI QUADRINGENTESIMŪ, 1705. The extended title of Delisle’s map of Europe and the Near East in two sheets explains that it “shows the condition of both the Roman Empire and the barbarians living around it” in 400 a. d.

Size of the original: 49 × 120 cm. Image courtesy of the David Rumsey Map Collection, David Rumsey Map Center, Stanford Libraries.

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maps are almost wholly absent in the Enlightenment. Symbols, usually lines, depicting movement (typically, the biblical Exodus or the travels of Saint Paul) were an established explanatory feature but only intermittently deployed; a solitary instance of tracks with arrows occurs in 1718 (Goffart 2003, 133–34, 191–92). Whereas ancient geography could be verified in widely known sources, the evidence underpinning maps of postclassical history was very variable. Some maps were imaginary or vague, some excellent and scrupulous (Goffart 2003, 231–39, 147, 209). An appropriate legend often turned maps of modern territories into witnesses to the past (for example, southeastern France labeled as “Royaume de Bourgogne et d’Arles”; Goffart 2003, 66–67). Then, as later, documentation was rarely cited. Interpretive comments only occasionally accompanied historical maps. Without contesting the primacy of ancient geography, Enlightenment mapmakers notably widened the repertory of postclassical history. The range of subjects down to 1800, though large, consisted mainly of territories: the world as conceived by ancient geographers (Pomponius Mela, Ptolemy); ancient and later empires (Assyrian, Roman, Byzantine, Islamic, Mongolian, Holy Roman, Russian), kingdoms (Judea, early England, Hungary), and principalities (Hebrew tribes, Roman provinces, Benevento, Saxony, Dauphiné); Christian ecclesiastical districts (patriarchates, dioceses, religious orders); administrative subdivisions (especially French); city plans (Paris, Amsterdam). There were rare attempts at portraying movement (the dispersal of the sons of Noah, the Exodus, the barbarian invasions). Other subjects were medieval and modern voyages (Benjamin of Tudela, Marco Polo, Ferdinand Magellan) and the travels of literary figures (Abraham, Aeneas, Anacharsis, Don Quijote). Selected tracks of famous navigators added a historical touch to many world maps. Wa lter Go ffart See also: Atlas: Historical Atlas; Geographical Mapping; History and Cartography; Map Trade Bibliograp hy British Museum. 1967. Catalogue of Printed Maps, Charts and Plans. 15 vols. London: Trustees of the British Museum. Goffart, Walter. 2003. Historical Atlases: The First Three Hundred Years, 1570–1870. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Nebenzahl, Kenneth. 1986. Maps of the Holy Land: Images of Terra Sancta through Two Millennia. New York: Abbeville Press. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1982. “Catalogue de l’œuvre cartographique des Sanson.” Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département des Cartes et Plans, Ge.EE.2204. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications.

History and Cartography. Early modern scholars interested in the past form two main groups differentiated

in part by the spatial scale of their inquiries. Scholars concerned with the broad landscape of the past, whether sacred or profane, practiced history per se, a field intimately intertwined with geography and geographical mapping. Antiquaries (as they were known in Britain) were more focused on the character of particular regions and places and with the ancient artifacts found in them; they had an abiding interest in both chorographicalscale geographical mapping and still more precise topographical mapping. These two communities were not completely distinct; for example, the English historian of the Roman Empire, Edward Gibbon made extensive use of both geographical maps and detailed archaeological plans. Nonetheless, this entry considers each community in turn to explore their respective engagements with mapping. A commonplace for Renaissance and Enlightenment writers, echoing Cicero, was that history had two eyes: chronology and geography (Hofmann 2000; Mayhew 2003; Davis 2015, 119–22). The consistent expression of this sentiment should not, however, be mistaken for constancy in historical and geographical practice. By the later seventeenth century, Renaissance historical practices—moralistic and didactic in nature and pursued within the then-private domain of politics—had been transformed into a public pursuit grounded in new historical methods for systematically arranging historical data. History sustained a shared understanding of the key periods and continuities of the past among Europe’s educated population. Moreover, historical knowledge had acquired such social prestige and value that historical writing constituted the primary genre of Enlightenment literature (Woolf 2005; Grafton 2007). Increasingly analytical practices in geography and chronology underpinned the transformation of historical practice. Historians recognized that in order to reconstruct the past, they had to situate each new historical fact gleaned from newly uncovered manuscripts and artifacts within its proper time and place by means of systematic, comprehensive, and broadly comparative analyses. Scholars needed to work at their own chronologies and geographies in order to develop their understanding of the past. Enlightenment historians thus developed a deep appreciation for contemporary maps (i.e., contemporary to the historian), which provided a spatial framework for understanding the past, for locating past events, and for identifying and elucidating ancient toponyms. Gibbon (1994, 76) accordingly reminisced that, in 1751, when still a youth, he had found that “vague and multifarious reading could not teach me to think, to write, or to act.” Rather, only his “early and rational application to the order of time and place”—an order provided by chronologies such as James Ussher’s Annales veteris testamenti (1650) and Annalium pars

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posterior (1654), and by atlases such as Christophorus Cellarius’s ancient geography, Notitia orbis antiqui in two volumes (1701–6), and Edward Wells’s A New Sett of Maps Both of Antient and Present Geography (Oxford, [1700])—could “[dart] a ray of light into the indigested chaos” that history otherwise presented. Chronology suffered under the new approaches to historical practice, especially by comparison to the other eye. As Jacques Barbeu Du Bourg noted in his Chronographie, ou description des tems (1753): “Geography is a pleasant and gratifying study. It places before us an image of the world entire, which we may traverse quickly and return to with pleasure. In it, the world is familiar: we see the world’s peoples; we measure distances at a glance of an eye or with a compass in hand; we trace the contours of the map so deeply in our imagination that they can never be fully erased. The same cannot be said for chronology, a field so dry, difficult, and thankless that it offers nothing more to the spirit than a multitude of ugly dates that overwhelm and frustrate the memory and are then easily forgotten” (quoted by Rosenberg and Grafton 2010, 96; Davis 2015, 133–36). Perhaps reflecting an older conceit that chronology was the map of time (Woolf 2005, 41; Davis 2015, 122– 24), cartographic strategies were increasingly applied to make chronologies appealing. Some authors added maps to their chronologies, as in 1768 when John Blair added fourteen maps of ancient and modern geography, together with a historical essay on the development of geography, to his already well-known The Chronology and History of the World (1754). But the chronological lists themselves could be reorganized to create intricate diagrams and structured tables, some of which featured historical and contemporary maps (fig. 369) (Rosenberg and Grafton 2010, 96–128; Davis 2015, 124–27). These early modern changes in chronology, geography, and history were manifested in the character of geographical atlases. Abraham Ortelius had established the character of the Renaissance atlas-cum-history with his Theatrum orbis terrarum (1570), a work that he “dedicated to the understanding of history” (quoted in Goffart 2003, 1). The Theatrum’s maps were of contemporary geography backed with narrative accounts of the geographical and historical curiosities of the regions in question. (Ortelius would add maps of the past in the Parergon appended to later editions of the Theatrum.) Such narratives fell away from atlases after 1650, and an entirely new genre of specifically historicalchronological atlases developed after 1700. These new atlases combined data-heavy tables and diagrams with maps of contemporary geography to celebrate spatiotemporal factuality, from the seven-volume Atlas historique (1705–20), probably by Zacharias Châtelain, to the amazingly successful Atlas Le Sage, i.e., the

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Genealogical, Chronological, Historical, and Geographical Atlas (1801) written by Emmanuel Las Cases under the pseudonym of “Mr. Le Sage” (Goffart 1995, 50; 2003, 4, 132–33, 303–14, 522–25). The precise analytical function of geographical study in history was most apparent in the analysis of toponyms recorded in ancient sources, especially Ptolemy’s Geography and the so-called Peutinger map. The late editions of the Geography that appeared between 1695 and 1730 used reworked plates from Gerardus Mercator’s 1578 edition (Van der Krogt 1997, 1:491–95) and treated the ancient text as a work of strictly historical interest. Two eighteenth-century studies extended the critical analysis to include the history of the work itself: Georg Martin Raidel, Commentatio critico-literaria de Clavdii Ptolemaei Geographia (1737), and Jean-Nicolas Buache, “Mémoire sur la Géographie de Ptolémée” (in the Memoires of the Académie des sciences for 1787 [1789]). The Peutinger map had of course been studied since its discovery at the end of the fifteenth century and its initial reproduction in 1598. Historians produced a second, reduced-size facsimile and toponymic index in 1652 and then a third in 1753, after the original scroll’s acquisition by the Habsburg Hofbibliothek in 1737 made it accessible for study once again (fig. 370). The purpose of these historical studies was to clarify and confirm the scroll map’s information about routes and places, information that was then included in other historical maps and texts (Talbert 2010, 10–72). The geographical study of ancient, and also medieval, history was especially developed in Paris within the Académie des inscriptions (Abbattista 1997, 47–48, 56–57). More generally, the assertion that geography was one eye of history reflected the practices of writing and presenting history (the past) and geography (the world) to a growing public eager for such basic knowledge. Justified and shaped by the historical-geographical scholarship of classical authorities, notably Strabo and Polybius, Enlightenment authors so intertwined the domains of historical and geographical knowledge that it makes little sense to impose modern disciplinary conceptions by classifying some works as “histories” and others as “geographies.” Numerous “geographical and historical” accounts explained the present character of the world, its peoples, and their productions in terms of past events and explained how past events had played out on the world stage (Mayhew 2003, viii–ix). In doing so, some scholars implicitly argued for the superiority of modernity over antiquity, of the moderns over the ancients (Heffernan 2014, 8–9). Historians relied on published maps to develop their sense of the past. Gibbon stands as an exemplar in this respect; his memoirs record his continual and intense efforts to use geography as a “mode of thought which

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Fig. 369. AN INNOVATIVE CHRONOLOGICAL MAP, 1718. Girolamo Andrea Martignoni abandoned the standard format of chronological list in this remarkable four-sheet circular diagram, which he called a “carta istorica” and explained in his Spiegazione della carta istorica dell’Italia (Rome, 1721). The upper half of the circle depicts the regions of Europe and Asia Minor during the centuries of Roman hegemony, while

the lower half shows the same areas during the centuries from the birth of Christ to 1700. Concentric circles are numbered at one-hundred-year intervals. Each sector of the circle represents a specific region, with rivers of time flowing into the metaphorical sea of the Roman Empire. Size of the original: 57 × 56 cm. Image courtesy of the Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya, Barcelona (RM.223645).

strove to apprehend facts which were at once historical and geographical.” In the 1760s, Gibbon poured over maps and other geographical texts to refine Hannibal’s route through the Alps and to understand the distribution of peoples in ancient Italy (Abbattista 1997, quota-

tion on 46). Gibbon himself built up a large collection of contemporary maps, especially those by Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, to which he repeatedly turned in order to understand where the past had happened (Fernández-Armesto 1991; Abbattista 1997). Gibbon

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was by no means unique. In another instance, Pedro Rodríguez Campomanes, director of the Real Academia de la Historia (1764–91 and 1798–1801), sustained his historical investigations with a large collection of maps that eventually became the core of the academy’s map collection (Arias 2007, 127). Historians also reconstructed the geography of the past according to contemporary geographical frameworks. Much of this work was textual, as when Gibbon composed his Nomina gentesque antiquæ Italiæ (written 1763–64 and published later) as a verbal map and geography of ancient Italy or when he began his magisterial The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–88) with a description of the provinces of the later Roman Empire (Abbattista 1997). But such work was also often graphic and produced historical maps and atlases. Particular staples of the map trade were atlases that compared ancient and modern geography to provide a summa of geographical knowledge, such as Philippe Briet’s bestselling three-volume Parallela geographiæ veteris et novæ (1648–49). The premier

intellectual successor to this tradition in the eighteenth century was d’Anville, the highly respected French geographer who was also a prominent member of the Académie des inscriptions and produced several ancient atlases (Goffart 2003, 473–74). The textual and mapping components of ancient geography came together in Cellarius’s Notitia orbis antiqui, which is lauded as “the first complete and systematic treatise” on ancient geography. Cellarius also prepared a comprehensive medieval geography, but the project lapsed on his death in 1707; his maps for this project were eventually printed in 1776 (Goffart 2003, 140–43, quotation on 140). Of particular interest is the manner in which accounts of Europe’s imperial endeavors necessarily relied on a geographical framework and routinely featured maps of the relevant regions for their readers’ benefit. For example, the first volume of Cotton Mather’s detailed account of Puritan settlement in New England, the Magnalia Christi Americana (1702), included both the author’s own textual Ecclesiastical Map of the County—a hierarchical list on two pages of the colonies, counties,

Fig. 370. FACSIMILE OF THE PEUTINGER MAP, 1753, SHEET 8, WITH CONSTANTINOPLE. From Franz Christoph von Scheyb, Pevtingeriana tabvla itineraria qvae in Avgvsta Bibliotheca Vindobonensi nvnc servatvr adcvrate exscripta (Vienna: Typographia Trattneriana, 1753).

Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 1285).

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and congregations (bk. 1, 27–28)—as well as a map of contemporary geography added by the publishers in London for the benefit of the work’s readers in Britain (bk. 1, preceding 1). The work by historians in preparing accounts of the East India Company’s activities in South Asia (by Robert Orme) and of the Spanish empire in the Americas (by Juan Bautista Muñoz) actively promoted new mapping activities by the respective imperial agencies (Tammita Delgoda 1992, 373–74; Arias 2007, 129). Enlightenment writers thus established the practice of imperial history, which is to say the writing of historical events as they unfurl on a seemingly preexistent and predefined stage. In contrast to the wide-ranging scope of Enlightenment history, antiquaries were motivated by a variety of familial, communal, religious, institutional, and political sentiments to resurrect the past in order to celebrate the present. The hallmarks of their scholarship were a precise spatial focus on a region or particular place and an unquenchable thirst for facts about and artifacts from the past. In their chorographical descriptions, they blended local topography, archaeology, ethnography, bibliography, and natural philosophy in a complex mix that defies easy description. By the end of the eighteenth century, these historical magpies would be increasingly mocked for their lack of scholarly rigor and historical system (Walters 1988, 542). Local regional mapping was so significant for the antiquarian project that antiquaries generally posed with plans and maps in their portraits (Walters 1988, 531). While antiquaries consumed topographical and chorographical plans of their specific subject areas, they also worked with maps prepared as part of more general geographies. Gwyn Walters (1970, 1976, 1988) explored how several British antiquaries in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries made new county maps as integral elements of their own publications to set the spatial stage for their celebratory accounts. The eighteenth-century push to organize archives and libraries and so recover materials of antiquarian importance steadily unearthed a variety of recent and less-than-recent maps. As these early maps were found and publicized, antiquaries opportunistically described their content and occasionally produced facsimiles. For example, William Stukeley published a facsimile of a medieval copy of a map of Roman Britain that provided well over a hundred previously unknown toponyms as the frontispiece to his Account of Richard of Cirencester, Monk of Westminster, and of His Works: With His Antient Map of Roman Brittain (1757); however, the map and its parent work were proved in the nineteenth century to have been faked by Stukeley’s Danish informant (Piggott 1950, 154–63). Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr included a description and facsimile of Martin Behaim’s globe of 1492 in his Historische Nachricht

History and Cartography

von den nürnbergischen Mathematicis und Künstlern (1730), while Girolamo Francesco Zanetti included a brief passage on sea charts in his celebration of Venetian arts, Dell’origine di alcune arti principali appresso i Viniziani (1758). The identification of maps depended on local traditions of antiquarian scholarship. In Germany, Eberhard David Hauber compiled a long and detailed bibliography of the maps of southwestern Germany. He further indicated the curious features that could be found on each map and also described, in a separate section, some surviving manuscript maps of Württemberg (Hauber 1724: map bibliographies, 1–38, 69–105, 105–14 [manuscript maps], 114–22, 148–80; discussions of curious features, 38–52, 123–37). In his ambitious summary of the antiquities of Britain, British Topography (1780), Richard Gough devoted substantial space to medieval maps of, or made in, Britain that others had found and publicized. Among these medieval maps were such major cartographic monuments as the Hereford mappamundi and the now-eponymous Gough map of Britain. He described the content of each map, focusing on British place-names, and he reproduced ten of them in full or part. He then, with neither break nor heading to warn the reader, provided a bibliography of printed Renaissance maps of Britain and its counties, which in turn became a catalog of modern maps of regions, counties, and roads, which was then complemented by a list of modern charts of the British coasts (Gough 1780, 1:57–113). The antiquaries’ special focus was, however, on the character and heritage of particular places. Thus, they pursued topographical as well as chorographical mapping. Throughout the long eighteenth century, they prepared detailed architectural and archaeological plans of ruins, relicts, and general sites of interest (fig. 371). The results of this proto-archaeology are evident in any number of maps of landscapes and urban places. British engineer William Roy’s fascination with Roman and Celtic remains established the eventual practice of the nineteenth-century Ordnance Survey to map the locations of ancient sites on its larger-scale topographical maps (Hodson 2011); nor can we ignore the careful archaeological mapping of classical monuments in Giovanni Battista Nolli’s large plan of Rome (1748) (see fig. 610). Probably the most assertive antiquarian survey was that undertaken by Marie-Gabriel-Florent-Auguste, comte de Choiseul-Gouffier, who in 1776–79 toured the islands and coasts of the Aegean with a small flotilla of artists and engineers trained at the École des Ponts et Chaussées. They painted and mapped contemporary places and peoples, architectural remains, and the landscapes of ancient sites. The products informed not only his own three-volume Voyage pittoresque de la Grèce (1782–1822) but also subsequent accounts of ancient

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Fig. 371. AN ANTIQUARY’S PLAN OF ANCIENT REMAINS. William Stukeley prepared this manuscript—“The Groundplot of the British Temple Now the Village of Abvry in Wiltshire Admeasurd & Designd August 1721”—in the midst of several years’ fieldwork at the great stone circle at Avebury, Wiltshire. His final plan (1724) would be engraved with re-

markable sensitivity as the frontispiece to his Abury: A Temple of the British Druids (1743). Size of the original: ca. 37.5 × 47.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford (Western MSS Gough maps 231, fols. 57v–58r).

Greek civilization, especially via the work of d’Anville’s protégé, Jean-Denis Barbié Du Bocage, who curated Choiseul-Gouffier’s collections and later prepared the plans and views for the highly popular Voyage du jeune Anacharsis (1788) (fig. 372) by Jean-Jacques Barthélemy (Edney 1999, 178–85; Tolias 2005). Such topographic work could have an overtly and narrowly social focus, as when in 1702 the Shropshire yeoman Richard Gough (no relation to the other Richard Gough) idiosyncratically mapped both the “ancient” and contemporary social structure of his community through maps of pew ownership in the parish church (Gough 1981, 80–83). Focused as they were on the mapping of their home regions, antiquaries were well attuned to how well topographical plans and chorographical maps depicted the

immediate landscape. As Hauber and Gough listed and described maps, they accordingly outlined their flaws. Hauber (1724, 53–68, 137–47) detailed the “defects and flaws” in regional maps as a plea for their improvement. Gough was imprecise in his criticisms and provided only blanket condemnation: “Notwithstanding the assertions of [Emanuel] Bowen, [Thomas] Kitchen [i.e., Kitchin], and other modern makers, that their maps are framed from actual new surveys, there is scarce a single one which does not abound with faults: and a set of correct maps remains to be hoped for from the undertakers of surveys of counties; though it were much to be wished the abilities of some of these were more answerable to the encouragement afforded them. The same may be said of all the republishers of [the road maps by John] Ogilby.”

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Fig. 372. TOPOGRAPHY OF AN ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE. One of Jean-Denis Barbié Du Bocage’s images for JeanJacques Barthélemy’s Voyage du jeune Anacharsis (1788), from an English-language edition (1792), depicting the site of the oracle at Delphi. Size of the original: 18.3 × 14.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OS-1792-13).

Gough further repeated the claim made by Anton Friedrich Büsching (1754, 39) that of the 16,000 “general and particular” maps supposed to have been published since the invention of printing, “not above 1700 are originals” (Gough 1780, 1:108–9). While such criticism by antiquaries mirrored that leveled by geographers against geographical maps, they were made from a topographical and chorographical perspective. Thus, they indicate the growing awareness in the eighteenth century of the ability of civil and military engineers to extend detailed surveys across large regions and therefore of the potential to reform all mapping from the ground up, as it were, and they point to the eventual formation of the modern cartographic ideal in the nineteenth century. M atth ew H . Ed ney See also: Antiquarianism and Cartography; Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’; Atlas: Historical Atlas; Geographical Mapping; History of Cartography; Historical Map; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Religion and Cartography

Bibliography Abbattista, Guido. 1997. “Establishing the ‘Order of Time and Place’: ‘Rational Geography,’ French Erudition and the Emplacement of History in Gibbon’s Mind.” In Edward Gibbon: Bicentenary Essays, ed. David Womersley, 45–72. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. Arias, Santa. 2007. “Recovering Imperial Space in Juan Bautista Muñoz´s Historia del Nuevo-Mundo (1793).” Revista Hispánica Moderna 60:125–42. Büsching, Anton Friedrich. 1754. Neue Erdbeschreibung, Erster Theil welcher Dänemark, Norwegen, Schweden, das ganze rußische Kaisertum, Preussen, Polen, Hungarn und die europäische Türkey, mit denen dazu gehörigen und einverleibten Ländern, enthält. Hamburg: Johann Carl Bohn. Davis, Stephen Boyd. 2015. “May Not Duration Be Represented as Distinctly as Space? Geography and the Visualization of Time in the Early Eighteenth Century.” In Knowing Nature in Early Modern Europe, ed. David Beck, 119–37. London: Pickering & Chatto. Edney, Matthew H. 1999. “Reconsidering Enlightenment Geography and Map Making: Reconnaissance, Mapping, Archive.” In Geography and Enlightenment, ed. David N. Livingstone and Charles W. J. Withers, 165–98. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fernández-Armesto, Felipe, intro. and commentary. 1991. Edward Gibbon’s Atlas of the World. London: The Folio Society. Gibbon, Edward. 1994. Memoirs of My Life and Writings. Ed. A. O. J. Cockshut and Stephen Constantine. Keele: Ryburn Publishing and Keele University Press. Goffart, Walter. 1995. “Breaking the Ortelian Pattern: Historical Atlases with a New Program, 1747–1830.” In Editing Early and Historical Atlases, ed. Joan Winearls, 49–81. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. ———. 2003. Historical Atlases: The First Three Hundred Years, 1570–1870. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gough, Richard (antiquarian). 1780. British Topography; Or, an Historical Account of What Has Been Done for Illustrating the Topographical Antiquities of Great Britain and Ireland. 2 vols. London: T. Payne and Son, and J. Nichols. Gough, Richard (yeoman). 1981. The History of Myddle. Ed. David Hey. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Grafton, Anthony. 2007. What Was History? The Art of History in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hauber, Eberhard David. 1724. Historische Nachricht von den Land-Charten deß Schwäbischen Craißes und deß Hertzogthums Würtemberg, wie auch anderer in Schwaben gelegener Herrschafften, mit verschiedenen Anmerckungen. Ulm: Daniel Bartholomäi. Heffernan, Michael. 2014. “A Paper City: On History, Maps, and Map Collections in 18th and 19th Century Paris.” Imago Mundi 66 supplement: 5–20. Hodson, Yolande. 2011. “The Lucubrations of His Leisure Hours: William Roy’s Military Antiquities of the Romans in Britain, 1793.” Scottish Geographical Journal 127:117–32. Hofmann, Catherine. 2000. “La genèse de l’atlas historique en France (1630–1800): Pouvoir et limites de la carte comme ‘œil de l’histoire.’” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 158:97–128. Krogt, Peter van der. 1997–. Koeman’s Atlantes Neerlandici. Multivolume. ’t Goy-Houten: HES. Mayhew, Robert J. 2003. “Introduction: ‘Geography is the Eye of History’: The Theory and Practice of a Commonplace, 1500–1950.” In Britannia, by William Camden, ed. Robert J. Mayhew, 3 vols., 1:v–xi. Bristol: Thoemmes Press. Piggott, Stuart. 1950. William Stukeley: An Eighteenth–Century Antiquary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rosenberg, Daniel, and Anthony Grafton. 2010. Cartographies of Time. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Talbert, Richard J. A. 2010. Rome’s World: The Peutinger Map Reconsidered. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

History of Cartography Tammita Delgoda, Sinharaja. 1992. “‘Nabob, Historian and Orientalist’: Robert Orme: The Life and Career of an East India Company Servant (1728–1801).” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 3d ser. 2:363–76. Tolias, George. 2005. “Antiquarianism, Patriotism and Empire: Transfers of the Cartography of The Travels of Anacharsis the Younger in Greece (1788–1811).” Historical Review 2:67–91. Reprinted ePerimetron 3 (2008): 101–19. Walters, Gwyn. 1970. “Engraved Maps from the English Topographies, c. 1660–1825.” Cartographic Journal 7:81–88. ———. 1976. “Thomas Pennant’s Map of Scotland, 1777: A Study in Sources, and an Introduction to George Paton’s Role in the History of Scottish Cartography.” Imago Mundi 28:121–28. ———. 1988. “The Antiquary and the Map.” Word & Image 4: 529–44. Woolf, Daniel R. 2005. “From Hystories to the Historical: Five Transitions in Thinking about the Past, 1500–1700.” Huntington Library Quarterly 68:33–70.

History of Cartography. “The principal concern of the history of cartography is the study of the map in human terms” (Harley 1987, 1). In considering the application of this description to cartography in the European Enlightenment, distinction may be made between the history of cartography in the Enlightenment as contemporaries then understood their work and its relationship to that of earlier cartographers and the work of modern scholars looking at Enlightenment cartography as one period in a longer history. For J. B. Harley (1987, 9–10), cartography in the Enlightenment was distinguished by a belief in the accuracy of measurement “as the sine qua non of cartographic progress”; by “an increasing emphasis in mapping on original survey, on more precise instruments, especially at sea, and on more detailed cartographic representation as an end in itself”; by the fact that practicing mapmakers increasingly distanced themselves from their predecessors’ maps; and by a general attention to maps both as documents of and licenses for discovery and as part of strengthening interests in history and ancient geography (fig. 373). Other features of the period included a rise in biobibliographical studies, in which lists of mapmakers and their works were compiled (Höhener 1995; e.g., Gregorii 1713), an increased interest in map collecting (Skelton 1972, 70–73), and a recognition of the mapping capacities of non-Europeans and nonliterate peoples, although Eurocentric views dominated what cartography was held to be. Even so, because by 1800 maps were seldom contemplated and analyzed as artifacts, because relatively little notice was taken of the methods by which they were constructed and drawn, and because no consideration was given to the study of cartographic form as a mode of communication, “the history of cartography had yet to be born as a subject we would recognize today” (Harley 1987, 12). Evidence from Enlightenment cartographers illustrates, complicates, and, to an extent, contradicts these

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claims. One theme evident in Enlightenment commentary was a sense of national mapping capability relative to other countries. For France, Didier Robert de Vaugondy (1755) traced the rise of more accurate mapping to the establishment of the Académie des sciences and its patronage of astronomer-geographers while also dismissing the aberrancy of earlier Dutch and English works. In Scotland, geographer royal Sir Robert Sibbald promoted his own atlas plans from the 1680s by likewise dismissing others’ earlier work, chiefly that of the Dutch mapmakers Willem Jansz. Blaeu and Joan Blaeu. A related and prevalent theme was the dismissal of earlier individual mapmakers as errant and thus their maps as out-of-date and unreliable. John Blair considered the rise of geography and cartography in Britain synonymous, while earlier classical maps were little more than “rude Outlines and topographical Sketches” (Blair 1768, 4). Yet although he invoked a linear and progressive “improvement” in both subjects since the Greeks, largely because of increased accuracy in maps, his conclusion was more circumspect than many: “Maps in general ought to be considered as unfinished Works, where there will be always found many things to be corrected and added, and that they ought to have a kind of floating Title affixed to them, expressive of their imperfect State” (Blair 1768, 19–20). For Britain, the antiquarian-topographer Richard Gough similarly associated improvements in geography with advances in mapmaking and accorded England primacy: “If England did not teach other nations the art of making or engraving maps, she is preceded by very few” (Gough 1780, iii). Enlightenment cartographers judged themselves better not only in relation to the capacities of their predecessors but also often with respect to their contemporaries in other nations. They commonly did so by reference to precedence, appeals to accuracy and novelty, and dependence on science and direct observation. For John Green, improvement in maps required not just teaching “the Student how to draw Maps,” but also warning mapmakers and map users alike of the “Defects of former Geographers and Travellers” (Green 1717, preface). Green’s remarks illustrate a further sense in which Enlightenment mapmakers and commentators understood their work in historical perspective, namely its heightened utilitarian value. One expression of this, for example, was that maps helped both stimulate and reflect connections between the improvement of geography and the results of exploratory inquiry. As a result, geography books, which as a genre aimed at textual descriptions of the world, began to incorporate maps as accurate representations of that world and as visual accompaniments to written texts by which readers could better locate themselves and others. Map production and book reading together be-

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Fig. 373. A FACSIMILE OF SEBASTIAN MÜNSTER’S “SCHONLANDIA. XIII NOVA TABVLA” OF 1540. Engraved by Thomas Kitchin in Adam Anderson’s An Historical and Chronological Deduction of the Origin of Commerce, from the Earliest Accounts to the Present Time, 2 vols. (London: Andrew Millar et al., 1764), opp. 1:386. Anderson used  the

map to show how a ninth-century Anglo-Saxon voyage to the White Sea was by 1540 “utterly forgotten & unknown,” in the process asserting a primacy for English navigation. Size of the original: ca. 27 × 35 cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

came a means to understand better what maps did, even when the maps provided limited coverage. Enlightenment maps did not always have to pretend to completeness to have value as “better” maps. Drawing upon the work of Guillaume Delisle in particular, Green noted that accuracy and improvement depended not on the inclusion of features on maps of the world simply in consequence of more knowledge being known, but from the judicious omission of such information unless it was known with certainty: “It may be ask’d, if De Lisle’s maps be an Improvement, how comes it that many of them are not so full of Places as former maps? The Reason is, doubtless, because he was cautious of inserting any Place whose Situation was altogether uncertain” (Green 1717, 147). As he further cautioned, “A Geographer should never insert any Place, the Situation

of which is uncertain, or whose Distance from some remarkable Town is not observ’d by some Author; ’twere better a map were empty of Names than fill’d after this Manner” (Green 1717, 155). In Green’s view, the history of cartography had been significantly advanced in this respect by Delisle: it was he who “undertook to disabuse the World, and put a Stop to those spurious Draughts that were daily obtruded on the Publick, by making a compleat Sett of maps, both of Old and New Geography, corrected and improv’d from the Surveys several European Nations had made of their respective Countries, the Observations of the best Travellers in all Languages, and the Journals of the Royal Societies of London and Paris” (Green 1717, 132). Yet a note of caution is necessary here. The claims made by Enlightenment cartographers as to their own

History of Cartography

maps’ accuracy or novelty were often more rhetorical than real and were often denied by the maps themselves. Simply, the notion of accuracy—made for reasons to do with market competition, to connote associations with the latest discoveries or instrumental methods and so to attain greater credibility and social status—was in many Enlightenment maps more common as a claim than as a real practical consequence. What Green alluded to in 1717 in noting that “our map-makers have seldom any Interest in View but their own, which may be one Cause why their maps are copy’d from the Old, and without Care” (Green 1717, 149), and Blair hinted at in 1768, Gough in 1780 put more forcefully: “Notwithstanding the assertions of Bowen, Kitchen [sic], and other modern map makers, that their maps are framed from actual new surveys, there is scarce a single one which does not abound with faults” (Gough 1780, 84). Enlightenment mapmakers and geographers thus understood theirs to be a period in which their cartography (and geography) was an advance on that of their predecessors and was so because of its accuracy, itself the result of reliable measuring instruments, direct observation, and the incorporation of up-to-date information (even when that was not always actually so). Enlightenment cartography was thus synonymous with contemporary notions of progress, improvement, and utility. In the nineteenth century, the history of cartography in general, and attention to the history of Enlightenment cartography in particular, was stimulated by institutional developments in geography, the growth of specialist map libraries, and a rise in the collecting of old maps. In the first half of the twentieth century, the slow emergence of a scholarly identity for the history of cartography was evident in several ways. In 1935, Imago Mundi, an international journal devoted to the subject, was first published. Several general histories were written: Bagrow (1964), Crone (1953), and Skelton (1972) built in one way or another upon the major accounts by Sandler (1905) and Eckert (1921–25), each tending to treat Enlightenment cartography as a story of progressive accuracy and enhanced utility for maps. Most significantly, such a progressivist history of cartography reflected the growing status of cartography itself: “the emergence of cartography as an independent academic and practical discipline providing new theoretical frameworks as well as a reinforced raison d’être for the study of cartographic history” (Harley 1987, 23). The evidence in Enlightenment cartography about claims to accuracy thus has its parallels in more modern scholarship. Where, broadly, Enlightenment commentators understood a map’s “accuracy” to mean both a closer correspondence between the real world and the map as its stylized representation, and an improvement upon earlier efforts, a prevalent theme in the modern history of cartography has been the presumed association

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between the map and its mimetic capacity—between cartography, progress, science, and the capacity to reveal the “truth” of the world. For Crone (1953, xi), “the history of cartography is largely that of the increase in the accuracy with which . . . elements of distance and direction are determined.” Skelton emphasized accuracy and technical advances, notably in printing, in his introductory survey of the history of cartography (Skelton 1972, 3–25). The tendency to assume fidelity between maps and the object they represent and to read the history of cartography as the shedding of error in the progressive pursuit of that fidelity was reinforced by the rise of cartography as a science-led discipline from the 1960s. Yet, and at the same time, other approaches were focusing on the map not as a faithful mirror to the world but as a social product. Thus, “by 1980 the history of cartography was at a crossroads. The divergence was not only between its historical associations with geography and map librarianship and its newer, enhanced role within an increasingly independent cartography. It was also between its traditional work in the interpretation of the content of early maps as documents and its more recently clarified aims to study maps as artifacts in their own right and as a graphic language that has functioned as a force for change in history” (Harley 1987, 39). Harley was a leading figure in the more recent historiographical “deconstruction” of the map as a “text” (Harley 1989; for a fuller overview, see Edney 2005). Harley drew upon the idea of discourse and the work of social theorists such as Michel Foucault and Jacques Derrida to emphasize the map as a social document infused with power. “The interpretive act of deconstructing the map,” Harley considered, “can serve three functions in a broad enquiry into the history of cartography. First, it allows us to challenge the epistemological myth (created by cartographers) of the cumulative progress of an objective science always producing better delineations of reality. Second, deconstructionist argument allows us to redefine the historical importance of maps . . . .Third, a deconstructive turn of mind may allow map history to take a fuller place in the interdisciplinary study of text and knowledge” (Harley 1989, 15). Others followed this interpretive turn. Matthew H. Edney’s 1993 critique of cartography’s “empiricist presuppositions” discussed the way “the modern discipline of cartography justifies and legitimates its empiricist claims to objectivity and neutrality by pointing to its past progress,” and, conversely, how “historians of cartography have defined their subject in terms of their a priori assumptions of mapmaking’s objectivity, neutrality, and progressiveness” (Edney 1993, 54). Within Enlightenment writing and modern scholarship, then, the history of cartography has been characterized by a persistent progressive rhetoric in terms of what a map is, what a map does, and what the history

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of cartography has been taken to be. Within modern study, attention to the map as text or to cartography’s modes has moved us beyond the map as simple mirror to nature. Yet even as we moderns recognize the need to understand maps in their social and historical context— since, as Harley emphasized, “the history of cartography represents more than a technical and practical history of the artifact” (Harley 1987, 5)—it is all the more important that we must also learn to read Enlightenment maps through the eyes of their makers and contemporaries.

Skelton, R. A. 1972. Maps: A Historical Survey of Their Study and Collecting. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Holland, Samuel (Johannes). Born in 1729 in Deven-

See also: Geographical Mapping; Green, John; History and Cartography; Map Trade Bibliograp hy Bagrow, Leo. 1964. History of Cartography. Rev. and enl. R. A. Skelton. Trans. D. L. Paisey. London: C. A. Watts. Blair, John. 1768. “On the Rise and Progress of Geography.” In The Chronology and History of the World, by John Blair, 1–20. London. Crone, G. R. 1953. Maps and Their Makers: An Introduction to the History of Cartography. London: Hutchinson’s University Library. Eckert, Max. 1921–25. Die Kartenwissenschaft: Forschungen und Grundlagen zu einer Kartographie als Wissenschaft. 2 vols. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Edney, Matthew H. 1993. “Cartography without ‘Progress’: Reinterpreting the Nature and Historical Development of Mapmaking.” Cartographica 30, nos. 2 and 3:54–68. ———. 2005. “The Origins and Development of J. B. Harley’s Cartographic Theories.” Monograph 54, Cartographica 40, nos. 1 and 2. Gough, Richard. 1780. An Essay on the Rise and Progress of Geography in Great-Britain and Ireland. London: John Nichols. Green, John. 1717. The Construction of Maps and Globes. London: T. Horne et al. Gregorii, Johann Gottfried. 1713. Curieuse Gedancken von den vornehmsten und accuratesten Alt- und Neuen Land-Charten nach ihrem ersten Ursprunge / Erfindung / Auctoribus und Sculptoribus, Gebrauch und Nutzen entworffen. Frankfurt: Ritschel. Harley, J. B. 1987. “The Map and the Development of the History of Cartography.” In HC 1:1–42. ———. 1989. “Deconstructing the Map.” Cartographica 26, no.  2: 1–20. Höhener, Hans-Peter. 1995. “Zur Geschichte der Kartendokumentation in der Schweiz.” In Karten hüten und bewahren: Festgabe für Lothar Zögner, ed. Joachim Neumann, 57–66. Gotha: Justus Perthes. Jacob, Christian. 2006. The Sovereign Map: Theoretical Approaches in Cartography throughout History. Trans. Tom Conley. Ed. Edward H. Dahl. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Robert de Vaugondy, Didier. 1755. Essai sur l’histoire de la géographie, ou sur son origine, ses progrès & son état actuel. Paris: Antoine Boudet. Sandler, Christian. 1905. Die Reformation der Kartographie um 1700. Munich: R. Oldenbourg.

ter, Netherlands, Samuel Holland began his career as a surveyor early in his life. In 1745, during the War of the Austrian Succession, Holland entered the Dutch artillery, and, in 1747, made plans of Bergen op Zoom and ’s Hertogenbosch. In 1754 he emigrated to England, possibly sponsored by Charles Lennox, third duke of Richmond, and joined the Royal American Regiment, part of the British Army. In 1756, Holland was deployed to the American theater of the Seven Years’ War and prepared a map of New York province. In 1758, he took part in the Siege of Louisbourg and tutored the future explorer James Cook on surveying techniques, then collaborated with Cook to create a chart of the Gaspé Peninsula. He also made plans of Quebec and Halifax, Nova Scotia. In 1759, Holland allegedly was one of the few officers present at the death of General James Wolfe at the Battle of the Plains of Abraham. In 1761, General James Murray ordered Holland and John Montresor to survey the Saint Lawrence Valley at the large scale of 800 feet to an inch (see fig. 838). The colossal Murray Map (1761–62) was a device of military control, many of its sheets depicting properties and indicating the number of men of fighting age in each parish. In 1763, the Board of Trade approved Holland’s proposal that they sponsor a systematic survey with the ultimate objective of creating a general map of Britain’s newly enlarged colonial domain. In 1764, Holland was appointed surveyor general of the northern district of the General Survey of British North America. His associates included Charles Blaskowitz, James Grant, Thomas Wheeler, and George Sproule. All surveying was to be based on astronomical observations to fix latitude and longitude, and Holland’s results were published in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society (1768–74). As the official blueprint for the settlement of what is now Prince Edward Island, Holland’s “Plan of the Island of St. John” (1765) was more than 13 × 9 feet in size, was copied in manuscript in a smaller format (see fig. 26), and was later published in several states. It was followed by his “Plan of the Island of Cape Britain” (1768) (fig. 374).

(facing page) Fig. 374. CAPE BRETON ISLAND, NOVA SCOTIA, CANADA, 1768. Samuel Holland, “A Plan of the Island of Cape Britain Reduced from the Large Survey Made According to the Orders and Instructions of the Right Honorable the Lords Commissioners for Trade and Plantations,” likely drafted by Thomas Wright. Colored manuscript; 1:253,440. This finely drafted topographical map divides the island into numbered townships within parishes, their acreages being detailed in the table (lower right). It was meant to accompany Holland’s “De-

scription of the Island of Cape Britain,” which emphasized the island’s potential for forestry, fisheries, and most importantly its colliery. The use of English place-names, many with their French equivalent, is a toponymic act of possession. One of only three known copies, this example from the collection of Sir Jeffrey Amherst. Size of the original: 103.0 × 71.5 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Western Manuscripts, Add MS 57701, map no. 7).

C ha r les W. J . With ers

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In 1768, Thomas Jefferys published a map of New York by Holland attributed to “Authentic Surveys.” While based on the composite map Holland had prepared for John Campbell, fourth earl of Loudoun, in 1758, a resentful Holland, noting that he made no such surveys, exclaimed that Jefferys simply “wants a name for his catch-penny, though of course has made free with mine” (Holland 1768, ff. 50–51). In 1769, with David Rittenhouse, Holland demarcated the New York–New Jersey line. From 1770, he supervised teams that mapped the coast of New England, with the charts of Maine being of extraordinary technical merit (see fig. 839), and those of Boston Harbor and Narragansett Bay of great military utility (see figs. 502 and 507). Holland’s surveys of the interior led to A Topographical Map of the Province of New Hampshire (1784). The General Survey was halted by the advent of the American Revolution in 1775, and Holland removed to London. There he was engaged by George Germain, first viscount Sackville, to assist J. F. W. Des Barres in preparing his maps for inclusion in The Atlantic Neptune (1774–82). Promoted to major in 1776, he was sent to New York and became leader of the Guides & Pioneers, a reconnaissance unit, producing “A Plan of the Forts Montgomery & Clinton” (1777). In 1779, he was recalled to Quebec by Sir Frederick Haldimand, where he spent the rest of his life as surveyor general. Accommodating an influx of Loyalist settlers, he oversaw the mapping and cadastral division of Upper Canada (Ontario) and Quebec’s Eastern Townships. He died on 28 December 1801 in Quebec. A l e x a n de r J a me s C o o k J o h ns o n See also: Atlantic Neptune, The; Topographical Surveying: British America Bibliograp hy Holland, Samuel. 1768. Holland to Sir Henry Moore, 9 October. British Library, London, Haldimand Papers, Add. Mss. 22679. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J.  W.  F. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill–Queen’s University Press. Johnson, Alexander James Cook. 2017. The First Mapping of America: The General Survey of British North America. London: I. B. Tauris.

Holy Roman Empire. See Austrian Monarchy; German States

Homann Family. Born in 1664, Johann Baptist Homann moved to the imperial city of Nuremberg in 1687, where he acquired and perfected his skill as a copperplate map engraver within only two years. In the following thirteen years until the founding of his publishing house, he collaborated on mapping projects in Nuremberg and Leipzig, gained experience in the map

publishing industry with David Funck, and presumably acquired some modest capital as well. In 1702 he founded his own publishing house specializing in mapmaking. The firm, over nearly 150 years, had three distinct phases of large production (fig. 375). The heightened public interest in information about the regions affected by the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) helped Homann’s firm be successful in the marketplace. In 1707 Homann published the Atlas bestehend in auserlesenen und allerneuesten LandCharten über die gantze Welt comprising his first thirtythree maps (fig. 376); this atlas was to become the main product of the publishing house. Although for financial reasons the maps were almost exclusively copied from existing works, they were purchased and favorably reviewed. This success brought Homann into contact with scientists such as the astronomer Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr and the educator Johann Hübner. As early as 1712 the firm was sufficiently stable financially for Homann to cautiously invest resources in newly compiled maps (e.g., Hydrographia Germaniæ by Philipp Heinrich Zollmann; see fig. 296). The firm’s early prosperity, both qualitative and quantitative, was evidenced by Homann’s admission in 1715 to the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin and by his being conferred the title of Kaiserlicher Geograph in 1716. In the years leading up to his death in 1724, Homann intensified his scientific affiliations (e.g., with Eberhard David Hauber in Württemberg, and the czar’s court in Russia), which allowed him to publish several newly compiled maps (e.g., one of the first printed maps of Kamchatka). Homann himself published 183 atlas maps in folio format. The firm was inherited by Homann’s son, Johann Christoph, who finished his medical degree in 1725 and did not return from a trip to the Netherlands and Great Britain until about 1727; in the meantime, the copperplate engraver Johann Georg Ebersberger managed the company. Johann Christoph added new touches by furnishing new editions of every map with a date and in 1729 acquired an imperial printing privilege against engravings copied from any of the publishing house’s maps. It was extended until 1750 and again from 1762 to 1806. When Johann Christoph died in 1730, only twentyseven years old, his university friend Johann Michael Franz and Ebersberger each inherited half of the firm. Franz established the company name as Homann Heirs (Homannische/Homännische Erben, Homännische Officin, Heredes Homanniani, Homannianorum Heredes, Heritiers de Homann). In 1734 the owners acquired a prestigious building (now Fembohaus) but did not pursue a clear line of publications until approximately 1737. The Atlas Silesiae, commissioned by the Silesian government, was of great consequence and was published as the firm’s first regional atlas in 1752. It also led to collaboration with the Wittenberg mathematician

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Fig. 375. NUMBER OF MAPS PUBLISHED BY THE HOMANN PUBLISHING FIRM DURING ITS LIFETIME. The most productive phases were between 1711 and 1724 and again between 1734 and 1750, when either Homann or Homanns Heirs had completed their start-up phases. The crisis in the late 1750s and the following frugal publishing policy until the 1780s explain the lower output during these thirty

years. The rising numbers of the 1780s show the comeback, but during the 1790s these figures are surpassed by the new competitors, for example in Vienna. The peak around 1803 is explained by the publication of the Kleiner Atlas . . . der Entschädigungs-Länder, made by specially coloring twenty– two existing maps.

and historian Johann Matthias Hase, who worked on the map projections. With Hase as a collaborator, the firm could draw on the skill of one of the foremost cartographers of the eighteenth century. Hase was the first to make maps for the firm of continents and large regions outside of Europe based on critical assessments of every available source. He used a stereographic projection, and his work boosted the firm’s cartographic quality to the level of the cartographers affiliated with the Académie des sciences in Paris. In addition, Hase compiled historical maps for Homann Heirs (see fig. 83), leading eventually to the Atlas historicus (1750), which was the first such work to include the Middle Ages and the modern period, as well as considering nations outside of Europe. From experience and the growing competition from the Seutter publishing house in Augsburg, the Homann publishing house and Franz in particular realized by the late 1730s that the firm’s future lay in improving the quality of new editions. This policy was consistently pursued after Hase’s death in 1742, as the astronomer Georg Moritz Lowitz and Tobias Mayer in particular became affiliated with the firm in 1745–46. Realizing that the publishing house’s capacity was insufficient for improving maps with such data as astronomically determined coordinates, Franz attempted to establish a state-funded Kosmographische Akademie, which could revolutionize cartography in everything from data acquisition to map production. In preparation, he founded the Kosmographische Gesellschaft, which involved the same scientists as those affiliated with the publishing house. They produced a great number of critically edited maps between 1737 and 1755,

which established international standards in the German-speaking world and brought about the second heyday of the Homann publishing house. The new editions were always dated, and they identified the zero meridian in the marginal gradations of longitude; they also referenced their sources in their titles, and the sources were sometimes discussed in separately published memoirs. At the same time, sales locations were organized across Europe. In 1750, fifty addresses were listed in the Holy Roman Empire and twenty-five in the rest of Europe, at which the entire stock of the firm could be acquired. The distribution of these addresses as well as the preserved atlases confirm that Homann Heirs was likely the leading map supplier in Central, Northern, and Eastern Europe (Diefenbacher, Heinz, and Bach-Damaskinos 2002, 106–11) (see fig. 470). Similarly, production developed from modest beginnings in the home of Johann Baptist Homann’s parentsin-law to become one of the largest printsellers in the German-speaking world. In order to keep stock replenished quickly, the firm’s founder engraved two copperplates for each of the most important maps. In the 1740s, up to three identical copperplates of the maps of the Holy Roman Empire were simultaneously in use, and it seems that over thirty illuminators were employed to color the maps. Although the Homann Heirs publishing house was one of the largest map producers in eighteenth-century Europe, it was apparent by around 1750 that the investments in quality exceeded the firm’s resources. State support of the planned Kosmographische Akademie was not forthcoming, and the loans that Franz had

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Fig. 376. JOHANN BAPTIST HOMANN, IMPERIUM ROMANO-GERMANICUM (NUREMBERG, 1702–7). First state, copper engraving, ca. 1:2,400,000. This map and its later variants probably were the top sellers of the Homann firm. Its full color, elaborate parerga (embellishments), and

high density of place-names were typical of many Homann maps. Size of the original: ca. 48.5 × 57.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (Kart. L 290).

taken out for this venture and for innovations at the firm could not be repaid. This brought his half of the firm into severe crisis. In 1751 Mayer left the firm, followed in 1755 by Lowitz, and also Franz himself, who left for an academic post at the University of Göttingen. In 1759 Franz sold his half of the publishing house to his brother Jacob Heinrich Franz and his brother’s wife Anna Felicitas to repay debts of approximately 21,500 guilders. These debts corresponded to a sales value of over 130,000 maps. Yet the firm was able to overcome this crisis by employing a frugal publishing policy for about twenty years, attesting to its considerable commercial potential. It certainly helped that the other half

of the firm was not affected, and Ebersberger was able to bequeath it, debt-free, to his daughter Barbara Dorothea Monath in 1760. After Jacob Heinrich Franz’s death, his son Georg Christoph Franz was brought into the firm’s management by his mother, although she did not transfer ownership to him. Thus, the revival of fortunes in the 1780s occurred when two women owned the publishing house. This third golden age is linked to the high-quality maps by the Weimar forest officer Franz Ludwig Güssefeld, who made 89 of the 103 newly published maps for the firm. For the third time, about 30 of the most important maps (which received special treatment and appeared in the majority of atlases throughout all three

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of the firm’s large production periods) were updated or replaced with new designs. Meanwhile, new competition emerged from firms in Vienna, Nuremberg, Weimar, and Berlin, which often explicitly emulated the Homann firm and prevented it from recovering its dominant market position. Due to major territorial changes in the Napoleonic era, the demands for up-to-date maps grew. Homann Heirs lost its prominence in this period mostly because it was not able to update its 550 folio maps. In 1804 Friedrich Albrecht Monath and in 1813 Georg Christoph Franz each had to sell their half-shares in the firm to Christoph Fembo. By 1832 Fembo published 66 new maps, the current rarity of which is further proof

that the company was now only of minor relevance. After Fembos’s death in 1848, his son shut down the company and in 1852 sold all the printing plates to the bookseller Sigmund Beyerlein, who evidently made only minimal use of them. The firm’s archives were probably lost in this period. In total the firm published 966 cartographic products, 39 prints, 84 atlas title pages along with sheets of tables of contents, and 116 separate text publications. The folio maps emphasized historically evolving territories, included a high density of place-names within each region, and displayed impressive decorations (parerga) (fig. 377), characteristics that were stylistically

Fig. 377. JOHANN CHRISTOPH HOMANN, TRACTUS NORWEGIÆ DANICUS MAGNAM DIOECESEOS AGGERHUSIENSIS PARTEM SISTENS (NUREMBERG, 1729). Copper engraving, ca. 1:450,000. This map was probably based on new material. The detailed depiction of mountain

mining activities reflects the relationship between the decorative but informational parerga and the map content. Image courtesy of the Stadtarchiv mit wissenschaftlicher Bibliothek, Fürth (Objekt Nr. 112).

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influential in the German-speaking world. This combination was even referred to as the Homann format. The centrally depicted territories were always colored, for which the firm used fixed templates that Hübner systematized from about 1710 (Diefenbacher, Heinz, and Bach-Damaskinos 2002, 98–102). The language used on the maps shifted from Latin to a combination of Latin and French in the 1740s, then to chiefly German from the 1780s. A distinguishing technical characteristic of the firm’s mapmaking was not only the systematic coloring but also the precise duplicates of important copperplates. The hallmark of the publishing house was the production of atlases, which one could assemble with relative ease from the separately published folio maps if the buyer did not want to follow the printed table of contents of 18 to 277 maps. From 1741, atlases in a bound format could be ordered. The Kleiner Atlas Scholasticus, compiled from eighteen ordinary folio maps by Hübner in 1710 is the first to mention school use in its title. Many atlases were compiled for this growing market, but only a few had specifically designed maps. Further specialties of the firm were regional and thematic atlases. Examples of early thematic cartography by the firm were the postal route map by Johann Peter Nell (1714), the linguistic maps by Gottfried Hensel (1741) (see fig. 781), and numerous historical maps and astronomic illustrations. Marine charts were not among the offerings, and the firm was hardly a noteworthy manufacturer of globes, contrary to many allusions in the literature. In all, the Homann publishing house played a leading role in providing cartographic information to half of Europe from about 1720 to 1790. Ma rkus H einz See also: Academies of Science: German States; Atlas: Historical Atlas; Color and Cartography; Geographical Mapping: German States; Historical Map; Map Trade: German States; Mayer, Tobias; Seutter, Probst, and Lotter Families; Thematic Mapping: German States Bibliograp hy Diefenbacher, Michael, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, eds. 2002. “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. Heinz, Markus. 1993. “A Research Paper on the Copper-Plates of the Maps of J. B. Homann’s First World Atlas (1707) and a Method for Identifying Different Copper-Plates of Identical-Looking Maps.” Imago Mundi 45:45–58. ———. 1997. “A Programme for Map Publishing: The Homann Firm in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 49:104–15. ———. 2002. “Modell eines Werkskataloges des kartographischen Verlages Homann, Homanns Erben und Fembo in Nürnberg (1702–1848).” 2 vols. PhD diss., Universität Wien. Homanns Erben, eds. 1741. Kurtze Nachricht von dem Homannischen grossen Landkarten-Atlas. Nuremberg: Homanns Erben.

Household Artifacts, Maps on. Maps on household items fall under the designation of “cartofacts” or cartographic artifacts: objects that include map elements but whose primary functions are other than cartographic. The sheer increase in the number of household artifacts and the subsequent decoration of many of them with maps are by-products of European exploration, expansion, and trade. In addition to being symbolic of the age, maps are also what are referred to in German as Machtsachen (power objects), commanding of attention and respect. During the Enlightenment, cartofacts took on numerous forms such as room screens, porcelain ware, textiles, clocks, fans, games and playing cards, and powder horns. Although relatively scarce, extant examples reveal much about their original owners and the age of which they were a part. Room screens have a long and fairly well documented history. In China the oldest known examples date back more than two millennia. Oriental screens first appeared in Europe as luxury products of the new East-West trade in the late sixteenth century after the opening of the port of Nagasaki in 1571. Some large European Renaissance maps, such as the famous six-sheet portolan of the world of 1502 associated with Alberto Cantino, had already been used on occasion as screens or to cover things. The use of room screens reached a high point in Europe and its colonies in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when screens became utilitarian parts of upper- and middle-class living environments. By the eighteenth century, screens were largely the works of homegrown and mostly unknown craftsmen, furnituremakers, and artists. The larger high-ceilinged, box-like rooms of Georgian homes and clubs often were cold, damp, difficult to heat, and rife with drafts, thereby necessitating screening. In warmer months, screens were used to cover unused and unsightly fireplaces. Screens therefore not only helped to partition the living and working spaces, they also intercepted uncomfortable currents of air. As with earlier Asian screens, European screens could be taken apart so that individual panels could be used as wall hangings or coverings. Map screens readily lent themselves to this practice, which possibly was one of the sources of the architectural screens constructed for specific homes and other buildings. Some of the earliest surviving European screens are map screens, but not so in Asia. With these household artifacts, cartographic cross-pollination seems to have been principally from the West to the East. Map screens appeared in East Asia mainly after Western contact, and their cartographic components were copied from Western maps. In Japan, for example, consumers could find hand-painted screens depicting the four major cities of Europe (Constantinople, Rome, Lisbon, and Seville),

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based on Georg Braun’s Civitates orbis terrarum (1572), world maps by Abraham Ortelius, and works by Pieter van den Keere among others. European screens with maps painted or mounted on their surfaces were of two main types. Screens were decorated with cartographic and other images perhaps supplied separately by the screen buyer and placed according to their wishes. Alternatively, one large multisheet map could conceivably cover the entire screen or the majority of it. Both types date back to the reign of Henry VIII in England and even earlier elsewhere in Europe. Three fine examples of Enlightenment map screens survive in London. The oldest and largest of the three, dating from the 1720s, is privately owned, approximately 244 by 366 centimeters in five panels, and composed of twelve maps by Herman Moll from his collection, The World Described. The panels were laminated onto a canvas-like material and stretched over a wooden grid framework, probably to keep this cumbersome piece of furniture light enough to be moved freely. The screen functioned as an atlas and may also have served as an educational tool in a British household. The other two examples of Enlightenment screens are in the British Library. One is a four-fold screen measuring 180 by 256 centimeters that was fabricated under the supervision of the British royal geographer Thomas Jefferys prior to 1760 (fig.  378). The maps are by Jefferys, George Willdey, and Samuel Parker; the screen was restored to its current state in the 1820s. The second screen stands about 214 by 366 centimeters in six panels and is constructed similarly to the other two. It dates to the late 1740s and is composed of maps by Moll, John Bowles, Emanuel Bowen, William Berry, and Henry Popple. The arrangement of the maps makes it conceivable that this screen was the property of a London merchant with interests in Western Europe and North America who displayed it in his home or business, perhaps as a form of advertising. Or it might have belonged to a British military officer who served in these theaters of war against France and Spain and through the maps recalled his campaigns. During this period, in a similar fashion to screens, traditional tapestries and other decorative textiles came to take on cartographic imagery, now usually embroidered or quilted by more practiced hands and learners. The custom of scrimshawing, or engraving, powder horns, many with maps, reached its apex with ordinary frontiersmen and hunters, but especially among the members of the British and French colonial militias and their Indian allies, during the Seven Years’ War (1756– 63) in North America (fig.  379). Made from cheap, readily available cow horns with wooden and/or pewter spouts and end plugs, powder horns were the utilitarian receptacles on the frontier for powder propellant used

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by muzzle-loading rifles and other guns. They were light, comfortable, waterproof, unique, and easily identified. Native Americans used them for barter and presentation pieces (Grancsay 1945, 27). Like the engravings on whale and walrus ivory of the early nineteenth century, those on powder horns were usually primitive renderings done either with a knife by the horns’ owners, who were often amateur and unnamed craftsmen, or with a graver and burin by professional silver engravers or gunsmiths, whose work is distinguished by fine lines (Grancsay 1945, 3, 82). Some of the maps on the horns were polychromatic; the engravings were colored with natural vegetable and mineral pigments. Powderhorn maps, which also included town views, fortifications, and battles, undoubtedly recorded the campaigns of which the owners of the horns had been a part, and they were not seriously used for wayfinding, although several exist showing the main river routes from New York to Canada, as in figure 379 (Grancsay 1945, 4, 11–12). Surviving British horns record maps of forts Ticonderoga, Crown Point, Prince George, and Pitt as well as the cities of New York, Boston, Roxbury, Quebec, Charlestown, Saint Augustine, and Havana. There also are depictions of the colonies of New York, Pennsylvania, and the Carolinas as well as the Hudson River from New York City to Lake Champlain, and the Mohawk River from Albany to Lake Ontario. Extant French horns show the cities of Quebec, Louisburg, and Charleston. Powder horns remained popular as long as muzzle-loading rifles were in use. American horns from the Revolutionary War displayed maps of Philadelphia, Charleston, and other areas. Only one horn survives from the early nineteenth century, showing the Oregon Trail. With the growth in the popularity of tea, coffee, and chocolate and inspired by the porcelains and other ceramics of Asia, the growing number of dishes and cups in use were occasionally decorated with map elements. Already in the late sixteenth century, Zurich silversmith Abraham Gessner created a number of globe wine cups, which were precursors to many similar objects that followed, including globe liquor cabinets in the twentieth century. By the middle of the eighteenth century and for the next hundred years, the West influenced Japan to produce numerous ceremonial blue-and-white porcelain cups and plates bearing Gyōki-style maps of the home islands for domestic use and export. These in turn inspired yet more copies in Europe. So too did ceremonial objects such as silk fans and bronze mirrors from Asia with cartographic images on them. Publishers such as Carington Bowles, Sébastian-G. Longchamp and Jean Janvier, and Thomas Balster demonstrated that essentially the same presses and techniques could be used to print maps on handkerchief fabric and fan silk as

Fig. 378. LARGE MAP SCREEN. In the 1750s, Thomas Jefferys acquired the plates for a series of maps made by George Willdey and Samuel Parker. With a common aesthetic—each of the twenty city or regional maps were set in a circular frame, referencing the hemispheres of the central world map— they make an attractive and coordinated map screen. The result is, in effect, a world atlas recast as furniture. Twenty-one engraved maps pasted on canvas and then attached to a pine frame. Size of the original: 180 × 256 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps Screen 2).

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Fig. 379. ENGRAVED POWDER HORN. Several members of the colonial militia during the Seven Years’ War seem to have engraved maps of the northern reaches of the province of New York on powder horns as mementos of the conflict. In addition to the royal coat of arms and large views of New York and Albany, this horn shows two major corridors from the Hudson River to the St. Lawrence, via Lake George and

Lake Champlain and via the Mohawk River, Lake Oneida, and Lake Ontario. Cow horn, with pewter cap and pouring spout. A horn with a very similar design, in a private collection, is signed “S. Goddard, 1761” (Du Mont 1978, 53). Length of the original: 32 cm; widest diameter: 9 cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G3801.A9 1770.P6).

on paper. The production of map folding and paddle (screen) fans and other cartofacts thus broadened the markets for map publishers. European and American clock faces also depicted maps and were popular domestically and in the trade with China. The increasing amount of leisure time of the middle and upper classes also helped stimulate the popularity of parlor games, especially board and card games. Since at least 1590, when William Bowes produced decks of cards with detailed county maps of England and Wales on them, games functioned socially as forms of enter-

tainment, gambling, education, and propaganda. Board games are based on spatial relationships, but during the Enlightenment they were based on specific maps. D enni s Rei nhartz See also: Consumption of Maps; Decoration, Maps as; Games, Cartographic; Medals, Maps on; Samplers, Map Bibliography Adams, Janet Woodbury. 1982. Decorative Folding Screens in the West from 1600 to the Present Day. London: Thames and Hudson. Almond, Adrian. 2009. “Maps on a Fan: The Ladies Travelling Fann of England and Wales.” IMCoS Journal 116:24–28.

644 Dresslar, Jim. 1996. Folk Art of Early America: The Engraved Powder Horn. Bargersville: Dresslar Publishing. Du Mont, John S. 1978. American Engraved Powder Horns: The Golden Age, 1755/1783. Canaan: Phoenix Publishing. Grancsay, Stephen V. 1945. American Engraved Powder Horns: A Study Based on the J. H. Grenville Gilbert Collection. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Hill, Gillian. 1978. Cartographical Curiosities. London: For the British Library by British Museum Publications. Miyoshi, Tadayoshi. 1999. “Folding Screen World Maps.” IMCoS Journal 76:4–8. Reinhartz, Dennis. 1997. The Cartographer and the Literati—Herman Moll and His Intellectual Circle. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. ———. 2000. “Interior Geographies: Map Screens from the Age of Exploration, Expansion, and Trade.” Mercator’s World 5:32–35.

Hudson’s Bay Company (Great Britain). In 1667 Médard Chouart des Groseilliers and Pierre-Esprit Radisson took a rich cargo of furs from the Great Lakes, only to see it impounded by the government of Montreal. When their protests fell on deaf ears, the two traders went over to the English, offering to lead an expedition to Hudson Bay. Their new enterprise was a success. The Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading into Hudson’s Bay, chartered in 1670, established several “factories” along the bay’s bleak shore. These maritime bases drew on the same resources as the French fur trade to the south, though with far less expense than required for the difficult route between Montreal and Michilimackinac. For the next century the Hudson’s Bay Company “slept at the edge of a frozen sea” (Robson 1752, 6), making reasonable profits despite occasional French attacks. In its organization and sea trade the Hudson’s Bay Company resembled the older, richer, larger East India Company. Both were English joint-stock ventures protected by royal charters; both gradually developed complex administrative structures and assumed the governance of regions where they traded. Both were closely associated with the Royal Society. Of the two ventures, the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC) was the poor cousin: while the East India Company sent out thirty ships a year, the HBC sent at most two. For the first ninety years of its existence the HBC relied on charts produced in London, seven of the earliest by John Thornton, supplemented by a few traders’ maps that recorded harbors, shorelines, and the mouths of rivers draining into the bay. Two midcentury events finally roused the company from its coastal torpor: Arthur Dobbs’s campaign against the HBC charter monopoly, and the British possession of New France. In 1744 Dobbs published a map, purportedly drawn by a Métis trader, that showed the western limit of North America as an “Unknown Coast” sloping directly from Rankin

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Inlet to Cape Blanco. If the HBC monopoly could be broken, argued Dobbs, free trade would benefit British merchants and stimulate the search for a northwest passage. A parliamentary enquiry in 1749 upheld the company’s right to exclusive trade. But by this time the French had penetrated northwest to Lake Winnipeg and the Saskatchewan River; furs that might have been taken to the bay were intercepted far inland. After the cession of New France in 1763, the Montreal trade was reorganized not only free of French governmental constraints but also heedless of the HBC charter. The old trade routes were soon busy again; HBC returns fell sharply. To remain competitive, the company was forced to explore, map, and establish resident outposts west of three bayside factories. York Factory, Churchill, and Albany launched inland explorations to enhance their trade. In 1754 Anthony Henday, a netmaker, was sent from York Factory to the western plains with instructions to keep a journal and to map his route. The HBC directors were dissatisfied with the crudeness of his map (now missing): “we apprehend Henday is not very expert in making Drafts with Accuracy or keeping a just Reckoning of distances other than by Guess which may prove Erroneous” (Hudson’s Bay Company Archives, Provincial Archives of Manitoba, Winnipeg [HBCA] A.6/9, quoted in Henday 2000, 326). For the next twenty years employees were sent on similar missions, with equally disappointing results. Andrew Graham, an interim factor at York, commented in 1772 that nothing more could be expected, “they being ignorant poor labouring men of no abilities” (HBCA E.2/5). An exception was Samuel Hearne, mate of the Churchill sloop. Churchill’s factor, Moses Norton, chose Hearne to explore a high-Arctic source of copper reported to him by Dene leaders Matonabbee and Idotlyazee. The two men had drawn a map for Norton that showed Great Slave Lake and rivers flowing into the Arctic Ocean. This map and another that Norton presented to the HBC Governor and Committee were clearly drawn by indigenous mapmakers (HBCA G.2/8, G.2/27). Native cartographic conventions puzzled the HBC directors; they welcomed Hearne’s maps drawn on a familiar Mercator projection and sent home in 1772 (HBCA G.2/10; Minneapolis, James Ford Bell Library 1771MHE). Hearne’s next assignment was to build the company’s new settlement west of Lake Winnipeg and to map his route from York Factory (fig. 380). During the next decade, Edward Jarvis and John Hodgson recorded Albany’s slow advance from Hudson Bay to Lake Superior. Gradually the company tried to assess the huge territory granted by its charter—its physical limits, resources, and transportation networks together with the location of inland posts.

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Fig. 380. SAMUEL HEARNE, “A MAP OF SOME OF THE PRINCIPAL LAKES RIVER’S &C LEADING FROM YF [YORK FACTORY] TO BASQUIAW,” 1775. The graticule of latitude and longitude, rendition of rivers and elevations, and elaborate cartouche make Hearne’s map an example of familiar European cartographic conventions; at the same time its employment of indigenous toponyms and its linear layout of

connected waterways are reminiscent of Amerindian cartography and reflect the traders’ emphasis on route finding over relatively flat, featureless terrain. Size of the original: 55.5 × 75.5 cm. Image courtesy of Barbara Belyea. Permission courtesy of the Hudson’s Bay Company Archives, Archives of Manitoba, Winnipeg (G.1/20).

Nevertheless, it was apparent that none of the company’s overseas personnel had training enough to produce accurate, comprehensive European-style maps of the continental interior. On William Wales’s recommendation, the HBC directors therefore appointed Philip Turnor to be the company’s first official surveyor. Wales knew the rigors of living at the bay after observing the transit of Venus at Churchill in 1769 and may have encouraged Hearne’s exploration of the Coppermine River. Turnor arrived at York Factory in 1778, traveled far up the Saskatchewan River, adapted well to fur-trade life, and even turned trader for several years. Despite repeated breakage and loss of his instruments, he made surveys in all of the regions where the HBC carried out inland trade (HBCA G.1/1, G.2/11).

Turnor’s early observations proved useful to Alexander Dalrymple, manager of the East India Company’s map and chart collection and fellow of the Royal Society, who published a pamphlet in 1789 reviewing persistent arguments for a northwest passage. Dalrymple’s confidence in Turnor’s surveying skill led him to correct a key position on Hearne’s map of the Arctic. As well as Jarvis and Hodgson, Turnor encouraged the mapping work by Malcolm Ross and Peter Fidler, who went with him to Lake Athabasca in 1790–92, and strongly recommended David Thompson to those in a position to help him. Fidler and Thompson would soon outstrip Turnor, not only by the extent of their explorations but also by the accuracy of their surveys. After his return to London in 1792, Turnor worked for

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Fig. 381. DETAIL FROM PHILIP TURNOR, “MAP OF HUDSON’S BAY AND THE RIVERS AND LAKES BETWEEN THE ATLANTICK AND PACIFICK OCEANS,” 1794. This detail shows Turnor’s own explorations as far as Ile à la Crosse and the elbow of the North Saskatchewan River. The upper Saskatchewan River and its tributaries are copied from Peter Fidler’s map sent to London in 1795. Aaron Arrowsmith’s Map Exhibiting all the New Discoveries in the Interior

Parts of North America (1795) showed only Turnor’s explorations. When Turnor revised his manuscript map to include Fidler’s survey and whether Arrowsmith copied this revision or Fidler’s map directly are still open questions. Size of the entire original: 193.5 × 260.0 cm; size of detail: ca. 44.5 × 69.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Hudson’s Bay Company Archives, Archives of Manitoba, Winnipeg (G.2/32).

two years on a comprehensive map based on previous company surveys of HBC exploration west of Hudson Bay (fig. 381). The London cartographer Aaron Arrowsmith used Turnor’s work as the main source for his Map Exhibiting all the New Discoveries in the Interior Parts of North America (1795). Arrowsmith’s effusive dedication to the HBC Governor and Committee “in testimony of their liberal communications” did not name Turnor or the other HBC cartographers. Fidler’s maps of 1796 and 1802, so important for “New Discoveries” of the Saskatchewan River, the Rocky Mountains, and the Missouri watershed, are now missing from the HBC archives. After consulting them, either Turnor or Arrowsmith failed to return them to the company (Ruggles 1991, 245–47). Thompson, Turnor’s immediate successor, defected to the Montreal-based North West Company in 1797, leaving Fidler as the Hudson’s Bay Company’s principal

surveyor. Fidler continued in this appointment until the rival companies merged in 1821. During his long tenure, he put his own stamp on the position. Even as he prepared regional surveys for the company directors, he copied twenty indigenous maps and sixteen “sketches” drawn by fellow traders as well as producing many small maps of his own (fig. 382). None of these sketches followed European cartographic conventions; instead, they were a standard feature of his running surveys and borrowed from the puzzling Amerindian conventions that the company directors had first seen on Norton’s maps. The HBC directors were uncomfortably aware of the difference between these drawings and the mapping conventions that were more familiar to them. Nevertheless, most of the company’s overseas employees clearly preferred to draw and use sketches that resembled Amerindian maps. Since trade, not political administration, was still the

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aim of the eighteenth-century Hudson’s Bay Company, its maps documented access to markets rather than territorial extent and limits. The company directors were convinced that inland exploration required “a person capable of taking an observation for determining the longitude and latitude, and also distances, and the course of rivers” (from 1769; quoted in Hearne 1795, xxxiii). Hearne carried a sheet scored with a graticule on which he “pricked off [his] daily courses and distance” (Hearne 1795, xliv). But he was hardly more diligent than Henday in making the observations that would control his dead reckoning. Instead he “endeavour[ed], by a strict enquiry of the natives, to find out the communication of one river with another, as also their connections with the many lakes with which that country abounds” (Hearne 1795, xliv). Twenty years later, Jarvis explained that his regional map, “tho’ in most it cannot have pretence to geographical accuracy, will serve to point out the connexion between your interior settlements” (HBCA A.11/5; quoted in Ruggles 1991, 58). The only practical way traders could identify a route was to select a

string of connecting elements (lakes, rivers, a line of distant hills) and to impose the conceptual pattern of these connections on an otherwise insignificant ground. This solution was handed to the traders by their indigenous guides, who drew schematic maps showing only the line of connections, either as a pattern of linked waterways or as a “track” that crossed such features. Fidler recognized the debt that overseas employees owed to Amerindian mapping and accepted their practical disregard of European-style cartography. Over forty traders are known to have drawn maps before the company’s reorganization in 1821. Few of these maps were from carefully observed and measured surveys; most were small maps without scale or orientation. In 1815 the London directors shipped “blank maps” together with “traced copies” purchased from Arrowsmith’s firm of “all those parts of the Company’s Territories where it is desirable to gain further Information” (HBCA A.1/51, G.1/7–12); three years later the HBC Committee sent over more “plain Mercator Charts” (Ruggles 1991, 71). Meanwhile the HBC’s overseas service was

Fig. 382. PETER FIDLER, MAP OF HOLY LAKE OR PEE SHE PAW WINNE PEE [“DEEP WATER LAKE,” NOW OXFORD LAKE, MANITOBA] 1792. This map and forty others like it make up the visual component of Fidler’s survey journal from York Factory to Cumberland House. Fidler copied his journal after 1794 and before 1806, the date of his observation for latitude at Oxford House, at the east end of the lake. The drawing indicates the lake’s shape and extent, while the

compass directions and distances marking Fidler’s passage are given from left to right, in conformity with the journal narrative (the orientation is thus reversed, south is at the top). In this entry the map replaces the journal’s verbal component by combining its numerical and visual components. Size of the entire page: 38 × 24 cm; size of map detail: ca. 14 × 24 cm. Image courtesy of the Hudson’s Bay Company Archives, Archives of Manitoba, Winnipeg (E.3/1, fol. 75).

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organized into districts, for each of which a map was required. But the traders, including Fidler, returned district maps drawn “a la Savage” from 1815 to well into the nineteenth century (HBCA B.51/e/1). Although they were aware that their maps fell short of the company directors’ expectations, the traders continued to draw small maps without coordinates and to leave the “blank maps” blank. European-style cartography had little appeal for overseas personnel until they assumed the powers and duties of territorial administration. B a r bara Belyea See also: Geographical Mapping: Great Britain; Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography; Northwest Passage Bibliograp hy Belyea, Barbara. 2007. Dark Storm Moving West. Calgary: University of Calgary Press. Bowen, H. V. 2006. The Business of Empire: The East India Company and Imperial Britain, 1756–1833. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dalrymple, Alexander. 1789. Memoir of a Map of the Lands Around the North-Pole. London: G. Bigg. Dobbs, Arthur. 1744. An Account of the Countries Adjoining to Hudson’s Bay. London: Printed for J. Robinson. Hearne, Samuel. 1795. A Journey from Prince of Wales’s Fort in Hudson’s Bay, to the Northern Ocean. London: Printed for A. Strahan and T. Cadell. Hearne, Samuel, and Philip Turnor. 1934. Journals of Samuel Hearne and Philip Turnor. Ed. Joseph Burr Tyrrell. Toronto: Champlain Society. Henday, Anthony. 2000. A Year Inland: The Journal of a Hudson’s Bay Company Winterer. Ed. Barbara Belyea. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Lewis, G. Malcolm. 1998. “Maps, Mapmaking, and Map Use by Native North Americans.” In HC 2.3:51–182. Rich, E. E. 1958–59. The History of the Hudson’s Bay Company, 1670–1870. 2 vols. London: Hudson’s Bay Record Society. Robson, Joseph. 1752. An Account of Six Years Residence in Hudson’s-Bay, from 1733 to 1736, and 1744 to 1747. London: Printed for J. Payne and J. Bouquet. Ruggles, Richard I. 1991. A Country So Interesting: The Hudson’s Bay Company and Two Centuries of Mapping, 1670–1870. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press.

Hydrographical Office, Admiralty (Great Britain). The Order in Council of 12 August 1795 creating the post of hydrographer to the Board of Admiralty complained of a “want of sufficient information” available to the Royal Navy to navigate safely in waters where the demands of war might direct them. The order further noted: “On a cursory examination of the plans and charts which have from time to time been deposited in the office, we find a considerable mass of information, which, if judiciously arranged and digested, would be found to be of the greatest utility.” The Admiralty then gave examples of other European hydrographic offices, and proposed “that a proper person should be fixed upon to be appointed Hydrographer to this Board, and

to be intrusted with the custody and care of such plans and charts as now are, or may hereafter be, deposited in this office belonging to the public, and to be charged with the duty of selecting and compiling all such information as may appear to be requisite for the purposes of improving the navigation, and for the guidance and direction of the Commanders of Your Majesty’s ships” (quoted in Day 1967, 334). Alexander Dalrymple, already on retainer to the East India Company for “examining the Ships Journals” and publishing charts and plans (Cook 1992, 1:104), was formally appointed the following day. He had been increasingly used as a geographical and navigation expert by government officials in the 1790s. The plan to create the post of hydrographer and to appoint Dalrymple was orchestrated by Sir Philip Stephens, Evan Nepean, and William Marsden, the old and new secretariat of the Board of Admiralty, and long-time beneficiaries of Dalrymple’s advice. By formalizing this process of consultation, they elevated their friend and colleague to an official position that let him investigate the Admiralty rooms of deposited surveys and so continue to give expert advice. Dalrymple advised Marsden in June 1798 on Red Sea navigation, supplied his East India Company charts to Admiral John Blankett’s Red Sea expedition to Egypt, responded to questions from Nepean on foreign charts, and took in charts and journals from Joseph-Antoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux’s voyage after it broke up in Batavia (Cook 1999, 59–60). Naval officers had conventionally treated surveys made in the course of duty as their private copyright, and many, after submitting them to the Admiralty and receiving approval, had copies published through the map trade in London. Surveys commissioned directly by the Admiralty Board from appointed surveyors, such as Murdoch Mackenzie the Younger and Graeme Spence, also formed the nucleus of the collection entrusted to the hydrographer. Dalrymple completed the organization of the accumulated charts and plans early in 1800, referring to it as the time “when the Hydrographical Office was made efficient” (quoted in Cook 1999, 60). He was assisted first by Aaron Arrowsmith, and from late 1796 or early 1797 by John Walker, an engraver long employed on his East India Company charts. Dalrymple and Walker compiled a list of charts and plans “fit to be engraved,” and, though the Board envisaged only engraving and publication by the London map trade, Dalrymple received authority to install a rolling press from Matthew Boulton and to hire engravers and a printer (Cook 1999, 60–61). John Cooke and Isaac Palmer, plan engravers, joined John Walker, with two draftsmen and a copperplate printer, as the staff of the Hydrographical Office, with Thomas Harmar employed on piecework rates as

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Fig. 383. THOMAS MOORE, SKETCH OF THE ROAD ON THE NE SIDE OF THE ISLAND HOUAT IN QUIBERON BAY, NOVEMBER 1800. The chart of part of Ile Houat was the first to be engraved and printed in the Hydrographical Office. Remarks and directions were added by letterpress in the marigin of the chart. The imprint “Published” was used in ex-

pectation of a decision to publish, but no such decisions were taken until after 1810. Experimental charts such as that of Houat were not proceeded with, and consequently only proof copies exist. Size of the original: 34 × 53 cm. Image courtesy of the U.K. Hydrographic Office, Taunton (Admiralty Library Vf 8/8).

writing engraver. The earliest chart known is that of the island Houat in Quiberon Bay, printed with a date of November 1800 (fig. 383). Dalrymple had no authority to commission surveys, only to engrave charts from materials supplied by ships’ officers, supplemented by manuscripts in the Hydrographical Office and by foreign printed charts. Though charts were engraved with provisional “publication” dates and “Ship’s Store” notices, Dalrymple’s budget for presswork and paper allowed only for proof copies, twenty-five from any plate, and decisions to print in bulk for fleet issue would have required Board provision and approval. Dalrymple organized the engraving of coherent series of charts for the south coast of England from the Thames to Land’s End, as well as series of plans of Adriatic harbors and Sardinian anchorages, and charts of the approaches to Dutch estuaries. To encourage the supply of nautical information, Dalrymple designed (or revised) in 1804 a “Form of Remark-Book,” giving guidance to ships’ officers as to the headings under which to record

information about ports visited (Cook 1999, 65). The Hydrographical Office received visits from Horatio Nelson and William Bligh, the latter assuming temporary charge during a time when Dalrymple was ill in spring 1804. Changes in government ministries in 1806 and 1807, after the death of William Pitt the Younger, resulted in changes in the Board of Admiralty. In the space of a few months in 1806 Stephens and Nepean, successive holders of the first secretaryship from 1763 to 1804, retired, and when the political appointee William Wellesley Pole succeeded Marsden as first secretary in June 1807, and John Barrow resumed the permanent second secretaryship, the “office memory” of Dalrymple’s appointment and achievement was effectively erased, and the focus of the office was changed. The new Board of Admiralty saw the Hydrographical Office more as a conduit for supplying charts, both commercial and official, to the Royal Navy. In May 1807 Dalrymple was requested to purchase “a compleat Set

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of all Charts published in England”; he produced a sixty-one-page catalog (“List of English Charts”), but declined the second request—to select “the best and most necessary”—on the grounds that few commercial charts had accompanying memoirs of authorities, and he suggested forming “a Committee of Officers” to make the selection (Cook 1992, 1:178–79). Exceptionally, he had supplied Admiral James Gambier’s Baltic expedition of 1807 with commercially published charts and sailing directions, including proof copies of Thomas Atkinson’s chart of the Great Belt, the only Hydrographical Office chart available. The Admiralty Board appointed Home Riggs Popham, Edward Henry Columbine, and Thomas Hannaford Hurd as the Chart Committee in November 1807 to make the evaluation and to consider also Dalrymple’s “List of Plates engraved, engraving and of Charts and Plans prepared for Engraving in the Hydrographical Office.” After the committee’s March 1808 report, Pole and Barrow came to rely on the Chart Committee, rather than on the hydrographer, for the provision of sets of publicly available charts. Pole used the planned “new arrangements of the Office” to try to persuade Dalrymple into retirement (Cook 1992, 1:182). Dalrymple declined, was provoked in May into refusing the Chart Committee’s arbitrary request for the confidential security copies he had made of d’Entrecasteaux’s charts of New Britain in 1795, and was dismissed by decision of the Admiralty Board on 28 May 1808. Hurd was immediately appointed hydrographer to effect the plans of the

Hydrographical Office, Admiralty (Great Britain)

Chart Committee to purchase sets of commercial charts and to print Dalrymple’s plates for fleet use. Dalrymple left a functioning chart compilation, engraving, and proofing Hydrographical Office, with a relatively small output of completed charts and a large number in preparation, but he never claimed (nor was allowed the resources) to compete with commercial publishers to provide the general coasting charts the Admiralty increasingly expected. And rew S. Cook See also: Dalrymple, Alexander; Map Trade: Great Britain; Marine Charting: Great Britain Bibliography Cook, Andrew S. 1992. “Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808), Hydrographer to the East India Company and to the Admiralty, as Publisher: A Catalogue of Books and Charts.” 3 vols. PhD diss., University of St. Andrews. ———. 1999. “Alexander Dalrymple and the Hydrographic Office.” In Pacific Empires: Essays in Honour of Glyndwr Williams, ed. Alan Frost and Jane Samson, 53–68. Carlton South: Melbourne University Press. Day, Archibald. 1967. The Admiralty Hydrographic Service, 1795– 1919. London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. Terrell, Christopher. 1987. “Captain Columbine, Alexander Dalrymple and the Troubled Birth of the British Admiralty Hydrographic Service.” In Guerres et paix, 1660–1815, 245–59. Vincennes: Service Historique de la Marine.

Hydrographie françoise, L’. See Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise

Hypsometry. See Height Measurement: Altimetry

I Iconography, Ornamentation, and Cartography. While eighteenth-century maps continued to include many decorative and iconographic elements, reflections about the images on the maps are practically nonexistent in works related to mapmaking of the period. Neither Nicolas Sanson’s Introduction à la géographie, published by Guillaume Sanson (1681, editions until 1743), nor The Construction of Maps and Globes by John Green (Bradock Mead) (1717), nor L’usage de la sphère, du globe, et des cartes, pour la géographie by Pierre Viollier (1704) alluded to the existence of an image, an ornament, or even an illustration on maps. As for manuscript plans, neither Nicolas Buchotte (Les regles du dessein, et du lavis, 1721) nor Louis-Nicolas de Lespinasse (Traité du lavis des plans, appliqué principalement aux reconnaissances militaires, 1801) asked the question. This discussion of the subject is therefore based on reflections from the seventeenth century. In his great treatise La science de la géographie (1652), the Jesuit mathematician Jean François, who may have been René Descartes’s professor at the Collège de La Flèche, actually tackled the subject of the production of maps and globes at length: images, which speak to the senses, should allow those who want to know geography to picture the surface of the earth and the various divisions it entails. Among his many practical suggestions and theoretical guidelines, Jean François alluded to the role of iconography in cartography: Some additions can be used extensively in the blank spaces to serve as decorations for globes and maps and as instructions for viewers; such as the following things: 1. The horizon with the winds painted as mouths exhaling, and with the name of each wind written inside each puff. 2. The zodiac with the signs depicted as drawings. 3. The climates in their appropri-

ate meridians. 4. The calms of a peaceful sea, and marine tempests, wherever they are common. 5. Different fish that exist in the various seas. 6. Different animals, fruits, flowers, and other properties of the lands. Various costumes of natives, etc. 7. The rhumbs and marine compasses in some places: because even though each place marked has its own, as well as its own horizon; it suffices to provide them only for some specific points. 8. The regular winds (permanent, annual, and biannual, etc.). 9. The currents and other movements of the sea. 10. Magnetic declinations in different areas of the sea and the land. 11. Anomalies in nature, accidents, and mankind’s noteworthy acts, and God’s miracles, which have occurred in various places. And if these decorations overwhelm the map and cause confusion, then the locations can be numbered and explanations about what each place contains may be added in a separate area. (François 1652, 359–60)

As we have seen, Jean François considered iconography, in its greatest extension, as an accessory and an ornament of cartography. In his Méthode abrégée et facile pour apprendre la géographie (1706), abbé Le François distinguished between lines, dashes, and points found on the geographic representation and between characters, numbers, and figures that allowed for the identification of cartographic places and for which he also gave the codes (or instructions) for reading (Le François 1706, 63). The distinction was traditional, derived from a Ptolemaic vocabulary that separated the representation of the position of places from that of the nature of places. But we see that iconography was not part of the discussion mentioned by Le François. Iconography brought a dimension or additional distinction, which was ornamentation in cartography. Ornament on a map (or globe) was that element that was not in the cartography but was added to the cartography. This addition “serves to accompany the main subject” (Jaucourt 1765, 11:657). Ornament included iconology, the “science that concerns the shapes and representations of men and gods, assigning to each its appropriate attributes, which also serve to differentiate them” (“Iconologie” 1765, 8:488). In a cartouche, along

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the edges of the map, or even floating as little illustrations in the map’s empty areas, iconography welcomed and expressed a whole series of extensive cognitive and ideological dimensions that cartography, in the strictest sense of the word—meaning the geometric drawing of positions and geographic forms, on the one hand, and semiotics (from the legend) on the other—did not support. The practice of ornamentation may be seen in a map produced by Nicolas de Fer that complies, even at a distance, with the methodological instructions of Le François (fig. 384). What immediately strikes the viewer’s eye is the excess of iconography that spreads out across the continents and seeps into the blank areas of the oceans. As with his other maps, de Fer arranged small illustrations and iconographic scenes to form a kind of frame around the map itself, placing around eighty illustrations at the bottom, top, and either side of the image, providing the viewer with a panoply of geographic information. A close inspection of these scenes reveals: Ships and routes of expeditionary voyages dated on the map. Portraits of navigators and well-known discoverers affiliated with various nations. Work scenes: the fishing and processing of cod, hunting scenes, mining activities (gold mines, and precious metal transport), ways of cultivating and transforming plants (grating manioc, sugar cane processing, production of cassava). Landscape views: Cape of Good Hope, Niagara Falls. City plans: Mexico, La Concepcion, Veracruz. Picturesque scenes: a hookah smoker, beavers collecting wood (a well-known scene later reproduced by Herman Moll). Many marine and land animals: penguins, manatees, crocodiles, eagles, tortoises, muskrats, and armadillos. Exotic plants: potatoes, bananas, cocoa, red currants, annatto, spiny palms, manioc, watermelons. Ethnographic scenes, primarily relating to Canada and Mexico: religious customs, sacrifices, funeral ceremonies, rites of war and peace. Portraits of indigenous peoples: “Peruvian natives,” “Porters of Mexico,” “Mexicans” (Aztecs). Historical events related to discoveries and conquests: the arrival of Hernán Cortés at Veracruz in 1519. However, no monstrous peoples are found here, as they no longer seem to have a place on maps. The review of the Traité des Acéphales, ou des hommes sans tête linked such usage to the past: “one still sees [such] figures today represented on old geographical maps” (Nouveau Mercure Galant, September 1714, 98–117, quote on 105–6).

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Numerous historical and descriptive texts were added to these images as they spread out over the surface of the map. The texts comment on the represented scenes, add historical explanations to the site of places (known or unknown) and to cities, or identify specific sites placed on the maps (e.g., the Great Wall of China). While Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville (1753, 134) attested to the importance of white space on the map as a signifier of the absence of data, his view did not mean the end of cartographic ornamentation. In fact, one of the hallmarks of the “new” cartography, whether printed or manuscript, was that it had not completely lost older decorative traditions (as shown by the maps produced for the concours [competitions] of the École des Ponts et Chaussées; see fig. 631 and Picon and Yvon 1989). Indeed, while the Cassini maps were successful overall in demonstrating a new “scientific” cartography devoid of iconography in which only the description of the lines, points, and surface areas had meaning, at least one sheet of the Carte de France nevertheless contained an image of a small cutter sailboat typical of the region and typical of earlier cartographic design, in which ships played an important role (Unger 2010) (fig. 385). In the extensive collections of eighteenth-century maps in which the stature of iconography had seemingly been diminished in favor of blank or white space, many maps stand out as continuing the iconographic tradition. This was particularly true of planispheres, which remained over the course of the century a place of encyclopedic synthesis, either organized around cosmographic knowledge or aimed to include, through allegorical representations or other figurations, the whole of a written language of the earth in a grammar often likened to that of a cartouche (fig. 386; see also fig. 275). But one also finds iconographic elements on other types of maps including marine charts, city plans, and regional maps, to name a few. Nor should the title pages of atlases or the frontispieces of map collections be ignored. Iconography was principally deployed around the title cartouches and the legends as well as around the borders, but it sometimes invaded the visual space of the map itself, as in the case of many of the maps published by the Homann firm (fig. 387; see also fig. 377). This brief inventory of examples of iconography in cartography at the beginning of the eighteenth century offers the following tentative conclusions and directions for further research, especially concerning the three main functions of ornament: to instruct, order, and inform. The primary function of iconography was educational. It would have been thought of as part of a learning and memorization model for geography and history that linked place and image. Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy, whose works were published frequently in

Fig. 384. NICOLAS DE FER, CARTE DE LA MER DU SUD ET DES COSTES D’AMERQUE [SIC] ET D’ASIE, SITUÉES SUR CETTE MER; CARTE DE LA MER DU NORD ET DES COSTES D’AMERIQUE, D’EUROPE ET D’AFRIQUE, SITUÉES SUR CETTE MER (PARIS: J. F. BENARD, 1713).

Engraved by P. Starckman, ca. 1:1,949,000. Printed map with added color in ten sheets. Size of the original (assembled): 108 × 207 cm; size of each sheet: ca. 54 × 45 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge C 24281 [RÉS]).

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Fig. 385. DETAIL FROM CÉSAR-FRANÇOIS CASSINI (III) DE THURY’S MAP OF THE L’ÎLE DE RÉ. From the Carte de France, 1:86,400 (1768–72), no. 133. The map shows a little cotre, a boat typical of the region. Size of the entire original: 60.5 × 47.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 40.5 × 34.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge FF 18595 [133]).

many languages (including German, Italian, and English as well as the original French), wrote: The principal order that must be followed requires a little reading, but with some attention placed on the geographical maps and on the recall of the places included in the introduction being used. Thus, the eyes react much more than the mind; yet in order to focus the imagination, each place that is noted in the book and on the map should be characterized either by some point of natural history, or of ecclesiastical or civil history, or by some type of commerce and by the nature of the soil or the customs of the inhabitants, or by a siege, a battle, or the background of some important family. (Lenglet du Fresnoy 1716, 1:xvii–xviii)

Iconography was also about showing the geographical, ethnographical, and natural realities found in the places represented through the map’s drawing and toponymy. Using the vocabulary of mathematicians (géomètres) of the period, such as Alexis-Claude Clairaut, it involved enlightening the spectators by inviting them to read what was in front of their eyes on the map

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and by allowing them to imagine the places drawn on the map. Similar thoughts were expressed by Lenglet du Fresnoy, who believed that the geography of the map was “more of a science of the eyes than of the mind” (Lenglet du Fresnoy 1713, 1:9), marking an introduction to the idea of the map’s readability. Iconography also had a cognitive function. According to Joan Blaeu, the purpose of iconography was to represent “the graces of each region, the fruits which it bears, the metals it produces, the animals it begets or nourishes . . . [and] . . . the arms or insignia, with the names, whether of dukes or counts or barons or other notable men” (quoted in Andrews 2009, 442). Thus, the illustrated scenes were not randomly selected but chosen in relation to an intellectual program emanating from the descriptive geography of the sixteenth century (both at the cosmographic small scale as well as the chorographic large scale), which appeared in the form of complex compositions, as in the work of Homann. Moreover, one of geography’s objectives was specifically to provide information on the natural qualities of soils, cultural customs, forms of governments, animals, plants, significant historical events, and other wonders. Emanuel Bowen’s map of Italy (1747) contained these elements, playing on a fascination with volcanoes as well as other natural phenomena (fig. 388). A third dimension, whether of time or space (during this period the two dimensions were not as clearly separated as they are today) (Verdier 2009), could also be illustrated, as in Philippe Buache’s map of the English Channel (1752), which included a cross-section of the sea floor between France and Great Britain (see fig. 133). A historical or descriptive decorative inventory was, in principle, indefinite because it related to the abundant earthly reality that Europeans discovered, but it was not without order. In other words, through the iconographic illustrations, the viewer discovered the cognitive rubric of the map, which could equally be found by reading a book or a travel log. Decoration was clearly a means of preserving narrative and descriptive dimensions within the geometry of a map. The narrative and descriptive functions of decoration transform the map into a discourse: a discourse about the different worlds portrayed by the map. The discourse of de Fer’s Carte de la Mer du Sud was relatively explicit in its representation of the exploitation of natural resources (the mines), the political and moral (religious) conquest, and the description of American territories (among others) that this map established. The viewpoint was European, and the spectator was observing from Europe, looking toward the rest of the world. Through this lens the viewer was invited to discover places of immense natural riches and opulence, illustrated by iconographic scenes—places that the spectator

Fig. 386. LOUIS BRION DE LA TOUR AND LOUISCHARLES DESNOS, MAPPE-MONDE CÉLESTE TERRESTRE ET HISTORIQUE (PARIS, 1786). One printed map, two hemispheres, ca. 1:35,000,000.

Size of the original: 105 × 105 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge B 2023 [A]).

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Fig. 387. JOHANN BAPTIST HOMANN, PROSPECT UND GRUNDRIS DER KEISERL. FREYEN REICHS UND ANSEE STADT HAMBURG, SAMT IHRER GEGEND, CA. 1715. Printed map, hand colored, ca. 1:40,000.

Size of the original: 49.5 × 58.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 13665).

was also invited to dominate. While the discourse of de Fer’s map is one of power, that of Bowen’s map of Italy is curiosity. The iconographic richness in de Fer’s Carte de la Mer du Sud allows one to apply art historical methodology to cartography in the same manner as Daniel Arasse (1996) applies it to the details in painting. Arasse spreads out and breaks apart the whole of the representation. Similarly, the iconographic saturation of de Fer’s map produces a fragmentation and dispersion of the meanings on paper: the image that lies before the viewer might be considered a synthetic view, but it is instead a juxtaposition of details calling for the viewer’s gaze to wander

over the paper and gradually discover the wealth of information. The iconography clutters the view and strips the map of its unity as a whole, its basis of internal connection. De Fer’s map eludes the instructions of Roger de Piles regarding the unity of the composition and the fixity of the eye. De Piles (1708) specifically emphasized the necessity of the whole and renounced the idea that parts of the image could be dealt with independently. In this sense, the iconographic ornament could be considered a risk for cartography, the risk of getting lost in the details, and certainly, the risk of only pleasing the eyes. Criticism of ornamentation came from both eighteenthcentury cartographers and certain art theorists of the

Fig. 388. EMANUEL BOWEN, A NEW AND ACCURATE MAP OF ITALY DRAWN FROM THE LATEST AND BEST AUTHORITIES, AND REGULATED BY THE MOST APPROVED ASTRON: OBSERVATIONS, 1747, 1:6,050,000.

This map uses the images of volcanoes in Italy to play on the eighteenth-century fascination with marvels of nature. Size of the original: 24.1 × 33.0 cm. Image courtesy of Geographicus Rare Antique Maps, Brooklyn.

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same period, showing that this issue was not separating art from science, but rather blending the two—conceiving how the pleasure of looking, of contemplating the whole ensemble, is legitimized in science as well as art. Iconography’s place and function in European cartography of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries require broader thinking about the role of cartography itself within the educated and artistic (scholarly) cultures where it developed. Furthermore, iconographic analysis involves an examination of the training and development of a geographical culture in the European general public at that time and of the procedures and directions taken by that culture. That which was called “cartography”—an anachronistic term even for that time—actually constituted a system of complex images that lay side by side and overlapped or interacted graphically. In addition, the images were politically and intellectually diversified and at times even contradicted one another. Iconography fulfills that part of the program of geography that geometric drawing and semiotics alone cannot. Iconography may therefore be summarized as follows: it allows the viewer to see the terrestrial and maritime world and all it contains, meaning (in Jean François’s vocabulary) to be able to imagine it, and while looking at a map or a globe, to grasp the worlds inside it that are represented there. This view assumes that the purpose of the map is not only to represent the terrestrial or maritime world and the particular territories included, but also to depict ideas about this world as well as the intentions or interests that one anticipates developing there. By accepting that the map conveys a complex visual discourse, one understands the essential and significant place iconography holds in the elaboration of this discourse. J e a n -Ma rc B e s s e a n d N ic o las Verd ier See also: Art and Design of Maps; Cartouche; Color and Cartography; Decoration, Maps as; Landscape, Maps, and Aesthetics; Signs, Cartographic; World Map Bibliograp hy Andrews, J. H. 2009. Maps in Those Days: Cartographic Methods before 1850. Dublin: Four Courts Press. Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1753. Éclaircissemens géographiques sur la carte de l’Inde. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Arasse, Daniel. 1996. Le détail: Pour une histoire rapprochée de la peinture. Paris: Flammarion. François, Jean. 1652. La science de la géographie. Rennes: Jean Hardy. George, Wilma B. 1969. Animals and Maps. London: Secker & Warburg. “Iconologie.” 1765. In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 8:488. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Jaucourt, Louis. 1765. “Ornement, (terme de Peinture.).” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 11:657. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Le François, abbé. 1706. Méthode abrégée et facile pour apprendre la

géographie. The Hague: P. Husson. This edition was falsely attributed to Nicolas de Fer. Lenglet du Fresnoy, Nicolas. 1713. Méthode pour étudier l’histoire. 2 vols. Paris: Jean Musier. ———. 1716. “Discours sur l’étude de la géographie.” In Méthode pour étudier la géographie, 4 vols., 1:i–cxxxvi. Paris: Charles Estienne Hochereau. Picon, Antoine, and Michel Yvon. 1989. L’ingénieur artiste: Dessins anciens de l’École des Ponts et Chaussées. Paris: Presses de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées. Piles, Roger de. 1708. Cours de peinture par principes. Paris: Jacques Estienne. Shirley, Rodney W. 2009. Courtiers and Cannibals, Angels and Amazons: The Art of the Decorative Cartographic Titlepage. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Unger, Richard W. 2010. Ships on Maps: Pictures of Power in Renaissance Europe. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Verdier, Nicolas. 2009. “Dal territorio alla carta: Posta a cavallo e culture dello spazio tra la fine del settecento e l’inizio dell’ottocento.” Quaderni Storici 131:579–606.

Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages. Herman Moll’s world map, drawn to accompany William Dampier’s A New Voyage Round the World (1697), demonstrates the transformation of knowledge brought by the seaborne ventures of the previous three centuries (see fig. 871). Outside Europe, the main continents— Asia, Africa, the Americas—are immediately recognizable even if their outlines are misshapen; but closer inspection reveals significant errors and gaps. The interiors of Africa and Asia have little detail; only the western half of Australia and the eastern side of North America are shown (its west coast extending no further north than California, drawn as an island); the Arctic is marked by some tentative coastlines, but the Antarctic is a void. Some of the lack of detail stems from the small scale of the map, but in general Moll’s construction gives a fair impression of the extent and limitations of geographical knowledge in the period. To fill the gaps would be a priority for governments, explorers, and adventurers in the eighteenth century, but meanwhile the empty spaces on the maps provided ample room for imaginary lands and peoples, reached by apocryphal voyages and travels. Spurious voyages and travels came in many guises. Sometimes both voyage and voyager were fictitious; at other times an imaginary exploration was credited to a historical personage. Accounts of some apocryphal travels and their discovery of marvelous lands were simply hoaxes; others had a satirical or political intent. At the far edges of fantasy, writers described space flights, journeys to the center of the earth, and time travel (Adams 1962). For earthbound writers, the uncharted expanses of the Pacific, covering one third of the globe’s surface, offered tempting possibilities (Fausett 1993). In 1668 Henry Neville published The Isle of Pines, Or, A Late Discov-

Imaginary Geographies and Apocryphal Voyages

ery of a Fourth Island near Terra Australis, Incognita. The island’s name was not a reference to trees but to the fictitious shipwrecked narrator, George Pine; the result of his stranding on the island with four women was that he fathered forty-seven children and by the time of his death boasted 1,789 descendants. Neville’s little book was quickly translated into Dutch, French, German, and Italian and was followed by longer accounts. History of the Sevarites or Sevarambi by Denis Vairasse, written by a Frenchman but first published in 1675 in English, again used the voyage-shipwreck-castaway as a way of reaching his utopia, set in “the third Continent, commonly called Terræ Australes Incognitæ” (in the book’s subtitle). The next year Gabriel de Foigny’s La Terre Avstrale connve appeared, the tale of another unfortunate shipwrecked mariner. His South Land had a population of 144 million, “much Biger and Taller than the Europeans; and . . . lived much longer than they” (Foigny 1693, preface [4]). Logically and prophetically, these splendid physical specimens, so superior to Europeans, were called “Australians.” Daniel Defoe’s The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (1719) was set somewhere off the Orinoco, but it was based in part on the real-life adventures of Alexander Selkirk, marooned on Juan Fernández during one of William Dampier’s several expeditions to the South Seas. Much of Jonathan Swift’s book on Gulliver’s travels (1726) was set in the Pacific, and there are hints of real voyages and real people throughout. In 1722 Swift wrote that he was reading “I know not how many diverting Books of History and Travells”—and it showed (Williams 1963, 430). Houyhnhnms Land was a large island off the south coast of New Holland; the island of Lilliput was placed (oddly) northwest of Van Diemen’s Land, which would place it firmly in the interior of Australia; Brobdingnag, “Discovered, AD 1703,” was north of California (fig. 389) (Williams 1997, 72–75, 208–9). The utopian and satirical travels set in the Pacific tended to confirm common assumptions of the existence of unknown lands in far southern latitudes, but they were too outlandish to have much influence on the geographers of the day. Very different was the impact of apocryphal travels in North America, where at the beginning of the eighteenth century the rival empires of Spain, France, and Britain jostled for supremacy. Much of the excitement of those years was caught in Nouveaux voyages (1703) of Louis Armand de Lom d’Arce, baron de Lahontan. The book was a bestseller in several European languages, despite or perhaps because of its imaginary geography. Among Lahontan’s creations was the Rivière Longue (Lewis 1998, 126–28, fig.  4.60), flowing into the Mississippi from a distant ridge of mountains to the west, while on the far side of those mountains another river whose banks were dotted

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Fig. 389. BROBDINGNAG, IN JONATHAN SWIFT’S ACCOUNT OF GULLIVER’S TRAVELS, 1726. From Swift’s Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World, 2 vols. (London: Printed for Benj. Motte, 1726), vol. 1, pt. 2, pl. II (before 149). The curious shape of Brobdingnag, “a great Island or Continent (for we knew not whether)” (1:153) was shown in the unexplored seas north of Drake’s New Albion and the “Streights of Annian,” which some geographers erroneously but hopefully thought might be the entrance of the Northwest Passage. Size of the original: 15.5 × 10.2 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

with  towns  and  cities  ran into a salt lake a thousand miles in circumference (Adams 1962, 55–63; and see fig. 611). A close relative of these waterways was the Mer de l’Ouest of the eminent French geographer Guillaume Delisle, shown on the maps as a great inland sea stretching from California into the heart of the American continent (Lagarde 1989; and see fig. 202). The concept of the western inland sea obsessed French explorers in the first half of the eighteenth century (Mapp 2011,

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147– 65, 194-257; Belyea 1994). Related to it was a series of other reports: of a strait sighted by Juan de Fuca in 1592 on the Pacific coast in latitude between 47° and 48°N through which he passed into a great inland sea whose shores were “rich of gold, Silver, Pearle, and other things” (Purchas 1905–7, 14:417); of Cree reports of a light-skinned bearded people of advanced civilization who lived on the banks of the Rivière de l’Ouest; of vaguer Native American reports of salt water and white men over the horizon, where great ships sailed (La Vérendrye 1927) (see fig. 393). Such constructs distorted all attempts to represent the geography of the western half of the American continent, for they could not coexist with the unsuspected reality of a massive mountain range running parallel to the Pacific. The most alluring of the reports of earlier voyages were those that promised a short sea route from Europe to Asia through or round North America. For the English in particular, shut off from more southerly routes, the Northwest Passage became a sort of holy grail, “the maritime Philosopher’s Stone” as one enthusiast for its discovery explained (quoted in Williams 2002, 151). No episode in oceanic exploration offers a greater contrast between imagination and reality, between expectation and disillusionment; and in the repeated searches for a passage, the accounts of apocryphal voyages played a crucial role. The most influential of these was also the most improbable. In 1708 an account appeared in an English periodical of a voyage said to have been made in 1640 by a Spanish admiral, Bartholomew de Fonte, from Lima to the northwest coast of America. There, in latitude 53°N, he entered a series of waterways and at his easternmost point met a merchant vessel from Boston that had sailed west from Hudson Bay. There was no Spanish admiral named Fonte, and the whole concoction can be explained only by the fashion for imaginary voyages in the Britain of Swift and Defoe. Nevertheless, when the account was reprinted in the mid-eighteenth century, it was used to support British efforts to find a Northwest Passage, while in France it led to an outburst  of speculative cartography. In 1747 Joseph-Nicolas Delisle, younger brother of the celebrated geographer Guillaume Delisle, returned home after more than twenty years in Russia, where he had helped to plan Vitus Bering’s expeditions. In France he collaborated with Philippe Buache, premier géographe du roi, in presenting to the prestigious Académie royale des sciences a memoir and map that showed northwest America divided by the straits described in the Fonte account, while farther south Fuca’s account was used to support the thesis of a gigantic Mer de l’ouest (fig. 390). The publication of the map and memoir in June 1752 launched a radically new interpretation of the geography of North America in a hubbub of publicity and controversy (Lagarde 1989; Williams 1997, 267–70). The new system split the world

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of French cartographic scholarship. Some cartographers of repute such as Jean Janvier, Louis Denis, and RochJoseph Julien were attracted by its plausibility; but Didier Robert de Vaugondy and Jacques-Nicolas Bellin, two of the best-known geographers outside the Delisle family circle, remained unconvinced. On his voyage to the northwest coast of America to search for the Pacific entrance of the Northwest Passage, James Cook was brusquely dismissive of the Fonte and Fuca accounts, but in 1778 he was misled by a map as bizarre as any produced by the French cartographers whose work he scorned. A Map of the New Northern Archipelago (1774) was the work of Jacob von Stählin, secretary of the Saint Petersburg Akademiya nauk, and claimed to depict Russia’s post-Bering voyages to the Alaskan coast. It showed Alaska not as a peninsula but as a large island (fig. 391). A wide strait between it and the American mainland well to the east of Bering Strait led into the Arctic Ocean, which, according to some contemporary scientists, would be ice free away from the coast. Cook hoped to sail through the strait, out into the Atlantic, and home. After months of frustrating exploration along the Alaskan coast, Cook found that Bering Strait provided the only way north, and once through that his ships were confronted by a great wall of ice. Of Stählin’s strait there was no sign. Belief, based on the apocryphal accounts, in the existence of a navigable Northwest Passage persisted for almost another twenty years. In 1786 Jean-François de Lapérouse spent a month exploring the inlets and channels of a single Alaskan bay (Lituya Bay) before declaring that the Fonte account was a “ridiculous tale” (1994–95, 1:148). For the ambitious Spanish expedition under the command of Alejandro Malaspina, exploration of the Alaskan coast in search of a strait allegedly sailed through by Lorenzo Ferrer Maldonado in 1588 was an exercise in futility. A reader in the twenty-first century, Malaspina concluded, would be amazed to see how seriously the yarns of Fuca, Fonte, and Ferrer Maldonado had been taken in an age that called itself scientific and enlightened (Malaspina 2003, 477). Finally, George Vancouver in three seasons of strenuous, difficult survey work (1792–94) found no waterway navigable for shipping leading eastward from the Pacific coast. He noted wryly the appropriateness of the date on which his two ships sailed from England in 1791 “for the purpose of discovering a north-west passage, by following up the discoveries of De Fuca, De Fonte, and a numerous train of hypothetical navigators”—1 April, or All Fools’ Day (Vancouver 1984, 4:1382). There were apocryphal travels in other parts of the world. In 1720 Defoe’s Captain Singleton marched westward from Madagascar across Africa in anticipation of European explorations of the nineteenth century. A little earlier George Psalmanazar passed himself off as

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Fig. 390. PHILIPPE BUACHE, CARTE DES NOUVELLES DÉCOUVERTES AU NORD DE LA MER DU SUD (PARIS, 1752). Published in June 1752, Buache’s was the first printed map to comprehensively show the alleged discoveries of Bartholomew de Fonte in 1640 and to link them to recent Russian explorations, as presented to the Académie des sciences by Joseph-Nicolas Delisle in 1750. The huge Mer ou

Baye de l’Ouest was based on the work of Buache’s father-inlaw, Guillaume Delisle, and is shown here with the entrances thought to have been discovered by Juan de Fuca in 1592 and Martín d’Aguilar in 1603. Size of the original: 45 × 64 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OS-1752-10).

a Formosan and wrote the far-fetched An Historical and Geographical Description of Formosa in 1704, which included a totally imaginary Formosan language. The boundary between fact and fiction was often blurred. In 1767 the Royal Society accepted and printed a letter from a young midshipman describing the monstrous “giants” of Patagonia he claimed to have seen on John Byron’s discovery voyage of 1766–68 (Adams 1962, 34). There was even a final ripple of interest in the Welsh prince Madoc and the descendants of his supposed voyage to America in 1170, and not until explorations along the upper Missouri in 1795–96 could the young Welshman John Thomas Evans report sadly to his sponsors in Wales that “there is no such People as the Welsh Indians” (quoted in Williams 1979, 183). By the end of the eighteenth century, explorers were moved by an insistent determination to show things as they

were, to dispel myth and illusion. At sea the chronometer revolutionized navigation, while on land the travels of Alexander von Humboldt provided a model of empirical, scientific observation. There was more precision and less imagination about the maps now. The role of speculative cartographers in stimulating interest in remote regions was buried beneath complaints about their uncritical methods and lack of practical experience. As Louis-Antoine de Bougainville insisted, geography was now a science of facts (1771, 183). Glyndw r W illiam s See also: California as an Island; Defoe, Daniel; Geographical Mapping; Geography and Cartography; Northwest Passage; Sea of the West; Southern Continent Bibliography Adams, Percy G. 1962. Travelers and Travel Liars, 1660–1800. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Fig. 391. JACOB VON STÄHLIN, A MAP OF THE NEW NORTHERN ARCHIPELAGO, 1774. From Stählin’s An Account of the New Northern Archipelago, Lately Discovered by the Russians in the Seas of Kamtschatka and Anadir (London: Printed for C. Heydinger, 1774). The tracks of Semën Ivanovich

Dezhnëv (1648), Vitus Bering (1728), and Ivan Sindt (1764– 68) are marked. None approaches the wide strait shown lying between Alaschka Island (Alaska) and North America. Size of the original: 20.2 × 26.9 cm. Image courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University, Providence.

Belyea, Barbara. 1994. “The Sea of Dreams: La Vérendrye and the Mapping of Desire.” Australian-Canadian Studies 12, no. 2:15–27. Bougainville, Louis-Antoine de. 1771. Voyage autour du monde. Paris: Saillant & Nyon. Fausett, David. 1993. Writing the New World: Imaginary Voyages and Utopias of the Great Southern Land. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press. Foigny, Gabriel de. 1693. A New Discovery of “Terra Incognita Australis,” or the Southern World. London: Printed for John Dunton. La Vérendrye, Pierre Gaultier de Varennes de. 1927. Journals and Letters of Pierre Gaultier de Varennes de La Vérendrye and His Sons. Ed. Lawrence J. Burpee. Toronto: Champlain Society. Lagarde, Lucie. 1989. “Le Passage du Nord-Ouest et la Mer de l’Ouest dans la cartographie française du 18e siècle, contribution à l’étude de l’oeuvre des Delisle et Buache.” Imago Mundi 41:19–43. Lapérouse, Jean-François de. 1994–95. The Journal of Jean-François de Galaup de la Pérouse, 1785–1788. 2 vols. Trans. and ed. John Dunmore. London: Hakluyt Society.

Lewis, G. Malcolm. 1998. “Maps, Mapmaking, and Map Use by Native North Americans.” In HC 2.3:51–182. Malaspina, Alejandro. 2003. The Malaspina Expedition 1789–1794: Journal of the Voyage by Alejandro Malaspina, vol. 2, Panama to the Philippines. Ed. Andrew David et al. London: Hakluyt Society, London, in association with the Museo Naval, Madrid. Mapp, Paul W. 2011. The Elusive West and the Contest for Empire, 1713–1763. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Purchas, Samuel. 1905–7. Hakluytus Posthumus; or, Purchas His Pilgrimes: Contayning a History of the World in Sea Voyages and Lande Travells by Englishmen and Others. 20 vols. Glasgow: James MacLehose. Vancouver, George. 1984. A Voyage of Discovery to the North Pacific Ocean and Round the World, 1791–1795. 4 vols. Ed. W. Kaye Lamb. London: Hakluyt Society. Williams, Glyndwr. 1979. Madoc: The Making of a Myth. London: Eyre Methuen.

Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography ———. 1997. The Great South Sea: English Voyages and Encounters, 1570–1750. New Haven: Yale University Press. ———. 2002. Voyages of Delusion: The Quest for the Northwest Passage. New Haven: Yale University Press. Williams, Harold, ed. 1963. The Correspondence of Jonathan Swift: Volume II, 1714–1723. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography. The role of cartography and the process of mapping and mapmaking in traditional societies is the focus of volumes in The History of Cartography series, especially volume 2.3, Cartography in the Traditional African, American, Arctic, Australian, and Pacific Societies (1998). The present essay concerns the cartographic interaction between indigenous peoples and Europeans during the long eighteenth century, a period in which Europeans moved further into the interior of territories that had for the most part been explored during earlier periods, primarily in the Americas, Africa, and Asia, and also in the islands encountered throughout the Pacific Ocean. Europeans were in contact with diverse native peoples, many of whom were unknown to those arriving for the first time. As colonization moved inland, contact increased between Europeans and autochthonous populations, who in turn provided considerable information about local geography that would become indispensable for Europeans as they moved deeper into these territories. But natives did not serve merely as informants. In the spirit of the Enlightenment, European savants engaging in nascent ethnographies also transformed these peoples into objects of study, and cartography came to be one of the frameworks in which information about them was registered and codified. Such ethnographic information appeared not only in the maps themselves, but also in the legends, keys, and marginal illustrations on maps. As Jeremy Black has written, “The mapping that was carried out by Europeans was, in part, dependent on native contributions. This took a variety of forms, including not only the provision of information, but also that of personnel. The willingness of European mapmakers to draw on multiple sources for maps was important to this process, but so was their desperate need for information” (Black 2003, 66–67). When considering the relationship between cartography and native populations of the new worlds, three different interpretive approaches emerge. The first consists of compiling an inventory of the maps produced by indigenous peoples themselves. The second investigates the way in which indigenous maps or indigenous informants served as sources of information for European cartographic knowledge. The third examines how European cartography represented these populations. An Inventory of Indigenous Mapping Although it is known that Europeans appropriated maps produced

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by native peoples, tracing these sources is very difficult (Mapp 2011; Dawson 2000). Despite the fact that this process occurred and that indigenous peoples delivered information on local geography and their habitats, few of these documents have survived, largely because of their ephemeral materiality—they were frequently drawn in the sand, on cloth, or on the skin of animals. Christian Jacob calls these documents ephemeral maps (cartes éphémères), since aside from the nature of the materials used to construct them—like sand, dirt, or even ash—they reveal the essence of a cartography “whose rudimentary trace, without the resources of mimesis and without ornaments, is reduced to its instrumental expression.” The ephemeral map, according to Jacob, is the result of the dialog possible between the native who knows the territory and the “foreigner, ignorant of the path to follow,” who does not share the same linguistic code (Jacob 1992, 57; Safier 2009, 171–72). Nonetheless, some examples of cartographic exchange can be traced. Francis Nicholson, the governor of South Carolina in the early eighteenth century, copied two indigenous maps of the lower Mississippi region made on animal skins, in color, one by the Catawba around 1721 and the other by the Chickasaw (Lewis 1998a, 22; Galloway 1998, 225–26). The map of the Hudson Bay region of 1760 compiled by Moses Norton includes a note indicating that the shape of the northern part of the bay was based on information provided by natives (Lewis 1998b, 137, figs. 47.1, 47.2). James Cook depended on the Māori to gather information about New Zealand on his 1769 visit with the Endeavour. After the native chief Tupaia had drawn a map of the northern coast of the island on the ship’s deck, Cook took a piece of paper and copied the drawing (Withers 2007, 106; Barton 1998, 500–501). On his 1787 expedition to the inhospitable and savage extreme eastern frontier of Russia, Jean-François de Lapérouse sought information from the Ainu population about Sakhalin, which he supposed to be a peninsula. According to Lapérouse’s diary, one of the Ainu drew a map in the sandy soil indicating an island, which determined the subsequent cartographic representation of the region (Latour 1987, 215–19; Okladnikova 1998, 338; Withers 2007, 98). Samuel Hearne of the Hudson’s Bay Company likewise explored the arctic and subarctic regions of Canada in 1770, inspired by a map of the region made two years earlier by the Chippewa (Lewis 1998a, 23; and see fig. 380). In Brazil, indigenous peoples played an essential role in the conquest of the interior by helping the Portuguese understand the intricate network of rivers and tributaries that cut through these regions, especially in Amazonia and the regions of Mato Grosso and Goiás in the center-west of the continent (Holanda 1990, 1994). At the end of the seventeenth century, this

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Fig. 392. DETAIL FROM THE “CARTE GENERALE DE LA CHINE,” BY JEAN-BAPTISTE BOURGUIGNON D’ANVILLE, 1730. Manuscript. The “Explications” describe the sounds and meaning of Chinese place-names on the map. Longitudes are indicated from both Ferro and Beijing.

Size of the entire original: 40 × 50 cm; size of detail: ca. 17 × 30 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et Plans Ge D 10588).

knowledge encouraged the Portuguese to abandon the representation of Brazil as an island, separated from Spanish lands by a series of rivers that met to form a golden lake, Xaraies (Xarayes) (Holanda 1986, 92–93). Instead, they began to identify the hydrography of the region as a pantanal, or swamp, a term that referred to the cyclical phenomenon of flooding caused by the Paraguay River (Costa 1999).

missionaries from the four corners of the globe, were accompanied by maps that incorporated indigenous information. Jesuits sponsored the Nouvel atlas de la Chine (1737), compiled by Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville from the survey of China ordered by the emperor in 1708, which in turn was realized by local authorities under the supervision of Jesuit priests (Cams 2014) (fig. 392). In Africa, Europeans rapidly discovered that “in order to survive there, it was necessary to interact with, and often appropriate knowledge from, African people,” especially geographic knowledge indispensable for the penetration of the interior (Santos 2010, 543). In his map of Africa (1727), d’Anville included small notes referring to information acquired by Europeans in contact with the natives for regions not yet explored by colonizing nations. D’Anville granted authoritative status to these indigenous reports and attributed an advanced understanding of geography to some of the peoples. The merchants of Zambézia, for example, “did not tire of carrying their astrolabes to measure the sun and charts to mark altitudes” (quoted in Santos 1988, 121). Many of the indigenous sources of d’Anville’s information came via the Portuguese ambassador to France, Luís da Cunha, representing the long-standing Portuguese pres-

European Use of Indigenous Maps While finding original maps produced by native peoples can be difficult, tracing native contributions to the formation of European geography proves much easier. Natives were important informants and guides for Europeans in a variety of contexts—exploration, administration, and religious proselytization—as numerous examples demonstrate. Native assistance in the cartographic production of the Jesuits provides one global example. The Jesuits established missions in various places throughout the world under the aegis of the Catholic monarchies. From China to the Americas, their relations with native peoples were fundamental in constructing a cartographic view of the world and its indigenous inhabitants. The Lettres édifiantes et curieuses (34 vols., 1702–76), which gathered accounts of Jesuit

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ence on the continent and mapping of the coastlines. D’Anville also drew on published Jesuit documents, travel books, manuscript memoirs, and additional Portuguese maps, all of which may have made use of indigenous information (Furtado 2012, 147–210). Numa Broc describes the case of French and British explorers relying on native information concerning distances in the area of Guinea and the locations of the Senegal and Niger Rivers in the later eighteenth century (Broc 1975, 76, 341, 343). Greater use of indigenous information was made in the nineteenth century, when Europeans penetrated more deeply into the continent (Bassett 1998). But as Barbara Belyea has made clear in the Amerindian context, indigenous geographical knowledge was not easily translated into the vocabulary of European mapmakers, who did not always understand the character of the description or the graphic signs or the purpose of traditional mappings (Belyea 1998, 135; Mapp 2011, 194–232). She points out that “native maps have surprisingly constant characteristics. . . . highly stylized, highly standardized geographical indicators. . . . their network of lines is unframed, hence independent of a spatial grid or ground” (Belyea 1998, 141–42). Thus, notions of direction, distance, scale, and time were expressed in ways completely alien to European thinking; topographical features such as hills, mountains, valleys, plains, rivers, and lakes were described with vocabulary that did not have counterparts in European languages (Mapp 2011, 223–28). In North America, Louis De Vorsey viewed the lack of distinction between rivers and roads on maps produced by Europeans in the eighteenth century to be unequivocal evidence of the influence of indigenous cartography (De Vorsey, cited in Cumming 1998, 109). The “Cours des rivieres” (after 1730) illustrates information from Ochagac and his fellow Cree of the river connection between Lake Superior and Lake Winnipeg that French geographers would convert into a river extending across the North America continent (Lewis 1998b, 71n77, 144–45) (fig. 393). The expedition of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark in the early nineteenth century, essential to the western colonization of North America, created a map on which the representation of distance distinguished between the spatial vision of natives and that of Europeans and the difficulties of this dialog. In their diaries, the explorers noted the information provided by natives, especially Sacagawea, the Minnetare woman who accompanied the expedition: 22 July 1805, “the Indian woman recognizes the country and assures us that this is the river [Missouri] on which her relations live, and that the three forks are at no great distance,” and 8 August, “the Indian woman recognized the point of a high plain . . . which she informed us was not very distant from the summer retreat of her nation on a river beyond the mountains which runs to the west” (Lewis

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and Clark 1989, 199–200, 218). The translation of indigenous distance and scale into European cartography was more problematic, however. As d’Anville wrote in the justification for his Amérique méridionale (1748), despite the fact that a South American Creole named Pedro Vicente Maldonado informed him that “Indians apply proper diligence to their routes,” d’Anville himself found that in some calculations they appear “to go beyond verisimilitude,” demonstrating that European geographic logic often trumped first-person reported experience on the part of native peoples (d’Anville 1750, 215). Likewise, when traveling in South America, Alexander von Humboldt’s confidence in native geographical knowledge was limited, and he was often far more ready to accept European testimony for questionable geographic information than he was certain indigenous informants (Safier 2009, 183). Even as Europeans incorporated the geographic information provided by indigenous peoples and consolidated it into a European framework, at the same time indigenes adopted an increasingly Western approach to mapping and describing their own territory. The difficulties of translating native understanding into European knowledge during the long process of colonization of these continents in the eighteenth century resulted, in various locations, in the formation of a generation of mixed-race natives who became mediators between the indigenes and Europeans, allowing for a common idiom, indispensable for the production of geographic knowledge that could be appropriated by Europeans. Such was the case in Brazil, where mixed-race people of Portuguese and indigenous heritage carried out the great exploratory expeditions in the west that sought both to imprison natives for slave labor and also to search for precious metals. As heirs of a hybrid IndianEuropean tradition, these mixed-race people, known as paulistas, learned indigenous techniques for penetrating the wilderness, incorporating the geographic knowledge that natives had at their disposal, and taking advantage of the trails natives had established leading to the interior. And yet, they eventually produced documents that would be used by more traditional European cartographic practitioners. Another example of this consolidation of knowledge incorporating indigenous sources took place in the second half of the eighteenth century under the auspices of Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal, the first minister of Portugal. A generation of “young Luso-Africans, whites and mulattoes, born in Angola,” was trained in the Aula de Geometria de Luanda, which taught the most up to date European methods of mapmaking. This group, known as the Geração de 60, or the sixties generation, was fundamental to the modernization of the administration of the region, uniting traditions of native geography and European practices (Santos 2010, 547–48).

Fig. 393. “COURS DES RIVIERES, ET FLEUUE, COURANT A L’OUEST DU NORD DU LAC SUPERIEUR, SUIUANT LA CARTE FAITE PAR LE SAUUAGE OCHAGAC ET AUTRES,” AFTER 1730. This map from d’Anville’s collection bears a note explaining that the original work came from Cree Indian reports. These had been transmitted to French authori-

ties by the fur trader Pierre Gaultier de Varennes de La Vérendrye. Manuscript, ca. 1:5,000,000 (500 lieues de 20 au degré [= 54.7 cm]). Size of the original: 33.5 × 100.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans Ge DD-2987 [8696 B]).

Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography

European Mapping of Indigeno us Peoples Indigenous peoples were not merely informants for European cartography; they were frequently the subject of a cartography that sought to represent their organization and distribution throughout the globe. Although such maps were efficient instruments for providing visibility to ethnographic information gathered by European explorers, they also demonstrated the concrete limits on the reliability of this information. In the first place, this thematic cartography created fixed locations to represent peoples who, in most cases, were nomadic. This difficulty in recording the nomadic character of any group can be observed in several maps. In the Carte de la Nouvelle France, où se voit le cours des grandes rivières de S. Laurens & de Mississipi aujour d’hui S. Louis (171–), for example, the compiler records the presence of “nomadic peoples” (pays des quelamiloueches peuples errans) west of the Mississippi delta. Jacques-Nicolas Bellin’s Carte du Bresil (1764), based on a map by d’Anville, leaves the interior of northeastern Brazil blank, with the inscription: “The interior of the country is unknown and the nomadic nations that inhabit it are named Tupayas.” The representation of indigenous groups was transformed by a cartographic method that emphasized fixed position rather than movement, resulting in many examples of indigenous peoples shown as fixed entities in a specific territory. In Mœurs des sauvages ameriquains, comparées aux mœurs des premiers temps (1724), Joseph-François Lafitau included a map of the North and South American continents, noting in the map’s legend the name and location of the principal native peoples, which in turn helped the reader who may have been unfamiliar with American geography to visualize their locations (Withers 2007, 18). Herman Moll’s A New and Exact Map of the Dominions of the King of Great Britain on ye Continent of North America (1715), commonly known as the “Beaver map,” shows the location of indigenous tribes from Newfoundland to Carolina, like the Iroquois of Virginia, “hearty friends to ye English.” This sort of strategic information allowed the map to call the attention of the English Crown to the opportunities available for colonizing the region. Delisle’s L’Amerique meridionale (1700) also presented several groups of native peoples: tribes included the Tupinambá or Tupí in Brazil; the Omagua in the Amazon; the Paraguaio in Paraguay; and the Chaquese in Bolivia, among others. Nelson-Martin Dawson speculates that Delisle included and excluded indigenous groups on his 1703 printed map of Canada based on their existence or extinction (Dawson 2000, 173–78). Printed European maps of Africa in the eighteenth century also presented the interior, little explored at this point, as largely blank space, despite the omnipresence

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of a diverse range of local populations. The majority of cartographic representations of Africa reproduced preexisting models or depended upon information provided by natives along the coast, particularly in the context of the slave trade. Paolo Petrini’s large four-sheet wall map of Africa (ca. 1700) based largely on seventeenthcentury material, by Nicolas Sanson and Nicolas de Fer in particular, served as a schematic model hardly altered throughout the century in commercial European cartography (fig. 394). Petrini’s map divided the continent into kingdoms, with a few ethnographic observations written on the map itself, such as the note referring to the people of Guinea as “bad people.” On his 1700 map of Africa, Delisle changed the longitudinal dimensions of the continent, based on more recent astronomical observations, but continued the use of textual ethnographic descriptions in the map’s interior (see fig. 289). D’Anville’s 1749 map of Africa eliminated much of that text, leaving the interior largely empty (Stone 1995, 23–46). These two models were followed by map publishers until significant exploration by the British, under the aegis of the African Association (founded 1788 by James Rennell and Joseph Banks), promoted systematic exploration as part of the Association’s antislavery goals (Broc 1975, 343). As for the representation of the native inhabitants of Oceania, in 1778 Johann Reinhold Forster drew a map representing various islands of the South Pacific and above the name of each island he inserted the names of indigenous groups (Withers 2007, 100–101). The author affirms in the map’s title that this information was received “according to the Notions of the Inhabitants of  o-Taheitee and the Neighbouring Isles, chiefly collected from the accounts of Tupaya [i.e., Tupaia]” (Finney 1998, 446–51). Another type of thematic map, a population map, presents indigenous populations in pictorial form. The population map was a kind of a census that showed the people living in a given space—a city, a county, or a captaincy— and noting whether they were black, white, free, slave, or Indians. Following J. B. Harley and David Woodward’s definition of maps as “graphic representations that facilitate a spatial understanding of things, concepts, conditions, processes, or events in the human world” (Harley and Woodward 1987, xvi), population maps functioned as “an instance of cartography as inventory. . . . in an appealing graphic format” (Safier 2009, 159). During the sixteenth century, the unknown interior of new worlds was often painted over with mythological images of savages; Indians, mostly cannibals; and animals, like parrots, elephants, and other exotic species. For the most part, in eighteenth-century printed maps, iconic images of natives, such as the tribes at war found on the map of South America in Sebastián Fernández

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Fig. 395. DETAIL FROM THE “MAPPA DA COMARCA DO SABARA,” BY JOSÉ JOAQUIM DA ROCHA, 1778. A Portuguese military engineer, Rocha learned his mapping techniques at the Aula Régia de Arquitetura Militar before going to Brazil some time between 1763 and 1768.

Size of the entire original: 74.0 × 50.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 18.5 × 21.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Arquivo Público Mineiro, Belo Horizonte (SC-005).

de Medrano’s Breve tratado de geografía (1700), were disappearing, along with other pictorial images placed within the map itself. Yet in many cases, illuminated drawings in the margins of the map provided more detailed information about the ethnographic nature of a region, as seen in the border illustrations of Petrini’s map of Africa, which describe the diverse peoples who inhabited the continent. In other maps, such images

contain a more powerful, if elusive message. A LusoBrazilian manuscript map by José Joaquim da Rocha titled “Mappa da comarca do Sabara” (1778) contains a vignette with a fierce native, partly hidden behind a tree, pointing his bow and arrow at a mapmaker who appears entirely oblivious to his native observer (fig. 395). Identifiable as a military engineer by his garb, the cartographer is totally absorbed in his task, a com-

(facing page) Fig. 394. PAOLO PETRINI, L’AFRICA, DIVISA SECONDO L’ESTENZIONE DELLE SVE PRINCIPALI PARTI (NAPLES, CA. 1700).

Size of the original: 91 × 116 cm. Image courtesy of the Barry MacLean Collection, Green Oaks.

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pass his sole instrument. Instead of fear pervading the scene of confrontation between the unarmed cartographer and the armed native whose land is being mapped and thus appropriated, the eighteenth-century beholder might have seen the victory of a higher civilization over a primitive and uncivilized one or even the domination of an enlightened scientific culture over the indigenous Brazilian. A more recent interpretation suggests reading this representation as a standoff between the two cultures over the all-important issue of control of the land (Furtado 2011, 114–19). Another difficulty encountered in the representation of indigenous peoples on maps was a linguistic diversity not always perceived or understood by Europeans. The expression of place-names in a variety of local languages often complicated the reproduction of these locations on maps. Indigenous names were frequently corrupted by Jesuits and explorers and then by geographers based in Europe. According to d’Anville, geographers should “know, of the dominant nations, the proper terms that designate the nature of places, rivers, mountains, islands, etc.” (d’Anville 1777, 81) so that the nomenclature on maps might be reliable. He proposed rigid rules for place-names, advocating respect for older orthographies even when changes to names had been made later. He carefully transcribed indigenous place-names on his Amérique méridionale (1748), and even advocated particular methods of pronunciation: “to best read or pronounce Indian names, it should be advised that all final ‘é’s are closed.” Despite his care, however, some nuances of local languages escaped him (Furtado 2012, 364–69). These errors did not go unnoticed by contemporaries. Regarding d’Anville’s Amérique méridionale, the Portuguese pedagogue António Nunes Ribeiro Sanches warned that “many names of rivers and places that appear in the Treaty [of San Ildefonso] cannot be found on Mr. d’Anville’s map, either because they are written in a foreign language or because this geographer was  not familiar with them” (quoted in Kantor 2009, 44, 47). Disagreements among Europeans over lands to be colonized were also replicated in intertribal arguments in which diverse tribes took opposing sides in order to benefit from rivalries among the colonizers. This type of information frequently appeared in cartography, such as on L’Amerique meridionale (1700) by Delisle, which noted that the people who inhabited the valley of the Paranaíba River in the Amazon were allies of the Portuguese. On the same map, Delisle also noted which nations were enemies and friends of the Spanish and which had been exterminated by the French. Even the cartography produced by the Amerindians themselves revealed similar arguments. A map produced by the Chickasaw in 1737 and copied by the French engineer Alexandre de Batz with the title “Nations amies et ennemies des

Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography

Tchikachas” showed the alliances and disagreements between the various tribes inhabiting the modern region of Alabama in the United States (Waselkov 1998, 208–9; Lewis 1998b, 101–3). The “Plano corografico é hidrographico, delas provincias deel Nuevo Mexico” by Francisco Álvarez Barreiro (ca. 1728, now in the Hispanic Society of America, New York), produced in the context of disputes between France and Spain over the region of Texas and New Mexico, provided details about local indigenous tribes considered important for Spain in the context of the territorial dispute between the two nations (Codding 2018, 250–52). Further to the north the Carte de la Nouvelle France, où se voit le cours des grandes rivières du S. Laurens & de Mississipi aujour d’hui S Louis (171–), produced by the Compagnie de la Louisiane for the purpose of controlling the territory and monopolizing the tobacco industry in the region, displayed knowledge about indigenous populations according to the interests of the French. Similarly, the cartouche of the “Mapa de una parte del rio Yapvrá: comprehendida desde la boca del rio Apaporis hasta el Salto Grande, ò cachoeira de Vuia” (1788), surveyed by the military engineer Francisco Requena, commander of the Spanish party of the joint Spanish-Portuguese boundary commission to survey the Amazon Basin resulting from the Treaty of San Ildefonso (1777), demonstrated the attention paid by Iberian cartographers to indigenous economic activities that might concern Europeans, displaying native abilities for hunting and agriculture. A hierarchical ethnographic view of the world that placed Europeans at the top of the pyramid is reflected in the way that maps represented native peoples, maps that were frequently accompanied by observations about their characteristics or customs. The Carte nouvelle de la mer du Sud by Andries de Leth and Hendrik de Leth (1720) included the observation that the people inhabiting Benin and the Guinea Coast were black, walked naked, and ate raw meat and drank palm wine. The Indians of Mexico, for their part, were worthy of an illustration that portrayed their manner of dress, mining technology, and religious customs, which included human sacrifice. The printed Le Bresil, by Pieter van der Aa (1714), includes a comment about the Tapuia who lived in northern Brazil and their linguistic and cultural diversity. D’Anville’s Carte de la Guïane françoise ou du gouvernement de Caïenne (1729, manuscript and print), pointed out the Armaboutous people who lived in the interior and had “large ears hanging down over their shoulders and many holes in their face.” Nevertheless, a great transformation in the representation of indigenous peoples emerged in Luso-Brazilian cartography during the second half of the eighteenth century. The 1750 Treaty of Madrid, which redefined the border between the Crowns of Portugal and Spain in America, was based on the idea of uti possidetis, supporting the

Indigenous Peoples and European Cartography

rights of possession of the territories that had been colonized. In 1755, under the aegis of the marquês de Pombal during the reign of José I, the Pombaline Reforms eliminated the jurisdiction of the Jesuits over the indigenous missions. From that point on, native people were considered subject to the Portuguese Empire. They were represented as such in the cartography of the period and no longer simply by the scattering of names of indigenous tribes across the interior. In this way, Portugal constructed South America’s cartographic image to justify its own dominion over the territory, claiming that these areas were inhabited by Portuguese subjects, even though those lands had previously been considered uninhabited. This strategy was very common in the frontier territories between the two Crowns in America, such as in the captaincies of Mato Grosso, Goiás, and the Amazon. Furthermore, this strategy was used to justify the demarcation of the interior borders of the Portuguese captaincies themselves. This is evident in the “Mappa da capitania de Minas Geraes” (1778) made by Rocha. This map respected several conventions and sought to make a uniform geographical representation. Urban centers are represented using more or less complex symbols and include less populated settlements, which were placed in the hierarchy with other inhabited places. According to this concept, the indigenous tribes—the Maxacalis, the Monaxós, and the Capoxes— are called Indian villages (aldeias de gentio) and are represented only by an agglomeration of red dots; chapels are represented by a red circle over a cross; parishes by a square around a red circle with a cross; villages by a small church with a side tower; and cities by a larger church with a center tower, with both villages and cities also including a small red center circle. By inserting fixed indigenous settlements into a hierarchy of urban centers in Minas Gerais, the cartographer represented the territory that belonged to the captaincy and justified the annexation of outlying indigenous settlements into the jurisdiction of local political authorities, according to the norms of the Pombaline Reforms. To understand the complex relationship between indigenous populations and both the small-scale printed cartography by European map publishers and the larger-scale manuscript cartography of military engineers, explorers, and religious orders, three things must be considered. First, indigenous peoples in all parts of the globe invested in a wide variety of mapping activities that used various, often ephemeral, media. The results of their mapping efforts were often recognized and translated by European mapmakers into the idiomatic conventions of the European map, usually drawn or printed on paper and exhibiting those features that were becoming standard in Europe—scale, orientation, and grid of latitude and longitude. Second, indigenous populations also informed European mapmaking orally; their verbal accounts, when understood, offered geographic and

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ethnographic information to Europeans. These graphic and verbal “translations” were neither perfect nor did they always do justice to the information held by the indigenes. Finally, indigenous populations were themselves the subject of geographical inquiry and of the mapmaker’s attention. Because many indigenous populations were nomadic, their fixed locations, preferred by the European idiom, were often fictive from the moment the ink dried. In spite of these errors and losses, indigenous peoples played a significant role in the creation of European maps of their lands that served European interests and purposes throughout the eighteenth century. J únia Ferreira Furtad o and Nei l Safier See also: Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’; Economy, Cartography and the; Enlightenment, Cartography and the; Geographical Mapping; Hudson’s Bay Company (Great Britain); Society of Jesus (Rome); Thematic Mapping Bibliography Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1750. “Seconde lettre de M. d’Anville à messieurs du Journal des Sçavans, sur la carte qu’il a publiée de l’Amérique méridionale.” Journal des Sçavans, 210–26. ———. 1777. Considerations générales, sur l’étude et les connoissances que demande la composition des ouvrages de géographie. Paris: L’Imprimerie de Lambert. Barton, Phillip Lionel. 1998. “Māori Cartography and the European Encounter.” In HC 2.3:493–536. Bassett, Thomas J. 1998. “Indigenous Mapmaking in Imperial Africa.” In HC 2.3:24–48. Belyea, Barbara. 1998. “Inland Journeys, Native Maps.” In Cartographic Encounters: Perspectives on Native American Mapmaking and Map Use, ed. G. Malcolm Lewis, 135–55. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Black, Jeremy. 2003. Visions of the World: A History of Maps. London: Mitchell Beazley. Broc, Numa. 1975. La géographie des philosophes: Géographes et voyageurs français au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Editions Ophrys. Brückner, Martin, ed. 2011. Early American Cartographies. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Cams, Mario. 2014. “The China Maps of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville: Origins and Supporting Networks.” Imago Mundi 66:51–69. Codding, Mitchell A., ed. 2018. Visions of the Hispanic World: Treasures from the Hispanic Society Museum & Library. New York: Hispanic Museum & Library. Costa, Maria de Fátima. 1999. História de um país inexistente: O Pantanal entre os séculos XVI e XVIII. São Paulo: Estação Liberdade. Cumming, William Patterson. 1998. The Southeast in Early Maps. 3d ed., rev. and enl. Ed. Louis De Vorsey. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillery: Septentrion. De Vorsey, Louis. 1966. The Indian Boundary in the Southern Colonies, 1763–1775. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Finney, Ben. 1998. “Nautical Cartography and Traditional Navigation in Oceania.” In HC 2.3:443–92. Furtado, Júnia Ferreira. 2011. “Cartographic Independence.” In Mapping Latin America: A Cartographic Reader, ed. Jordana Dym and Karl Offen, 114–19. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2012. Oráculos da geografia iluminista: Dom Luís da Cunha e Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville na construção da cartografia do Brasil. Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG.

672 Galloway, Patricia. 1998. “Debriefing Explorers: Amerindian Information in the Delisles’ Mapping of the Southeast.” In Cartographic Encounters: Perspectives on Native American Mapmaking and Map Use, ed. G. Malcolm Lewis, 223–40. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Harley, J. B. 2001. “New England Cartography and the Native Americans.” In The New Nature of Maps: Essays in the History of Cartography, by J. B. Harley, ed. Paul Laxton, 169–95. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Harley, J. B., and David Woodward. 1987. “Preface.” In HC 1:xv–xxi. Holanda, Sérgio Buarque de. 1986. O extremo oeste. São Paulo: Brasiliense. ———. 1990. Monções. 3d ed. São Paulo: Editora Brasiliense. ———. 1994. Caminhos e fronteiras. 3d ed. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras. Jacob, Christian. 1992. L’empire des cartes: Approche théorique de la cartographie à travers l’histoire. Paris: Albin Michel. Kantor, Íris. 2009. “Cartografia e diplomacia: Usos geopolíticos da informação toponímica (1750–1850).” Anais do Museu Paulista 17, no. 2:39–61. Latour, Bruno. 1987. Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Lewis, G. Malcolm. 1998a. “Frontier Encounters in the Field: 1511– 1925.” In Cartographic Encounters: Perspectives on Native American Mapmaking and Map Use, ed. G. Malcolm Lewis, 9–32. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1998b. “Maps, Mapmaking, and Map Use by Native North Americans.” In HC 2.3:51–182. Lewis, Meriwether, and William Clark. 1989. The Journals of Lewis and Clark. Ed. Frank Bergon. New York: Viking. Mapp, Paul W. 2011. The Elusive West and the Contest for Empire, 1713–1763. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Okladnikova, Elena. 1998. “Traditional Cartography in Arctic and Subarctic Eurasia.” In HC 2.3:329–49. Safier, Neil. 2009. “The Confines of the Colony: Boundaries, Ethnographic Landscapes, and Imperial Cartography in Iberoamerica.” In The Imperial Map, ed. James R. Akerman, 133–83. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Santos, Catarina Madeira. 2010. “Administrative Knowledge in a Colonial Context: Angola in the Eighteenth Century.” British Journal for the History of Science 43:539–56. Santos, Maria Emília Madeira. 1988. Viagens de exploração terrestre dos portugueses em África. 2d ed. Lisbon: Centro de Estudos de História e Cartografia Antiga. Stone, Jeffrey C. 1995. A Short History of the Cartography of Africa. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Waselkov, Gregory A. 1998. “Indian Maps of the Colonial Southeast: Archaeological Implications and Prospects.” In Cartographic Encounters: Perspectives on Native American Mapmaking and Map Use, ed. G. Malcolm Lewis, 205–21. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Withers, Charles W. J. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Instruments, Astronomical. The primary astronomical instruments associated with Enlightenment cartography, and especially geodetic surveying, were the telescope, quadrant, zenith sector, and the transit and equal-altitude instruments, described in turn below. Constant efforts by astronomers and instrumentmakers

Instruments, Astronomical

led to a steady increase in the precision of the large fixed instruments used in observatories, from one minute of arc (1ʹ) in 1660 to just half a second of arc (0.5ʺ) in 1800 (Chapman 1983, 135; 1995); field instruments were similarly improved, but their smaller size meant that they could not be so precise. Improvements began with the telescopes that were fitted to quality astronomical instruments after 1650. The original refracting telescope invented in the Netherlands in 1608 used a lens to gather and focus the light; it suffered from chromatic aberration, as there was inevitably a slight variation in how the objective lens refracted different parts of the spectrum. Three strategies were pursued to correct for the problem. First, chromatic aberration could be reduced by lengthening the telescope’s focal length. The four very long telescopes at the Paris Observatory, with lenses made in Rome by Giuseppe Campani, were between twenty-six and fifty-two meters in length and required complex pulley systems to be hoisted into position, as described and illustrated in Francesco Bianchini, Hesperi et phosphori nova phaenomena (1728). Yet such large and unwieldy telescopes were quite unsuitable for attachment to a graduated circle to measure angles. Second, opticians developed achromatic lenses that eliminated aberration and increased the telescope’s power; that perfected by John Dollond in London in the 1750s composited flint and crown glasses. Third, new designs were proposed, and first implemented by Isaac Newton in 1668, that used parabolic mirrors to focus the light; such reflecting telescopes came into widespread use only in the mideighteenth century and would be used in the field for observations of eclipses of Jupiter’s satellites in the determination of longitude (King 1955). Since antiquity astronomers have used the quadrant—a graduated quarter circle equipped with sights— to measure the altitude of the stars and sun as they transit the observer’s meridian. Large mural quadrants, so named because they were mounted on walls aligned along the meridian, permitted greater precision in their gradations, and their long telescope reduced chromatic aberration. For example, John Flamsteed first equipped the Greenwich Observatory in 1676 with a 10-foot (3  m) radius quadrant (see fig. 343), which would be replaced by a series of later instruments, including the two 8-foot (2.4  m) radius mural quadrants made by George Graham and John Bird and installed, respectively, by Edmond Halley in 1725 and James Bradley in 1750 (Bennett 1987, 114–16). In the field, portable altazimuth quadrants were mounted on pillars so that they could be positioned vertically to measure altitudes, horizontally to measure azimuths, and at any orientation between to measure other angles; this instrument was especially favored by French geodesists for angle measurement, beginning in 1669 with Jean Picard’s one-

Instruments, Astronomical

meter-radius instrument (Bennett 1987, 119–23) (see fig. 265). Picard also introduced a new, specialized instrument, the zenith sector, for determining latitude (fig.  396). This instrument comprised a vertically mounted refracting telescope, 10 pieds (3.25 m) long, with an attached 20° arc, graduated to 1ʹ, set up so that the telescope and arc swung in the meridian (Picard 1671, 21). The observer moved the telescope to sight a star as it transited the meridian close to the zenith and, using the plumb line against the graduated arc, observed the angular distance (zenith distance) from zenith to star. The zenith sector had two benefits: first, at the zenith, atmospheric refraction is zero, thereby eliminating this still uncertain cause of error that otherwise plagued astronomers; second, latitude is readily calculated, as the star’s declination plus the zenith distance. Starting in the 1720s, British astronomers used wall-mounted zenith sectors with much longer telescopes, in the order of 24–36 feet (7.3–11.0 m), to study the fine apparent motion (parallax) of stars (Bennett 1987, 118–19). Their refinements to the instrument were applied to the portable zenith sectors made for geodetic surveys (see fig. 435). Zenith sectors were also put to other uses: Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon used a 6-foot (1.8 m) zenith sector by Bird to trace a parallel of constant latitude as the boundary between Maryland and Pennsylvania in 1763–67 (Reeves 2009, 330); Nevil Maskelyne used a 10-foot (3.0 m) sector, with a refined mounting for the plumb line, in order to measure the deviation of the plumb line caused by the gravitational attraction of mountains, at Schiehallion in Scotland in the 1770s (Reeves 2009). The transit, as originally created and installed by Ole Rømer in the Paris Observatory in 1675, was simply a long refracting telescope mounted on a horizontal axis so that it could move up and down in the plane of the meridian. The transit became a standard item of equipment in eighteenth-century observatories as, by timing with a pendulum clock the precise moment when a star transits the meridian, astronomers could determine the star’s right ascension (Bennett 1987, 117–18). An equal-altitude instrument, first described by PierreCharles Le Monnier (1741, lxxvi–lxxxiv), is a small, portable transit equipped with a graduated vertical halfcircle, as well as a reticle with not one but three equally spaced vertical wires (fig. 397). The multiple cross hairs permitted stars, or the sun, to be observed and their transits timed at consistent intervals, and at equal altitudes, to both east and west of the meridian. If a star’s right ascension was known, then these double observations permitted local time to be determined more reliably in order to regulate a pendulum clock for use in other tasks, such as timing the eclipses of Jupiter’s moons. An implicit part of setting up the instrument—by adjusting it so that the

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Fig. 396. JEAN PICARD’S ZENITH SECTOR, 1671. The telescope was 10 pieds (3.25 m) long. The orientation of the instrument required the observer to lie on the ground. Detail from Picard 1671, fig. 3 on pl. 3. Image courtesy of the Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library, Ithaca.

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who had been a member of this expedition, described a similar instrument that had been made by Graham’s apprentice, Jonathan Sisson. Bird in turn used this account to make the instrument used by Mason and Dixon in Maryland and Pennsylvania. In addition to using the instrument to regulate their clock and to define the direction of the meridian, they also used it to keep straight the line that they measured directly on the ground in determining the length of a degree (Mason and Dixon 1768, 274–76). William Roy similarly used his own equal-altitude instrument to guide the measurement of his baseline on Hounslow Heath (Roy 1785, 422), and it seems that its suitability for defining straight lines later made it a favored instrument, under the name of transit, in the fledgling United States. D ebo r ah Jean W arner

Fig. 397. PIERRE-CHARLES LE MONNIER’S INSTRUMENT DES PASSAGES, OR EQUAL-ALTITUDE INSTRUMENT. Although shown as installed on a window sill at the Paris Observatory, its supporting pillar could easily be turned into a portable stand. The instrument comprised a telescope (here 2 pieds [0.7 m] long) fixed in the plane of the meridian, the horizontal axis corrected by a long spirit level, with a graduated half-circle below to define altitudes. From Le Monnier 1741, fig. 12, opp. lxxxi. Size of the original: 22 × 15 cm. Image courtesy of the Linda Hall Library of Science, Engineering & Technology, Kansas City.

time taken by a star to pass between the cross hairs was the same to both east and west of the meridian—meant that the telescope defined the direction of the meridian, a point of crucial importance in a geodetic triangulation. The graduated half-circle was too crude to measure altitudes with the precision needed for geodetic operations but allowed the observer to set the telescope at the right angle to see the desired star quickly and efficiently and also to check that the telescope maintained proper alignment between the observations. Graham made the first equal-altitude instrument for the French geodetic expedition to Lapland; Le Monnier,

See also: Celestial Mapping; Geodetic Surveying; Instruments for Angle Measuring: Precision Devices for Angle Measurement Bibliography Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Chapman, Allan. 1983. “The Accuracy of Angular Measuring Instruments Used in Astronomy between 1500 and 1850.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 14:133–37. ———. 1995. Dividing the Circle: The Development of Critical Angular Measurement in Astronomy, 1500–1850. 2d ed. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. King, Henry C. 1955. The History of the Telescope. London: Charles Griffin. Le Monnier, Pierre-Charles. 1741. Histoire céleste, ou Recueil de toutes les observations astronomiques. Paris: Briasson. Mason, Charles, and Jeremiah Dixon. 1768. “Observations for Determining the Length of a Degree of Latitude in the Provinces of Maryland and Pennsylvania, in North America.” Philosophical Transactions 58:274–328. Picard, Jean. 1671. Mesure de la Terre. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Reeves, Nicky. 2009. “‘To Demonstrate the Exactness of the Instrument’: Mountainside Trials of Precision in Scotland, 1774.” Science in Context 22:323–40. Roy, William. 1785. “An Account of the Measurement of a Base on Hounslow-Heath.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London 75:385–480.

Instruments for Angle Measuring. Back S taff Plane Table Marine Co mpas s Circumferento r Precis io n D evices fo r Angle Measurem ent O ctant and S extant Th eo d o lite, Graph o mètre, and Si m i lar Ins truments Repeating Circle (Repeating Theo d o lite) Great Th eo d o lite

Back Staff. European navigators in the sixteenth century adopted the cross staff, or Jacob’s staff, to measure the altitude of stars or the sun to determine latitude, but

Instruments for Angle Measuring

Fig. 398. AN UNSIGNED ENGLISH BACK STAFF, OR DAVIS QUADRANT, CA. 1700. The frame is made from lignum vitae, the arcs and vanes from boxwood, the fittings from brass. The sight vane was originally equipped with a Flamsteed lens (now missing). The sixty-degree or shadow arc (upper left) is graduated in 1° intervals from 0° to 65°; the thirty-degree or sight arc (right, with carved grip) has a transversal scale from 0° to 25° in 5ʹ increments that can be read to 1ʹ. Size of the original: 1.7 × 67.2 × 36.0 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (NAV0045). The Image Works.

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brass. Some replaced the shadow vane with a convex lens to focus a point of light on the horizon vane, especially useful when hazy conditions dispelled shadows. This lens is known as a “Flamsteed glass” because Jonas Moore attributed its invention to the British astronomer John Flamsteed (Moore 1681, 250; Bennett 1987, 35–36). Surviving examples, many of which are marked with a serial number and date as well as the names of the maker and original owner, indicate that both the cross staff and the back staff remained in widespread use throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, even after the introduction of John Hadley’s reflecting octant in 1731, likely because of the lower cost and mariners’ innate conservatism (Stimson and Daniel 1977, 3; Forty 1986, 259). A study of back staffs signed, dated, and numbered by American craftsmen identified fifty-seven instruments made between 1676 and 1788, almost all from New England. Comparison of their dates with the surviving records of instrumentmaker Clark Elliott of New London, Connecticut, and correlating the dates to serial numbers suggests that American craftsmen made as many as 3,000 back staffs, and that although most (thirty-seven) of the surviving instruments date from after 1760, most American back staffs were actually made before that year. Probate records suggest that usage among American navigators dropped off significantly in the 1780s (Warner 1988). D ebo rah Jean W arner

to use it the mariner had to look directly at the sun. John Davis described an alternative instrument in which the navigator stood with back to the sun in The Seamans Secrets (1595); George Waymouth included an illustration of a fully developed instrument in his 1604 mathematical manuscript, “The Jewell of Artes” (New Haven, Yale University, Beinecke MS 565). Davis simply called the device a “staff,” but the English soon came to call it either the “back staff” or “Davis quadrant,” while the French called it le quartier anglais (Forty 1986, 259). The back staff comprises a triangular frame, about two feet long, with an arc at either end (fig. 398). The larger radius, “thirty-degree” or sight arc (generally graduated to 25°), has a carved grip by which the instrument is held and a sliding sight vane with a pinhole sight; the smaller radius “sixty-degree” or shadow arc (generally graduated to 65°) bears the sliding shadow vane. At the very end of the frame, at the center of curvature of both arcs, is the fixed “horizon vane,” with a horizontal slit. The observer stands with his back to the sun and adjusts the shadow vane so that its shadow falls on the slit of the horizon vane; at the same time, he adjusts the sight vane until the horizon is seen through both the sight and horizon vanes. Adding the values indicated on the arcs by each vane gives the sun’s altitude. Back staffs were commonly made of a hard wood, such as pear or rose, with graduated arcs made of boxwood or inlaid with ivory or, later in the eighteenth century,

See also: Longitude and Latitude; Navigation and Cartography Bibliography Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Forty, Gerald. 1986. “The Backstaff and the Determination of Latitude at Sea in the Seventeenth Century.” Journal of Navigation 39:259–68. Moore, Jonas. 1681. A New Systeme of the Mathematicks. London: Printed by A. Godbid and J. Playford for Robert Scott. Stimson, Alan, and Christopher St. J. H. Daniel. 1977. The Cross Staff: Historical Development and Modern Use. London: Harriet Wynter. Warner, Deborah Jean. 1988. “Davis’ Quadrants in America.” Rittenhouse 3:23–40.

Plane Table. The plane table is a drawing instrument by means of which a map can be drawn in the field without using other instruments to measure angles. It consists of a flat drawing board mounted on a tripod on which the board can turn and be clamped in any position. A sheet of paper can either be pinned to the board or held in place by a frame with graduations to help measure bearings. An alidade, or ruler with sights, sits on the board. A magnetic compass and some kind of level could also be added to the instrument. The plane table had developed by the end of the sixteenth century as the simplification of early anglemeasuring instruments. Abel Foullon affixed a triquetum (three graduated staffs hinged together) onto a table to make his holomêtre, first described in 1555. This instrument could be adapted to many types of surveying, but

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it was too complicated for easy use. Removing the encumbrances left the table “plain”; indeed early English writers called it a “plaine” or “playne” table. In France, the plane table was known simply as a planchette. But in Germany and Italy it was often called the mensula (or tabula, tavoletta, etc.) Praetoriana, because Daniel Schwenter, writing in 1626, attributed the instrument’s design, in about 1590, to his teacher Johannes Prätorius (Kiely 1947, 220–35; Richeson 1966, 77–81; Lindgren 2007, 486, 493–94, 498–500). The instrument rapidly became popular, as can be seen from seventeenth-century surveying textbooks. Aaron Rathborne illustrated its use on the title page of his text The Svrveyor (1616). His instrument consisted of three parallel boards, held together by two more at right-angles along the length of the table, which was 36.8 centimeters long and 27.9 centimeters wide. Rathborne described how to fold up the table into a box after use and to store loose papers and small tools (Bennett 1987, 46–48). William Leybourn (1653, 42–44) described a plane table of similar dimensions, but also suggested some changes, including adding a graduated semicircle to one side of the frame so that the instrument could be used to take altitudes as well. He also recommended that the two sights of the alidade be made the same height rather than having one twice the length of the other. This made it possible to take backsights without turning the table 180 degrees. Sébastien Le Clerc’s popular Traité de geometrie (1690) included detailed instructions on how to use the plane table. In his 1723 edition of Nicolas Bion’s The Construction and Principal Uses of Mathematical Instruments, Edmund Stone described the form of plane table that remained standard in the British Isles throughout the eighteenth century: an oak table on a tripod, with a compass attached in an octagonal box, a boxwood frame or surround divided in degrees, and a brass rule with engraved scales and plain sights. In the 1710s, Johann Jakob Marinoni made several improvements to the plane tables used in the Austrian monarchy, improvements that he eventually described in his treatise De re ichnographica (1751); he advocated for a larger board and a complex mechanism that permitted the board to both rotate, for orientation, and move laterally, for centering (fig. 399). Toward the end of the century, alidades with telescopic sights placed on vertical arcs were made, but were not commonly used. The advantage of the plane table was that it was possible to mark bearings directly onto paper in the field. This meant that much surveying could be done graphically with a minimal understanding of mathematics and geometry, and that the surveyor would be able to sketch a map directly. Ease of use carried with it dangers of complacency, and Rathborne warned that “simple and ignorant persons . . . who hauing but once obserued a Surueyor, by looking ouer his shoulder . . . within a small

Instruments for Angle Measuring

Fig. 399. MARINONI’S IMPROVED TABULA PRAETORIANA (PLANE TABLE) DEVELOPED IN THE 1710s. From Johann Jakob Marinoni, De re ichnographica, cujus hodierna praxis exponitur, et propriis exemplis pluribus illustratur: Inque varias, quæ contingere possunt, ejusdem aberrationes, posito quoque calculo, inquiritur (Vienna: Leopoldum Kaliwoda, 1751), facing 13. View from beneath, showing construction of the mechanism joining the tripod to the table. Size of the original: 20.5 × 15.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

time after, you shall heare them tell you wonders, and what rare feats they can performe” (1616, preface). The first step in using a plane table was to place it over the starting point, orient it north, and then screw the tripod firm. Then a second point was viewed through the sights of the alidade, and a line was drawn between the two. The distance between the two points was measured using a chain. If the area to be surveyed was small and all points of change in the boundary could be viewed from the first point, they could all be sighted by rotating the alidade and the distances to them measured by chain and plotted to scale. Traversing involved taking observations from successive instrument stations and orienting the table by backsighting to the previous station (see fig. 873). Intersection required the accurate measurement of a line between two points, which became the

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baseline. Points to be surveyed were sighted from both ends of the baseline and were fixed by the intersection of rays drawn from both points. An inexpensive instrument and easy to use, the plane table contributed to the growth of land surveying in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was particularly useful in large-scale mapping of landscapes with many landmarks and was often favored by military topographers on the Continent for its ease of use in topographical sketching. S a r a h Bendall See also: Marinoni, Johann Jakob; Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying; Triangulation Surveying B i bliogra p hy Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Kiely, Edmond R. 1947. Surveying Instruments: Their History and Classroom Use. New York: Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Leybourn, William. 1653. The Compleat Surveyor: Containing the Whole Art of Surveying of Land. London: Printed by R. & W. Leybourn, for E. Brewster and G. Sawbridge. Lindgren, Uta. 2007. “Land Surveys, Instruments, and Practitioners in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:477–508. Rathborne, Aaron. 1616. The Svrveyor in Foure Bookes. London: Printed by W. Stansby for W. Burre. Richeson, A. W. 1966. English Land Measuring to 1800: Instruments and Practices. Cambridge: Society for the History of Technology and MIT Press.

Marine Compass. The close relationship between the

marine chart and the sea compass was emphasized by the term used in France, up to and including the nineteenth century, for the plotting of a measured or estimated position and a course: compasser la carte or pointer la carte. From the beginning of the nineteenth century, the expression was progressively replaced by faire le point, still used today. In the historical division of the horizon and the compass into sixteen or thirty-two graduations (of 11°15ʹ, originally from the designation in the Mediterranean of the winds on the wind rose), a rhumb could designate two things: the space between lines and each of the thirty-two lines themselves, as drawn on the face of the compass. As lines of the compass drawn on charts, the rhumbs were the traces of the close connection between the compass card and the marine chart. This link also assumed concrete form in the wind rose (or compass rose), a star with thirty-two points corresponding to these thirty-two wind directions. From the end of the seventeenth century, important research into terrestrial magnetism was matched by studious efforts of instrumentmakers who improved compasses (Marguet 1931, 91–95), both the steering compass, indicating the ship’s heading, and the variation compass, the forerunner of the hand bearing compass. The latter was used to take the bearing of sea marks, to

assist in the estimation of leeway, and to check the steering compass (as long as the variation compass was not brought too close to the steering compass). These two instruments nonetheless remained of quite poor quality. The graduation on the cards was still imperfect (especially on the variation compass), and, in particular, the copper used in fabrication was contaminated with iron. Great Britain achieved greater mastery of the production process in the workshops controlled by the Royal Navy, which made the compasses destined for ships of the state (Chapuis 1999, 61). France tried to imitate Great Britain’s process on the eve of the French Revolution. The installation of compasses on board ships also posed serious problems, especially the alignment of the “lubber’s line,” against which the bearing of the ship’s head was read, with the fore and aft axis of the ship. The movements of the ship greatly disturbed the compass needle and card. Above all, although the theory of deviation due to magnetic masses had been known from the seventeenth century (and by some Portuguese from the sixteenth century) when iron was increasingly employed in ships, it was not always clearly distinguished from magnetic variation and was not completely understood in the eighteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 62). The practice of placing two compasses in the same binnacle continued, and while this was a practical arrangement enabling the helmsman to always have a compass in sight whatever his position, it was regularly denounced by knowledgeable officers. Eighteenth-century navigators did not yet compensate for compass deviation errors caused by magnetic masses on board, even though William Wales, astronomer to James Cook, noticed that they varied with the heading of the ship. It was necessary to await the curves of deviation produced by Matthew Flinders and published in 1814. Flinders noted that for any compass installation, the deviation changed not only as a function of the displacement of magnetic masses on board the wooden ships, but also according to the heading of the ship (Chapuis 1999, 660). These problems with magnetism were well-defined only after 1815 and were not completely resolved through compensation until much later. O li vi er Chapuis See also: Navigation and Cartography; North, Magnetic and True Bibliography Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Flinders, Matthew. 1814. “On the Errors of the Compass Arising from Attractions within the Ship, and Others from the Magnetism of Land; with Precautions for Obviating Their Effects in Marine Surveying.” In A Voyage to Terra Australis, 2 vols., 2:512–32. London: G. and W. Nicol. Hitchins, Henry Luxmoore, and W. E. May. 1952. From Lodestone

678 to Gyro-Compass. London: Hutchinson’s Scientific and Technical Publications. Marguet, Frédéric. 1931. Histoire générale de la navigation du XVe au XXe siècle. Paris: Société d’Éditions Géographiques, Maritimes et Coloniales. Randier, Jean. 1980. Marine Navigation Instruments. Trans. John E. Powell. London: John Murray.

Circumferentor. A circumferentor—known in Amer-

ica as a surveyor’s compass—is a magnetic compass equipped with vertical sights, designed so that one can measure the bearings of distant objects with respect to magnetic north (fig. 400). The circumferentor was probably derived from marine compasses. Steering compasses, without sights, had long been used at sea, and John Fitzherbert, in Here Begynneth . . . the Boke of Surueyeng and Improume[n]tes (1523) had advised that they be used on land to establish the alignment of parcels of land (Richeson 1966, 31–35). Sixteenth-century mariners added sights to make the azimuth compass, sighting on the sun or stars when due south permitted the mariner to determine magnetic variation. The earliest reference to a circumferentor was made by Ralph Agas in A Preparative to Platting of Landes and Tenements for Surueigh (1596) (Richeson 1966, 81–83); the earliest dated example was made in Dublin in 1667

Fig. 400. JOSEPH HALSY, CIRCUMFERENTOR, BOSTON, 1747. Samuel Lane, a New Hampshire surveyor, acquired this instrument in 1747 and used it until it was damaged in 1754. The thick sights with two apertures each permitted the surveyor to take back sights without reversing the instrument. The compass card was printed from a woodblock and hand colored. Wood with glass face. Size of the original: ca. 11.0 × 12.5 × 23.0 cm. Image courtesy of the New Hampshire Historical Society, Concord (Object ID: 1992.040.01 a-b).

Instruments for Angle Measuring

(Warner 2005, 372–74). Indeed, some early circumferentors had a similar form to the mariner’s compass in that the compass card was glued directly on top of the needle so that both remained stationary as the sights were turned. This arrangement was replaced by the later seventeenth century by placing the card under the needle. The circumferentor thus differs from the theodolite and other devices in that its sights and compass card together revolve about the stationary needle (Bennett 1987, 41, 48–49, 52–53, 149). Circumferentors were not particularly reliable. Their cards were marked to no greater than individual degrees (each quadrant was generally incremented separately, from 0° to 90°). Variations in the earth’s magnetic field by both location (especially when locally distorted by iron deposits) and over time meant that circumferentors had only uncertain accuracy. They were accordingly favored in settings where land was surveyed in large tracts and where speed was of the essence; the circumferentor was, for example, the basic instrument used in the Down Survey of Ireland (1655–59), and it was the most common angle-measuring device in eighteenth-century colonial America (Warner 2005). Some Irish and American instruments were equipped with an “outkeeper,” a dial that helped the surveyor keep track of the number of times (“outs”) a chain had been run. Circumferentors were also used underground, where they were known as miner’s dials. Most circumferentors were made in Ireland and the American colonies. They were originally constructed from wood, as befitted a craft tool, and featured manuscript or printed compass cards, but by 1700 they were largely being made in brass; engraved brass rings in the mid-1700s could be graduated to half a degree. Conversely, it seems that there was insufficient metal available to meet the great demand for circumferentors in eighteenth-century New England, and locally manufactured instruments were almost all made from wood until the nineteenth century (Bedini 1964). By 1780, the increasing desire to eliminate the vagaries of magnetic variation led instrumentmakers in Britain and especially the United States to equip circumferentors with circles that could be adjusted by means of a vernier (see fig. 402). Once the surveyor had determined local magnetic variation, by solar or stellar observations, he could adjust the circle by an equal amount so that all measurements were automatically made with respect to true north. As the more sophisticated instrument became known in the United States as a vernier compass, the simpler version became known as a plain compass (Warner 2005, 381–82). D ebo r ah Jean W arner See also: Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying

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B i bliogra p hy Bedini, Silvio A. 1964. Early American Scientific Instruments and Their Makers. Washington, D.C.: Museum of History and Technology, Smithsonian Institution. Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Richeson, A. W. 1966. English Land Measuring to 1800: Instruments and Practices. Cambridge: Society for the History of Technology and MIT Press. Warner, Deborah Jean. 2005. “True North—And Why It Mattered in Eighteenth-Century America.” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 149:372–85.

Precision Devices for Angle Measurement. The direct in-

strumental measurement of angles depended on the ability to engrave or otherwise permanently mark a circular arc with consistently spaced graduations for degrees and even minutes. The basic technique of dividing circular arcs into individual degrees or perhaps half-degrees— through a combination of simple geometrical and trialand-error processes—had been well-established by the mid-sixteenth century and continued to be used well into the 1700s for angular instruments of ordinary quality. Such precision was quite adequate for common surveying, but observational astronomy and detailed topographical mapping required still finer precision and that in turn required further techniques (Sorrenson 1995). As discussed in this entry, Enlightenment scientists and craftsmen introduced vernier scales and micrometers in place of the earlier system of transversal scale (Michel 1913; Chapman 1995, 22–23,40–45, 69–75). Simultaneously, individual eighteenth-century craftsmen achieved ever finer primary divisions of the arcs on high-quality instruments. They did not reveal their trade secrets until the British longitude commissioners paid John Bird to publish his technique of dividing small angular arcs, as used on sextants and octants, down to five-minute intervals in The Method of Dividing Astronomical Instruments (1767) (Daumas 1972, 193–96). To produce high-quality instruments in sufficient quantities for mariners and engineers, instrumentmakers in France and Britain also sought to build engraving machines to automate the process; Jesse Ramsden first perfected such a device in 1774 (McConnell 2007, 41–43; Daumas 1972, 196–204). The initial solution to obtaining greater precision in measurement was the transversal (or diagonal) scale. First described by Levi ben Gerson in the early fourteenth century, and in print by Thomas Digges in his Alæ sev scalæ mathematicæ (1573), the transversal scale was popularized by Tycho Brahe. Linear transversal scales were commonly used on back staffs in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and also on rulers used by draftsmen in plotting maps to plot to fine fractions of an inch (fig. 401). Circular transversal scales were slightly more complex in construction and were used

Fig. 401. TRANSVERSAL SCALE. From Johann Christoph Schlönbach, “Practische Anleitung zum Feld-Messen” (1759), fol. 21. Shown here is a detail of the left end of an exemplar linear scale, from a German surveyor’s manual, of Decimal Fusse (decimal feet, ten to a Ruth [rod]). The main, horizontal scale is repeated ten times, in uniform intervals, with diagonal (transverse) lines each drawn across the range of a single graduation (here, one decimal foot). The intersection of each transverse line with a horizontal scale represents an increment of one-tenth of a single graduation. Such transversal scales were also applied to the graduated arcs of angle measuring instruments. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OML-1759-9).

on a variety of high-precision instruments through the end of the seventeenth century (Daumas 1972, 189–91; Smith 1986, 29–33) (see fig. 407). The transversal scale on the quadrant that Jean Picard used in triangulating the meridian of Paris allowed the precise measurement of angles to a single minute of arc (see fig. 265). The more compact vernier scale was first described by Pierre Vernier, a Burgundian mathematician and an official with the government of the Spanish Netherlands, in La constrvction, l’vsage, et les proprietéz dv qvadrant novveav de mathematiqve (1631). He described a quadrant in which the main scale, graduated in half-degree increments, could be read to just one minute of arc by means of a second scale, with slightly variant units, that moved with the sight. Johannes Hevelius used verniers on some of his large astronomical instruments and described them in Machinæ coelestis, pars prior (1673). Although Robert Hooke criticized the vernier along with other aspects of Hevelius’s work in his Animadversions on the First Part of the Machina coelestis (1674), the introduction of telescopic observation prompted finer precision in measurement so that by the early eighteenth century verniers were common equipment on astronomical, surveying, and navigational instruments; by 1800 they were all but standard (fig. 402). With verniers, it became possible to read angles to five or ten seconds of

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and geodetic instruments, especially zenith telescopes. The micrometer was especially useful in increasing the resolution and discrimination of the observer’s vision. D ebo r ah Jean W arner

Fig. 402. DETAIL OF THE VERNIER SCALE ON A SEXTANT. The main arc (here showing from 75° to 60°) is graduated in intervals of 20 minutes of arc; the vernier scale, above, permits those 20 minutes of arc to be read to a precision of half a minute, or 30 seconds of arc. The vernier scale moved with the sextant’s telescope, with the final precise adjustment being made by a finely tuned screw (not shown here; see fig. 404). To read the angle, the mariner looked for the exact coincidence of one mark on the vernier scale with another on the main scale; here, the coincidence is between 65°0′ on the main scale and 6′0″ on the vernier, for a final value of 65°6′0″. Brass sextant made in London by Edward Nairne and Thomas Blunt, ca. 1780; the engraved mark on the main scale indicates that the circle was divided on Jesse Ramsden’s dividing engine. Size of the original: 38.0 × 35.8 × 11.0 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (NAV1110). The Image Works.

arc and, on large astronomical instruments with a sevento eight-foot (over two m) radius, even up to half a second of arc (Daumas 1972, 191–93). (In Britain it was common in eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to call a vernier scale a “nonius,” although the nonius is actually a variant of the transversal scale, little used after 1650, and named after its inventor, the sixteenth-century Portuguese mathematician Pedro Nunes.) The rise of telescopic observation was accompanied by a third strategy for measuring fine angles: the insertion into the telescope’s eyepiece of a micrometer. With origins in the early seventeenth century, the micrometer was perfected by Adrien Auzout and Picard in the 1660s (Brooks 1991). In this device, the focal plane of the eyepiece has two metal pointers or wires that are moved together or apart by means of a screw; a divided scale attached to the screw indicates the precise extent of the separation. Auzout and Picard developed their micrometer to take the angular diameters of the sun, moon, and planets. With the improvement of optical techniques and the increasing availability of high-quality lenses in the eighteenth century, increasingly reliable and versatile filar micrometers were attached to many astronomical

See also: Geodetic Surveying; Instruments, Astronomical Bibliography Brooks, Randall C. 1991. “The Development of Micrometers in the Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 22:127–73. Chapman, Allan. 1995. Dividing the Circle: The Development of Critical Angular Measurement in Astronomy, 1500–1850. 2d ed. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. Daumas, Maurice. 1972. Scientific Instruments of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries and Their Makers. Trans. and ed. Mary Holbrook. London: Batsford. McConnell, Anita. 2007. Jesse Ramsden (1735–1800): London’s Leading Scientific Instrument Maker. Aldershot: Ashgate. Michel, Henri. 1913. “Le ‘vernier’ et son inventeur l’ingénieur Pierre Vernier d’Ornans.” Mémoires de la Société d’Emulation du Doubs, ser. 8, 8:310–73. Smith, J. R. 1986. From Plane to Spheroid: Determining the Figure of the Earth from 3000 B.C. to the 18th Century Lapland and Peruvian Survey Expeditions. Rancho Cordova: Landmark Enterprises. Sorrenson, Richard. 1995. “The State’s Demand for Accurate Astronomical and Navigational Instruments in Eighteenth-Century Britain.” In The Consumption of Culture 1600–1800: Image, Object, Text, ed. Ann Bermingham and John Brewer, 263–71. London: Routledge.

Octant and Sextant. At the end of the seventeenth century, the instrument most commonly employed to ascertain the altitude of heavenly bodies during navigation was the sea quadrant, which the French often called the quartier anglais (or anglois). It was a quarter circle, similar to the quadrant commonly used in terrestrial astronomy, though the latter instrument, not intended for use in the dynamic shipboard environment, was often larger in diameter. A precursor, the Jacob’s staff (or cross staff), which had been in use since the beginning of the fourteenth century, had not completely disappeared as a measuring device, a sign of the reluctance of mariners to abandon their old habits, especially when simple and inexpensive tools lent themselves to proven techniques (Chapuis 1999, 54). With the sea quadrant, also known as the back staff, the observer stood with his back to the heavens, measuring the shadow that it cast on the instrument. From the end of the seventeenth century, however, research in optics carried out by a number of scholars and craftsmen, notably Isaac Newton and Robert Hooke, led to marked improvements in reflecting instruments. In 1731 the Englishman John Hadley presented to the Royal Society of London his double-mirrored octant, with an arc (limb) that measured an eighth of the circumference of the circle (hence the name octant) or forty-five degrees, though it was divided for facility into ninety degrees (or the equivalent of a quarter circle) (Hadley 1733). It permitted the measurement of the alti-

Instruments for Angle Measuring

Fig. 403. PEAR-WOOD FRAME OCTANT WITH BRASS FITTINGS BY BENJAMIN COLE, CA. 1750. The octant has a brass stop on the index arm moving over an inlaid boxwood transversal scale. Size of the original: 7.5 × 42.0 × 50.5 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (NAV1303). The Image Works.

tude of heavenly bodies by day or night with about one minute of error. At the same time, in Pennsylvania, the American optician Thomas Godfrey had also invented an instrument using double reflection. Double reflection combined direct and reflected images using a small mirror that was covered with tin on half of its surface. Thus, a hitherto unknown ability was brought to an observer who stood on the bridge of a moving ship. The mirror allowed the observer to see the stars and the horizon in the same view, even in a cloudy sky. This was a great advantage because the mirror showed a small point on the horizon above and below its reflected image with precision (Chapuis 1999, 54). Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette was one of the first to use the octant in France. In his treatise Le nouveau quartier anglois (1739), he emphasized that the best navigators would now be able to measure their latitude to within a minute, even if longitude continued to be out of reach (Chapuis 1999, 55–56). However, most navigators would not adopt the octant until several decades later. The manufacture of instruments using reflection remained a British specialty throughout the eighteenth century. So much so that the French used English in-

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struments in their most prestigious scientific expeditions, such as the sextants of Jesse Ramsden on the Lapérouse expedition (1785–88). The French ministre de la Marine even rewarded officers for the quality of their observations with instruments made in Great Britain. The other great maritime nations of Europe also lagged behind in instrument manufacture (Chapuis 1999, 57). In the second half of the eighteenth century, when the octant (in wood and brass [fig. 403] or iron and brass) had been continuously improved by various craftsmen in England and France, with the addition of a telescope, for example, the solution of the problem of longitude was to favor the emergence of other new instruments. Since the calculation of longitude from lunar distances often involved angular values greater than ninety degrees (Cotter 1968, 81), larger than those involved in measuring the heights of heavenly bodies, instruments capable of responding to these new demands were required. The sextant of John Campbell appeared in 1757. Often made of mahogany and brass, with a limb of ivory, its design was identical to the octant, but its limb was enlarged to 60 degrees (instead of the octant’s 45 degrees) making it capable of measuring angles up to 120 degrees. Moreover, this instrument was soon equipped with an achromatic telescope and a vernier scale, as progress was made in metalworking (fig. 404). Among the great maritime powers of the period, the sextant became a necessity for enlightened navigators from the last quarter of the eighteenth century onward as the

Fig. 404. BRASS SEXTANT BY JESSE RAMSDEN, CA. 1790. Size of the original: 12 × 40 × 37 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (NAV1105). The Image Works.

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method of lunar distances became established practice for these elite practitioners. At the end of the eighteenth century, the sextant was cast from a single piece of brass, equipped with an achromatic telescope, a vernier, and a tangent screw. It assumed its definitive form at the end of the 1780s, even though the diversity among models was still great. Its radius was much smaller than that of the bulky octant. Therefore, the sextant was lighter and more maneuverable, and hydrographic surveyors were able to use it more easily in the horizontal mode. However, the use of brass, an alloy of copper and zinc, and iron, posed problems because the expansion rate of the two metals differed. Yet these metals held a clear advantage over copper, whose light weight made it prone to deformation. The obstacle of unequal expansion would be resolved at the beginning of the nineteenth century. O liv ier Ch apuis See also: Longitude and Latitude; Navigation and Cartography Bibliograp hy Après de Mannevillette, Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’. 1739. Le nouveau quartier anglois, ou Description et usage d’un nouvel instrument pour observer la latitude sur mer. Paris: Lambert, Durand. Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Cotter, Charles H. 1968. A History of Nautical Astronomy. London: Hollis & Carter. Hadley, John. 1733. “The Description of a New Instrument for Taking Angles.” Philosophical Transactions 37:147–57. Hewson, J. B. 1951. A History of the Practice of Navigation. Glasgow: Brown, Son & Ferguson.

1720s, and they were not standard until the end of the century. As telescopic sights were adopted, so too were transversal and especially vernier scales for reading the graduated circles with greater precision; this in turn required the addition of spirit levels to permit the instruments to be leveled properly. Most static-circle instruments had a pair of fixed sights in addition to the rotating alidade with which the surveyor read the graduated circle. The fixed sights provided a check that the instrument had not moved. The surveyor would set the fixed sights to a reference object, lock the circle, and then use the rotating alidade to sight onto distant objects and record the angles; at any time the surveyor could check that the instrument remained in proper alignment by looking to see that the fixed sights continued to point to the chosen reference object (Adams 1791, 311–14). Many of these instruments were fitted with a compass. This could be used to orient the instrument; or, along with the fixed sights, it would convert the instrument into a circumferentor. The surveyor could rotate the instrument so as to sight onto features with the fixed sights and read their bearings with respect to magnetic north. This last practice complicates the principled distinction between static-circle instruments and mobile-circle circumferentors.

Theodolite, Graphomètre, and Similar Instruments. Early

modern surveyors and instrumentmakers developed a family of angle-measuring instruments with an alidade that rotated around a static, graduated circular arc. Many were described by instrumentmakers in manuals (e.g., Bion 1709; Adams 1791); Nicolas Bion’s pioneering account was the basis for descriptions of these instruments in the era’s encyclopedias. These instruments could be used to measure horizontal angles (azimuths) and/or vertical angles (altitudes). Historians have identified four basic forms: the circle, the graphomètre, the quadrant, and the theodolite (Bennett 1987, 83–96, 145–49; Wynter and Turner 1975, 154–71). Most such instruments were made of brass, although some had wood or iron bases supporting the graduated brass arc. The circular arc was typically rather small so that the instruments could be readily used; most had a radius of less than 0.4 meters. The sights were initially open. While Jean Picard had put telescopes on his large quadrant by 1670 (see fig. 265), telescopic sites did not appear on common surveying instruments until the

Fig. 405. HOLLAND CIRCLE BY JACOBUS DE STEUR, LEIDEN, CA. 1670. The outer circle of this brass instrument is graduated to fifteen minutes; the inner circle was marked with scales useful to military engineers. It came supplied with several attachments, including a sighting bar that can fit over the sights on the alidade. Size of the original: 6.2 × 32.6 × 36.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University, Cambridge (Inv. # DW0674a).

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Surveyor’s circles—defined by the full graduated circle—had been produced since the sixteenth century; they are sometimes called “diopters” after the instrument described by Heron of Alexandria. The variant described by Jan Pietersz. Dou in 1612 was widely adopted in the Netherlands. Now known as the “Holland circle” (Kiely 1947, 161–62), it consisted of a full graduated circle with four fixed sights making a cross, a movable alidade with sights, and an inset compass. The four fixed sights allowed the instrument to be used as a surveyor’s cross (or equerre d’arpenteur) to lay out perpendicular lines (see fig. 678). A late-seventeenth century example (fig. 405) reveals the form’s origins in the astrolabe: the ring out-

side one of the fixed sights permitted the instrument to be suspended so that the surveyor could measure vertical angles with the movable alidade or use the other fixed sights to define the horizon. In Britain, the circle was called the theodolite, after the “Theodelitus” described by Leonard Digges (1571, first book, chap. 29 [unpaginated]); it was further qualified as the common or simple theodolite with the development of the altazimuth theodolite. In France, the circle was called a planchette or later, to distinguish it from the plane table, a planchette ronde. The large circle with two telescopes designed by the Swedish instrumentmaker Daniel Ekström could be used either in the horizontal or vertical plane (fig. 406).

Fig. 406. JOHAN AHL’S 1764 IMPLEMENTATION OF THE “GEOGRAPHICAL CIRCLE” DESIGNED BY HIS TEACHER, DANIEL EKSTRÖM. From Thomas Bugge, Beskrivelse over den opmaalings maade, som er brugt ved de danske geografiske karter (Copenhagen: Gyldendals Forlag,

1779), pl. 1. With the circle in the vertical, as here, telescope OP was set in the horizontal with a spirit level, permitting the second telescope IH to measure vertical angles. © The British Library Board, London.

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Fig. 407. BRASS GRAPHOMÈTRE BY MICHAEL BUTTERFIELD (PARIS, CA. 1700). Note the transversal scale applied to the instrument’s entire arc; the main division of the arc reads to 1°, the transversal to 10′ of arc.

Instruments for Angle Measuring

Size of the original: 18.1 × 27.6 × 13.3 cm. Image courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (Accession number: 03.21.12).

Fig. 408. A COLONIAL GRAPHOMÈTRE IN ITS PINE CARRYING BOX. Made in Boston, ca. 1775, this instrument served as a compact equivalent to the circumferentor. Such colonial instruments had trench compasses for orientation, two spirit levels, and a brass semicircle and alidade, all generally set into a wooden base. Here, the simple north arrow on the compass card is in manuscript, and the base is mahogany. Size of the original: 30.5 × 15.0 cm; diameter of brass alidade and measuring limb: 22.7 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OS-1775-29).

Philippe Danfrie introduced a variant in his Declaration de l’usage du graphometre (1597). Known as a graphomètre (graphometer) or demi-cercle, this had a graduated semicircle with a pair of fixed sights at either end of its base diameter and a movable alidade. Many had an inset compass (fig. 407). The graphomètre was the preferred instrument among French surveyors, but it was used by others as well. Several simple compact halfcircles, often misleadingly called semicircumferentors, were produced in British North America (fig. 408). Note that graphomètres were generally not used to measure altitudes. To achieve greater precision in angle measurement it would have been possible to increase the radius of the circles, but this would have increased the weight and made

Instruments for Angle Measuring

Fig. 409. EARLY THEODOLITE BY JONATHAN SISSON, 1737. The 6.5-inch (16.5 cm) diameter horizontal circle and 5.5-inch (14 cm) diameter vertical arc were both graduated to one-degree increments and both were equipped with vernier scales. The brass instrument was housed in a large octagonal wooden box. The telescope is a modern replacement. Size of the original: 17.0 × 16.3 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (NAV1451). The Image Works.

the instruments unwieldy. Larger instruments adapted from the quadrants—quarter circles—were used by astronomers in the observatory and field (Turner 2002). Picard used a large quadrant for the triangulation of the Paris meridian. It had a radius of 38 pouces (1.03 m), a fixed and a movable telescope, a transversal scale that could be read to one minute of arc (see fig. 265), and a support that allowed it to be used both horizontally and vertically. Smaller quadrants were commonly used by surveyors and engineers in France, Italy, and the German states. Several sixteenth-century commentators had proposed, and some craftsmen made, an azimuth circle with a ver-

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Fig. 410. RAMSDEN THEODOLITE, 1791. Jesse Ramsden’s design for the altazimuth theodolite was adopted by other instrumentmakers, in particular George Adams (1791, frontispiece). Size of the original: 18.5 × 11.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

tical arc for altitudes, so that both angles could be measured without having to reconfigure the instrument. A functional altazimuth instrument—i.e., the theodolite per se—was only developed in the 1720s by the London instrumentmaker Jonathan Sisson (fig. 409). Other makers followed suit, although the theodolite was, for several decades, the tool less of the working land surveyor and more of the interested landowner. Yet by century’s end, the altazimuth theodolite was recognized in Britain (fig. 410), France, and the German states (Brachner 1983, 87–101) as the quintessential surveying instrument for the modern age. D ebo rah Jean W arner

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See also: Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying Bibliograp hy Adams, George. 1791. Geometrical and Graphical Essays, Containing a Description of the Mathematical Instruments Used in Geometry, Civil and Military Surveying, Levelling and Perspective. London: Printed for the Author by R. Hindmarsh. Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Bion, Nicolas. 1709. Traité de la construction et des principaux usages des instrumens de mathematique. Paris: Chez la Veuve de Jean Boudot, Jacques Colombat, et Jean Boudot fils.. Brachner, Alto, ed. 1983. G. F. Brander, 1713–1783: Wissenschaftliche Instrumente aus seiner Werkstatt. Munich: Deutsches Museum. Digges, Leonard. 1571. A Geometrical Practise, Named Pantometria. London: Henrie Bynneman. Kiely, Edmond R. 1947. Surveying Instruments: Their History and Classroom Use. New York: Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Turner, A. J. 2002. “The Observatory and the Quadrant in EighteenthCentury Europe.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 33:373–85. Wynter, Harriet, and A. J. Turner. 1975. Scientific Instruments. London: Studio Vista.

Repeating Circle (Repeating Theodolite). In the 1750s as-

tronomer Tobias Mayer was working in Göttingen on the repetition of angle measurements in surveying. His method was to take a bearing several times on a circle divided in such a way that each measurement could be added to the preceding measures. Only two readings were made, at the beginning and at the end of the operation. The difference between the readings was then divided by the total number of observations. This allowed a proportional reduction in the effects of instrumental error, such as might result, for example, from an irregularity in the graduation marking of a limb (Borda 1787, 5–6; Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], 34). Nevil Maskelyne edited and published Mayer’s new lunar tables after Mayer’s death, and they appeared in London in 1770. In this work, Mayer proposed using this complete circle for measuring distances from the moon to the sun and to various stars and provided a drawing of its execution. Jean-Charles Borda, an officer from the Génie who transferred to the Marine and an eminent scholartechnician of his time, was directly inspired by Mayer’s work (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], 24) to update his own instrument (Chapuis 1999, 265–66). Borda designed two types of repeating circles (Chapuis 1999, 294–96). The first was called a reflecting circle (cercle à réflexion) and was equipped with two mirrors (like an octant or sextant), for it relied on the principle of double reflection. It was used particularly for astronomical sightings, especially lunar distances (it could make large angular measurements) or for taking simple meridian altitudes. Because it could be turned and used vertically or horizontally, it facilitated rapid hydrographic measurements by determining the points of intermediate stations, explaining its much later name, the hydrographic circle (Chapuis 1999, 714–15). Borda

Fig. 411. ÉTIENNE LENOIR, CERCLE À RÉFLEXION NO 75 (PARIS, [1786]). This model is identical to those reflecting circles that accompanied Joseph-Antoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux on his voyage. The reflecting circle is made entirely of brass and molded in a single piece. It is light and manageable, characteristics that balance the lack of precision due to its modest size and the reduction of gradations along the limb; its modest dimensions prevent any deformation from twisting or expansion, always a concern with copper; because it was small, it was less expensive. Diameter of the original: 30 cm. © Musée national de la Marine, Paris/A. Fux (N° inv. 11 NA 21).

completed his conception of the reflecting circle in 1775, and Étienne Lenoir began to construct it in 1777. On the reflecting circle the graduated circle, or limb, is mounted on a handle perpendicular to its plane. Two alidades move independently around the same axis (fig. 411). The principal alidade has a stationary telescope for astronomical sightings and a small half-silvered mirror (covered with tin on half its surface) and a vernier held on with a tangent screw. The smaller alidade has a large mirror (center) and a similar vernier attached with tangent screw. Borda’s innovation of ca. 1775 was very important because the screw along the tangent was a worm screw, by contrast to the setscrews and adjusting screws that limited the movement of the alidade along the limb during a reading. With a reflecting circle, the angle between two observed objects (astronomical, in the case of lunar distances, or geodetic, for hydrographic use) corresponds to the angular difference read on the limb between the two alidades, thanks to the two verniers and to the fact that the limb was a complete circle (by contrast to the octant or sextant). Borda created a second circle, the astronomic circle, with a diameter of thirty-two centimeters (see fig. 541). Jean-Dominique Cassini (IV) called this the repeating

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circle (cercle répétiteur); it was first used for the triangulation survey between the Greenwich and Paris meridians in 1787 (Chapuis 1999, 271–73). Its two eyepieces permitted the simultaneous sighting of two points, whose angular difference one measured. Also operating on the principle of repeated measurements, it could be used vertically for astronomy and horizontally for terrestrial triangulation, which demanded great precision. Borda was the precursor of a new hydrography from an instrumental and methodological point of view (Chapuis 1999, 265–71), as seen in the expedition (1785–88) of Jean-François de Lapérouse, who employed Borda’s cercle à réflexion. However, its first systematic user in hydrography was Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré in the course of the d’Entrecasteux expedition (1791–93) (Chapuis 1999, 511–20). Oliv ier Ch apuis See also: Geodetic Surveying: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; Marine Charting; Topographical Surveying B i bliogra p hy Borda, Jean-Charles. 1787. Description et usage du cercle de réflexion, avec différentes méthodes pour calculer les observations nautiques. Paris: Didot l’aîné. Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique, Pierre-François-André Méchain, and Adrien-Marie Legendre. [1791]. Exposé des opérations faites en France en 1787, pour la jonction des observatoires de Paris et de Greenwich. Paris: Institution des Sourds-Muets. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Daumas, Maurice. 1972. Scientific Instruments of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries and Their Makers. Trans. and ed. Mary Holbrook. London: Batsford.

Great Theodolite. The few “great theodolites” made in

London after 1784 were a particularly British solution to the problem of the high degree of accuracy required for angle measurement in high-level geodetic surveys. They were not the culmination of some progressive enlargement of lesser surveying instruments. Rather, Jesse Ramsden created the first great theodolite de novo for a specific event, the Greenwich-Paris triangulation, which had promoted a nationalistic competition over the quality of instrumentation (Widmalm 1990, 192–95). The primary constraint on any angle-measuring instrument was the quality of the divisions inscribed by hand around the edge of the brass circle. One solution—implemented in the repeating circle adopted by French geodesists—was to make multiple observations of the same angle on different portions of the circle, then take the arithmetic mean to eliminate instrumental error. Ramsden pursued an alternative solution: he had in 1775 perfected, to great acclaim, a machine that automated the division of a circle (Chapman 1995, 66– 81, 108–37; McConnell 2007, 39–51). The immediate purpose of the so-called dividing engine was to perfect

the Hadley octant, but it was of course applicable to any angle-measuring instrument. Faced with the need to make an accurate instrument for William Roy to use on the British portion of the triangulation, Ramsden constructed a very large theodolite: the larger the horizontal circle, the finer the angles subtended by its smallest divisions and the more precise the instrument. Ramsden’s first great theodolite was indeed large (fig. 412). The horizontal (azimuth) circle was three feet (0.914 m) in diameter—a size previously used only in high-end instruments installed in observatories—and read angles to one minute of arc; the one-foot (0.305 m) diameter vertical (zenith) semicircle read angles to three minutes. The fineness of the engraving required microscopes to read both circles. The primary achromatic telescope permitted clear vision and highly accurate measurement over one hundred miles (161 km); a second telescope, set in the base, established the origin of each round of observations. A confusion of screws and spirit levels set up and adjusted the whole. To keep the theodolite rigid, Ramsden constructed it from inflexible metal cones rather than simple rods; the whole instrument was mounted on a sturdy mahogany frame. It weighed some 200 pounds (91 kg), or ten times the weight of the French repeating circle. The size and complexity of the first great theodolite evidently gave Ramsden trouble; he finally delivered it to the Royal Society in 1787, having worked on it for three years (Roy 1790, 135–60; Daumas 1972, 186–87; Chapman 1995, 118– 19; McConnell 2007, 200–203, 223–30). The first limitation of a great theodolite was cost. George III had to buy Ramsden’s first great theodolite for the Royal Society. When the directors of the East India Company commissioned a second three-footer from Ramsden with which to measure the geodetic arcs in India urged by Roy, they baulked at his final asking price. The Board of Ordnance purchased it instead in 1791, for the princely sum of £373.14s (Insley 2008), for use in a projected military survey of Britain (which would eventually develop into the Ordnance Survey); in January 1799, the board also received the loan of the first instrument from the Royal Society. A third three-foot theodolite was commissioned from Ramsden in 1792 by Ferdinand Rudolf Hassler in Switzerland; delivered in 1797, its use was curtailed by the French invasion in March 1798 (McConnell 2007, 215–18). The East India Company finally commissioned another three-foot theodolite in 1799, for use in southern India, but this was a cheaper copy made by William Cary. The second limitation was size. Roy had to have a special sprung-suspension carriage made to convey the first theodolite and its associated gear, pulled by two or four horses; in India, the Cary theodolite would be carried by large teams of porters. It was also difficult to get the theodolites to the tops of tall buildings and

Fig. 412. THE “GENERAL VIEW” OF JESSE RAMSDEN’S FIRST GREAT THEODOLITE. As used by William Roy on the Greenwich-Paris triangulation; from Roy 1790, pl. 3.

Image courtesy of the Science Museum/Science & Society Picture Library, London.

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mountains, as needed in high-level geodetic surveys; Roy had built special scaffolds for his great theodolite (see fig. 262). Certainly, great theodolites were practicable only for institutions like the military engineering corps that possessed the necessary logistical resources to move them around (Widmalm 1990). The solution was to make smaller instruments with the same basic structural design, such as the 18-inch (0.458 m) theodolite of Ramsden commissioned by the Board of Ordnance in 1792 and delivered in 1795. In the nineteenth century, as the precision of engraving increased, the great threefooters were steadily replaced by smaller, more easily used, but equally precise theodolites. Mat t h ew H . Ed ney

Fig. 413. CHAINS AND RELATED MEASURING DEVICES. Detail showing a measuring rope and picket (labeled A and B), a toise measuring stick (C), and a chain (E). From Bion 1709, pl. XI, opp. 128. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

See also: Geodetic Surveying: (1) Enlightenment, (2) Great Britain B i bliogra p hy Chapman, Allan. 1995. Dividing the Circle: The Development of Critical Angular Measurement in Astronomy, 1500-1850. 2d ed. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. Daumas, Maurice. 1972. Scientific Instruments of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries and Their Makers. Trans. and ed. Mary Holbrook. London: Batsford. Insley, Jane. 2008. “The Tale of the Great Theodolites.” FIG Working Week Proceedings, Stockholm, 14–16 June. Online publication. McConnell, Anita. 2007. Jesse Ramsden (1735–1800): London’s Leading Scientific Instrument Maker. Aldershot: Ashgate. Roy, William. 1790. “An Account of the Trigonometrical Operation, Whereby the Distance between the Meridians of the Royal Observatories of Greenwich and Paris Has Been Determined.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London 80:111–270. Widmalm, Sven. 1990. “Accuracy, Rhetoric, and Technology: The Paris-Greenwich Triangulation, 1784–88.” In The Quantifying Spirit in the 18th Century, ed. Tore Frängsmyr, J. L. Heilbron, and Robin E. Rider, 179–206. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Instruments for Distance Measuring. Ch ai n P e ram b u l ator L e ve l

Chain. Since antiquity, surveyors have measured the dimensions of portions of land with ropes and cords or with wooden staffs or rods (fig. 413). Their ropes were generally 15–30 meters in length, the rods—or poles, perches in French—much shorter at 3–5 meters. Rods became so common in medieval Europe that they lent their name to the common linear measure for land. The length of the physical rods, and so the length of the measure, was regulated within each community and accordingly varied widely. Although attempts were made as early as the thirteenth century to establish standard lengths for the rod by statute, local practices proved resilient. But in the early modern period, landowners, lawyers, and state officials variously promoted the use of statute measures through the use of a new tool: the measuring chain (fig. 414). Each chain comprised a series of

Fig. 414. SURVEYORS MEASURING A FIELD WITH A CHAIN. From Tobias Mayer, Mathematische Atlas, in welchern auf 60 Tabellen alle Theile der Mathematie vorgestellet (Augsburg: Johann Andreas Pfeffel, [1745]), frontispiece. In this detail note the use of stakes (also known as arrows or pickets) set up in a straight line to guide the chain. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OS-1745-5).

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Fig. 415. EXEMPLAR FIELDBOOK FOR CHAIN SURVEYING. From Samuel Wyld, The Practical Surveyor, or, The Art of Land-Measuring, Made Easy (London: Printed for J. Hooke . . . and J. Sisson, 1725), 94–95. “Observations and Dimensions of Land lying in the Parish of W——, in the County of L—— Part of the Estate of ——— 31st of March, 1724.” In the center column, the surveyor recorded the bear-

ings between each station Θ (representing a dot in a circle), the chained distances along the line from one station to the next; in the inner columns, the lengths of the offsets are recorded to the features described in the outer columns. Size of the original: ca. 20 × 21 cm. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh.

metal links of consistent length and were subject to less stretching than ropes. Eventually, the widespread adoption of physical chains led to the establishment of the new measures of “chain” and “link.” The use of chains for measuring land apparently began in the Netherlands. A request made to the Hof van Holland in 1557 mentioned that Simon Berthelmeesz. used a reax (chain) to measure land in Noord-Holland in 1534 or 1535. In a border dispute between Holland

and Utrecht in 1539, surveyors had used a lantmetersketten van vijf roeden Hollantsche mate, that is, a land surveyor’s chain of five Dutch roeden in length. Johannes Sems and Jan Pietersz. Dou described a surveyor’s chain in Practijck des lantmetens (1600), noting that it would be either five or ten roeden in length, and each of its links would measure half a foot (Pouls 1997, 123). In England, Cyprian Lucar mentioned “wyerlines”

Instruments for Distance Measuring

(wire lines) that measured two, three, or four rods in length and noted that they could be had from several dealers in London; his illustration of such a wyerline shows that is indeed a chain (Lucar 1590, 10, fig. between 2-3). Aaron Rathborne described a chain that was two English statute rods (33 ft. or 10.06 m) in length, divided into twenty equal “primes” (ten per rod), each prime into ten “seconds” (Rathborne 1616, 131–33). Edmund Gunter, professor of astronomy at Gresham College, London, suggested the use of a chain of four English statute rods (66 ft. or 20.12 m) comprising one hundred links because ten such chains make a furlong and ten square chains make a statute acre; surveyors only needed to know decimal arithmetic to calculate areas directly from their measurements (Gunter 1623, 37 [2d  pagination]). While the more complex notation required of Rathborne’s two-tier division made it unsuitable in this regard, it was still in use in the later seventeenth century (e.g., Blome 1686, 60). But by 1700, it would seem that all land in Britain was being measured by Gunter’s chains, or at least by more manageable fifty-link chains two rods in length. Conversely, engineers commonly used a longer chain of one hundred feet (30.5 m). It is therefore important to distinguish between the physical chain and the abstract unit of length. In France, Nicolas Bion (1709, 116) recorded that chaînes were generally one perche in length, each link being one pied (foot) long. The problem was that there was no standard length for the perche, varying as it did from eighteen to twenty-two pieds according to region. In southern Italy and Sicily, both urban architects and rural land assessors adopted chains of various lengths and subdivisions, from the four-perche (8.259 m) catena in Palermo to the Neapolitan catena of ten paces (18.457 m) (Zupko 1981, 88–99). Overall, outside of Britain, the length of the perche, and so the chain, was not rationalized until the introduction of the metric system after 1800. When undertaking a detailed survey with a chain, the surveyor would measure both distances along the main lines and perpendicular “offsets” to distant features. The process is evident from the surveyor’s fieldbook (fig. 415). To ensure that the offset was indeed perpendicular, surveyors could use either a cross—simply two fixed sights set at right angles—mounted on a pole (as with a squadro; see fig. 678) or the fixed sights of a surveyor’s (or Holland) circle (see fig. 405). It was well known throughout the eighteenth century that chains inevitably stretched through use. The links wore as they rubbed together, becoming thinner, so that the overall chain grew longer. Few people seem to have worried about this source of error, probably because it was much less than the errors caused by simply laying

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the chain directly on uneven ground, and certainly less than the errors caused by the stretching of ropes. But geodesists were concerned and so used wooden rods for the precise measurement of their baselines. Jean Picard, for instance, used four pike staves, each two toises long, that were joined together with screws (Picard 1671, 3). William Roy (1785), however, found in the measurement of a baseline for the Greenwich-Paris triangulation, that changes in humidity made wooden rods shrink and expand uncontrollably. After experimenting with glass rods, Roy finally settled on Jesse Ramsden’s brand new chain, carefully laid out in coffers and with a sophisticated mechanism to pull it straight. D ebo rah Jean W arner See also: Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying Bibliography Bion, Nicolas. 1709. Traité de la construction et des principaux usages des instrumens de mathematique. Paris: Chez la Veuve de Jean Boudot, Jacques Collombat, et Jean Boudot fils. Blome, Richard. 1686. The Gentlemans Recreation, in Two Parts: The First Being an Encyclopedy of the Arts and Sciences . . . The Second Part Treats of Horsmanship, Hawking, Hunting, Fowling, Fishing, and Agriculture with a Short Treatise of Cock-Fighting. London: Printed by S. Rotcroft for Richard Blome. Gunter, Edmund. 1623. De sectore & radio. London: Printed by William Iones. Lucar, Cyprian. 1590. A Treatise Named Lvcarsolace. London: Richard Field for Ion Harrison. Picard, Jean. 1671. Mesure de la Terre. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Pouls, H. C. 1997. De landmeter: Inleiding in de geschiedenis van de Nederlandse landmeetkunde van de Romeinse tot de Franse tijd. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto/Repro-Holland. Rathborne, Aaron. 1616. The Svrveyor in Foure Bookes. London: Printed by W. Stansby for W. Burre. Roy, William. 1785. “An Account of the Measurement of a Base on Hounslow-Heath.” Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London 75:385–480. Zupko, Ronald Edward. 1981. Italian Weights and Measures from the Middle Ages to the Nineteenth Century. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society.

Perambulator. The perambulator—a wheel equipped with a mechanical counter to record directly the distance traveled—was widely adopted in the eighteenth century for the quick and efficient measurement of long distances. Perambulators were used, together with a compass for bearings, to survey roads and rivers for itineraries and route maps. Multiple route surveys provided the basis for regional surveys, such as those by James Rennell in Bengal in 1765–77. Perambulators were not intended for precise work: they measured not only distances up and down hills but also the horizontal movements of surveyors as they sought to negotiate the holes and mud of sprawling, unpaved roads; in compiling the routes into larger maps, geographers corrected for the resultant overmeasurement by arbitrarily reducing the distances by 10–15 percent (Edney 1997, 92–96, 100–102).

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Terminology can be confusing. In addition to “perambulator” or “surveyor’s wheel” (roue d’arpenteur in Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie, 1751–72), the name of the counter was often applied to the whole instrument: whether “odometer” (odomètre was apparently the primary French label, although perambulateur can be found) or waywiser (an odometer applied to a carriage wheel). Some contemporaries also used “pedometer” (pédomètre or compte pas) for both odometers and perambulators, although properly speaking they are devices to count paces. The later Renaissance practice of applying odometers to carriage wheels—multiplying a wheel’s circumference by the number of its revolutions gave the distance traveled (Lindgren 2007, 490)—continued after 1650. In the 1720s, for example, Adam Friedrich Zürner in Saxony and Henry Beighton in Warwickshire both fixed odometers to carriages to measure road distances but, as Zürner’s own depiction of this carriage suggests, such contrivances were limited to roads and good weather (see fig. 954). Surveyors could use chains for terrain that would bog down a carriage, but chains were simply too

Instruments for Distance Measuring

laborious to use over long distances. The solution, perhaps developed independently across Europe, was to attach an odometer to a single wheel that might be easily handled and guided by a surveyor (Costa 2002, 222). John Ogilby thus extolled the accuracy and ease of use of the perambulator for road surveys in the preface to his Britannia (1675). The physical form of perambulators did vary. English perambulators typically featured a single stock attached to a small wooden wheel with a circumference of just half a pole or rod (8.25 ft., 2.5 m) (fig. 416). Other perambulators were larger: that depicted by Zürner had a wheel of about twice the circumference of the English standard; Beighton disparaged the small wheel used by Ogilby and advocated a wheel of a bit more than thirteen feet (3.96 m) circumference, as depicted on his 1728 map of Warwickshire (Costa 2002, 223–24) (see fig. 834). These more unwieldy perambulators were pushed like wheelbarrows. Still larger wheels seem to have been used in British India, held by handles that extended directly from the axle (Aris 1982, 67). D ebo r ah Jean W arner See also: Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying Bibliography Aris, Michael. 1982. Views of Medieval Bhutan: The Diary and Drawings of Samuel Davis, 1783. London: Serindia. Costa, Shelley. 2002. “Marketing Mathematics in Early EighteenthCentury England: Henry Beighton, Certainty, and the Public Sphere.” History of Science 40:211–32. Edney, Matthew H. 1997. Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765–1843. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lindgren, Uta. 2007. “Land Surveys, Instruments, and Practitioners in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:477–508.

Fig. 416. A TYPICAL ENGLISH PERAMBULATOR WITH A SINGLE STOCK, CIRCUMFERENCE OF 8.25 FEET. Two silvered brass dials record distances in increments of furlongs and poles on one and miles on the other. It was made in London by Thomas Heath and Tycho Wing sometime between 1751 and 1773. Circumference of the wheel: 8.25 feet (0.5 pole). Image courtesy of the Graphic Arts Collection, National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. (PH*318294).

Level. A level is an instrument that determines a horizontal line, that is, a line along which the force of gravity is constant. Levels had been used since antiquity by masons and architects and by engineers building waterworks; when used with vertical, graduated measuring staffs, levels could also be used to measure differences in height. The horizontal line can be determined by one of two means: either a plumb bob is used to define the vertical, perpendicular to the horizontal, or the surface of a liquid defines the horizontal directly. Both techniques were employed during the Enlightenment (fig. 417). Renaissance engineers used water levels featuring long water-filled troughs derived from the chorobates described by Vitruvius in his De architectura (first century b.c.) (Kiely 1947, 129–34), but these were little used after 1650. In 1684, Jean Picard described a balance level, in which a combination of telescope and plumb bob was hung from a stable frame, that he had used in laying out the water supply for Versailles. Christiaan Huygens and

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London, Jonathan Sisson made an improved instrument, depicted on the frontispiece to Samuel Wyld’s The Practical Surveyor (1725); a screw allowed the user to tilt the telescope until the spirit level indicated that it lay in the horizontal. In 1731, Thomas Heath advertised a double level with two telescopes, enabling the surveyor to sight both forward and backward without having to move and reset the instrument. Sisson responded, in 1734, with a Y level, in which a single telescope was placed in two Y-shaped supports; the telescope could thus be easily reversed without disturbing the instrument’s overall adjustment. Refined by Georg Friedrich Brander in Augsburg and Jesse Ramsden in London, Sisson’s new design proved enduring and would be used well into the nineteenth century (Bennett 1987, 151–52; Wess 1998). D ebo rah Jean W arner

Fig. 417. DIAGRAMS OF DIVERSE LEVELS. Detail from Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, eds., Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols. (Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand, 1751–72), Recueil de planches, sur les sciences, les arts libéraux, et les arts méchaniques, avec leur explication, plate vol. 5 (fourth installment) (1767), “Arpentage & Nivellement,” pl. 1. Of particular interest are: some simple plumb levels (niveaux simples), the A-frame being an ancient design (fig. 6, middle right); Huygens’s balance level (fig. 7, no.  2, middle center); two telescopic spirit levels (niveaux d’air), both simple (fig. 4, top left) and double (fig. 5, top left); and a simple diagram indicating how to use a level to observe in both directions to measure difference of height (nivellement; fig. 10, bottom right) (see also fig. 352). Size of the entire original: 35.0 × 21.3 cm; size of detail: ca. 25.5  ×  21.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin– Madison.

Ole Rømer described similar instruments at about the same time (Kiely 1947, 141–42, fig. 73; Daumas 1972, 55–56, pl. 38). Such instruments were simplified with the replacement of the plumb bob by a spirit level—a bubble of air trapped in a vial of liquid. Melchisédech Thévenot had described a spirit level in 1661 (Wess 1998, 352), and William Leybourn, in his The Compleat Surveyor (3d ed., 1674), mentioned having seen a telescopic level with a spirit level “contrived by Mr. R. Shotgrave” (Kiely 1947, 134). Once the sealing of the spirit bubble had been perfected, the telescopic spirit level became common. In

See also: Height Measurement: Leveling; Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying: Enlightenment Bibliography Bennett, J. A. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon, Christie’s. Daumas, Maurice. 1972. Scientific Instruments of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries and Their Makers. Trans. and ed. Mary Holbrook. London: Batsford. Kiely, Edmond R. 1947. Surveying Instruments: Their History and Classroom Use. New York: Bureau of Publications, Teachers College, Columbia University. Wess, Jane. 1998. “Level.” In Instruments of Science: An Historical Encyclopedia, ed. Robert Bud and Deborah Jean Warner, 351–53. New York: Science Museum, London, and the National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution, in association with Garland Publishing.

Ireland. See Great Britain Irish Plantation Surveys. The normal method of dealing with the various rebellions that afflicted sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Ireland was to confiscate land from actual or potential rebels and redistribute it among new proprietors loyal to the English government, usually with the purpose of encouraging colonization or “plantation” by British immigrants. Inventories of landed property formed an essential part of such transactions, and it eventually became usual for these to include the taking of measurements and the drawing of large-scale maps. This was a process much facilitated by a nationwide mesh of ancient and irregularly shaped territorial divisions later known as townlands, smaller than a village or township in the English sense and larger than a single family farm. In most Irish plantation schemes, the land was forfeited in blocks large enough to be definable as one or more complete townland. The first cartographic plantation surveys as defined above were made in the province of Munster between 1586 and 1589, using a “wire line” for distances and

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Fig. 418. DOWN SURVEY PARISH MAP AND TERRIER. “The Parish of Kilbegg in the Barony of Kells by John Simons 1655. An Exact Copy by Danl. Obrien 1786.” This survey showed the boundaries and acreages of each block of land confiscated under the Cromwellian settlement together with the main natural and artificial features that were expected to influence its economic value or strategic significance. Land-

owners’ names, acreages, property values, and sometimes further topographical information were given in written terriers accompanying the maps. Size of the original: 23 × 28 cm (map); 23.5 × 28.2 cm (terrier). Image courtesy of the National Library of Ireland, Dublin (MS 715).

an unspecified “instrument” for angles (Andrews 1985, 34). They were not completely successful, largely owing to shortage of expert manpower, and for the next major confiscation scheme, in six counties of Ulster (1609–10), the maps were sketched from written lists of townlands and their “abutments,” with estimated acreage figures that usually fell far short of the truth. A belated awareness of these deficiencies encouraged the adoption of more exact methods for a new series of plantation surveys, first in County Wexford (1611–17) and later in Counties Longford, Leitrim, and various parts of King’s County, Queen’s County, Tipperary, and Westmeath (1615–18). It was during this decade that the surveyor’s chain makes its earliest appearance in the Irish documentary record. In 1636–40, the earl of Strafford initiated an ambitious scheme for confiscating and mapping lands in the province of Connaught and adjoining areas. An early account of the Strafford Survey includes the phrase “surrounds made by the instrument” (Andrews 1985, 60). This is the first explicit evidence that the confiscated lands of seventeenth-century Ireland were measured by running a polygonal closed traverse around the townland boundaries. The plantation surveys raise interesting questions of historical continuity. Ireland possessed an official surveyor general throughout the period of the surveys, but in practice this functionary had little to do with cartographic technicalities in either field or office. When ex-

tensive new surveys were necessary, they were directed by military engineers or academic scholars working on short-term contracts. Nor were the resulting maps preserved in any national repository. Many were lost, some at quite an early stage. The one authenticated common denominator between the earliest and the later surveys was the map scale of forty perches to an inch, first chosen in Elizabethan Munster and still in use (with a different perch) among Strafford’s cartographers after half a century. Strafford’s was also the first plantation admeasurement known to have a demonstrable influence on the famous parish-based Down Survey of 1655–59, which embraced nearly half the surface of the country and provides the earliest known Irish reference to the circumferentor or surveying compass. The StraffordDown tradition was to resurface in the official surveys conducted by the Trustees for the sale of forfeited estates between 1700 and 1703. Both Down and Trustees maps were rather sparsely furnished, showing townland names, acreages, and boundaries, together with the divide between profitable and unprofitable lands, but not usually recording roads, fields, or any but the largest and most valuable buildings (fig. 418). They all included scales and north points but made no reference to latitude or longitude or to any general system of triangulation. In personnel, techniques, and cartographic style the plantation surveys did much to influence private estate mapping in Ireland throughout the eighteenth century. They would have remained almost unknown to later

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map historians, however, but for the involvement in one of them of an original genius and polymath, Dr. William Petty. Much of Petty’s achievement concerned the organization, staffing, and finance of the Down Survey. Cartographically, his importance lies in reforming the map of Ireland. Most of the earlier plantation surveys had been accompanied by small-scale regional index diagrams. Petty went further by having his surveyors measure the boundaries of 216 administrative divisions known as baronies (both forfeited and unforfeited) accurately enough to provide an adequate control network for a new and recognizably modern outline of the whole country. His national, provincial, and county maps were finally published by Petty himself in 1685, remaining the principal source for other small-scale maps of Ireland until the arrival of the Ordnance Survey in 1824. J . H . And rews See also: Administrative Cartography: Great Britain; Property Mapping: Great Britain; Statistics and Cartography B i bliogra p hy Andrews, J. H. 1974. “The Maps of the Escheated Counties of Ulster, 1609–10.” Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 74, sec. C, 133–70. ———. 1985. Plantation Acres: An Historical Study of the Irish Land Surveyor and His Maps. Belfast: Ulster Historical Foundation. Goblet, Y. M. 1930. La transformation de la géographie politique de l’Irlande au XVIIe siècle dans les cartes et essais anthropogéographiques de Sir William Petty. 2 vols. Paris. Hardinge, W. H. 1861–64. “On Manuscript Mapped Townland Surveys in Ireland of a Public Character, from Their Introduction to 23rd October, 1641.” Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 8:39–55. Petty, William. 1851. The History of the Survey of Ireland, Commonly Called the Down Survey . . . A.D. 1655–6. Ed. Thomas Aiskew Larcom. Dublin: For the Irish Archæological Society.

Isobath. See Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Isobath Isoline. The English definition of “isoline” is usefully given as: “A line along which values are, or are assumed to be, constant.” Isoline may be considered a popular name for the more technical term “isarithm,” derived from the Greek isos meaning equal and arithmos meaning number. An isarithm is defined as “a line which represents a constant value obtained from measurement at a series of points” (Neumann 1997, 184). (Note: isoline is a quantitative measure and is not appropriately used for qualitative attributes.) The isoline technique developed independently along two paths, both of which began in the sixteenth century (Wallis and Robinson 1987, 220–21). The utility of both paths received widespread acceptance and were put into regular use during the eighteenth century. One line of development was that of the inferential technique of the isobath. After Philippe Buache’s work on isobaths was published (illustrated by a map; see

fig. 133) in the memoires of the Académie royale des sciences for 1752 (published in 1756), attention to the isobath greatly increased and its use for seas, coastlines, estuaries, and river bottoms expanded rapidly. Another somewhat later use of this technique for describing heights rather than depths was to portray the topography of the land surface by means of contours. One could speculate that the problems of navigating the land surface were not as great and were different from sea navigation especially in critical coastal and port areas, and therefore contours were not as valuable information as isobaths for chart users. The other often cited reason for the time lag was the lack of collected data about elevations that could be used to create a meaningful contour map of the land surface (Wallis and Robinson 1987, 222). Some French engineers used isolines in a limited way on terrestrial maps following the manuscript memoir of Louis Milet de Mureau (1749) and teaching in the École du Génie de Mézières (1764) (Dainville 1958, 202–5). In 1782 Jean-Louis Dupain-Triel père published a diagram by Marc Bonifas, dit Du Carla, illustrating the theoretical concept of the contour as a method for showing the configuration of the land surface (fig. 419). The method was very well received, but the use of it was not widespread until just before the nineteenth century, when Jean-Louis Dupain-Triel fils published, in 1798–99, a map that tinted each layer between the isolines, an effect achieved through the use of aquatint (Robinson 1982, 213). This technique greatly enhanced the readability of isoline maps. The second path of development of the concept of isolines arose from the mapping of lines of equal magnetic declination. By the early part of the sixteenth century, the variation between compass readings and true north-south lines was well known but still unexplainable. It became clear that if magnetic declination were systematic, then this information would be of value to navigators. Since magnetic declination, disregarding local anomalies, is systematic though not static, this potential aid to navigation became even more valuable for the numerous crossings of the large expanse of the Atlantic Ocean that began with the sixteenth century. The first map of the variation of magnetic declination is attributed to the Spaniard Alonso de Santa Cruz in 1536 (Robinson 1982, 84), and much attention to observing magnetic declination took place during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The concept caught the imagination of scientists after Edmond Halley published a map of the magnetic declination of the Atlantic Ocean in 1701 (see fig. 348). Halley popularized the maps of “curve lines,” his term for isogones. The greater number of curve line maps brought about by their utility led to an expanded study of geomagnetism throughout the eighteenth century. More voyages to obtain observa-

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tions for the production of maps led to a world map of magnetic inclination in 1768 by Johan Carl Wilcke of Stockholm (Robinson 1982, 86) (fig. 420). The increased attention to scientific measurement and the capabilities of sharing this information, characteristics of the Enlightenment, are thus visible in both lines of development of the isoline. From the publication of Halley’s map in 1701 and Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius’s map of the Merwede River in 1729–30 (see figs. 33 and 801), both forms of isolines developed into regularly used cartographic techniques by the nineteenth century.

Only after they were widely accepted was research directed toward their theoretical foundations; credit for recognizing the similarity between the two lines of development is given to Léon Lalanne in 1845 (Robinson 1982, 216–17). During the intervening period and since, literally hundreds of specialized terms such as “isobar,” “isotherm,” and “isohyet” have been defined (Gulley and Sinnhuber 1961), particularly in the fields of meteorology and climatology. The term “isoline” postdates the use of the technique by many years.

Fig. 419. MAP SHOWING DU CARLA’S PROPOSED METHOD FOR TERRAIN DEPICTION USING ISOLINE CONTOURS. The Méthode nouvelle pour exprimer rigoureusement sur les cartes terrestres et marines les hauteurs et les configurations du terrain was tipped into Expression des nivellemens, ou Méthode nouvelle pour marquer rigoureuse-

ment sur les cartes terrestres & marines les hauteurs & les configurations du terrein . . . publiée par M. Dupain-Triel pere (Paris: L. Cellot, 1782). Size of the original: 54 × 71 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

J o el L. M orrison

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Fig. 420. JOHAN CARL WILCKE’S WORLD MAP OF INCLINATION, 1768. Försök til en magnetisk inclinations charta, 1:70,000,000, from Wilcke’s “Försök til en magnetisk incinations-charta,” Kongl. Vetenskaps Academiens Handlingar 29 (1768): 193–225, Tab. VI.

Size of the original: 33 × 45 cm. Image courtesy of Ann-Sofie Persson/Kungliga biblioteket, Stockholm.

See also: Eclipse Map, Solar; Heights and Depths, Mapping of: (1) Relief Depiction, (2) Isobath; Thematic Mapping B i bliogra p hy Buache, Philippe. 1756. “Essai de géographie physique, où l’on propose des vûes générales sur l’espèce de charpente du globe, composée des chaînes de montagnes qui traversent les mers comme les terres; avec quelques considérations particulières sur les différens bassins de la mer, & sur sa configuration intérieure.” Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1752: 399–416. Dainville, François de. 1958. “De la profondeur à l’altitude: Des origines marines de l’expression cartographique du relief terrestre par cotes et courbes de niveau.” In Le navire et l’économie maritime du Moyen-Age au XVIIIe siècle principalement en Méditerranée, ed. Michel Mollat, 195–213. Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N. Trans. Arthur H. Robinson, “From the Depths to the Heights,” Surveying and Mapping 30 (1979): 389–403. Gulley, J. L. M., and K. A. Sinnhuber. 1961. “Isokartographie: Eine terminologische Studie.” Kartographische Nachrichten 11:89–99. Neumann, Joachim. 1997. Enzyklopädisches Wörterbuch Kartographie in 25 Sprachen. 2d ed. Munich: KG Saur.

Robinson, Arthur H. 1982. Early Thematic Mapping in the History of Cartography. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wallis, Helen, and Arthur H. Robinson, eds. 1987. Cartographical Innovations: An International Handbook of Mapping Terms to 1900. Tring: Map Collector Publications in association with the International Cartographic Association.

Italian States. Signed in 1659 at the end of the Thirty Years’ War, the Franco-Spanish “Peace of the Pyrenees” determined the new political structure of Italy. Most of the old states and dominions established by the 1559 Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis were maintained, but there was a marked increase in Spanish control over the peninsula as a whole, with explicit Spanish hegemony being exercised over the Kingdom of Naples, the Kingdom of Sicily, Sardinia, and the State of Milan. As for the Papal States, their power in the north was extended with the

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annexation of the Duchy of Ferrara; the situation of the duchies of Parma and Modena and the two republics of Lucca and Genoa remained unchanged. Even further north, the Duchy of Savoy annexed the Marquisate of Saluzzo, while the fiefdom of Pinerolo was ceded to France. This geopolitical framework underwent small but significant changes by the terms of the 1748 Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, which marked the end of the War of the Austrian Succession, itself the culmination of three long European conflicts: the Great Northern War (1700–1721), the War of the Spanish Succession (1701– 14), and the War of the Polish Succession (1733–38). The Italian states sanctioned by this treaty remained in existence until the changes brought about by the Napoleonic Wars in the last decade of the eighteenth century. The major innovations sanctioned by the 1748 treaty were these: the independence of Naples and Sicily, which since 1734 had been united as the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies under the Bourbon monarch Carlo VII of Naples (Carlos III of Spain); the transfer of the State of Milan to Habsburg rule, which had initially taken place in 1706 and was then ratified by the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713; the recognition of Austrian influence over the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, which, due to the absence of a successor within the ruling dynasty, had in 1737 passed to Francesco Stefano, duke of Lorraine (later Francis I) and husband to Austrian empress Maria Theresa; and the extension of the Duchy of Savoy, which became the Kingdom of Sardinia and gained territory both on its French and Italian flanks (its territories extended as far as the River Ticino and also included the island of Sardinia, for which it had exchanged the island of Sicily, which was under Savoy rule from 1713 to 1721). Despite small modifications of boundaries, certain changes in ruling houses, and, most significantly of all, constant economic and demographic growth in the capitals of individual states, overall stability prevailed from the mid-sixteenth century to the close of the eighteenth century. This situation led to the concentration of printing and publishing (hence cartographic) activities in a few centers of production. The high level of conflict between the Italian states themselves, plus the division of territory into the fiefdoms and estates of a few families, inevitably generated a large number of manuscript maps that not only defined landed property and boundaries but also served the various administrative ends of individual states and landowning families. When one considers who commissioned cartographic work and to what purpose, the division falls, broadly speaking, between manuscript cartography intended for political and administrative use and printed cartography serving more commercial or cultural purposes. Italian archives, not only in the major cities (Turin,

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Milan, Venice, Modena, Parma, Genoa, Florence, Rome, and Naples) but also in almost all the communities that exerted some sort of territorial power, are particularly rich in the manuscript cartography created to meet the needs of the small but often complex machinery of state or local government. Commissioned chiefly by the old agents of state power (i.e., the large landowning families and the authorities responsible for the Church’s landed properties), maps and cabrei produced at the beginning of this period still used cartographic techniques and symbols found in seventeenth-century or even late sixteenthcentury work. Within these local contexts, modernization of the techniques and instruments of cartography came about slowly. The main concern was that the map be easy to read, hence the mapmaker frequently resorted to multiple systems of representation within the map itself, with the elevation of buildings shown flat against the surface of the drawing and perspective or axonometric renderings of small urban centers (and sometimes individual buildings). The authorities responsible for charting territory (boundaries, waterways, woodlands, roads) often trained their own draftsmen and surveyors, who then passed on this acquired heritage of techniques to their pupils. It was only with the gradual establishment of geometrically based cadastres from the first quarter of the eighteenth century onward that the advent of techniques for precision surveying and detailed graphic rendition becomes apparent. These techniques not only changed cartography but also the very way in which the relation between the state and its subjects was envisaged, with the latter now seen as citizens and taxpayers. The subject of cadastres emerged as one of the great topics of debate in all Italian states during the eighteenth century, with illustrious economists, philosophers, and administrators all contributing to the discussion. In this way the Milanese censimento (Catasto Teresiano), ordered in 1718 by Charles VI of Austria, marks a turning point in topographical techniques and the methods used to survey open land and urban space. Charged with the task of supervising the work on the Milanese cadastre and training the personnel involved, the Habsburg court mathematician, Johann Jakob Marinoni, created a corps of surveyors to His Imperial Majesty as well as perfecting the design of the plane table, which soon became the main instrument used in land surveying. Marinoni’s “school” provided the training for some of the most important Italian cartographers of the eighteenth century, whose work spread a new expeditious method of draftsmanship. The survey of the city of Milan, carried out by the Venetian land surveyor Giovanni Filippini in 1720–22 and published as an engraving in 1734, was the first cadastral map of an Italian city, based on new principles of observation and

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measurement that could be repeated and checked. This effort was followed by Giovanni Battista Nolli’s large map of Rome (1748; see fig. 609) and the map of Naples devised by Giovanni Carafa, duca di Noja, in 1750 and completed in 1775 (see fig. 880). Though these latter works were not strictly cadastral maps, they were produced by men who had trained on the Milan cadastre. Another Milan surveyor, Andrea Chiesa, produced the twenty-sheet Carta del Bolognese (engraved in 1740–42), based on land surveying campaigns from 1732 to 1738 during which he used the plane table (Venturi 1992) (see fig. 843). One of Chiesa’s pupils, Antonio Francesco Vandì, surveyed, drew, and engraved the first observed and measured map of the city of L’Aquila in 1753. In 1739–40, the Kingdom of Sardinia also undertook work on cadastral surveys, with similar projects following in Tuscany and the Duchy of Parma. The manuscript maps in archives also include military cartography. Rarely translated into print, these maps were produced by the corps of engineer-geographers instituted during the course of the eighteenth century in various Italian states. The military engineer corps in Genoa was set up between 1710 and 1717, while that in the Kingdom of Sardinia, dating from 1738, formed the core of the nineteenth-century Ufficio Topografico in Turin. In Tuscany, the military engineer corps was established in 1739 and concerned itself almost exclusively with fortifications. The military engineer corps in the Duchy of Parma was established in 1760. With the advent of the Bourbon monarch Carlo VII, a corps of (primarily Spanish) military engineers was established in the Kingdom of Naples, whose primary task was the repair and maintenance of the kingdom’s forts and fortifications. Italian archives possess vast collections of maps produced by states or administrative bodies to serve political, military, or commercial ends. Examination of this material, which began in earnest in the 1980s, has already generated a number of catalogs, monographs, and exhibitions, resulting in a considerable reassessment of historical studies concerning Italian map production. As for printed maps, the centers of production were the capital cities, especially Turin, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome, and Naples—cities that had a monopoly on the production and sale of maps and atlases. These capitals also saw the first printed images of territory produced by local designers. For example, the Carta generale de stati di sva altezza reale (ca. 1:190,000; 1680) by the state engineer Giovanni Tommaso Borgonio was based on extant official maps of Piedmont combined with partial surveys of territory (see fig. 108). In 1692 in Naples, the first regional atlas of the kingdom, Accuratissima, e nuova delineazione del Regno di Napoli, was published (fig.  421) and appeared in two

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later editions, 1734 and 1794. Although a sizeable number of manuscript maps related to Venetian territory, the republic never assembled an overall regional map. However, the brothers Francesco Santini and Paolo Santini published numerous partial maps of the state in their Atlas universel (1776–80), as did Antonio Zatta in his Atlante novissimo (1779–85). Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni proposed mapping the entire Veneto in 1777, a project that came to nothing; however, he did carry out the surveys for and oversaw the engraving of the map of the environs of Padua (1779–81), the first geodetically based map at a topographical scale produced in Italy (fig. 422). In Milan, despite the strong interest from the Austrian court, the creation of a printed map of the city’s entire territory was lacking. Only in the last decade of the eighteenth century did the astronomers of the Brera Observatory, headed by Barnaba Oriani, use a large portion of the material from the cadastre to begin work on a map of Lombardy (ca. 1:86,400), of which only eight sheets under the title Carta topografica del Milanese e Mantovano eseguita dietro le più esatte dimensioni geografiche ed osservazioni astronomiche had been engraved by the time of the French invasion (see figs. 269 and 306). In 1798 the map was taken over by the Bureau topographique de l’armée d’Italie (the core of what subsequently became Milan’s Deposito Generale della Guerra del Regno d’Italia); however, work on the project did not begin again until the following century. Tuscany was among the few Italian states that had not established a proper cartographic institution until the Uffizio Topografico Militare in 1848. However, the accession of the house of Habsburg-Lorraine in Tuscany encouraged a growing jurisdictional reform movement, and the Habsburg regent, Emmanuel, comte de Richecourt, ordered a map of the territory to be prepared by Ferdinando Morozzi, a civil engineer who later served in one of the administrative offices of Grand Duke Pietro Leopoldo di Lorena (Leopold II). Over many years, Morozzi supervised the on-site surveying and compilation of the “Carta geografica del Granducato di Toscana” in twenty-four sheets, presented to the grand duke in 1784, a year before Morozzi’s death. Lacking financial support, the map was prepared without any geodetic or astronomical observations and never printed except in small local extracts (Morozzi 1993). The Papal States were the location of one of Italy’s first major geodetic projects: the measurement of a large arc of meridian between Rome and Rimini by Jesuits Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich and Christopher Maire. That project was, in fact, linked with a survey of the entirety of the Papal States for the production of a threesheet map, Nuova carta geografica dello Stato Ecclesiastico (1755, ca. 1:375,000; see fig. 90), the first regional

Fig. 421. NUOVA ET ESATTISSIMA DESCRIZIONE DEL REGNO DI NAPOLI COLLE SVE XII PROVINCIE, 1692. From Antonio Bulifon, Accuratissima, e nuova delineazione del Regno di Napoli, con le sue provincie distinte (Naples: A. Bulifon, 1692). A page from the first edition of the first re-

gional atlas of the Kingdom of Naples. Engraved by Francesco Cassiano de Silva. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items 661.k.1).

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Fig. 422. GIOVANNI ANTONIO RIZZI ZANNONI, LA GRAN CARTA DEL PADOVANO, 1780. Sheet three of the four published sheets (twelve were planned) of the map of the environs of Padua based on the survey by Rizzi Zannoni,

prepared with triangulation and astronomical coordinates (ca. 1:20,000). Size of the original: 47.7 × 64.3 cm. Image courtesy of Vladimiro Valerio. Private collection.

map based on astronomical and geodetic observations in the Italian states. The eighteenth century witnessed the foundation of Italy’s first national geographical (or topographical) institutions, whose legacy was particularly important for nineteenth-century Italian cartography. Turin and Naples were the first two capitals to set up agencies specifically designed to produce official cartographic depictions of the state; both, however, were established at different times and followed different procedures. First was the Ufficio di Topografia Reale of Piedmont, an important primary locus for the development of geographical knowledge. Although the actual date of its foundation is uncertain, it is likely that the first appointments of engineer-topographers in 1738 were early steps toward the establishment of the Ufficio, which became properly

functional after the military campaigns of the 1740s. One of its first major projects was the preparation of maps of woodlands, carried out between 1752 and 1764 and involving some twenty-eight cartographers, including Antoine Durieu, one of the most important topographers in eighteenth-century Piedmont (Comba and Sereno 2002, 2:103–9, nos. 61–66; Pallière 2000, 128–37; Imarisio 1988). In 1777, official regulations reformed the Ufficio and established an institutionalized staff structure, with the agency becoming responsible not only for topographical surveys but also for the provision of training within a sort of internal school. In Naples, the early core of a national topographical institute was founded in 1781, with the appointment of a Commissione per la Carta Geografica del Regno, under the scientific direction of Rizzi Zannoni

Fig. 423. GIOVANNI ANTONIO RIZZI ZANNONI, NUOVA CARTA DELL’ITALIA SETTENTRIONALE, 1799, CENTRAL SHEET. Responding to the needs encountered in the conflicts of the late eighteenth century, Rizzi Zannoni produced this five-sheet map of northern Italy in 1799.

Size of the original: 62.4 × 93.8 cm. Image courtesy of Vladimiro Valerio. Private collection.

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and administered by the economist Ferdinando Galiani. Initially set up as a temporary committee responsible for the revision of the map of the kingdom that had been engraved in Paris in 1769, in a few short years it became the state’s official cartographic agency, producing all the cartographic works required by the court: not only a topographical map of the kingdom, the Atlante geografico del Regno di Napoli (1788–1812), and its first coastal charts, in the Atlante marittimo delle Due Sicilie (1785–92), but also the regional and geographical maps required by Neapolitan forces engaged in fighting within the territories of Italy (i.e., maps of boundaries with the Papal States, surveyed in 1794, Nuova carta della Lombardia [1795] and Nuova carta dell’Italia settentrionale [1799]) (fig. 423). Primarily due to the needs arising from the Napoleonic Wars in Italy, the Commissione was quickly transformed into a cartographic workshop, which under a variety of titles enjoyed a checkered career that continued right up to the unification of Italy in the latter half of the nineteenth century. V l a dimiro Valerio See also: Academies of Science; Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying; Celestial Mapping; Geodetic Surveying; Geographical Mapping; Map Trade; Property Mapping; Thematic Mapping; Topographical Surveying; Urban Mapping B i bliogra p hy Angelini, Gregorio, ed. 1988. Il disegno del territorio: Istituzioni e cartografia in Basilicata, 1500–1800. Rome: Laterza. Bevilacqua, Mario. 1998. Roma nel secolo dei Lumi: Architettura erudizione scienza nella pianta di G. B. Nolli “celebre geometra.” Naples: Electa Napoli. Cantile, Andrea, ed. 2007. La cartografia in Italia: Nuovi metodi e nuovi strumenti dal Settecento ad oggi. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. ———. 2013. Lineamenti di storia della cartografia italiana. 2 vols. Rome: Geoweb. Cartografia e istituzioni in età moderna: Atti del Convegno, Genova, Imperia, Albenga, Savona, La Spezia, 3–8 novembre 1986–1987. 1987. 2 vols. Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria.

Comba, Rinaldo, and Paola Sereno, eds. 2002. Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo. 2 vols. Turin: Allemandi. D’Angiolini, Piero, et al., eds. 1981–94. Guida generale degli archivi di stato italiani. 4 vols. Rome: Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali, Ufficio Centrale per i Beni Archivistici. Ginori Lisci, Leonardo. 1978. Cabrei in Toscana: Raccolte di mappe, prospetti e vedute, sec. XVI–sec. XIX. Florence: Cassa di Risparmio. Imarisio, Caterina Simonetta. 1988. Confini politici e cartografia in Antoine Durieu (sec. XVIII). Turin: Biblioteca di “Studi Piemontesi,” Centro Studi Piemontesi. La Toscana dei Lorena nelle mappe dell’Archivio di Stato di Praga: Memorie ed immagini di un graducato, Catalogo e mostra documentaria, Firenze, 31 maggio–31 luglio 1991. 1991. Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali, Ufficio Centrale per i Beni Archivistici. Martullo Arpago, M. A., et al., eds. 1987. Fonti cartografiche nell’Archivio di Stato di Napoli. Naples: Ministero per i Beni Culturali e Ambientali, Ufficio Centrali per i Beni Archivistici, Archivio di Stato di Napoli. Miani Uluhogian, Franca. 1996. Oltre i confini: Strategie di genti e di poteri. Parma: PPS Editrice. Milanesi, Marica, ed. 1990. L’Europa delle carte: Dal XV al XIX secolo, autoritratti di un continente. Milan: Mazzotta. Mori, Attilio. 1922. La cartografia ufficiale in Italia e l’Istituto Geografico Militare. Rome: Stabilimento Poligrafico per l’Amministrazione della Guerra. Morozzi, Ferdinando. 1993. Carta geografica del Granducato di Toscana. Essay by Giuseppe Pansini, index by Matteo Barbarulo. Florence: Olschki. Orefice, Gabriella. 1988. Ferdinando Morozzi: Architetto e ingegnere toscano, 1723–1785. Florence: Alinea Editrice. Pallière, Johannès. 2000. De la Savoie au comté de Nice en 1760 (Les secrets de la nouvelle frontière). Montmélian: Fontaine de Siloé. Quaini, Massimo, ed. 1983. Pianta delle due riviere della Serenissima Repubblica di Genova divise ne’ Commissariati di Sanità, by Matteo Vinzoni. Genoa: Sagep. Rombai, Leonardo, ed. 1993. Imago et descriptio Tusciae: La Toscana nella geocartografia dal XV al XIX secolo. Venice: Marsilio. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. Società uomini e istituzioni cartografiche nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. ———, ed. 2007. Cartografi veneti: Mappe, uomini e istituzioni per l’immagine e il governo del territorio. Padua: Programma. Venturi, Sergio, ed. 1992. La carta della pianura bolognese di Andrea Chiesa, 1740–1742. Bologna: Grafis Edizioni.

J Jefferys, Thomas. Thomas Jefferys (1719–1771) was the most significant member of the British map trade of his time, as well as a figure of prime importance in the eighteenth-century mapping of North America. The chronology of Jefferys’s career has frequently been confused by the existence of two maps of London bearing his name and dated 1732 and 1735. The internal evidence of the maps makes them both certainly of later date, and it seems clear that they were originally issued by George Willdey, with the plates passing to Jefferys only after the death of George’s brother Thomas Willdey in 1748. Jefferys is now taken to be the Thomas Jeffryes (son of Henry) baptized in St. Martin’s in Birmingham (a church pictured on Jefferys’s map of Birmingham) on 10 July 1719. The family later moved to Clerkenwell in London, where his father, a cutler, died in 1731 (Worms 2004, 21). His recorded career began with his apprenticeship to the mapmaker Emanuel Bowen on 3 December 1735. In Bowen’s workshop, Jefferys joined a well-known contemporary, Thomas Kitchin, apprenticed to Bowen in 1732. From the start, Jefferys was trained in an established mapmaking tradition and, working independently from at least 1744, he received his first royal appointment (as geographer to Frederick Lewis, Prince of Wales) in 1746. His most distinctive early output was the production of a series of plans of the manufacturing towns of the midlands—Noble and Butlin’s plan of Northampton (1747), Samuel Bradford’s Coventry (1750) and Birmingham (1751) (fig. 424), Isaac Taylor of Ross’s Wolverhampton (1751), and others—his first major contribution to the remapping of an increasingly industrial England. In or before 1750, Jefferys moved to prominent premises at Charing Cross, where he was to remain for the rest of his career. In 1751 he married Elizabeth Raikes, daughter of the printer Robert Raikes (founder of the Gloucester Journal). It was from Charing Cross that Jef-

ferys issued, in the second distinctive phase of his career, some of the most important eighteenth-century maps of the Americas, including Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson’s 1751 survey of Virginia, engraved and published in 1753; John Green’s (i.e., Bradock Mead’s) A Chart of North and South America 1753; William Gerard De Brahm’s map of South Carolina (1757); James Cook’s A New Chart of the River St. Laurence (1760); and Joseph Blanchard and Samuel Langdon’s map of New Hampshire (1761), the first published map of the state. In 1760, Jefferys succeeded Bowen as geographer to the king and moved into the most ambitious phase of his career—the fresh mapping from original survey of large tracts of England. By 1766 he had three separate surveys in progress, but before his plans had properly begun he unexpectedly went bankrupt in November of that year. The assumption is that the expense of the surveys was the major cause, although Jefferys himself spoke only of a “train of unforseen Accidents.” Despite the setback, he managed to continue with the help of friends “compassionate enough to re-instate me” (quoted in Harley 1966, 28), and in the last five years of his life he organized the surveys for, engraved, and published large-scale maps of six English counties: Bedfordshire (1767), Huntingdonshire (1768), Oxfordshire (1769), Buckinghamshire (1770), Westmorland (1770), and Yorkshire (1771–72). This sequence represented an extraordinary achievement but does not stand alone as Jefferys’s contribution to the remapping of England, for he also produced plans of some of the very earliest canal and harbor improvement schemes of the Industrial Revolution, based on the work of the celebrated engineers James Brindley, John Smeaton, and John Grundy II (Worms and BayntonWilliams 2011, 349; Worms 2004, 26). He died on 20 November 1771, his will leaving only twenty pounds, his debts, and his remaining effects to his widow and four surviving children. The business somehow survived and was revived under Jefferys’s teenage son, also Thomas, and William Faden, who probably became a partner in 1772. Faden, assisted by the surveyors Thomas Donald and Joseph Hodskinson, former employees of Jefferys, was eventually to take on Jefferys’s mantle as the major figure in English commercial cartography, while the Scotsman John Ainslie, apprenticed to Jefferys in 1762,

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Fig. 424. SAMUEL BRADFORD, A PLAN OF BIRMINGHAM, 1751. Engraved and published by Thomas Jefferys. St. Martin’s church, shown in the vignette at top right, was the site of Jefferys’ baptism.

Size of the original: ca. 60.0 × 75.5 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps K.Top.42.79).

became a comparable figure north of the border, establishing Edinburgh as a rival center of cartographic ambition. Perhaps the best contemporary summation of Jefferys is that given by Theodorus Swaine Drage: “I cannot pass by Mr. Jefferys’s Care and Exactness in executing the Maps, whose Care and Fidelity to the Publick not to impose any Thing that is spurious, but what he hath an apparent and real Authority for, is perhaps not sufficiently known” (1768, xi).

Harley, J. B. 1966. “The Bankruptcy of Thomas Jefferys: An Episode in the Economic History of Eighteenth Century Map-Making.” Imago Mundi 20:27–48. Worms, Laurence. 2004. “Thomas Jefferys (1719–1771): Beginning the World Afresh.” Mapforum 3:20–29. Worms, Laurence, and Ashley Baynton-Williams. 2011. British Map Engravers: A Dictionary of Engravers, Lithographers and Their Principal Employers to 1850. London: Rare Book Society.

Jesuits. See Society of Jesus (Rome)

L aur en c e Wo rms See also: Geographical Mapping: Great Britain; Green, John; Map Trade: Great Britain; Topographical Surveying: Great Britain B i bliogra p hy [Drage, Theodorus Swaine]. 1768. The Great Probability of a North West Passage: Deduced from Observations on the Letter of Admiral De Fonte. London: Printed for Thomas Jefferys.

Josephinische Landesaufnahme (Josephine Survey; Austrian Monarchy). The Josephinische Landesaufnahme, named after the Holy Roman Emperor Joseph II under whose aegis it was carried out, was the endeavor in which the Austrian military mapped the majority of

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the Habsburg monarchy from 1763 to 1787. During this period, about 570,000 square kilometers were recorded on more than 3,500 hand-drawn colored sheets at a scale of 1:28,800. Only Tyrol, Vorarlberg, and outer Austrian territories were not mapped at the time of the survey because excellent maps of those regions by Peter Anich, Blasius Hueber, and Anton Kirchebner already existed. By contrast, the survey of the Austrian Netherlands (1770–78) was not carried out by the staff of the quartermaster general, but rather by the local artillery corps under the leadership of Joseph Jean François de Ferraris. The survey of France, supervised by Cesar-François Cassini (III) de Thury, was the model for the Josephinische Landesaufnahme. But unlike Cassini III’s survey, the Josephinische Landesaufnahme lacked a triangulation network spanning the entire surveyed area. Instead, the most appropriate time-conserving methods were used to construct a geometric framework for each province, including drawing on older base maps and undertaking partial triangulations. These time-savers meant that before long it was necessary to correct or make new surveys of some areas, such as Bohemia, Moravia, and Austrian Silesia. The main reason for the survey lay in a series of Austrian military defeats, in the Wars of the Polish Succession (1733–38), the Austro-Turkish War (1737–39), the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48) including both Silesian Wars, and the Seven Years’ War (1756–63). The poor outcome in these wars was attributed in part to Austrian generals’ lack of geographical knowledge of the territories over which they fought. In a letter of 5  May 1764 to Maria Theresa, field marshal Leopold Joseph, Graf von Daun, stated that one knew one’s own territory only “because of maps, plans, and descriptions acquired from the enemy” (quoted in Rill 2001, 187). Thus, the Josephinische Landesaufnahme was meant to provide maps specifically designed with the military’s requirements in mind, by making careful note of the quality of roads, the building material of houses, the location of mills, bridges, forts, and other infrastructure as well as land use. In addition, written descriptive volumes were to be prepared containing the kind of pertinent information that could not be adequately recorded on maps, such as details on the possibility of billeting; availability of foodstuffs; condition of water bodies, swamps, paths, boardwalks, and roads; and the holding capacity of churches, monasteries, and castles. The reorganized staff of the quartermaster general, although drastically reduced in personnel, was responsible for directing and carrying out the survey. Quartermaster officers were to be assisted in the mapping by officers of locally stationed regiments if necessary. The part of Silesia that remained Austrian (Duchies of Jägerndorf [Krnov], Teschen [Cieszyn], Troppau

[Opava] south of the Opava River, and Neisse [Nyse]) was surveyed in 1763 under the supervision of Dominik Tomiotti de Fabris, Graf von Cassano, in a trial mapping of 40 sheets, including descriptions (in 1780, 10 sheets of it were corrected and 30 were surveyed anew). After that, in May 1764, Maria Theresa ordered a cartographic survey of her empire under the supervision of Fabris. The survey commenced during a military conflict with Prussia in the strategically important Crown lands of Bohemia (1764–67; 1780–83, a new survey of northern Bohemia in 143 sheets after the Peace of Teschen [1779]; 273 sheets in all, 19 volumes of written description, and a booklet manual with corrections) and Moravia (1764–68, 126 sheets, 4 volumes of written description, and 3 booklets with the innovation that place-names were given in both national languages; and 1779–81, 40 survey sheets rectified, 36 of those surveyed anew). The staff of the quartermaster general was assisted by officers of local regiments in Bohemia, with the staff of the quartermaster general handling the Prussian border areas, while interior areas were handled by other officers familiar with them. The mapping of Bohemia and Moravia was followed, beginning in 1769, by the surveys of Transylvania and the Banat of Temeswar, and the border survey of Moldavia and Walachia. The Banat was surveyed 1769–72 (208 sheets), Transylvania 1769–73 (280 sheets, 4 written volumes), and the border survey of Moldavia and Walachia 1769–73 (103 sheets, 1 volume of written descriptions). Initially, only Upper Hungary was surveyed, starting in 1770. The comitats (counties) of Árva, Liptó, Szepes, Sáros, Zemplén, Ung, Bereg, Trencsén, and Túrócz were surveyed by 1772 (104 sheets, 4 written volumes), as well as the Máramaros comitat (63 sheets), which was surveyed in 1766–68. A correction of the existing sheets and the extension of the survey to all of Hungary did not occur until 1782; it was completed in 1785 with a total of 965 sheets and 7 written volumes of descriptions (fig. 425). The surveying of the Austrian Crown lands continued from 1769 to 1772 beginning with Upper Austria, including Neuburg on the Inn and Wernstein (64 sheets); Austria acquired the Inn District in 1779 and surveyed the region in 1780 (14 sheets, for a total of 78  sheets and 5  written volumes). Mapping of Lower Austria (122  sheets, 3 written volumes) was conducted from 1773 to 1781. In the meantime, Austria had acquired Bukovina, which was surveyed from 1773 to 1775 in 72 sheets and recorded in the unusual (for the survey) scale of 1:57,600 that was later transcribed into the military measure of 1:28,800. The military survey of Galicia and Lodomeria, the lands that had fallen to Austria in 1772 with the First Partition of Poland-Lithuania and

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Fig. 425. DETAIL FROM A SECTION OF THE JOSEPHINISCHE LANDESAUFNAHME. The detail shows the area around Eisenstadt in lower Austria (Hungarian Kismarton) mapped in 1769–85 as part of the surveys of the Hungarian provinces. Home of the noble Esterházy family, the town of Eisenstadt is shown with buildings drawn in red, denoting their stone fabric, and the garden park of the Esterházy palace is clearly visible in green. Land quality is rendered with color

and shading, techniques also used for the relief of fells with hachuring employed for higher hills, which are labeled here; road quality is denoted by thickness of line. Place-names are given in both German and Hungarian. Size of the entire original: 48.6 × 73.2 cm; size of detail: ca. 10 × 21 cm. Image courtesy of the Kriegsarchiv, Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (Kartensammlung, B IX a 527 Coll: III, Section II).

had already been partially surveyed starting at the Silesian border (including Lviv, Snyatin, and Przemyšl) from 1775 to 1778, was surveyed 1779–82 (413 sheets, 6 written volumes) (see fig. 849). The mapping of the military borders (Karlovac 1775– 76, 90 sheets; Varaždin 1781–82, 26 sheets, 1 volume of written descriptions; Banal border 1774–75, 25 sheets and 2 written volumes; Slavonia 1780–81, 51 sheets and 1 volume of written descriptions; Province of Slavonia 1781–83, 66 sheets and 1 volume of written descriptions; and Province of Croatia 1783–84, 71 sheets and 1 volume of written descriptions) and the survey of Inner Austria from 1784 to 1787 (Styria, Carinthia, Carniola, province of Gorizia and Gradisca, and Trieste as well as the Austrian part of Istria—altogether 250  sheets, 7 written volumes) concluded the Josephinische Landesaufnahme (see fig. 553). (For overview coverage maps of the survey, see Nischer-Falkenhof 1937, 84; Dörflinger 1989; and Rajsp 1995–2001, endpapers.) The staff of the quartermaster general, however, conducted extensive supplemental surveys after the Josephinische Landesaufnahmen until the Franziszeischen survey (1806–69). These surveys, called the Nachläufer der Josephinischen Landesaufnahme, pertained to newly acquired territories such as western Galicia, which had

fallen to Austria with the Third Partition of PolandLithuania (1795), as well as Venice, which had been absorbed by the Habsburg monarchy in 1797. It also pertained to territories that were temporarily occupied by Austrian armies during the course of the wars against the Ottoman Empire (1788–90) or against the French Republic and First Empire (1792–1815), as exemplified by the surveys in northern France, upper Italy, northern Switzerland, and in the southwest of the Holy Roman Empire (Schmitt’sche Karte von Südwestdeutschland, 198 sheets, 1:57,600). All the surveys undertaken at the scales of 1:28,800 and 1:57,600 by the staff of the Austrian quartermaster general between 1763 and 1815 total an area of about one million square kilometers and cover sixteen states of present-day Europe in all or part (Dörflinger 2004, 79). Unlike the Carte de France, which was published, the Josephinische Landesaufnahme was secret, and  highranking military officials were allowed to consult it only with special permission from the president of the Hofkriegsrats. Consequently, this momentous undertaking was not appreciated by contemporaries (Dörflinger 2004, 78). Only the 25 sheets of the Carte chorographique des Pays-Bas autrichiens (1777–78) on a scale of 1:86,400, based on the larger-scale sheets of the

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Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands, were an exception to this secrecy. The sheet depicting Vienna and its surroundings was adapted and published by Stephan Jakubicska in 1789 (see fig. 69). In addition, an edition of fifty engravings of the Landständische Karte von Oberösterreich (1787), reduced in scale and changed in perspective, was produced at the expense of the Upper Austrian landed estates. However, it remained a de facto secret, since it was only presented to select representatives of the Upper Austrian landed estates. René Tebel See also: Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands; Military Cartography: Austrian Monarchy, with Topographical Surveying Bibliograp hy Dörflinger, Johannes. 1989. Die Landesaufnahmen des österreichischen Generalquartiermeisterstabes, 1749–1854. Karlsruhe: Fachhochschule Karlsruhe. ———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien.

Nischer-Falkenhof, Ernst von. 1937. “The Survey by the Austrian General Staff under the Empress Maria Theresa and the Emperor Joseph II., and the Subsequent Initial Surveys of Neighbouring Territories during the Years 1749–1854.” Imago Mundi 2:83–88. Paldus, Josef. 1919. Die militärischen Aufnahmen im Bereiche der Habsburgischen Länder aus der Zeit Kaiser Josephs II: Ausgeführt durch den k. k. Generalquartiermeisterstab in den Jahren 1763– 1785. Vienna: In Kommission bei Alfred Hölder. Rajšp, Vincenc, ed. 1995–2001. Slovenija na vojaškem zemljevidu 1763–1787: Opisi = Josephinische Landesaufnahme 1763–1787 für das Gebiet der Republik Slowenien: Landesbeschreibung. 7 vols. Ljubljana: Znanstvenoraziskovalni center Slovenske akademije znanosti in umetnosti zanj Oto Luthar. Rill, Robert. 2001. “Die Anfänge der Militärkartographie in den habsburgischen Erblanden: Die Josephinische Landesaufnahme von Böhmen und Mähren nach hofkriegsrätlichen Quellen.” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs 49:183–202. Veres, Madalina Valeria. 2015. “Constructing Imperial Spaces: Habsburg Cartography in the Age of Enlightenment.” PhD diss., University of Pittsburgh.

Juan, Jorge. See Ulloa, Antonio de, and Jorge Juan.

K Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699). The peace treaty of Karlowitz (Karlovic, Carlowitz, Karlóca, Karlofça), signed by representatives of the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires at Sremski Karlovic (Serbia) on 26 January 1699, marked a turning point in the history of the Turkish Wars and changed the balance of power in Europe. The great territorial Ottoman conquest in Europe of the mid-sixteenth century had been followed by a gradual decline of Ottoman power in the seventeenth century. Shortly after defeating the second, unsuccessful Ottoman siege of Vienna (1683), the army of the Holy League (Habsburg Austria, Poland-Lithuania, Venice) recaptured Buda (1686). The Turkish army was then further defeated in a series of open field battles in southern Hungary. After the battle of Zenta (Senta) (1697), Sultan Mustafa II agreed to negotiate. Negotiations between the representatives of the Holy League, Russia, and the Ottoman Empire began on 25 November 1698 near Karlowitz, with representatives of the Netherlands and England also present. During negotiations, the Ottoman interpretation of the uti possidetis (as you possess) principle was accepted. The Turks had demonstrated that they were equal to the Christian powers militarily and would not agree to accept any definitive territorial loss (Stoye 1994, 164–215). The negotiations required very delicate diplomatic treatment of these matters, with heated discussions threatening to break off negotiations. However, they concluded with the former Kingdom of Hungary and Transylvania, except for the district of the Banat of Temeswar, being transferred to Habsburg Austria. Yet due to the conflicting interests of the European countries, the Habsburg victory was not reflected in the document. Venice regained Dalmatia and Morea (Peloponnese), and Poland, which returned Moldavia, regained Podolia and a large part of Ukraine. Only a two-year

armistice was signed with Russia. The peace treaty concluded with an international agreement signed by the parties demarcating, for the first time in the region, an international border. The border was described in the articles, but its actual demarcation in the field was the duty of joint border demarcation commissions. Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli led the Habsburg border demarcation party, and the Ottoman commissioner Ibrahim led its Turkish counterpart. Due to Marsigli’s previous travel and survey work, Habsburg military and political interests were much better represented during the practical demarcation from 1699 to 1701 of the 850-kilometer Habsburg-Ottoman border. According to the procedure proposed by Marsigli, the two commissions followed the borderline from both sides; each section of the border was described, surveyed, and mapped in minute detail. In places where natural features did not suffice, artificial border marks were constructed, and an area was measured constituting a two-hour walk on both sides of the line (Stoye 1994, 164–215). A special marker was created for the Triplex Confinium, the confluence point of the Austrian, Venetian, and Ottoman borders near the fortress of Knin (fig. 426). For each border section a report was made for Vienna and usually maps were enclosed with the documents (fig. 427). Hundreds of maps and views were made by Marsigli’s assistant, Johann Christoph Müller, later imperial cartographer. Müller, an excellent astronomer, surveyor, and draftsman from Nuremberg, put Marsigli’s ideas on paper and constructed overview maps of the border area after 1702 (see fig. 101). Müller also prepared early thematic maps to illustrate Marsigli’s ideas about communication routes, postal services, plague prevention, and the distribution of flora, fauna, and other natural formations, an understanding of which could promote improved relations and commerce between all the parties to the treaty (Gherardi 1986, 26–30; and see fig. 777). The Treaty of Karlowitz was the first international diplomatic agreement followed by the demarcation and mapping of a borderline that legally, physically, and cartographically separated the territories of the Habsburg

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Fig. 426. JOHANN CHRISTOPH MÜLLER, “SECTIO XXIV PARS CONFINIUM CIS.DANUBIALIUM ULTIMA NIMIRUM USQVE AD TRIPLEX CONFIN: IN CROATIA.” Manuscript, pen and ink drawing, colored, scale ca. 1:37,500, oriented south. Part of the border map series representing the Karlowitz border in thirty-nine sections, prepared for Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli in 1703. The Habsburg-Ottoman-

Venetian triple border, located to the northwest of the fortress of Knin, was marked on top of the hill Veliko Berdo (today the peak Medveđa Glavica of Debelo Brdo, Serbia), by a stone marker. Size of the original: 49 × 62 cm. Image courtesy of the Kartensammlung, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (Cod. Min. 85, fol. 27r).

and Ottoman powers and also transformed the sociocultural conditions in the Balkans.

Gherardi, Raffaella. 1986. “Introduzione.” In Relazioni dei confini della Croazia e della Transilvania a sua Maestà Cesarea (1699– 1701), 2  vols., by Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, ed. Raffaella Gherardi, 1:9–39. Modena: Mucchi Editore. Setton, Kenneth M. 1991. Venice, Austria, and the Turks in the Seventeenth Century. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Stoye, John. 1994. Marsigli’s Europe, 1680–1730: The Life and Times of Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, Soldier and Virtuoso. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Z s o lt G. Tö rö k See also: Boundary Surveying: (1) Austrian Monarchy, (2) Ottoman Empire; Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando; Müller, Johann Christoph Bibliograp hy Ágoston, Gábor. 2009. “Karlowitz, Treaty of.” In Encyclopedia of the Ottoman Empire, ed. Gábor Ágoston and Bruce Alan Masters, 309–10. New York: Facts on File. Deák, Antal András. 2006. Maps from under the Shadow of the Crescent Moon = Térképek a félhold árnyékából = Carte geographice dall’ombra della mezzaluna = Landkarten aus dem Schatten des Halbmondes. Also available on DVD and containing most of the manuscript maps of Marsigli-Müller. Esztergom: Duna Múzeum.

Kipriyanov, Vasiliy Onufriyevich. Russian artist, map engraver, and publisher Vasiliy Onufriyevich Kipriyanov was born (date unknown) to a family from Ka-

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Fig. 427. JOHANN CHRISTOPH MÜLLER, “SIGNORUM LIMITANEORUM SPECIALISSIMA REPRÆSENTATIO: MAPPA ALTERA,” 1703. Müller created a key on two sheets to the individual section maps that made up the great border map. The images in the ovals depict specific boundary markers (trees, ditches, cairns) or particular sections of terrain that were identified along the boundary route. The details pertain-

ing to section XXIV (center left) show the ridge along which ran the red and yellow boundary located to the northwest of Knin (compare fig. 426). See previous entry, p. 710. Size of the original: 50.5 × 58.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Kartensammlung, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (Cod. Min. 85, fol. 3r).

dasheëskaya sloboda in Moscow. Largely a self-taught artist and printer, he began publishing Russian maps in 1698, and by the early 1700s his printing shop in Moscow had become the primary map publishing establishment in Russia. In 1701, Peter I organized the first systematic training for Russian surveyors at the Moscow school of mathematics and navigation, Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola. In the same year, Kipriyanov became the school’s

librarian and an assistant instructor in mathematics. When Peter I established the civilian publishing house Grazhdanskaya tipografiya in Moscow in 1705, he appointed Kipriyanov the administrator charged with publishing maps and leaflets under the general supervision of Yakov Vilimovich Bryus (Goldenberg and Postnikov 1990, 21–25). The publishing house’s primary products were maps and engravings, which included the first Russian atlas of the world, Atlas mira, in 1713 (Kokkonen 1992, 6). It was not

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Fig. 428. VASILIY ONUFRIYEVICH KIPRIYANOV’S MAP OF THE AREA AROUND MOSCOW, GUBERNIYA MOSKOVSKAYA, 1711. Kipriyanov’s official seal can be seen in the map’s lower margin.

Size of the original: ca. 24.5 × 33.0 cm. © Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (MV 71, Recueil 54).

just a publishing house, but also Russia’s first cartographic research and mapmaking establishment. In 1715 Peter I organized a second civilian publishing house in Moscow, directing that Kipriyanov be its manager and librarian. With these expanded obligations, Kipriyanov left the Moscow school and devoted himself entirely to engraving, mapmaking, and publishing (Goldenberg and Postnikov 1990, 21–25). He published a variety of maps and atlases, mostly translated and copied from foreign originals, including thirteen maps from Dutch originals. Among the few locally sourced maps he published was a map of the Moscow region, produced earlier in 1711 (fig. 428), compiled by Kipriyanov himself, and based on German maps in the absence of Russian surveys (Kokkonen 1992, 6–7). Kipriyanov had Peter I’s implicit trust. He not only

traded in books and maps of his own production, but he eventually controlled all printed output in Moscow: no books, engravings, or maps could be sold without Kipriyanov’s heraldic stamp (as seen in fig. 428). Kipriyanov’s store was located near the Kremlin close to the Spasskiy Monastery. Besides compiling and printing maps, Kipriyanov also authored text books and manuals on geodesy and cartography such as Novyy sposob arifmetiki, feoriki ili zritelnyya (1705) on new methods of arithmetic; Tablitsy sinusov, tangensov (1703 and 1716) on sines and tangents; Sotnya astronomicheskaya (1707) on astronomy; Izobrazhenie svyatye zemli obetovannyye (1716) on the Holy Land; Tablitsa raznosti shiriny i otshestviya ot meridiana (1720) on latitudes and longitudes; Tablitsy gorizontal’nye i yuzhnye shiroty (1722) on “hori-

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zontal and southern latitudes”; and Tablitsy skloneniya solntsa (1723) on the sun’s declinations. Kipriyanov’s best-known work was Kniga imenuemaya Kalendar’ (1709), a one-hundred-year calendar that at the time was known as Bryusov kalendar’, after its presumed author, Bryus. Kipriyanov died in Moscow in 1723. A l e x e y V . Po s tnikov See also: Geographical Mapping: Russia; Map Trade: Russia B i bliogra p hy Goldenberg, L. A., and Alexey V. Postnikov. 1990. Petrovskiye geodezisty i pervyy pechatnyy plan Moskvy. Moscow: “Nedra.” Kokkonen, Pellervo. 1992. “Map Printing in Early Eighteenth-Century Russia.” Fennia 170:1–24. Krempol’skiy, Viktor Fedorovich. 1959. Istoriya razvitiya kartoizdaniya v Rossii i v SSSR. Moscow: “Geodezizdat.”

Kirilov, Ivan Kirilovich. Born in 1689, possibly  in Moscow, the son of a civil servant, Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov entered the Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola in 1702 and graduated in 1707. He began serving in the Admiralteystv kollegiya, spending his summers at sea and his winters in London and Amsterdam receiving education in nautical sciences. Upon returning to Russia, he was transferred to the land survey department of the civil service, where he was appointed a clerk at Yelets. In 1712, stol’nik (courtier with rank below boyar) Ivan Dmitriyevich Khlopov was sent from Moscow to look for promising youths, and passing through Yelets he found Kirilov, took him to Moscow, and secured a place for him in the head office of the estates department, Pomestnyy prikaz (Bagrow 1937). Kirilov’s most important work came after being transferred to the senate chancellery, Kantselyariya senatskogo pravleniya, where he was noted as an “expert in land-surveying” (Bagrow 1937, 78). He remained in the senate for over two decades, rising in 1726 to become ober-sekretar’, where he oversaw the state surveys and data collection from all Russian regions begun under Peter  I. In 1727, Kirilov used these reports to compile two manuscript volumes of economic, geographic, and demographic information for governmental use titled “Tsvetushcheye sostoyaniye vserossiyskogo gosudarstva” (Kirilov 1977). This work offered the most comprehensive description of the Russian Empire to date but was not published until 1831. In the senate, Kirilov helped compile the earliest Russian manuals and instructions for surveyors and cartographers. One such manual, “Instruktsiya dlya geodezistov,” written in 1723 by Kirilov and the surveyor Akim Fedorovich Kleshnin, required that cities, villages, and mills be shown on maps by means of standard symbols, providing an early example of the desire for uniformity in Russian map design. In 1732, Kirilov established

twelve standard and universally mandatory signs for surveyors who had been dispatched to conduct surveys in Ukraine (Goldenberg and Postnikov 1985). In addition to surveying, Kirilov instructed surveyors to keep a log of the smallest particulars, such as people’s religion, diet, and crops. In 1726 he began a grand summary of the data—an atlas and general map of the Russian Empire. The Atlas vserossiyskoy imperii was originally intended to comprise three volumes of 120 printed maps each. However, only thirty-seven maps were published and twenty-eight have survived. Kirilov published them in three sets in 1731, 1732, and 1734— including the first general map of the Russian empire (see fig. 737)—but the grand atlas was never completed. Four copies of these so-called Kirilov atlases have survived in Russia in the Biblioteka rossiyskoy akademii nauk (St.  Petersburg), Rossiyskaya natsional’naya biblioteka (St. Petersburg), the library of Moskovskiy gosudarstvennyy universitet geodezii i kartografii, and in the library of Irkutskiy gosudartstvennyy universitet; there are also eleven separate sheets in France at the Service historique de la Marine, Vincennes. The Kirilov atlas was the first printed atlas of Russia and was a stimulus to the Akademiya nauk and the senate to improve the organization of cartographic activities. Because so little Russian territory had been mapped with astronomical coordinates, using the survey materials to produce large- and small-scale maps was extremely complicated. Kirilov sought geometric control by using rivers and roads as the reference network on which to map other cartographic features. Provincial and city boundaries, followed by natural features such as fields, forests, lakes, and mountains, were all marked later. The resulting atlases seamlessly meshed general and local maps, providing a method for later mapmakers to follow (fig. 429). Kirilov’s sequence of map production for poorly explored regions has been followed by Russian cartographers up to the introduction of aerial and satellite mapping in the twentieth century. As an ober-sekretar’, Kirilov oversaw several exploring and mapping expeditions. The most important, the Orenburg Expedition (1734–44), proposed by Kirilov, became a far-reaching enterprise and promoted Russian interests in Central Asia. Empress Anna Ivanovna approved the project in 1734 and installed Kirilov as its leader. In August 1735, the expedition arrived at the mouth of Orsk River, near the town of Orenburg (now Orsk), after a long and difficult journey. There Kirilov organized large-scale surveys and mapping, carried out amidst Bashkir uprisings against Russian encroachment. These demanding activities took a toll on Kirilov’s health, and he died in Samara in 1737 of tuberculosis. Alexey V. Po stnikov

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See also: Administrative Cartography: Russia; Geographical Mapping: Russia; Russia B i bliogra p hy Bagrow, Leo. 1937. “Ivan Kirilov, Compiler of the First Russian Atlas, 1689–1737.” Imago Mundi 2:78–82. Gnucheva, V. F. 1946. Geographicheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka. Ed. A. I. Andreyev. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Goldenberg, L. A. 1996. “Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov, 1695–1737.” In Tvortsy otechestvennoy nauki: Geografy, 40–52. Moscow: “AGAR.”

Goldenberg, L. A., and Alexey V. Postnikov. 1985. “Development of Mapping Methods in Russia in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 37:63–80. ———. 1990. Petrovskiye geodezisty i pervyy pechatnyy plan Moskvy. Moscow: “Nedra.” Kirilov, Ivan Kirilovich. 1977. Tsvetushcheye sostoyaniye vserossiyskogo gosudarstva. Ed. B. A. Rybakov. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Novlyanskaya, M. G. 1964. Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov, geograf XVIII veka. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.”

(facing page) Fig. 429. SIU NOVUYU IDOSTOVERNUYU VSEI INGERMANLANDII LANT KARTU OBDERZHASHCHUYU VSEBE GORODY KREPOSTI SLOBODY (ST. PETERSBURG, 1727). Engraved by Aleksey Ivanovich Rostovtsev, ca. 1:400,000. This map of Ingermanland (St. Petersburg Governorate) shows towns and fortresses, suburbs, factories, estates, villages, mills, rivers, lakes, canals, and major roads. Prepared

by four land surveyors and supplemented by Swedish sources, it was included in Kirilov’s Atlas vserossiyskoy imperii, first issued in St. Petersburg in 1731. Size of the original: 44 × 55 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Cartographical Department, Code No. Ko 106/III-1).

L La Caille, Nicolas-Louis de. Born in Rumigny (Ardennes) and baptized on 29 December 1713 (Glass 2013, 5), Nicolas-Louis de La Caille was the son of an army officer and orphaned at seventeen. With the assistance of his patron, Louis Henri de Bourbon, he entered the Collège de Lisieux in Paris, where he received both religious and scientific training. But La Caille chose a secular life and focused on his interests in astronomy, optics, and mathematics. Recommended to Jacques Cassini (II) (Mascart 1919, 240), La Caille worked with him first at the Paris Observatory and then on the geodetic survey of the northern coast of France, and with César-François Cassini (III) de Thury and Giovanni Domenico Maraldi around Cherbourg, Nantes, and Bayonne (1738) (Glass 2013, 13). He subsequently participated in verifying the meridian (1739–40), later compiling the Nouvelle carte qui comprend les principaux triangles qui servent de fondement à la description géométrique de la France (probably 1745; see fig. 19). Prepared under the supervision of Cassini III and Maraldi, the map provides a still more refined and modern-looking outline of France than does the Carte de France corrigee (see fig. 625), presented to the Académie in 1684 (published in 1693). Sailors profited little from this effort, however, for marine charts still did not use geodetic networks in their construction (Chapuis 1999, 105). Appointed professor of mathematics at the Collège Mazarin in November 1739, La Caille installed an observatory there in 1742 and then a larger one in 1748 (Glass 2013, 15–17) and taught astronomy. He became a member of the Académie royale des sciences in 1741. Having called for a scientific expedition to the Cape of Good Hope, with government support he embarked upon a vessel of the Compagnie des Indes commanded by Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette; the Compagnie was motivated by the loss of one of its vessels at the Cape des Aiguilles in January 1750. From

1749 d’Après de Mannevillette had been regularly using lunar distances to calculate longitude at sea, the first French navigator to do so; La Caille had helped lay new theoretical foundations for this practice as early as 1741. During the voyage from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean (November 1750 to June 1754), La Caille and d’Après de Mannevillette together took lunar measurements for longitude as far as the Île de France (Mauritius) and Île Bourbon (Réunion); La Caille also determined latitudes (fig. 430). He then returned to the Cape of Good Hope, where he stayed from April 1751 to March 1753. La Caille was the first to propose the preparation of lunar tables that would simplify the method of lunar distances for use by common navigators, as outlined in a mémoire read in his absence by Maraldi at the Académie royale des sciences in 1754 (Boistel 2001, 1:335). La Caille further undertook a short geodetic triangulation of the length of a degree at the Cape, verifying the symmetry of the value of a degree of latitude in the Southern Hemisphere as compared to the measurements of the meridian carried out from 1735 by order of the Académie. Even though a certain number of points had been plotted astronomically, the hydrographic contribution of the voyage was less spectacular in terms of method. For naming a large number of stars and constellations in the southern sky (see figs. 165 and 183), La Caille was elected to the Royal Society (17 March 1760) and a number of other European scholarly societies. He was first and foremost a great astronomer, one of the most prolific of the century and an experienced teacher. After his oceanic voyage, he contributed to the simplified edition of the Nouveau traité de navigation by Pierre Bouguer (1753; reedited 1760). He died in Paris on 21  March 1762, leaving a considerable number of printed works in the field of astronomy. Oli vi er Chapuis See also: Celestial Mapping: France; Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France); Constellations, Representation of; Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: France; Longitude and Latitude; Paris Observatory (France) Bibliography Boistel, Guy. 2001. L’astronomie nautique au XVIIIème siècle en France: Tables de la lune et longitudes en mer. 2 vols. Lille: Atelier National de Reproduction des Thèses.

Fig. 430. NICOLAS-LOUIS DE LA CAILLE, CARTE DE L’ISLE DE FRANCE LEVÉE GÉOMÉTRIQUEMENT (PARIS, [1754]). First edition, engraved map on one sheet, ca. 1:106,000. In 1753, La Caille fixed the latitude and longitude of Île de France (Mauritius). He surveyed the island trigonometrically, and four baselines are indicated around the western

and southern coastlines, ranging from 1800 to 2750 toises in length. Although the map is dated 1753, it did not appear until after La Caille’s return to France in June 1754. Size of the original: 47 × 34 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [8426]).

718 Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Glass, I. S. 2013. Nicolas-Louis de La Caille: Astronomer and Geodesist. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mascart, Jean. 1919. La vie et les travaux du chevalier Jean-Charles de Borda (1733–1799): Épisodes de la vie scientifique au XVIIIe siècle. Lyon: Rey; Paris: Picard. Reprinted Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2000.

La Condamine, Charles-Marie de. The contribution of Charles-Marie de La Condamine (1701–74) to cartography in the eighteenth century rests predominantly with his famed Carte du cours du Maragnon (fig. 431), a map that Jean Le Rond d’Alembert referred to as “more exact than any that had preceded it” (d’Alembert 1751, 1:318). Upon his return from the Franco-Hispanic geodetic expedition to equatorial South America, La Condamine’s cartographic revelation of a previously poorly known swath of the continent earned him more prominence than all of his geodetic measurements in Quito combined. Nevertheless, the cartographic methodology he employed while descending the Amazon was similar to that which he had employed as a member of that geodetic mission, involving the astronomical observation of Jupiter’s satellites and geometrical triangulation as well as depth sounding. Published in 1745 in conjunction with the Relation abrégée d’un voyage fait dans l’intérieur de l’Amérique

Fig. 431. CHARLES-MARIE DE LA CONDAMINE, CARTE DU COURS DU MARAGNON OU DE LA GRANDE RIVIERE DES AMAZONES, 1745. La Condamine created this map of the Amazon River and its region through a combination of on-site observation and the compilation of relevant data.

La Condamine, Charles-Marie de

Méridionale, the Carte du cours du Maragnon took its place among a series of important maps of South America from the seventeenth century that represented the full course of the Amazon River. These included Le Perou et le cours de la Riviere Amazone (1656); Le cours de la riviere des Amazones (1680) by Nicolas Sanson, produced to accompany the Relation de la riviere des Amazones, translated by Marin Le Roy de Gomberville (1682), from the Spanish original of the Jesuit father Cristóbal de Acuña; and the set of maps produced early in the eighteenth century by the Jesuit Samuel Fritz, including one manuscript map that La Condamine himself brought back from Quito and deposited in the king’s library in Paris. La Condamine’s Amazonian map was a fusion of two contemporaneous cartographic methods. On the one hand, La Condamine used the instrumental methods of on-site surveying and astronomical observations to measure, quantify, order, and situate a complex hydrological system; on the other, he employed the off-site compilation techniques of small-scale geographic mapping that sought to create a holistic expression of a distant and little-known world by collecting diverse data and solving mysterious puzzles of various descriptive languages and the mathematics of space, time, and distance, whose resolution had eluded previous explorers. In this sense, the map bears a symbolic similarity to Denis Diderot and d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie (1751–72), as it sought to produce a complete map of a river system that lay at the fringes of known European geographic knowledge.

Size of the original: ca. 13 × 30 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [9542]).

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The Carte du cours du Maragnon was also significant in La Condamine’s use of it as a springboard for his own recognition within the Académie royale des sciences. By rhetorically critiquing earlier cartographic representations of the Amazon, he heightened his own credibility and sought to portray himself as a reliable voyageurphilosophe in the eyes of the scientific establishment. The map was explicitly designed to be viewed alongside and to supplement his travel narrative, the Relation abrégée, in which he explained in obsessive detail his steps to reveal equatorial South America to European eyes with an astronomical precision previously unknown in those regions. Similarly, La Condamine played a fundamental role in publishing one of South America’s most important eighteenth-century maps, the Carta de la provincia de Quito y de sus adyacentes. Its author, Pedro Vicente Maldonado, who was named governor of the Esmeraldas province in the Viceroyalty of Peru, had died without completing his map, and La Condamine stepped in to finish Maldonado’s work, taking credit for much of the resulting cartographic representation. N eil S afier See also: Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to B i bliogra p hy Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. 1751. “Amazones.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 1:318. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Almeida, André Ferrand de. 2003. “Samuel Fritz and the Mapping of the Amazon.” Imago Mundi 55:113–19. McConnell, Anita. 1991. “La Condamine’s Scientific Journey down the River Amazon, 1743–1744.” Annals of Science 48:1–19. Safier, Neil. 2008. Measuring the New World: Enlightenment Science and South America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Lambert, Johann Heinrich. Born 26 August 1728 in Mulhouse (in Alsace, then part of Switzerland), Johann Heinrich Lambert was the son of a tailor. He was almost entirely self-taught and became a mathematician, astronomer, physicist, and philosopher. He began his career as an office clerk and bookkeeper and later as a secretary for Johann Rudolf Iselin, a lawyer in Basel. From 1748, he taught privately in the house of Count Peter von Salis in Chur. There he used the family’s large library for his own studies in mathematics, physics, meteorology, astronomy, mechanics, metaphysics, and rhetoric as well as learning several foreign languages. In 1750 Lambert started meteorological observations; by 1753 he had taken barometric and thermometric measurements of the heights of mountains in the region of Chur, and in 1755 he began publishing his essays in Acta Helvetica, physico-mathematico-anatomico-

botanico-medica. Starting in 1756 Lambert undertook scientific travels with his pupils to Göttingen and several more German cities, as well as Utrecht, Paris, Turin, and Milan. In 1764 he went to Berlin, where Friedrich II appointed him a regular member of the Akademie der Wissenschaften. In 1770 he became a government architect and surveyor of buildings, supervising rural civil engineering. Lambert made fundamental contributions to four disciplines: mathematics, astronomy, physics, and philosophy. His importance for cartography resulted from his mathematical writings dealing with practical geometry and perspective, the theory of infinite series and the theory of functions, infinitesimal calculus and probability calculus, and non-Euclidean geometry. He invented the proportional pair of compasses in 1768 and constructed a calculating machine. His entries in a monthly notebook, in which he listed his scientific activities beginning in 1752, demonstrate his study of geographical maps, map projections, the shape of the earth, the surface of the spheroid, and the relationship of the length of the pendulum and gravity. In the 1760s Lambert published two articles that considered problems of surveying and of flattening the surface of the earth (1763, 1765). His main publication in cartography was “Anmerkungen und Zusätze zur Entwerfung der Land- und Himmelscharten” (Lambert 1772), in which he compared several extant map projections and enlarged them using new methods derived from the calculus. Today several projections bear his name, though he himself did not name them. Their construction and naming are explained by John Parr Snyder (1993, 76–94). Moreover, three of his new projections are among the most common projections still used: the Lambert conformal conic (see fig. 645), the transverse Mercator (see fig. 644), and the Lambert azimuthal (or zenithal) equal-area. Two others offer specialized use: the Lagrange projection, primarily for world maps; and the Lambert normal cylindrical equal-area. Finally, two are rarely used, but are of mathematical interest: the transverse cylindrical equal-area and the Lambert conical equal-area. By offering these unparalleled achievements in the theory of map projections, Lambert became the founder of modern mathematical cartography. He died 25 September 1777 in Berlin and was held in great esteem by his contemporaries as well as mathematicians a full century later. Ingrid Kretschm er See also: Projections: Geographical Maps; Science and Cartography Bibliography Lambert, Johann Heinrich. 1763. “Abhandlung von dem Gebrauche der Mittagslinie beim Land- und Feldmessen.” Abhandlungen der Churfürstlich-baierischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 1:3–54.

720 ———. 1765. “Abhandlung von den Barometerhöhen und ihren Veränderungen.” Abhandlungen der Churfürstlich-baierischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 3:75–182. ———. 1772. “Anmerkungen und Zusätze zur Entwerfung der Landund Himmelscharten.” In Beyträge zum Gebrauche der Mathematik und deren Anwendung, 3 bks. in 4 vols., 3:105–99. Berlin: Verlag der Buchhandlung der Realschule. Maurer, Hans. 1931. “Johann Heinrich Lambert.” Zeitschrift der Gesellschaft für Erdkunde zu Berlin, 276–88. In English, Hydrographic Review 8, no. 1:70–82. Schoeps, D. 1978. “Zum 250. Geburtstag von Johann Heinrich Lambert.” Vermessungstechnik 26:282–83. Snyder, John Parr. 1993. Flattening the Earth: Two Thousand Years of Map Projections. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Landscape, Maps, and Aesthetics. A case for the interplay between the artistic consideration of landscape and the role of maps and views may be made through the study of a series of debates, exchanges, and parallels between the cultures of cartography and the art world of Georgian Britain, focusing on particular artists and works, in particular those of Paul and Thomas Sandby. The realms of both art and cartography expanded greatly in the period and enjoyed high cultural esteem as well as commercial popularity, not least for their patriotic worth. This account emphasizes the contentious status of topographical knowledge, as visualized or pictured in maps and plans, landscapes and portraits, views and vignettes, paintings and prints. Of course, the results of such detailed analysis cannot be taken as representative of all of Enlightenment Europe, yet they can promote further studies of the complex intersection of cartography and formal aesthetics elsewhere in Europe. The term “map” became a key word of critique in British art and aesthetic theory from the later eighteenth century, in a period when both the commercial power and social esteem of cartography escalated in various forms and affiliations. The culture of cartography emerged in artworks of various intersecting genres: military surveys, estate prospects, garden plans, coastal marine charts, town plans and views, and family portraits showing educational cartographic artifacts. The art world was never far from the world of cartography. Maps and cartography, however, were not accepted as being part of the art world. In the course of a lecture delivered to students of the Royal Academy, following his appointment as professor of painting in 1799, Henry Fuseli railed against the debasement of art by commerce and the reduction of paintings to items of “fashionable furniture,” whether portraiture depicting family likenesses and affective relations, not noble men and ideas, or “that kind of landscape which is entirely occupied with the tame delineation of a given spot . . . what is commonly called Views.” These views, “if not assisted by nature, dictated by taste, or chosen for character,” argued Fuseli, “may delight the owner of the acres they

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enclose, the inhabitants of the spot, perhaps the antiquary or the traveller, but to every other eye they are little more than topography.” No doubt Fuseli’s rhetoric was sharpened by the fact that the Royal Academy’s premises on the Strand were surrounded by the shops of London’s leading mapsellers. Dealers and galleries selling old master paintings and prints were close to shops selling topographical prints and illustrated books and magazines featuring maps and views. Fuseli favored the classically styled Italianate art of seventeenth-century European masters, such as Claude [Lorrain] and Nicholas Poussin, and its imitation by eighteenth-century British painters, such as Richard Wilson—high-minded, idealized landscape art that “spurns all relation with this kind of map-work” (Fuseli 1831, 2:216–17). Fuseli’s attack on topography may well have been targeted at the professor’s fellow academicians, the Sandbys. His lecture was first given at a moment when Paul Sandby’s critical stock among connoisseurs was low (Farington 1978–98, 1:220). “Map-work” was a pointed slight to deprecate the practice of two men whose careers began when working as draftsmen for the military and whose formative experience with the surveying and making of maps, plans, and perspectives shaped their view-making for civilian clients and customers throughout long and influential careers. The slight served to reduce the cultural and geographical scope and intensity of the Sandby brothers’ topographical art, whether executed individually or in collaboration, as it ranged across a variety of genres and styles as well as sites, regions, and terrain, combining the observed and the imagined, narrative and description, social commentary and documentary delineation (Bonehill and Daniels 2009b). Yet Fuseli was also fighting something of a rearguard action against the popularity achieved by topographical representations by the end of the eighteenth century. In addition to a popular demand for cheaper cartography, there was also an increasing patriotic recognition of the fine quality of map production, the artistry of map drawing and engraving, in a nation that was conscious of lagging behind its continental rivals in the scope and skill of surveying and mapmaking (Alfrey 1990; Daniels 1993). A new culture of cartography modernized longstanding traditions of topographical knowledge. Maps at several scales and in many genres were part of the expanding visual field of topography, along with various kinds of view, vista, vignette, plan, prospect, and perspective. Imagery was central to the recording and making of natural knowledge and the historic record, placing plants and animals, ruins and monuments within the landscape and the connections of a wider world. For natural philosophers committed to knowledge as discovery, maps were part of the valorization of visual imagery as an empirical and theoretical form of knowl-

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edge, collating factual information and providing ideas of the interaction of land and life, nature and culture (Walters 1988; Klonk 1996; Smiles 2000). A growing range of optical instruments charted the structure and scenery of the terrestrial world, extending the power of eyewitness testimony, and powerful reflecting telescopes revealed a new world of topography to be mapped on the moon. Metaphors of mapping and surveying for forms of elevated and comprehensive understanding migrated from religious to secular discourse to characterize enlightened knowledge of the material world (Livingstone and Withers 1999; Withers 2007). If the fine art academies of Europe looked down on topography, it remained central to courtly and aristocratic culture. Topography enjoyed noble patronage in Britain, notably that of the king, George III, who built an extensive collection of civilian, military, and naval topographical works; scale models as well as works on paper; plain and decorative images, from fine presentation copies of maps and plans to views illustrating almanacs and theater tickets. On the one hand, this royal enthusiasm was traditionally princely, a territorial form of statecraft above political faction. On the other hand, it was a popular, highly commercial form of citizenship. Among the enthusiasms the king shared with his subjects, George III purchased prints and illustrated books, took lessons in drawing, and made views, on one occasion submitting works to the annual public exhibition of the Society of Arts in the name of his drawing master (Barber 2003, 2005; Gerbino and Johnston 2009, 131–51). More than a style of depiction, topography was a collective form of cultural practice, an enterprise involving professional and amateur artists, antiquarians and naturalists, engravers and publishers, men and women of all ages. They gave and took lessons; collected, lent, and exchanged letters, books, maps, plans, drawings, and prints; and went on group tours to sketch places on the ground. As a mode of socialization, topography was part of the production of “politeness” as an ideology, an expression of the vaunted liberality of British society, serving, at least in principle, to connect people of many ranks, from professional to aristocratic families. Topography was also an increasingly commercial venture, with the market for descriptions of the country’s localities buoyed by the popularity of domestic tourism among the leisured and moneyed classes, patriotically so during the Napoleonic Wars when continental Europe was closed to travel, and with it the loss of the classic tradition of taking Grand Tours (Bermingham 2000; Sloan 2000; Myrone 2009). The academic critique of cartography, particularly its degradation of mapmaking to menial work, draws on a wider European tradition of cultural condescension in eighteenth-century aesthetic theory against the

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technical transcription of the visible world. The fine arts were esteemed above the mechanical arts, including the mechanical arts of entertainment as well as instruction, such as topographical models and panoramas (Fox 2009, 135–78; Hyde 1988). It was the illusionism as well as accuracy of such mechanical devices that was subject to criticism, a hyper-reality that contrasted with the idealized imagery of classical art. The academic critique effectively fractured the longstanding philosophical framework for art as a synthesis of the liberal-humanist and mechanical arts, conventionally symbolized by the pairing of the palette and the compasses, particularly for landscape art, which had a traditional basis in measurement and mathematical perspective as well as literary and historical knowledge (Nuti 1999). The critique also deliberately marked a distance from much eighteenthcentury amateur and professional art practice, which moved between genres of actual and ideal representation or combined them. Moreover, it also overlooked the fact that instruments were manufactured to produce both forms of representation in the field—portable types of camera obscura to transcribe particular detailed views and the so-called “Claude glasses,” silvered convex mirrors that transformed specific localities into classically styled abstract looking scenery (Sloan 2000). In addition to featuring in academic theory, which considered landscape to be a lowly genre compared with history painting (such as scenes from the Bible and classical antiquity), the critique of cartography was central to more modern discourses focused on the external world, for which the very availability of maps (portable ones for practical travel and display versions for visualizing regions and nations) only served to reveal their limitations. So picturesque theorists promoted compositional schemata derived from old master paintings or short-focused views of nooks and crannies: “It is certainly an error in landscape-painting, to comprehend [i.e., to include] too much” pronounced William Gilpin, for “it turns a picture into a map,” this to the frustration of practically minded users of his guidebooks who did not realize the illustrations were primarily to illustrate generic principles of landscape composition and could not place where they were (Gilpin 1786, 1:146). In their search for a more personal, sublime engagement with nature, and more high-minded forms of excursion, Romantic writers found that maps comprehended too little. William Wordsworth’s poems on Black Comb, a primary station for the Ordnance Survey, describe how a “geographic Labourer pitched his tent” on the summit and a sudden stormy fall of darkness eclipsed “the whole surface of the out-spread map” as he was given “a glimpse. . . . of Nature’s processes” (Wordsworth 1978, 429). As a direct response to Fuseli’s condemnation of “map-work,” John Britton, an author and publisher of

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guide books and views, argued that topography was an integral part of the “native talent” of English art, shaping its national character. Britton reclaimed Wilson’s art from Fuseli’s classical theory by emphasizing the primacy of Wilson’s “Topographical views of English scenery” over his “Italian and other foreign views” and historical or mythological “Landscapes, with figures.” Like the old masters he imitated, Poussin and Claude, Wilson “delineated views of certain places, and I do not conceive that he is thereby depreciated in the estimation of the impartial critic: yet we have been told that . . . those who practise it [landscape painting] are little better than ‘topographers and map-makers’” (Britton et al. 1812, 65–66). While Britton conceded that a few “tasteless” artists might be narrowly descriptive, he was intent on upholding a form of English landscape art for which topography provided a foundational framework, supporting other qualities, including observations of fleeting effects of nature, allusions to literature and mythology, echoes of old master painting, and samples of scenographic entertainment. This aesthetic program is exemplified by the work of Joseph Mallord William Turner; Britton’s commentary on an engraving of Turner’s view of the ruins of Pope’s Villa at Twickenham Bard (1808) describes how the picture portrays its poetic atmosphere and classical allusions in a precise, documentary record of a particular time and place, depicting “the declining sun, and the dilapidated Villa” to show the desecration of a sacred spot (Britton et al. 1812, 20). “Truth is preferable to falsehood; reality is more valuable than fiction,” and for Britton, topographical landscape offered a progressive, politically liberal truth of record, not invention, that was accessible to everyone who could walk and see: “It speaks a language to be understood by all persons of every nation and every situation in life; because the scenery of nature is unfolded to all eyes” (Britton et al. 1812, 66). From 1801 to 1818 Britton and others compiled the most comprehensive and systematic survey of the country’s topography, The Beauties of England and Wales; Or, Delineations, Topographical, Historical, and Descriptive, of Each County. Each volume was based on a critical review of all existing texts and images and, above all, extensive firsthand field observation, developing a liberal landscape vision that looked well beyond castles and country houses. The series was accompanied by maps of each county and of the main town or city, showing modern structures as well as antiquities. Some of the maps were collected as The British Atlas (1810): urban maps displayed plans of new jails and workhouses as well as illustrations of coats of arms and vignettes of medieval gateways; county maps showed coach roads, canals, mineral railways, Roman roads, ancient British camps, and sites of successful excavation. Britton commissioned views from leading architectural draftsmen and land-

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scape artists and trained others in his house on Burton Street, Bloomsbury, which was a new variant of the enterprise of natural history illustration that Sir Joseph Banks ran from his house in Soho Square and the one that antiquarian Richard Gough orchestrated. It amounted to “an informal academy of topographers,” even a powerful “Britton school” of art (Lukacher 1999, 6, 29). Paul Sandby worked for the Board of Ordnance in Woolwich just one day a week so that he had time to pursue a diverse and lucrative career as a professional artist. He accepted commissions from various institutional bodies and individuals and worked as a theatrical scene painter and a drawing master to aristocratic patrons, including the royal family, as well as a printmaker and publisher. Sketching tours and travels out to estates of wealthy patrons expanded Sandby’s field of work and vision, with the view from the road providing a wealth of motifs, including country seats and prosperous towns, agrarian land and parks, modern improvements and antiquities. Views of historic architectural remains, rural and urban, often produced in collaboration with his elder brother, appealed to his antiquarian impulse to assemble what history and geography had scattered across Britain and, with many sites vulnerable to “improvement” or demolition, to preserve their existence for posterity. Thomas Sandby’s interest in the poetic and historic associations of ruins informed designs he made for Windsor Great Park in his capacity as deputy ranger of this royal landscape; they included grottos and root houses as well as Gothic bridges and towers (Roberts 1997). “Architecture cannot otherwise entertain the mind than by raising agreeable emotions and exciting pleasing ideas” argued the elder Sandby, in his lectures as professor of architecture to the Royal Academy, maintaining that “it may therefore be considered as tending to the same agreeable purposes as painting, sculpture, poetry, music, and other liberal arts.” Sandby’s architectural theory advocated an expressive form of practice intended “to captivate the Eye, and engage the attention of the Spectator,” a painterly and poetic vision of building that in the “laying out Pleasure Grounds” would “produce the most varied and agreeable Scenery.” This conception of architecture and landscape as providing “a continual moving Picture,” a series of ambient views, shaped both brothers’ practice (Sandby ca. 1794, lecture 1, p. 5, lecture 4, pp. 6–7). In the ambitious London art world of the mideighteenth century, keen to raise its academic aspiration and professional independence, estate portraiture proved a contentious genre. Invited in 1764 to portray the newly acquired estate of Philip Yorke, second earl of Hardwicke, Thomas Gainsborough declined, as the subject was beneath his artistic ambition, remarking that “with regard to real Views from Nature in this Country, he has never seen any Place that affords a Subject equal to the poorest imitations of Gaspar or Claude,” and recommending

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Fig. 432. RICHARD WILSON, VIEW FROM MOOR PARK, TOWARD CASSIOBURY, WATFORD AND ST. ALBANS, CA. 1765–67.

Size of the original: 147.3 × 182.9 cm. Image courtesy of the Zetland Collection.

Paul Sandby as “the only Man of Genius . . . who has employ’d his Pencil that Way” (Gainsborough 2001, 30). Despite this disdain for estate portraiture, commissioned views of aristocratic seats featured strongly in London’s earliest public art exhibitions. In a nation state where landed property was the basis of political power and social prestige, Sandby was one of a number of artists who extended the power and scope of estate portraiture in varied and culturally complex views that included natural wonders and antiquities as well as agriculture, industry and commerce, parks, gardens, and mansions. With the growing popularity of touring among all ranks of polite society, estate portraits projected public prospects as well as private views, a picture of the country and the nation at large (Bonehill and Daniels 2009a). In 1767 Paul Sandby showed two estate portraits at the annual exhibition of the Society of Artists: Two Views of

Wakefield Lodge, in Whittlebury Forest, the Seat of His Grace the Duke of Grafton. Sandby’s views joined other pictures at the exhibition depicting named places on noble estates, ambitious works that ranged across a variety of countryside, depicting a range of sites and estate activities in a number of styles. William Tomkins submitted extensive views of enlarged and improved properties belonging to James Duff, second earl of Fife—his seat in Banff and a shooting lodge in Aberdeenshire—showing with an even light and multiple focal points a wellordered landscape of plantations, gardens and parkland, arable land and pasture, roads and lanes, all populated with an array of polite, prosperous-looking North Britons. If Tomkins’s documentary style lacked the effect connoisseurs looked for in landscape painting, this was supplied in Wilson’s View from Moor Park (fig. 432). In showing figures surveying the flourishing countryside

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Fig. 433. PAUL SANDBY, NORTHWEST VIEW OF WAKEFIELD LODGE IN WHITTLEBURY FOREST, 1767.

Size of the original: 42.5 × 84.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven (B1977.14-4648).

adjacent to a house purchased by Sir Lawrence Dundas, Wilson cast his picture in Claudian style, with some antique architectural remains placed in the foreground in the style of poetic landscape gardening (Solkin 1982, 126–29). Sandby’s views of Wakefield Lodge explore the implications of landscape improvements, for the place in question and the country at large. One of the artist’s most important patrons, Augustus Henry FitzRoy, third duke of Grafton, was instrumental in Sandby’s appointment the following year to the staff at Woolwich. The dukes of Grafton acquired Wakefield Lodge, a former shooting lodge, in 1712 from the Crown and converted the estate into their main seat. They oversaw a comprehensive program of improvement, enclosing common land, amalgamating farms, reforming tenancies, and introducing new methods of agriculture and silviculture. The making of this modern landscape from the customary forest economy was a contentious process, involving protracted conflicts with local people, particularly over game and wood (Riden and Insley 2002, 18–37). Sandby’s one surviving drawing is a wide-angled view focused on the house and grounds redeveloped according to a design by William Kent (fig. 433). A smartly dressed equestrian group came upon a ragged rustic couple bundling wood, a potential flashpoint of conflict. Local commoners did not keep politely to the remaining forest; despite the threat of severe punishment, they went into parks at will, even when some attempt was made to regulate this by admitting them only on cer-

tain days of the week, as a privilege not a right, which is probably the point of the episode here. This scene of benevolent landownership carries a wider political resonance as a public relations image; Grafton also came into conflict with the Crown for his claims on timber trees, and his entire project of woodland management came to symbolize his political reputation for tyrannical governance (Junius 1772, 2:111–12, 167–69). As increasingly large and elaborate ornamental parks and gardens were developed for the aristocracy of eighteenth-century Europe, so was the extent and variety of their visual representation. Maps, perspectives, prospects, vignettes, and elevations were produced, sometimes combined to give a series of views on one overall plan. Such plans included both practical construction drawings and finely produced commemorative images that recorded the projection and material progress of these landscapes. Plans enunciated principles as well as recorded places, and some were complex compendia of ideas and images. Garden plans were made in a variety of formats and media, and there were large presentation works of great artistry with elaborate cartouches in watercolor and ink, or fine engravings, to be unrolled like wall maps or placed in large folios. Other cheaper, smaller prints were produced for a wider public, including illustrations for guidebooks, almanacs, and albums of views charting the taste and authority of a country’s elite (Harris and Hays 2008; Dubbini 2002, 36–48). The Sandbys’ work appealed to diverse audiences,

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collectors and patrons, aristocratic and middling, military and civilian, as well as the owners, inhabitants, antiquaries, and travelers Fuseli derided. They were influential in establishing a national style of visual culture for picturing the land and life of Britain, laying out the topographical territory that Fuseli sought to diminish as a fair subject for painting, but which his contemporary opponents, notably Turner, sought to reclaim and develop as a field for modern art. At the Royal Academy summer exhibition of 1794, Sandby deployed a prospective format for a new form of estate—a suburban property overlooking a factory. The commission was to portray James Whatman II’s villa outside Maidstone and his paper mill, a much more extensive building, centrally placed in the picture in the manner of a large mansion (Daniels 2006; Bonehill and Daniels 2009b, 216) (fig. 434). Whatman wove paper of the highest quality that was used for official documents, luxury volumes of literature and topographical prints, manuscript and printed architectural plans and anti-

quarian illustrations, and maps and charts. Figure 434 is drawn in gouache on a large piece of Whatman’s paper, the heavily sized kind produced in late autumn when the drying process was slow and controlled by artificial heating, precisely what is shown in the view of the mill with smoking chimneys above the shutters. The picture is a paper landscape in more ways than one, affiliated with a wider culture of work on paper and its culture of documentation and an end product of the process it shows. Whatman’s villa and factory are framed in an extensive, varied, and highly productive-looking landscape, of grazing paddocks, hop gardens, and fruit trees. In the far distance is a ridge of chalk downland whose streams were presumed to give Whatman paper its luster, an exposure of brilliant white marking the main road to London. The foreground is a public road, traveled by a milkmaid and cattle and a single horseman, running to a junction with a major turnpike along which a stagecoach speeds toward the town. The two roads bound

Fig. 434. PAUL SANDBY, A VIEW OF VINTNERS AT BOXLEY, KENT, WITH MR WHATMAN’S TURKEY PAPER MILLS, 1794.

Size of the original: 69.3 × 102.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven (B2002.29).

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the neighboring aristocratic estate, Mote Park, seat of Charles Marsham, Lord Romney, MP for Kent and a leading patron of agricultural improvement. Framing the scene is a towering ash tree, a species useful to harvest for farming implements and hop poles but also esteemed for its Saxon heritage as a mote tree and marking a meeting place. Beyond it is a recently harvested hop garden with improbably large pole stacks, a signature feature of the Kentish countryside and the patriotic production of English beer. There is a smooth lawn-like meadow with a group of horses, the leaping white horse the heraldic Saxon symbol of Kent, incorporated in the royal coat of arms to seal the Hanoverian succession (Hasted 1797–1801, 1:64). Kent assumed its strategic geography for a nation at war, as the so-called Garden of England stood in the front line of a threatened French invasion of Britain. Sandby’s finely delineated view sustains an even focus on the horizon, documenting a landscape that is emblematic as well as empirical, with implications far beyond its immediate locality. Such is the attention to detail, the remorseless lucidity of everything, that the picture is less a faithful reproduction than an idealized imitation; it is also a principled defense of topography as a genre as well as a utopian vision of this countryside and its role in the defense of the realm. While the picture draws on a long decorative and documentary tradition of prospect views, and some atlases in its regional conspectus of geographical virtue, it also alludes to the military survey then being conducted in Kent, the first county map of what became the Ordnance Survey, the finished drawings for which were esteemed as works of patriotic pride, “the finest piece of Topography in Europe” (Flint 1883, 144). It was therefore not only the commercialism of many topographical enterprises that occasioned disagreement of the kind exemplified by Britton’s riposte to Fuseli’s polemic against “map-work,” but also its social nature. With the dramatic expansion of the British art world, especially in the second half of the eighteenth century, and the formulation of a distinctive, influential, and increasingly professionalized establishment, headed by the Royal Academy of Arts, that promoted, at least in theory, a disinterested, civic-minded art as part of a liberal-humanist agenda, it became increasingly necessary to establish some distance from the taint of trade or amateur or utilitarian practice of the kind associated with some of the topographical imagery surveyed there. As with other academic theorists of the period, Fuseli’s concern was to cultivate a distinctive and individual artistic sensibility, distinct from the mechanical and learned formulas of amateurs, military and naval men, or the less ambitious among his fellow professionals, in a way that disrupted the long-standing balance

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of the palette and compass. This has continued to have implications for the historical treatment of this material, in terms of written accounts of art and cartography in the period as well as its collection. We have emphasized that topographical imagery was neither narrowly documentary nor merely illustrative, but was rather a complex, synoptic form of view-making that involved relations of figures and landscape; forms of spectatorship; historical, pictorial, or poetic allusion; and the conflation of the observed and imagined. The accuracy of such views may be understood as a quality shaped by feeling, memory, and projection as well as eyewitness testimony and measurement. The forms of pictorial practice surveyed here expanded in richness and capacity, taking the form of wide-angled prospects as well as short-focused views, addressing a varied and expansive reach of subjects. Despite the cultural significance of topography at the time and since, the continuing power of Fuseli’s polemic, and the academic platform it rests on, is most readily apparent in the historic dispersal of much of such material, especially that in paper form, which has resulted in drawings and prints divided between fine art and topography, art gallery and library, some works classed with maps as objective images of place, others with paintings as subjective expressions of the artist. S teph en D aniels and Jo h n Bonehill See also: Art and Design of Maps; Cartouche; Color and Cartography; Education and Cartography; Garden Plan; Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Relief Depiction; Iconography, Ornamentation, and Cartography; Signs, Cartographic Bibliography Alfrey, Nicholas. 1990. “Landscape and the Ordnance Survey, 1795– 1820.” In Mapping the Landscape: Essays on Art and Cartography, ed. Nicholas Alfrey and Stephen Daniels, 23–27. Nottingham: University Art Gallery, Castle Museum. Barber, Peter. 2003. “King George III’s Topographical Collection: A Georgian View of Britain and the World.” In Enlightenment: Discovering the World in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Kim Sloan with Andrew Burnett, 158–65. London: British Museum Press. ———. 2005. “George III and His Geographical Collection.” In The Wisdom of George the Third, ed. Jonathan Marsden, 262–89. London: Royal Collection Publications. Bermingham, Ann. 2000. Learning to Draw: Studies in the Cultural History of a Polite and Useful Art. New Haven: Yale University Press. Bonehill, John, and Stephen Daniels. 2009a. “‘Real Views from Nature in This Country’: Paul Sandby, Estate Portraiture and British Landscape Art.” British Art Journal, 10, no. 1:2–77. ———, eds. 2009b. Paul Sandby: Picturing Britain. London: Royal Academy of Arts. Britton, John, et al. 1812. The Fine Arts of the English School. London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown. Daniels, Stephen. 1993. “Re-visioning Britain: Mapping and Landscape Painting, 1750–1820.” In Glorious Nature: British Landscape Painting, 1750–1850, by Katharine Baetjer et al., 61–72. New York: Hudson Hills Press. ———. 2006. “A Prospect for the Nation.” In Papermaking and the Art of Watercolor in Eighteenth-Century Britain: Paul Sandby and

Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to the Whatman Paper Mill, by Theresa Fairbanks Harris and Scott Wilcox et al., 23–59. New Haven: Yale Center for British Art in association with Yale University Press. Dubbini, Renzo. 2002. Geography of the Gaze: Urban and Rural Vision in Early Modern Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Farington, Joseph. 1978–98. The Diary of Joseph Farington. 17 vols. Ed. Kenneth Garlick and Angus Macintyre. New Haven: Yale University Press. Flint, Stamford Raffles, ed. 1883. Mudge Memoirs: Being a Record of Zachariah Mudge, and Some Members of His Family. Truro: Printed by Netherton and Worth. Fox, Celina. 2009. The Arts of Industry in the Age of Enlightenment. New Haven: Yale University Press. Fuseli, Henry. 1831. The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli. 3 vols. Ed. John Knowles. London: Henry Colburn and Richard Bently. Gainsborough, Thomas. 2001. The Letters of Thomas Gainsborough. Ed. John Hayes. New Haven: Yale University Press. Gerbino, Anthony, and Stephen Johnston. 2009. Compass and Rule: Architecture as Mathematical Practice in England, 1500–1750. New Haven: Yale University Press, in association with Museum of the History of Science, Oxford, and Yale Center for British Art. Gilpin, William. 1786. Observations, Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty, Made in the Year 1772. 2 vols. London: R. Blamire, Strand. Harris, Dianne, and David L. Hays. 2008. “On the Use and Misuse of Historical Landscape Views.” In Representing Landscape Architecture, ed. Marc Treib, 22–41. London: Taylor & Francis. Hasted, Edward. 1797–1801. The History and Topographical Survey of the County of Kent. 12 vols. Canterbury: Printed by W. Bristow. Hyde, Ralph. 1988. Panoramania! The Art and Entertainment of the “All-Embracing” View. London: Trefoil Publications. Junius. 1772. Junius: Stat nominis umbra. 2 vols. London: Henry Sampson Woodfall. Klonk, Charlotte. 1996. Science and the Perception of Nature: British Landscape Art in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries. New Haven: Yale University Press. Livingstone, David N., and Charles W. J. Withers, eds. 1999. Geography and Enlightenment. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Lukacher, Brian. 1999. “Britton’s Conquest: Creating an Antiquarian Nation, 1790–1860.” In Landscapes of Retrospection: The Magoon Collection of British Drawings and Prints, 1739–1860, 1–40. Poughkeepsie: Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center, Vassar College. Myrone, Felicity. 2009. “‘The Monarch of the Plain’: Paul Sandby and Topography.” In Paul Sandby: Picturing Britain, ed. John Bonehill and Stephen Daniels, 56–63. London: Royal Academy of Arts. Nuti, Lucia. 1999. “Mapping Places: Chorography and Vision in the Renaissance.” In Mappings, ed. Denis E. Cosgrove, 90–108. London: Reaktion Books. Riden, Philip, and Charles Insley, eds. 2002. A History of the County of Northampton, vol. 5, Cleley Hundred. Woodbridge: Boydell Press with the University of London Institute of Historical Research. Roberts, Jane. 1997. Royal Landscape: The Gardens and Parks of Windsor. New Haven: Yale University Press. Sandby, Thomas, ca. 1794. “Six Lectures on Architecture. Delivered to the Royal Academy.” Royal Institute of British Architects, London. Sloan, Kim. 2000. ‘A Noble Art’: Amateur Artists and Drawing Masters, c. 1600–1800. London: British Museum Press. Smiles, Sam. 2000. Eye Witness: Artists and Visual Documentation in Britain, 1770–1830. Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing. Solkin, David H. 1982. Richard Wilson: The Landscape of Reaction. London: Tate Gallery. Walters, Gwyn. 1988. “The Antiquary and the Map.” Word & Image 4:529–44. Withers, Charles W. J. 2007. Placing the Enlightenment: Thinking Geographically about the Age of Reason. Chicago: Chicago University Press.

727 Wordsworth, William. 1978. Poetical Works. Ed. Thomas Hutchinson. New ed. rev. Ernest de Selincourt. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to. The geodetic expeditions to Lapland and Peru sponsored by the Paris Académie royale des sciences in 1735–45 were monumental in the history of physical geography and to an extent unprecedented. Although they were not the first scientific expeditions to remote continents (the great expedition of Jean Richer to Cayenne in 1672–73 preceded and motivated them), they were certainly the first to take on such an extreme financial and logistic challenge for the sake of a single objective, in this case the measurement of the length of the degree as a function of latitude. It was hoped that such measurements at points distant from each other by nearly a quarter of the earth’s circumference would settle the question of the planet’s nonsphericity and resolve conflicting theories postulating either the elongation (like a lemon) or the flattening (like an orange) for the shape of the earth. Mathematical and philosophical reputations turned on this question: Isaac Newton had predicted the flattened earth whereas the notable French astronomers Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) and Jean Picard favored the elongated form on the basis of their own limited measurements. Although cartography was not a primary objective of the expeditions, the need to correct maps and marine charts was used as an argument by the promoters in the Académie, and important mapmaking was duly carried out. The cartographic argument may well have been seen in part as insurance against failure of the degree measurements and been based on the fear of the explorers returning altogether empty-handed. The first party to leave France, in 1735, was the Peru expedition, nominally led by Louis Godin, though in effect by a triumvirate including Charles-Marie de La Condamine and Pierre Bouguer. The journey to the cordillera of Peru (today Ecuador) in the region of Quito was arduous and involved a difficult traverse of the Isthmus of Panama as well as delicate political negotiations with the Spanish authorities in both Madrid and the New World. The outcome of these was a requirement to take along two Spanish “minders”’ to discourage any illicit trade and espionage. The two chosen were the mariners Antonio de Ulloa and Jorge Juan, who would prove themselves the equal of the French academicians, both as surveyors and observers of the Andean culture. Over a year passed before the party was assembled in Quito, ready to begin baseline and triangulation measurements, and by this time, disagreements between the three principals had begun to threaten the expedition’s success and the reliability of its data. Unfortunately, such friction would continue for the next nine years of

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measurements and become even more acute after the eventual return of La Condamine and Bouguer to Paris (Godin remained in Peru and returned to Spain only in 1751 after being dismissed from the Académie for his negligence). The second expedition to leave, in 1736, was the Lapland expedition, led by Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, and it seems to have been an afterthought promoted by Maupertuis behind the backs of the Peru party. It headed not strictly to Lapland, and certainly not to the Pole as was sometimes reported, but more modestly to the region immediately north of the Gulf of Bothnia on the Swedish-Finnish border, with a base in the town of Torneå (now Hararanda on the Swedish side). Consequently, the survey would barely cross the Arctic Circle, covering only about one degree, compared to the three degrees eventually measured in Peru. The party was completed by the Swedish astronomer Anders Celsius, mathematician Alexis-Claude Clairaut, and the priest Reginald Outhier, who was an accomplished cartographer and would write the definitive account of the expedition. Also present was the young Anders Hellant, a Finnish student acting as interpreter, but later to become the country’s celebrated astronomer. The dispute concerning the possible polar flattening or extension was to be settled by measurements of the length of a degree of latitude at distances as far apart as possible in one hemisphere. A simple geometrical construction made mathematically explicit by Maupertuis shows that for a flattened earth the degree length increases from equator to poles while for an elongated spheroid it decreases. To complete a measurement of the length of a meridian degree, two kinds of techniques were involved: ground surveys with accurate angular and length measurements to establish a chain of triangulation along the arc of the meridian plus astronomical measurements of star elevations near the zenith at points a known distance apart on or near the meridian. Sun sightings would also be required to fix the meridional direction. Comparison of the elevations of a chosen star, determined at the end points of the arc as near simultaneously as possible, would then yield proportionately the difference of latitude between them. In both Lapland and Peru, the crucial baselines were laid out and measured using wooden rods that were constantly compared against reference étalons (standards) derived from the standard Parisian toise (1.97 m). In fact, the requirements of the two expeditions prompted the Académie des sciences to commission two new standards, since the original toise du Châtelet, an iron bar actually embedded in the staircase of the Grand Châtelet, had deteriorated with time. The new standards, constructed by the instrumentmaker Claude Langlois, became known as the toise du Nord

Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to

and the toise du Pérou. Although they were intended to remain protected in Paris, the toise du Nord was commandeered by Maupertuis and taken to Lapland, where it was suspected to have been damaged in the course of the expedition. The Peru expedition relied on a secondary standard, among many others that were made and used by mapmakers throughout Europe in the later eighteenth century. The triangulation baseline for the Lapland expedition was ingeniously unconventional. Maupertuis decided to measure on the frozen surface of the Torneå River in the winter of 1736–37. This could be done speedily because of the nearly level surface but had the disadvantage of requiring work in near twenty-four-hour darkness with no possibility of retracing once the ice had melted. In Peru, two baselines were measured, at the northern and southern extremes of the suite of triangles near the cities of Quito and Cuenca, thus providing a useful cross-

Fig. 435. OBSERVATORY AND SECTOR CONSTRUCTED BY HUGOT, OR THÉODORE HUGO, 1749. From Pierre Bouguer, La figure de la Terre, déterminée par les observations de messieurs Bouguer, & de La Condamine, de l’Académie royale des sçiences, envoyés par ordre du Roy au Pérou, pour observer aux environs de l’Equateur (Paris: Charles-Antoine Jombert, 1749), following 182. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

Lapland and Peru, Expeditions to Fig. 436. CARTE DU FLEUVE DE TORNEÅ, 1744. From Réginald Outhier, Journal d’un voyage au nord, en 1736 & 1737 (Paris: Piget, Durand, 1744), following 96 (fig. 5). See figure 273 for a detail of the baseline and central portion of the geodetic triangulation. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

check. Angular measurements for the triangulation were carried out using a quadrant while astronomical readings, which could be delayed until surveying of the meridians was complete, required the measurement of only a small angle between the zenith and the chosen star. This could be accomplished using the much-elongated zenith sector (see fig. 396), calibrated over just a few degrees (observation of stars far from the zenith was avoided because of the effect of atmospheric refraction, the atmosphere acting as a lens to give a false position for the star—an effect that vanished in the vertical direction). Quadrants and sectors were theoretically capable of accuracy down to seconds of arc, but were unlikely to achieve this due to the need for dismantling and the rough handling they inevitably received in the field. The design of quadrants had been improved considerably in the later seventeenth century, notably by replacing the original sights (pinnules) with telescopes and crosswires and using micrometer adjustments. The zenith sector used in Lapland was specially commissioned from the London instrumentmaker George Graham and delivered to the expedition site in Torneå. Remarkably, the best sector used in Peru was made on the spot using only local materials (fig. 435) by the expedition’s clockmaker, one Hugot, now identified as Théodore Hugo (Ferreiro 2011, 44–45). The Lapland expedition completed eight triangles leading to a distance of about one degree from Torneå to the town of Kittis almost due north, giving a degree of 57,437.9 toises (fig. 436). The Peru expedition measured just over three degrees from near Quito to a point just south of the city of Cuenca, for 56,753 or 56,749 toises per degree (fig. 437). Thus, the flattening of the earth at the poles was confirmed, the figures corresponding to an equatorial bulge of some twenty kilometers. Both results would be subjected to various corrections, and the Lapland figures were later shown by a Swedish team that checked them in 1801–3 to contain serious systematic errors. A very well-equipped expedition of French military surveyors resurveyed a meridian of over six degrees in Peru from 1900–1906, but due to the loss of sighting points could not pinpoint any errors in the measurements from the 1740s. This is not the place to detail the various adventures and, in the case of the Peru party, tragedies that befell the expeditions. Maupertuis and party, spending the winter of 1736–37 in Torneå, enjoyed “most of the pleasures

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Fig. 437. TRIANGLES DE LA MERIDIENE DE QUITO, 1744. From Pierre Bouguer, “Relation abrégée du voyage fait au Pérou,” Mémoires de l’Academie Royale des Sciences, année 1744 (1748): 249–97, following 296 (pl. XIV). Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris.

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we are accustomed to in Paris” and caused an ongoing scandal; the Peru expedition lost first the young assistant Jacques Couplet-Viguier to fever in the early days, and then the surgeon Jean Seniergues was murdered by a vengeful mob in the city of Cuenca in 1739 (Hoare 2005, 105, 131, 173–74). After almost being given up for lost, the Peru party finally arrived back in Paris in some disorder. La Condamine, after his remarkable voyage down the Amazon, reached Paris in February 1745 to find that Bouguer had beaten him by six months, using the overland route via Cartagena. All the return journeys were bedeviled by warfare variously between Britain, France, and Spain, while Admiral George Anson’s pillaging of the Peru coast in 1741 had already caused delay in the measurements. The most unlucky was Ulloa, who was captured by the British at Louisburg, brought back as prisoner of war, only to be released when his scientific credentials were discovered. Freed from custody, he was promptly elected to the Royal Society of London before being given safe conduct back to Spain (Whitaker 1966). There were two remarkable cartographic products associated with the Peruvian expedition. At an early stage, La Condamine became acquainted with the governor of Esmeraldas province, Pedro Vicente Maldonado. Maldonado proved to be a considerable cartographer who had already prepared accurate maps in his part of Peru. He was, it would seem, the first native South American cartographer known to us, and is justly celebrated in Ecuador to this day. He was of great help to the French party, and on the conclusion of the expedition accompanied La Condamine on his epic voyage down the Amazon. Continuing independently to Europe, he brought copies of his maps to the Académie royale des sciences in Paris and the Royal Society of London, where he was nominated as a fellow. But, having survived every possible pathogen in the Amazonas, he died of a fever in London, before he could be elected. The other remarkable by-product was La Condamine’s mapping of the Amazon (see fig. 431) with an accuracy that bettered all previous attempts, most notably that of German Jesuit cartographer Samuel Fritz. The two expeditions generated considerable admiration in literary circles. Voltaire was ecstatic at the success of the Lapland expedition and wrote several poems in praise of the “Argonauts” involved. Later, a superb tribute was paid by George-Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon, on the occasion of La Condamine’s reception into the Académie française in 1761. Mich ael Rand Hoare See also: Bouguer, Pierre; Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; Instruments, Astronomical; Instruments for Angle Measuring: Theodolite,

League of Augsburg, War of the Graphomètre, and Similar Instruments; La Condamine, CharlesMarie de; Ulloa, Antonio de, and Jorge Juan B i bliogra p hy Bouguer, Pierre. 1813. “An Abridged Relation of a Voyage to Peru.” In A General Collection of the Best and Most Interesting Voyages and Travels in All Parts of the World, by John Pinkerton, 14:270–312. London. Ferreiro, Larrie D. 2011. Measure of the Earth: The Enlightenment Expedition That Reshaped Our World. New York: Basic Books. Greenberg, John L. 1995. The Problem of the Earth’s Shape from Newton to Clairaut: The Rise of Mathematical Science in EighteenthCentury Paris and the Fall of “Normal” Science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hoare, Michael Rand. 2005. The Quest for the True Figure of the Earth: Ideas and Expeditions in Four Centuries of Geodesy. Aldershot: Ashgate. Lacombe, Henri, and Pierre Costabel, eds. 1988. La figure de la Terre du XVIIIe siècle à l’ère spatiale. Paris: Gauthier-Villars. Lafuente, Antonio, and Antonio Mazuecos. 1987. Los caballeros del punto fijo: Ciencia, política y aventura en la expedición geodésica hispanofrancesa al virreinato del Perú en el siglo XVIII. [Barcelona]: Serbal/CSIC. Martin, Jean-Pierre. 1987. La figure de la Terre: Récit de l’expédition française en Laponie suédoise (1736–1737). Cherbourg: Isoète. Maupertuis, Pierre Louis Moreau de. 1808. “Memoir Read before the Royal Academy of Sciences Thirteenth of November, 1737, on the Measure of a Degree of the Meridian at the Polar Circle.” In A General Collection of the Best and Most Interesting Voyages and Travels in All Parts of the World, by John Pinkerton, 1:231–51. London. Smith, J. R. 1986. From Plane to Spheroid: Determining the Figure of the Earth from 3000 B.C. to the 18th Century Lapland and Peruvian Survey Expeditions. Rancho Cordova: Landmark Enterprises. ———. 1997. Introduction to Geodesy: The History and Concepts of Modern Geodesy, New York: John Wiley & Sons. Whitaker, Arthur P. 1966. “Antonio de Ulloa, the Délivrance, and the Royal Society.” Hispanic American Historical Review 46:357–70.

League of Augsburg, War of the. Provoked by Louis  XIV’s policy of annexation, and beginning with the French sack of the Rhenish Palatinate (spring 1689), the War of the League of Augsburg (1688–97; also called the Ten Years’ War, the Nine Years’ War, the War of the Palatine Succession, and the War of Orléans) pitted France against the Grand Alliance of Western Europe (the Holy Roman Empire, Spain, England, the Netherlands, and Savoy) led by William III of Orange, stadhouder of the Netherlands from 1672 and king of England from 1689. The two most important operational theaters were the Palatinate (1688–90) and the Spanish Netherlands (1690–95). Protected by the fortresses of Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, and strengthened by its unified command and interior lines of communication, France preserved its territorial integrity through considerable military effort. With the Treaty of Ryswick (1697), France kept Strasbourg and Sarrelouis but had to cede Luxembourg to Spain and both Lorraine and Fribourg to their princes. Louis XIV also had to accept the Dutch occupation of the barrier

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towns in the southern Spanish Netherlands and to recognize William III as king of England. The late seventeenth century marked an important stage in the French administrative monarchy’s evolution. In 1688 the ministre de la Guerre, François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois, created the Dépôt de la Guerre to archive at the minister’s disposition correspondence from generals and officials in the provinces, including plans of battles, sieges, and encampments. At Louvois’s death (1691), Vauban joined engineers from the département de la Guerre to those from the département de la Marine, creating a corps of ingénieurs du roi, which worked on fortified locations and sent their plans, projects, and mémoires to the office of fortifications. Thus, as the War of the League of Augsburg began, conditions existed for the conservation of military cartographic production, at least in France. By its length and the manpower it mobilized, this war obliged the belligerents to transport numerous troops rapidly in order to concentrate them at a given moment on a chosen battlefield. This required understanding different itineraries. Moreover, nourishment and lodging of armies wintering in the field required increasingly detailed knowledge of local resources. Commanders thus felt the need for maps more precise than the small-scale printed maps that gave a synthetic view of operational theaters and more general than the large-scale maps depicting the environs of fortified places produced by the ingénieurs du roi. The maréchaux généraux des logis, charged with logistics, thus enlisted engineers (who sometimes began as simple draftsmen) to receive commissions as officers attached to an infantry regiment. They rarely signed their maps, which were produced in difficult conditions and sent directly to Versailles. Their cartographic production would have remained obscure if some of them had not gathered and refined their work at the end of the conflict and produced confidential manuscript editions intended for various military figures of high rank. The multivolume “Camps et ordres de marches et de batailles de l’armée du roi en Flandre” by Pennier exists in several exemplars, including one with the Noailles coat of arms in The National Archives of the U.K. (TNA), Kew, another at the Bibliothèque du Museé Condé in Chantilly, three in the Service historique de la Défense at Vincennes, and one at the Bibliothèque nationale de France. Likewise, exemplars of the “Théâtre de la guerre en Flandre” in twenty-one sheets by JeanBaptiste Naudin (also with the Noailles arms), are held at the Archives nationales de France as well as in the Kriegsarchiv in Vienna and the Hadtörténeti Múzeum és Könyvtár in Budapest (Lemoine-Isabeau and Hélin 1980, 30–31). Adrien-Maurice de Noailles, then comte d’Ayen, probably had these works produced between

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Beginning in 1702, military cartographers returned to Flemish and German battlefields, where they participated in all the campaigns in the War of the Spanish Succession. Meanwhile, this martial cartography bound to the land, although confidential, permitted correction of many endlessly recopied cartographic errors, and certain elements quickly became public through printing. Eugène Henry Fricx employed these resources for his Table des cartes des Pays-Bas et frontières de France (1704–12), as did Nicolas de Fer in his Frontières de France et des Païs Bas (1708–10). Henceforth, the literate public could follow operations on a map. Marie-Anne Co rv i si er- de Villèle

Fig. 438. DETAIL FROM THE KEY FOR THE MAPS OF LE SR. PENNIER, “CAMPS ET ORDRES DE MARCHES DE L’ARMÉE DU ROY EN FLANDRES,” 1694. Two columns of signs (not shown) represent man-made and natural features that were common to maps of the period; the two columns shown here comprise signs for features of particular importance to armies on the move: passage across rivers, encumbered fields, bridges that could sustain infantry traffic, heights of three different orders, and a color scheme to distinguish the movement of different branches of the army (infantry, artillery, cavalry). Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge CC 5061 [7] RÉS).

1696 and 1701 (Lemoine-Isabeau 1984) after his first campaigns in Flanders; he was able to use them during the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48), in which he was a principal actor. Uniformly employed conventional signs were added to the plans of battles and camps, to the itineraries of different columns, and to the representation of fortifications in the countryside. The difference between open and fortified cities was distinguished; note was made of burned villages; soil characteristics and observable elements in the countryside, such as mills, isolated trees, or gibbets, as well as roads and river passages, stone or wooden bridges, and fords were all given careful attention (fig. 438). These elements gave a typically military aspect to the maps representing the open field of Flanders, a much-contested site for the confrontation of European powers in the modern period.

See also: Dépôt de la Guerre (Depository of the War Office; France); Engineers and Topographical Surveys; Fricx, Eugène Henry; Military and Topographical Surveys; Military Cartography; Naudin Family Bibliography Corvisier-de Villèlle, Marie-Anne. 1995. “Les Naudin et la cartographie militaire française de 1688 à 1744.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 147–73. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire, and Etienne Hélin. 1980. Cartes inédites du pays de Liège au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Crédit Communal de Belgique.

Level. See Instruments for Distance Measuring: Level Leveling. See Height Measurement: Leveling Liesganig, Joseph. Joseph Liesganig was born in Graz in 1719. After joining the Jesuits, he enrolled in the Faculty of Arts of the University of Vienna to study philosophy, rhetoric, and mathematics, but he finally settled on theology. He was ordained in 1748, after which he served as a priest in Komorn (Komárno) and taught mathematics in Kaschau (Košice). In 1752 he returned to Vienna where he was appointed assistant to the director of the Vienna Observatory, becoming prefect of that institution four years later. Subsequently, he was involved in extensive measuring and surveying activities. In 1771, he was appointed dean of the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Vienna. When many establishments of the Jesuit order in Austria were dissolved, he was given the post of director of constructions in Lemberg (Lviv) and commissioned to produce a map of Galicia and Lodomeria (1772). From 1785, he supervised work on the Josephinische Landesaufnahme in Galicia. His extensive experience with surveying caused Liesganig to believe that the Alps caused deflections of the plumb line. Liesganig invented numerous instruments, includ-

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ing a universal quadrant for leveling, and wrote an essay on latitude measurement (1768). Liesganig died in Lemberg in 1799 (Kretschmer 1986, 448; Zeger 1992, 116). It was Liesganig who introduced triangulation to Austria. His fellow Jesuit Ruggiero Giuseppe Boscovich, who had conducted a meridian survey of the Vatican State, inspired Liesganig to begin work on a latitude survey in the area of the Vienna meridian in 1759. After joint triangulation work with César-François Cassini (III) de Thury in 1761, which also resulted in a map, Carte des environs de Wienne (1763), Empress Maria Theresa officially commissioned Liesganig in 1762 to survey the Vienna meridian across at least two degrees of latitude. After accurately determining two baselines between Neunkirchen and Wiener Neustadt as well as in the Marchfeld plain, he established a triangulation system extending across nearly three degrees of latitude

from Sobieschitz near Brünn (Sobešice near Brno) to Varaždin in Croatia (see fig. 263). In 1769, Liesganig also determined two baselines in Hungary. He published the results of his survey work in Dimensio graduum meridiani Viennensis et Hungarici (1770). The geographic coordinates determined in these surveys were used in mapmaking for several decades (Dörflinger 2004, 81; Kretschmer 1986). In 1772, Liesganig was commissioned by Emperor Joseph II to produce an astronomic-trigonometric survey of the recently acquired provinces of Galicia and Lodomeria (part of Poland and Ukraine). After determining three baselines, he oversaw the survey of the entire region by triangulation, resulting in a map compiled for administrative purposes published in 1794. Its highly decorative title cartouche appears in figure 439 (Dörflinger 2004, 115; Wawrik and Zeilinger 1989, 329). In

Fig. 439. DETAIL FROM JOSEPH LIESGANIG, REGNA GALICIÆ, ET LODOMERIÆ IOSEPHI II. ET M.  THERESIÆ (VIENNA, 1794). Copper engraving on forty-nine sheets; 1:288,000, reduced by Johann von Liechtenstern from Liesganig’s original map. This highly decorative title cartouche incorporates allegories of the main rivers of Galicia and Lodomeria and images of the abundance of nature, the inhabitants of the region, surveyors working with the plane

table and chains, as well as coat-of-arms. The cartouche was derived from a design by the renowned painter Franz Anton Maulbertsch. Size of the entire original: 164 × 227 cm; size of detail: ca. 70 × 107 cm. Image courtesy of the Woldan Collection, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna (Sammlung Woldan, K-IV: OE/Gal 229, [1-49]).

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1824, this map was reedited and published in slightly modified form by the quartermaster general’s staff. Petra S vatek See also: Geodetic Surveying: Austrian Monarchy; Society of Jesus (Rome) Bibliograp hy Dörflinger, Johannes. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Kretschmer, Ingrid. 1986. “Liesganig, Joseph.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 1:448. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. Liesganig, Joseph. 1768. “Extract of a Letter . . . Containing a Short Account of the Measurement of Three Degrees of Latitude under the Meridian of Vienna.” Philosophical Transactions 58:15–16. Wawrik, Franz, and Elisabeth Zeilinger, eds. 1989. Austria Picta: Österreich auf alten Karten und Ansichten. Graz: Akademische Druckund Verlagsanstalt. Zeger, Josef. 1992. Die historische Entwicklung der staatlichen Vermessungsarbeiten (Grundlagenvermessungen) in Österreich, vol. 1, Verschiedene Arbeiten vom Altertum bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg. Vienna: Zeger.

Lomonosov, Mikhail Vasil’yevich. The Russian scientist, writer, and polymath, Mikhail Vasil’yevich Lomonosov, descendant of a fisherman, was born in 1711 in Denisovka (now Lomonosov in his honor), a village on an island in the Severnaya Dvina River. At seventeen he matriculated at the Slavyano-greko-latinskaya akademiya in Moscow and later studied in St. Petersburg at the Akademiya nauk. In 1736 he entered the University of Marburg in Hesse under the tutelage of Christian Wolff, an eminent German Enlightenment philosopher. Lomonosov also studied metallurgy and mining in Freiberg, beginning in 1739. Upon his return to Russia in 1741, he rose rapidly to distinction at the Akademiya nauk. Lomonosov’s scientific exploits are well documented. Less appreciated are his literary and cartographic contributions. Eager to improve Russian education, he joined his patron Ivan Ivanovich Shuvalov in founding Moskovskiy gosudarstvennyy universitet (the state university later named after Lomonosov) in 1755. In 1758, Lomonosov became the head of Geograficheskiy departament of the Akademiya nauk. His chief task was to reinvigorate the collection of geographical information after the end of Peter I’s surveys in the 1740s and the closure of the naval academy, Morskaya akademiya, in the 1750s. In a 1757 directive, Lomonosov called for a revision of the 1745 Atlas Rossiyskoy based on the collection of new material. To help with the task, the Holy Synod, Svyateyshiy pravitel’stvuyushchiy sinod, supplied fresh descriptions of monasteries and churches, and the senate updated information on villages and their

inhabitants (Perevoshchikov 1854, 30–84). Russian districts and provinces returned detailed questionnaires on their natural habitats and economic geographies. By 1766 the Geograficheskiy departament had gathered four volumes of data covering half the country. Lomonosov’s chief contributions were in the area of geographical compilation. He insisted on high empirical standards; he wanted hypothetical material excluded. To make surveyors accountable, he ordered that all the materials used in constructing a map be appended to the map. In a 1763 essay on the origins of the geography department, he argued that mapmakers should have access to census registries so that they could “distinguish villages on the basis of size,” and be able to include on maps only the largest villages (1842, 112). In Novy reglament Akademii nauk of 1764, he urged a systematic update of maps every twenty years, a prescient idea finally implemented in Russia when the corps of military topographers, Korpus voennykh topografov, first began to update its old surveys in the 1860s. Despite Lomonosov’s ambitions, the actual production in the Geograficheskiy departament during his tenure was modest. Lomonosov made only one map; his manuscript northern circumpolar map, the socalled tsirkumpolyarnaya karta in “Kratkoye opisaniye raznykh puteshestviy severnym moryam” (1763), illustrates Lomonosov’s belief in the navigability of the polar regions (fig. 440). The map was compiled in two manuscript copies, one of which survives. Lomonosov also oversaw the restoration of the huge Gottorp globe by a team of German masters in 1747. This globe-planetarium with diameter of 3.1 meters and weight of 3.5 tons was originally constructed for Frederick III, duke of Holstein-Gottorp, and was kept at his castle near Schleswig (Lühning 1997). It was painted inside as a celestial sphere (see fig. 163) and outside as a terrestrial globe. It was provided with a door leading inside and it rotated once per day by means of a water wheel. In 1713, Frederik III presented his ally Peter I with this globe, and in 1717 Peter I placed it near his summer palace at St. Petersburg. In 1726, the globe was transferred to the Kuntskamera and in 1747 it was burned during the great fire. But the description of the globe survived in the Akademiya nauk, which provided the opportunity for Lomonosov to reconstruct it and update its contents. In March 1765, while continuing his work in the Geograficheskiy departament at St. Petersburg, Lomonosov caught a cold and died the following month. Alexey V. Postnikov See also: Geographical Mapping: Russia Bibliography Gnucheva, V. F. 1946. Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka. Ed. A. I. Andreyev. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Goldenberg, L. A. 1976. “Geograficheskiy departament Akademii

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Fig. 440. FACSIMILE OF MIKHAIL VASIL’YEVICH LOMONOSOV’S 1763 CIRCUMPOLAR MAP BY K. BREYTSHREKHER. Printed as a photo-metallotype reproduction by the Glavnoye Gidrograficheskoye Upravleniye (Central Hydrographic Administration) in 1911.

Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya natsional’naya biblioteka, St. Petersburg.

nauk i sozdaniye pervogo Akademicheskogo atlasa (1739–1799 gg.).” In Ocherki istorii geograficheskoy nauki v SSSR, 47–60. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Lomonosov, Mikhail Vasil’yevich. 1842. “Kratkoye pokazaniye o proiskhozhdeniyakh Akademicheskago Geograficheskago departamenta.” Moskvityanin 3:110–16. Lühning, Felix. 1997. Der Gottorfer Globus und das Globushaus im “Newen Werck.” Vol. 4 of Gottorf im Glanz des Barock: Kunst und Kultur am Schleswiger Hof, 1544–1713. Schleswig: SchleswigHolsteinisches Landesmuseum. Perevoshchikov, D. M. 1854. “Geodezicheskiye i topograficheskiye

raboty v Rossii.” Magazin Zemlevedeniya i Puteshestviya: Geograficheskiy Sbornik 3:30–84. Postnikov, Alexey V. 1986–87. “Geografiya i kartografiya v tvorchestve M. V. Lomonosova.” Nauki o Zemle 7:8–25.

Longitude and Latitude. In defining and describing the spherical geometry of both the heavens and the earth, longitude and latitude lay at the heart of early modern cosmography. The principles for determining both were

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laid out in the Renaissance and had been successfully implemented for latitude, but adequate techniques for determining longitude proved maddeningly elusive. For anyone with a degree of cosmographical sensibility— and Europe’s educated were steeped in cosmography by means of the didactic “doctrine of the sphere” (Dekker 2002)—the longitude problem was an intellectual itch that cried out to be scratched. A reliable means to determine longitude promised to complete cosmography, to perfect both geographical and marine mapping, and to bring safety to marine navigation. By 1650, government ministers and officials in Britain and France saw the inability to determine longitude at sea as a fundamental impediment to the future development of overseas trade and naval power. They accordingly founded new institutions, each directed to seek solutions, starting with new scientific societies and astronomical observatories: the Académie des sciences (1666) and the Paris Observatory (1671); the Royal Society (1660) in London and the Greenwich Observatory (1675). At the same time, the expansion of public discourse transformed the longitude problem from a research agenda pursued by mathematical practitioners, often seeking social advancement and government reward, into something of a cultural obsession. The history of the eventual solution to determining longitude at sea, by the use of either chronometers or the method of lunar distances to compare local with standard time, was already laid down in the eighteenth century, for example, in Esprit Pezenas’s Histoire critique de la découverte des longitudes (1775; see Boistel 2002, 116–18), and it has been repeated and refined ever since. In the twentieth century, historians of cartography have tended to simplify the narrative to emphasize the successful development of the chronometer; the power of this narrative was made apparent when Dava Sobel’s Longitude (1995), her popular account of John Harrison’s invention of the marine chronometer, became a surprise bestseller and then a television miniseries (2000). Yet there was much more to the matter of longitude, even of latitude, than either narrative can admit. The quest to solve the longitude problem had terrestrial as well as maritime implications, and solutions did not necessarily apply to both (Andrewes 1996b; Dunn and Higgitt 2014). Moreover, navigational practices had developed without the benefit of longitude determination, so that although by the eighteenth century mariners willingly adopted cosmographical solutions for determining latitude, marine navigation remained a pragmatic process that did not actually need directly observed longitudes. Thus, navigational treatises, such as Pierre Bouguer’s Nouveau traité de navigation (1753) or John Robertson’s The Elements of Navigation (1754), as well as accounts of the work of state-sponsored and

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well-educated observers, presented the most refined techniques that were not necessarily followed by all observers (Boistel 1999). It took a long time for each workable solution for longitude to be widely adopted, and alternative solutions continued to be promoted. In the meantime, hydrographers could progressively update their charts with land-based observations so that other mariners could use them in conjunction with the new methods of longitude determination. This entry therefore first examines the two cosmographical practices that were successfully implemented before 1700: the determination at sea and on land of latitude and then, on land only, of longitude from Jupiter’s satellites. It then considers the vexed issue of longitude in relation to sea navigation and land travel; the new forms of publicity, especially in Britain, that led to the offering of prizes and the establishment of the Board of Longitude (1714), which further stimulated the proposal of both workable and impossible solutions; the development and adoption of new instruments and observational techniques that allowed mariners and land travelers to readily determine their longitude; and, finally, the slow and tentative adoption of new techniques. (The calculation of latitude and longitude, whether at sea by dead reckoning or on land through triangulation networks or itineraries, is considered in entries on navigation, geodetic surveying, and geographical mapping.) Determination of Latitude Three basic methods were used after 1650 to determine latitude; JosephBernard, marquis de Chabert (1753, 183–85), provides a detailed example of each. Eighteenth-century improvements to techniques, instruments, and tables meant that each underwent significant refinement. Mariners were especially interested in determining latitude because of the oceanic practice of latitude sailing in which ships first sailed due north or south to the latitude of the intended destination and then due east or west to port. Latitude observations were also important on land. Practices thus varied between observers on land and at sea and between surveyors attempting precise determinations or voyagers making observations en route. The first method, pursued since antiquity, was to measure the altitude (angular height above the horizon) of Polaris; this technique gave rise to the common early modern practice of referring to latitudes as “heights.” The altitude of Polaris is not directly equivalent to the observer’s latitude, however, because that star is not located precisely at the north celestial pole. The necessary correction factor, which could amount to as much as three degrees, could be approximated from the position of the “guard stars” in Ursa Minor, or measured by a nocturnal (Bennett 1987, 77–79). These imprecisions and the method’s further limitations—Polaris cannot be

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seen properly in low latitudes nor at all in the Southern Hemisphere—led mariners to entirely abandon the method by the 1730s. On land and in the Northern Hemisphere, however, astronomers and careful surveyors continued to observe Polaris, and they used a more precise method to determine the correction factor, by solving the spherical triangle formed by the celestial pole, Polaris, and the guard stars. James Bradley, for example, made this calculation repeatedly in his exhaustive observations to determine the latitude of Greenwich Observatory (published in an article by Nevil Maskelyne in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of London in 1787). The second solution had first been developed in the fifteenth century to determine latitude when Polaris could not be used and featured the measurement of the sun’s altitude at local noon as it transited the meridian. By the 1730s, this had become the standard technique for mariners: latitude is readily calculated with some simple arithmetic using only the sun’s declination (celestial latitude), as read from a table, and its observed altitude. But clouds can obscure the sun, and it is difficult to know just when the sun is at its zenith; the latter situation became a problem as mariners adopted ever more precise instruments in conjunction with more precise tables of declination. Furthermore, the creation of watches with regular movements and one-second precision enabled a variant technique known today as “double altitudes and elapsed time”: the sun’s altitude is measured, at the observer’s pleasure, before and after noon, along with the intervening time. Nicholas Facio de Duillier proposed this technique in London in 1716 and, by 1740, Cornelis Douwes was circulating a successful implementation of the technique in manuscript to other mariners in Amsterdam. Douwes’s work was translated into English by Richard Harrison in 1759 and then developed by Robertson in the second edition of his Elements of Navigation (1764) and others (Taylor 1966, 32, 117–18, 189, 233, 259). Although the method required some complex calculations, especially if the observer was moving, as was likely when at sea, it was increasingly adopted later in the eighteenth century (Tattersall 1987). The third technique of determining latitude applied the method of observing solar altitudes to measuring the altitudes of known stars. However, the necessary stellar declinations were generally not listed in common mariners’ tables, only in the Connoissance des temps (from 1690) or The Nautical Almanac (from 1767), so this technique seems to have been used only by observers on land. By the end of the eighteenth century, Douwes’s method was also being applied to stars. The determination of latitude was made ever more accurate by several refinements. Mariners had traditionally measured altitudes of the sun and stars with either

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the back staff or the older cross staff. The increasing adoption, after 1731, of octants and sextants with much greater precision than the back staff required still more precise tables (Bennett 1987, 130–34). New tables were better calibrated to mariners’ needs, as when the 1781 edition of Nevil Maskelyne’s Tables Requisite to be Used with the Nautical Ephemeris for Finding the Latitude and Longitude at Sea included new logarithmic tables that significantly eased the working of double solar altitudes (Tattersall 1987). Furthermore, the finer measurements provided by new instruments were susceptible to subtle errors arising from the refraction of the sun’s or of stars’ rays through the atmosphere, the dip of the horizon as it curves away and down from the observer, and the magnitude of celestial objects (especially the sun). Careful observers, like Chabert, adjusted for these multiple sources of error. Finally, land-based observers with sufficient time could make multiple observations and average the results. By the end of the eighteenth century, the latitudes of astronomical observatories were being fixed to within 2″; skilled navigators could determine their latitude to 1′. Determination of Longitude from Jupiter’s Satellites Because the difference in local time between two places equates directly to their longitudinal difference, the latter can be determined by timing the same celestial event from both locations. Such observations had been made of lunar eclipses since antiquity and achieved some regularity in the sixteenth century (Portuondo 2009). However, lunar eclipses were too difficult to measure at sea, and they were too infrequent for routine use even on land. The four moons, or satellites, of Jupiter discovered in 1610 by Galileo Galilei were quickly identified as an appropriate replacement for lunar eclipses (although astronomers continued to observe lunar eclipses whenever they could). First, the eclipses (occultations) of Jupiter’s moons as they passed behind (immersion) or emerged from behind (emersion) the planet’s body were much more frequent: Io, the first of the four Galilean moons, orbits Jupiter in just 42.5 hours, although planetary alignments and the earth’s own rotation mean that observable eclipses occur only once per week, on average. Second, the satellites’ motions proved relatively constant, so that the times of future eclipses could be reliably predicted and tabulated; an observer in the field would then be able to compare the local time of an eclipse with that predicted for the same eclipse as seen from an observatory. Galileo himself spent several years in an unsuccessful search for support, first from the Spanish government (1612–30) and then the Dutch (1636–40), to underwrite the work required to bring both telescopes and tables to the necessary degree of perfection (Van Helden 1996, 88–92).

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The success of Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) at Bologna in producing a precise ephemeris (published 1668) for the eclipses led Colbert to recruit him in 1669 to head the new Paris Observatory, with the particular charge of developing his tables into a practicable method for determining longitude. Several members of the Académie des sciences undertook voyages to observe Jupiter’s satellites elsewhere: on Hven, in 1671–72, observed by Jean Picard; at Cayenne, in 1673, observed by Jean Richer; and then around the coasts of France, by Picard and others, in 1679–81. Back in Paris, their observations were compared to those undertaken simultaneously by Cassini  I to determine their longitudes retrospectively; among the results was the now famous 1684 map by Picard and Philippe de La Hire, published in 1693, that contrasted the coastline of France from Nicolas Sanson’s 1679 map, with the new, “corrected” coastline (see fig. 625). Cassini I also sent an expedition to Cape Verde, in 1681–82, to test the effectiveness of training nonastronomers in this new method; the success of that expedition led to Cassini I training a group of Jesuit missionaries who left for Thailand and China in 1685 (Hsia 1999). By 1690, Cassini I had so refined his tables and procedures that the Académie des sciences could begin to publish them in the Connoissance des temps. This annual ephemeris contained predictions for the eclipses of all four Galilean moons, although only the predictions for the first (Io) were considered sufficiently accurate to be useful. The ephemeris also included instructions addressed to the nonexpert for using them to find longitude (Van Helden 1996, 93–97, who quotes the instructions given in 1773). By comparison, the efforts of the astronomers at Greenwich were rather haphazard: they produced a variety of tables for the satellites’ predicted eclipses, but only intermittently (Van Helden 1996, 97– 100). The Paris astronomers continued to refine the tables throughout the remainder of the century, a process helped by the continued refinement of knowledge of the earth’s size and shape. Armed with the Connoissance des temps or other tables, an observer could determine longitude on the spot, with respect to Paris. The observer needed only a quadrant to determine local time by observing the sun or stars, a good pendulum clock with which to hold that local time, and a long (up to 15–18 ft; 4.5–5.5 m) telescope with which to observe the eclipse itself. Reports of observations of the eclipses appeared throughout the eighteenth century in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society and the Memoires of the Académie des sciences, constantly testing the tables against simultaneous observations. However, good determinations of longitude were in practice difficult to achieve. At sea, the problems of observing the moons of Ju-

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piter onboard ship proved insuperable. Telescopes with sufficient magnification were initially just too long and unwieldy; the magnification necessary to see the moons made the field of view too small to keep focused on the satellite while the ship heaved about. Several attempts were made to stabilize the telescope. Galileo had tried to develop a celatone, a special headgear that would stabilize motion, to which a telescope would be fitted (Van Helden 1996, 91). On land, the process remained cumbersome and the instruments delicate, so it was difficult for travelers and surveyors to use it en route with any degree of accuracy. The large pendulum clocks used to hold the time had to be set up and properly calibrated, so astronomers or surveyors could undertake the necessary observations only when they remained in one location for a period of time. Once the pendulum clocks were set up, observers could time multiple eclipses over a long period and then average the results in order to correct for the unquantifiable errors known to persist in the tables and produce a reliable value. For example, James Horsburgh determined the longitude of the esplanade at Bombay from sixteen observations made over three months in 1803 (Edney 1997, 87–90) (table 2). The still few astronomical observatories in Europe undertook extensive series of observations, both to determine their longitude and to help refine the tables. Simultaneous observations of the times of eclipses, at both the observatory and in the field, were always to be preferred in order to avoid using the ephemerides. The net result was that most terrestrial places, including the ports and headlands important to navigation, remained without a precise check on their longitude. Yet the few fixes made were sufficient, by 1800, to dramatically reshape the small-scale world map well before new marine methods could be widely deployed to resurvey the world’s coastlines. Longitude and Navigation Although historians have tended to emphasize the quest to determine longitude at sea, and despite the manner in which marine navigation would in the nineteenth century come to rely upon longitude measurement, the utility of longitude for navigation was actually debated throughout the eighteenth century. The need for an easy and accurate method to determine longitude at sea seemed obvious to natural philosophers and mathematical practitioners, who wanted to reform navigation according to cosmographical principles, and to explorers, who wanted to place new lands accurately on the earth’s surface; a workable solution would simultaneously allow for much better charts and much safer and more efficient navigation. Yet many active pilots saw longitude as an expensive luxury: it would be useful only so long as it was easy to find, but it was not worth spending time or

Longitude and Latitude

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Table 2. James Horsburgh’s observations of Jupiter’s satellites to determine the longitude of the Bombay esplanade from Greenwich, 1803 (Edney 1997, 88–89) Observed local time of eclipse of one of Jupiter’s moons

Jan Feb

Mar

Apr

23 30 1 8 11 18 22 24 25 4 26 28 2 4 13 27

Corresponding Greenwich time (Delambre’s tables)

Longitude with respect to Greenwich

Time difference

h

m

s

h

m

s

h

m

s

°

′

14 16 10 12 10 12 16 11 15 18 15 9 7 11 8 11

31 24 52 46 23 57 33 2 31 5 20 47 3 41 4 52

10.5 40 57 34 35 26 52 20.5 25 16 7 39 34 32 1 35

9 11 6 7 5 8 11 6 10 13 10 4 2 6 3 7

40 33 1 55 31 5 42 11 39 13 26 55 11 49 12 0

2 33 52 26 48 34 47 16 34 47 51 22 22 28 9 45

4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4

51 51 51 51 51 51 51 51 51 51 53 52 52 52 51 51

8.5 7 5 8 47 52 5 4.5 51 29 16 17 12 4 52 50

72 72 72 72 72 72 72 72 72 72 73 73 73 73 72 72

47.125 46.75 46.25 47 55.75 58 46.25 46.125 57.75 52.25 19 4 3 1 58 57.5

maximum minimum range mean

money on, especially since the usual practice of latitude sailing mitigated any problems that occurred from longitude errors (Chapuis 1999, 46–50). However, the debate is historiographically lopsided, given that most mariners did not publish their arguments, and we are left to infer their position from the record of their actual practices. Reformers argued that knowing the longitude would have two major benefits: it would help mariners know how close to land they were, and it would help them plot better courses. Without correct knowledge both of his own longitude and that of his destination, the mariner could not know how close he was to land, and he risked shipwreck by coming across land unexpectedly. The potential for disaster was only exacerbated by storms, which limited both visibility and maneuverability. Accounts of such disasters abound, most famously when much of Sir Cloudesley Shovell’s fleet ran aground in the Scilly Islands in 1707, killing some 800 people and prompting investigations and recriminations, most of which focused on the weather and his lack of due care (Andrewes 1996a, 207). Knowledge of the longitude would not have actually helped Shovell’s fleet. After all, the general problem was with mariners being

73°19′ 72°46′7″ 32′42″ 72°57′14″

driven onto land by high winds in a storm or misjudging the entrance to a harbor; even in the early nineteenth century, the ability to find longitude at sea did not noticeably reduce shipwrecks. Nonetheless, reformers later used Shovell’s wreck to dramatize the need for a longitude prize. Longitude, they argued, was especially important when close to land, not in the open sea, and indeed the British longitude prize would specify that the greatest danger lay within eighty miles of land. Implicit in this argument was that a solution to longitude would lead to the necessary resurveying of the world’s coastlines and the perfection of marine charts and geographical maps. The danger of running unexpectedly into land was widely acknowledged. What was disputed was the preferred solution. Navigators themselves generally suggested keeping a good watch; moreover, they often systematically overestimated the distances traveled, so as not to reach land unaware, and made sure that they were at the correct latitude for their destination well before they expected to sight land. Such pragmatic solutions sufficed for most journeys. Some routes, however, were particularly dangerous. Cape Horn’s winds and currents made the calculation of a ship’s position noto-

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riously difficult, as attested by the famous near wreck of George Anson’s flotilla in 1741. The steady expansion of trade with the East Indies led to the development of new shipping routes that were much more dependent on knowing longitude: the hazards included barely visible reefs, and the standard routes called for course changes in the middle of the ocean rather than within sight of an island. Travel in the South Atlantic, for example, required correctly setting up course changes out of sight of land to round the Cape of Good Hope. And once round that cape, British ships headed for China would be expected to travel out of sight of land almost to Australia before turning northward at the correct point, all without a visible sign. While the point could be determined by dead reckoning, the ability to determine longitude easily would be useful in such circumstances to identify exactly when to shift course (Cook 1985, 189; 2006, 76). Furthermore, reformers hoped that if navigators could find longitude at sea, then they could plot efficient courses. They could abandon the inefficiencies of latitude sailing and instead sail direct courses along great circles. The resultant shorter voyages would reduce the likelihood both of navigational catastrophe and of outbreaks of typhus and scurvy (Ashley 2001). Knowledge of longitude would also allow a ship to take a less predictable course in order to avoid pirates or other enemies who would lie in wait along the principal sea routes. Moreover, it would mean that mariners would never again be lost at sea. In the case of Anson’s ill-fated voyage, after rounding Cape Horn he spent eleven days searching for the island of Juan Fernandez. Initially judging that they were already west of the island, they ran east for several days, only discovering their mistake on sighting the inhospitable coast of the mainland; retracing their path consumed over a week, while dozens of men died of scurvy. The problem lay partly in Anson’s inability to find longitude and partly in the erroneous information they had about island’s actual longitude. A reliable method of finding longitude, and its use in resurveying the world’s coasts, would eventually eliminate both sources of error. But cases like Anson’s were rare. In practice, most ships followed well-defined routes, and the routes were determined by patterns of wind and currents, the needs of convoys, and experience (Cook 2006, 78). Setting out for untried routes was widely seen as too risky for all but a few dedicated, state-sponsored mariners such as James Cook and Jean-François de Lapérouse (whose expedition famously disappeared in the southern Pacific in 1788). Indeed, the major marine surveying expeditions of the eighteenth century were actually enabled by the new techniques for determining longitude. In short, the ability to determine longitude at sea would be extremely

Longitude and Latitude

useful for exploration and surveying and for naval vessels needing to depart from the usual shipping lanes, but it promised little immediate advantage for day-to-day navigation. The result was a marked divide. On the one hand, a passionate coterie of cosmographers and geographers, who had the ear of courtiers and politicians, worked with an excited public to push for state sponsorship of the solution to the determination of longitude at sea— whether directly through the establishment of the royal observatories or indirectly through various prizes—in order to promote the state’s interests in marine trade and naval power. Finding longitude offered substantial benefits for cartography, for boundary determination, and perhaps for diplomacy. It offered a chance to show the utility of science, to strike it rich, and to win an international competition. And while it was not necessarily the most cost-effective way of improving navigation, it promised eventual benefits for practical navigation as well. On the other hand, the skepticism of navigators showed in the slow acceptance of the new techniques and instruments when they were successfully developed. Despite great efforts from states and the companies, it took a generation or more for the new methods to be widely adopted. Publicity: Prizes, Crazes, and Institutions Interest in solving the longitude problem was stimulated in part by formal prizes and in part by the expectation that a method for finding longitude would earn the author a generous pension. Spain was at the forefront in offering rewards, and, as a result, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries almost every major cosmographer working in Spain’s dominions put forward some form of longitude proposal; many of the proposals survive in the archives of the Casa de la Contratación in Seville, and several were tried at sea but none achieved notable success. The Dutch also encouraged work on a solution. It is not surprising that Galileo would look to both states in order to monetize his plans to find longitude by using Jupiter’s satellites (Howse 1980, 10–13; Turner 1996, 117–18). After 1650, state support of research into the longitude problem would feed, and be reciprocally fed by, the desire of a newly emergent “public” to pronounce on matters of state policy and cultural practice. The expansion of the public marketplace for specialized information is evident from Christiaan Huygens’s books explaining the pendulum clocks he designed for shipboard use: whereas he addressed and distributed both his Horologivm (1658) and his Horologivm oscillatorivm (1673) to small scientific and political elites, to establish the priority of his ideas and to encourage their financial support of his work, he substantially expanded the later

Longitude and Latitude

work in order to appeal to a more indeterminate public, or at least to those who were interested in horology and cosmography and could afford such an expensive work (Howard 2008). The interplay of politics, science, and public pressure was most pronounced in Britain. In 1657, Henry Bond had resurrected the idea that variations in the earth’s magnetic field could be used to determine longitude, and the idea was very quickly picked up by the Royal Society after its founding in 1660. The Society’s interest in an astronomical solution and in Huygens’s clocks prompted a broader public expression of interest, in what might be called the first longitude craze. Bond’s continued proselytizing for a magnetic solution and his 1673 dedication of tables of both declination and inclination to Charles II led the king to form an official committee to assess his claims in conjunction with another committee established in response to a private appeal by an otherwise unknown Frenchman, the Sieur de St. Pierre, who pushed for the method of lunar distances. The result of these committees was the creation of the Greenwich Observatory in 1675, specifically to undertake the work necessary to implement the lunar method (Forbes 1975, 15–16, 18–24; Howse 1980, 24–30; Bennett 1985). The observatory’s formation stimulated yet more pamphlets written by projectors who claimed to have solved the longitude problem to the point that they were satirized in 1688 by an anonymous author who suggested that Digby’s sympathy powder could be harnessed to cause a dog to bark at preselected times, establishing simultaneity, and therefore a method for measuring time differences (Ashley 2001, 155–72). This round of public fervor led Thomas Axe to provide in his will for £1,000 to reward the development of a method whereby men “of mean capacity” could find longitude at sea to within half a degree. Although Axe seems to have been convinced that the problem of longitude was all but solved, no claims were ever paid out after his death in 1691, perhaps because the terms of the will required affidavits from twenty shipmasters who had used the method at sea (Turner 1996, 120–23, 129). England was not alone in such projects; in France, in early 1714, the Parliamentary counsel Rouillé de Meslay endowed a prize to be awarded by the Académie des sciences. He died in 1716, and thereafter the Académie set occasional questions for the prize related to finding longitude; the prize offered, however, was not large, generally 2,000 livres (or about £100), and was more often on adjacent subjects (such as questions of celestial mechanics) rather than on longitude per se. In the 1760s and 1770s several questions were set on the best way of finding time at sea, but there was difficulty in establishing adequate testing at sea, and the Académie wound up adjudicating between the chronometers of

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Ferdinand Berthoud and Pierre Le Roy (below) rather than establishing new lines of research (Chapin 1990, 90–91, 103–6). In Britain, the public fervor was seized upon by projectors, culminating in the institution of a longitude prize. Motivated by the disaster of Shovell’s 1707 shipwreck, William Whiston and Humphrey Ditton developed a completely new solution to the longitude. They proposed to anchor a network of hulks at fixed points throughout the ocean, or at least near the major shipping lanes; at a specified time, each crew would set off a firework, precalibrated to explode at 6,440 feet; ships could then use the timing and location of these fireworks to fix their position relative to the nearest hulk. The practical difficulties of such a method were daunting and, although Whiston would subsequently spend many years to develop fireworks and a sea anchor to fix the ships in place, no one seriously sought to implement their ideas. But Whiston and Ditton were successful in their agitation for the establishment of a state-sponsored prize, which they expected to win. They petitioned parliament in 1714, emphasizing the need to extend Britain’s naval capabilities. The committee appointed to review the petition called on several astronomers and concluded that while none of the methods yet proposed was likely to be workable, an open and substantial prize would still be worthwhile (Howse 1980, 48–49; Gingerich 1996, 142–44). The resultant Longitude Act (1714) featured truly substantial prizes: £10,000 to reward the finding of longitude to within one degree, £15,000 to within 40′, and the full reward of £20,000 to within 30′. Further, interim awards could also be made to encourage research. Proposals were to be evaluated and awards made by a group of commissioners, including the first lord of the Admiralty, the speaker of the House of Commons, the president of the Royal Society, the astronomer royal, and the Lucasian, Plumian, and Savilian professors at Cambridge and Oxford, who would come to be known collectively as the Board of Longitude. Half of an award was to be given when the Board was convinced that a method was workable “within Eighty Geographical Miles of the shores, which are the Places of greatest Danger”; the other half was to be given only after a sea trial (Howse 1980, 50–53; Stewart 1992, 186–92; Schiavon 2012). The Board came to interpret the act’s ambiguous requirement that a method be “Practicable and Useful at Sea,” as meaning that the prize was intended to replace the monopoly that would otherwise be expected from such an achievement. The Board would accordingly rule that a technique was not truly practicable as a solution if only one person or workshop could successfully produce it. Rather, to gain the prize, an inventor had to publish the method and train his com-

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petitors. (The French regent in 1716 also offered a large prize of 100,000 livres, but it was never awarded and the money may never have been made available; Chapin 1990, 118n30.) The most immediate effect of the huge prizes offered by the 1714 Act was to turn Britain “longitude mad,” as Dr. James Lind would put it in 1765 when the first large award to Harrison reawoke public interest (Taylor 1966, 58). No fewer than twenty-six pamphlets on the longitude problem were published in London between 1714 and 1726 (Turner 1996, 131–32) and were widely advertised in the daily and weekly press (Wigelsworth 2008). Most of these early suggestions were simply recodifications of well-known principles, their authors hoping that they could reap some of the expected reward. For example, several explained that longitude could be found with a sufficiently accurate clock, but omitted discussion of how to build it, or by the motions of the moon, once someone else had determined its motion and had calculated the necessary tables. Other works offered ways of simplifying calculations, improving dead reckoning, and measuring distances, though they rarely went beyond what could commonly be found in navigation textbooks. Would-be recipients of the prize also directly petitioned members of the Board and others, notably Isaac Newton, sought to circumvent the Board’s open policy and so secure a monopoly patent from the Crown. While most proposals were simply naïve restatements of established cosmography, some were bizarre. For example, Isaac Hawkins suggested the use of a barometer to find the local high tide even while at sea, which he thought would give the position of the moon and so the longitude, while another method suggested that the difference between time told from the sun and time told from the stars would give longitude (Stewart 1992, 192–202; Gingerich 1996). Most of these proposals vanished immediately into obscurity, despite complaints of collusion and bias by their authors. But they were also the subject of public ridicule. Much of this was political in nature. Tory and High Anglican commentators were opposed to natural philosophers generally for their materialistic leanings and their skeptical dismissal of dogma, and to Whiston in particular for his denial of the Trinity. Thus, John Arbuthnot complained that Whiston’s proposal had spoiled his own intended satire that, because there was “no pole for East & west,” the European states should join together to “build two prodigious poles upon high mountains with a vast Light house to serve for a pole Star” (Stewart 1992, esp. 192; Olson 1983, 179). Arbuthnot’s collaborator, Jonathan Swift, in the third of his Drapier’s Letters (1724), compared finding the longitude to the equally impossible philosopher’s stone or perpetual motion; more generally, Swift argued that the

Longitude and Latitude

Fig. 441. DETAIL OF THE “LONGITUDE MADMAN.” From the first state of William Hogarth’s print of scene eight (in Bedlam, London’s insane asylum) of his “Rake’s Progress” (London, 1735), showing the “longitude madman” and his attempted solution, complete with William Whiston’s exploding mortars. Etching and engraving on paper. Size of the entire original: 34.6 × 38.7 cm; size of detail: ca. 14.5 × 11.0 cm. Dallas Museum of Art, Texas, USA/Foundation for the Arts, the Alfred and Juanita Bromberg Collection, bequest of Juanita K. Bromberg/Bridgeman Images.

pursuit of natural philosophy led to madness and the same radical enthusiasms that lead to revolutions (Olson 1983, 186–87). But criticism of the popular craze for longitude was not necessarily politically motivated. Most famously, when the Whig-leaning William Hogarth depicted the lunatic asylum of Bedlam in the last painting of his “Rake’s Progress” series (1733), he included a madman obsessively trying to solve the longitude problem (fig. 441); the diagrams he drew on the wall include a Whiston- and Ditton-style mortar firing off high-flying ordnance (Kuhn 1984, 50–52). Even so, the huge prizes of the 1714 Act did encourage more practical solutions. The Board of Longitude did not actually meet or allocate money until 1737, when John Harrison’s work on a marine chronometer had started to promise an eventual solution. Thereafter, until 1765, almost all of the Board’s awards went either

Longitude and Latitude

to John Harrison directly, to help fund his researches, or to fund trials of his chronometers; the remainder went to testing Nevil Maskelyne’s competing technology of lunar distances. In the process, the problem of longitude became less of a public obsession. Hogarth recognized this profound change of cultural status when, in 1763, he altered the engraved version of his Bedlam scene: he largely obliterated the longitude madman’s mural by adding a large halfpenny on which appeared a windblown Britannia, perhaps as a statement of the poor state of the nation. By 1765 the Board had exhausted its funds and needed to return to Parliament both for operating funds and, now that sea trials had been successfully accomplished, for awards to be made to Harrison (£10,000) and to Tobias Mayer’s widow for his work on lunar tables (£3,000) (Barrett 2011). These awards led to suspicions of a direct conflict between the two leading methods for finding longitude at sea and to accusations that the astronomers on the Board were biased against Harrison and his chronometers. The ensuing controversy lasted for years, until Harrison directly petitioned the king, resulting in a further payment of £8,750 by a special act of Parliament in 1774. The Board continued to give smaller awards, most notably for improvements in chronometers, and it also funded a variety of expeditions, both to test the various methods and to observe the longitudes (using Jupiter’s satellites) of the various places used in the trials in England and in the Caribbean. It also paid for instruments and salaries to send astronomers along on voyages, with instructions to test various possible methods, and it was involved in James Cook’s second and third voyages (1772–80), Constantine John Phipps’s arctic voyage (1773), George Vancouver’s voyage to the Pacific Northwest (1791–95), and Matthew Flinders’s survey of Australia in 1801–5, among others. In 1818, a further act gave the Board responsibility for finding a Northwest Passage. Ultimately, the Board was dissolved by Act of Parliament on 15 July 1828, declared to be no longer useful, and the prize officially ended. The Board had spent a total of £157,000 between 1714 and 1828: 33 percent on rewards, a little less on publications, 15 percent on expeditions for trials, and the remainder on other expenses such as paying a secretary and reimbursing travel expenses for members (Howse 1998). Determination of Longitude by Magnetic Var i a tion A potential nonastronomical solution to determining longitude at sea was developed as a spinoff from attempts to model terrestrial magnetism. If the spatial pattern of variation in the earth’s magnetic field could be defined, observations in the field of magnetic variation and one global coordinate, latitude, should

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permit the discovery of the other coordinate, longitude. Magnetic variation itself was readily observable in the form of declination, the difference between magnetic and geographic north. As instruments became more sensitive in the eighteenth century, it also became possible to measure inclination, i.e., the dip of the magnetic field. Latitude was, of course, also readily observable. Longitude could therefore be determined; only a sufficiently good model of terrestrial magnetism was lacking. Natural philosophers had proposed models of terrestrial magnetism throughout the early modern era. In the 1590s, for example, Petrus Plancius had argued that declination was zero along four meridians—the first through the Azores (his 0° meridian), and three others—between which declination varied in a consistent, if complex, manner. Plancius created a special device to solve the spherical trigonometry necessary to determine longitude, which was field-tested by the Verenigde OostIndische Compagnie (VOC) in 1595. But grounded as they were in minimal observations, such models proved inadequate to the task and were abandoned early in the 1600s (Davids 1990, 281–85; Jonkers 2003, 56–61). The concept of using magnetism to determine longitude resurfaced with Henry Bond’s 1673 tables; when his proposal was rejected, Bond further specified the use of only magnetic inclination in his pretentiously titled The Longitude Found (1676); but, as Peter Blackborrow replied, in his The Longitude Not Found (1678), Bond’s model was grounded in too few observations to have any merit (Jonkers 2003, 88–89). One of Edmond Halley’s goals for his voyages to the South Atlantic in 1698–1701 was to make extensive and careful observations in order to perfect the model of terrestrial magnetism and so improve knowledge of the longitude. Combining his data with observations culled from the logs of ships in the East India trade, he made two maps in which he depicted the spatial pattern of magnetic variation by means of lines of constant declination (isogones). His map of the Atlantic was first published probably in 1701 (see fig. 348), that of most of the world in 1702; lack of data meant that he left the Pacific blank in the latter. Halley thought his Atlantic map sufficiently detailed to aid mariners in approximating their longitude. The map was published by the marine book and chart sellers Mount and Page and was accompanied by a brief explanation that was intended to be added to its sides; indeed, in this form, the map would be reprinted throughout the century in The English Pilot, the Fourth Book (fig. 442). As Halley explained in this extra text, the mariner could use the chart to “estimate” the longitude: where the isogones ran north-south and close together, as near the Cape of Good Hope, they would permit mariners to gauge

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their longitudinal distance from land; Halley admitted, however, that between Europe and the West Indies, the isogones ran predominantly east-west and so did not change sufficiently quickly to provide a check on dead reckoning. Finally, Halley noted that the pattern of isogones would inevitably shift as the earth’s magnetism varied, and Mount and Page would indeed alter the isogones in later editions of the map (Thrower 1981, 29–66, 365–70). It has been argued that Halley first defined the curve of each isogone as a complex polynomial equation (Murray and Bellhouse 2017). Even if Halley laboriously did so, rather than simply interpolating the curves by eye, there can be little expectation that the map’s later, less mathematically competent editors followed the same process. The supposition that Halley used his own model of global magnetism to extend the isogones on his maps beyond his data points does seem likely. Halley was not the last natural philosopher to collect information on magnetism or to try to model and map the earth’s magnetic field (Chapuis 1999, 58–62; Radelet-de Grave 2002; Jonkers 2003; Howarth 2003).

Observations were frequently published by both the Académie des sciences and the VOC and were increasingly represented cartographically as well. New observations by James Dodson and William Mountaine led to new world and Atlantic maps in 1744 and 1758, with Dutch copies also being published. Moreover, in the 1741 and 1768 revisions made to the VOC’s sailing directions, the company’s navigators were encouraged to use the charts of magnetic declination as a check on dead reckoning at designated points and so as an aid to determining when it was time to change course, much as they might use other local signs such as seaweed or birds. Evidence of the method continued to appear in ships’ journals until the late 1780s, when the VOC adopted the method of lunar distances (Davids 1990, 285– 90). Thus, despite early arguments that measurements of magnetic declination, or inclination, might be combined with observations of latitude to determine longitude precisely, eighteenth-century charts of terrestrial magnetism were used only as another check on the calculation of ships’ positions, and only so long as adequate techniques for determining longitude were not available. In

Fig. 442. DETAIL FROM A LATE VARIANT OF EDMOND HALLEY’S 1701 ISOGONIC MAP OF THE ATLANTIC. From The English Pilot, the Fourth Book (London: Mount and Page, 1773), showing part of the map and the attached letterpress panels explaining the map and its potential use in determining longitude. This explanation noted that the iso-

gones had been updated after further magnetic observations by James Dodson and William Mountaine, published in 1744. Size of the entire original: ca. 58 × 71 cm; size of detail: ca. 20.0 × 33.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OS-1773-4).

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Fig. 443. DETAIL OF THE NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN FROM JOHN CHURCHMAN’S MAP OF MAGNETIC VARIATION IN THE NORTHERN HEMISPHERE. From his An Explanation of the Magnetic Atlas (Philadelphia: Printed by James & Johnson, 1790). Note the novel projection of the hemisphere in a series of interrupted gores.

Size of the entire original: 75 × 66 cm; size of detail: ca. 22  ×  34 cm. By permission of the Pusey Map Library, Harvard University, Cambridge (QC814 .C55).

this respect, the arguments by the American land surveyor John Churchman, that the detailed maps of both declination and inclination in his An Explanation of the Magnetic Atlas, published in four editions on both sides of the Atlantic between 1790 and 1804 (fig. 443), could be used to find longitude stand as quite anachronistic (Jonkers 2003, 121–27).

of observatory and local time would thus provide the longitude (Howse 1996). Although the idea was simple enough, the practical problems were daunting. Even so, it had great conceptual appeal as a strictly astronomical procedure, and it continued to be developed, most notably by JeanBaptiste Morin. As already noted, the Greenwich Observatory was founded in 1675 specifically to conduct the work necessary to implement the method. The first part of this project required the precise definition of the locations of the fixed stars and was accomplished in large part by the first astronomer royal, John Flamsteed, with his star catalog, posthumously published in 1725. The second part of the project was the definition of the moon’s motion. It proved especially challenging to attain the necessary precision. To achieve a result to the nearest half-degree of longitude required that a combined error from the tables and field observations amount to no more than just one minute of arc. Part of the problem was solved by the steady improvement

Determination of Longitude by Lunar Distances Johann Werner is generally credited with explaining in 1514 how to find terrestrial longitude by using the moon’s motion against the fixed stars: if the moon’s motion is known sufficiently well, its predicted movement could be recorded in an ephemeris. The traveler, at sea or on land, would need to measure only the angular separation—or lunar distance—between the moon and the sun or a known star, without needing to wait for an eclipse. Tables would indicate the time at the observatory when the celestial object would be at the same distance from the moon. A comparison

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of instrumentation, and in particular by John Hadley’s development of a new reflecting quadrant. When tested at sea in 1732, it was found to be accurate to better than one minute of arc; thereafter, the quality of observing instruments continued to increase as the optics and the division of the graduated circles were steadily improved. The key problem remained a model of lunar motion. Understanding the moon’s motion was significantly aided by the 1687 publication of Newton’s theory of gravity, and Newton himself developed a theory to explain its motion in 1702 (Kollerstrom 2000). Halley, Flamsteed’s successor in Greenwich, set out to refine the lunar tables, but his observational skills were compromised by his age (he was sixty-six when, in 1722, he began an eighteen-year course of lunar observations). Bradley, appointed in 1742 as Halley’s successor at Greenwich, continued to make lunar observations that would eventually contribute to the solution. Furthermore, prizes offered in 1750 and 1752 by the Russian Akademiya nauk in Saint Petersburg, couched in terms to test Newton’s theories by considering lunar motion, stimulated several continental scholars to refocus attention on modeling lunar motion, but most were unable to overcome limited observations to achieve precision greater than three or five minutes of arc. Nonetheless, naval officer Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette and astronomer Nicolas-Louis de La Caille tested some imprecise tables of lunar distances on their voyage to the Cape of Good Hope in 1753–54, and in 1759 Le Caille published his methods and the associated tables in the Connoissance des temps for 1761. The necessary corrections for the theoretical models eventually came from the observational work of Mayer (Wepster 2010). Mayer sent his tables to London in 1755, and they were successfully tested at sea in 1761–62 by Nevil Maskelyne. Mayer completed still more accurate tables, which were tested first by Carsten Niebuhr in 1761 (Baack 2013), and then again by Maskelyne on his 1763–64 voyage to Barbados, when he also tested Harrison’s fourth chronometer. Maskelyne’s success with Mayer’s second tables, and with La Caille’s computational methods, led to the formal adoption of lunar distances by the Board of Longitude in 1765, which began to publish them in The Nautical Almanac in 1767; Mayer’s widow was awarded £3,000 by the Board for his share of the grand prize (Forbes 1975, 120–25; Sadler 1976; Howse 1980, 60–67; Boistel 2010, 151–53). Yet the process of using lunar distances in the field was complex. A pair of observers first needed to observe, almost simultaneously, the altitude of the moon, the altitude of the sun or a known star, and the lunar distance between the moon and the sun or star, all observations being timed and repeated several times to permit the means of all measured angles and times to be calculated.

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The altitude of the sun or star would give local time, by calculation. Once corrected for refraction and parallax, and reduced to the center of the moon and sun (if used), the lunar distance could be compared with the tables to define the apparent time at the observatory; comparison of this apparent time to the observers’ local time gave the difference in longitude. The many calculations took Maskelyne, on his field trials, up to four hours (Howse 1996, 155–58, gives a worked example). As astronomer royal after 1765, Maskelyne sought to simplify the method of lunar distances by precalculating as much of the problem as possible, thereby creating specialized tables rather than letting mariners struggle with general-purpose tables. The tables in The Nautical Almanac were progressively modified; after a couple of decades, careful table design and the provision of preprinted forms reduced the necessary calculations to about thirty minutes, rendering the method much more practical. Maskelyne hired several full-time computers, and over time they managed to increase the speed of production of new tables until the almanacs were routinely printed five years in advance and made available in multiple ports (Croarken 2003). The popularity of lunar distances was aided by the publication of preprinted forms outlining the complex steps (Howse 1996, 157), first produced in 1768 by Robert Bishop and in 1771 by Jean-Charles Borda, and by efforts to educate mariners (Boistel 2010, 153–57). The Board of Longitude set up a certificate system in 1769, which trained only fourteen people in the first two years; thereafter the Board bowed to complaints from experienced navigators and focused its efforts on training beginners (Schiavon 2012). By the 1790s, use of lunar distances was gaining ground, first in the East India Company and later in the Royal Navy, though it did not become routine until the nineteenth century, and even then there were continuing complaints that it was too difficult (Wess 2016). In the early years the lunar tables were, with Maskelyne’s cooperation, made available to the French for translation (Howse 1996, 156–57). Subsequently, the French astronomers calculated lunar tables independently, using Paris as the prime meridian, and similarly sought to simplify the on-board calculations (Boistel 2006, 124–40; 2010, 153–57). Determination of Longitude by Chro nom eter Gemma Frisius is usually credited with proposing the most straightforward solution to determining longitude in 1530, specifically that a traveler could carry a clock holding the time of his origin so that he could simply compare the clock with observed local time. The problem was how to construct a clock that would reliably keep time with small cumulative error (two minutes of time equating to half a degree of longitude). Pendulum clocks,

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Fig. 444. JOHN HARRISON’S H.1 CHRONOMETER, COMPLETED 1735. Height of the original: 67.3 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London. The Image Works.

the most accurate form of timekeeper throughout the early modern era, were ruled out for both sea and land travel. Despite many attempts, most notably between the 1650s and 1670s by Huygens (Leopold 1996), the changes in temperature and irregular motions of a moving ship caused too much error, and most observers concluded that the technological problems were insuperable; on land, such delicate instruments could not be carted around without being shaken to bits. The clockmaker John Harrison eventually overcame the general skepticism about the use of clocks at sea (Gould 1923; Quill 1966). Having developed his initial ideas about making accurate casements without a pendulum to drive them, he went to London in 1730 in search of patronage, convincing clockmaker George Graham to support his efforts. Harrison thought that a seaborne clock could be made with compensation devices to counteract distortions from temperature change and with balanced springs rather than pendula to drive the mechanism. The first of his chronometers, H.1, was completed in 1735 (fig. 444). It worked well enough to prompt the Board of Longitude to meet formally for the first time and to vote Harrison money to continue developing his clocks. This pattern persisted for the next twenty-five years, during which time he produced three more chronometers, received support from the Board of Longitude totaling some £2,240, and was voted the Co-

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pley Medal by the Royal Society. H.1 through H.3 were large and complex machines that seemed to offer little hope of cheap production. Harrison incorporated many of his new mechanisms in a deck watch that he intended to use to carry the time from H.3 in the cabin up to the deck to compare against local time determined from solar or stellar observations. Even as Harrison found that H.3 could not meet his exacting standards, he found that his 1759 desk watch did; he soon made the watch H.4 (fig. 445). H.3 and H.4 were both tested by Harrison’s son on his 1761–62 voyage to Jamaica. Despite a difficult return, H.4 lost less than two minutes over the 147-day voyage, well within the terms of the prize (King 1996; Andrewes 1996a; Randall 1996). At this point, Harrison’s work became mired in personal, institutional, intellectual, and class politics, as Sobel (1995) emphasized and as Philippe Despoix (2000) and J. A. Bennett (2002) explored more equitably. The Board wanted to ensure that H.4 was not a fluke and that it could be reproduced by other workshops; Maskelyne and the astronomers still favored the astronomical solution of lunar distances. In the end, Maskelyne tested both H.4 and Mayer’s tables for lunar distance on a voyage to Barbados in 1763–64 and found that H.4 could find longitude to within ten nautical miles. Once another clockmaker, Larcum Kendall, had made a chronometer (K.1) of equal accuracy that James Cook used with resounding success on his second voyage, and Harrison had made another chronometer (H.5, completed in 1770), Harrison was finally vindicated and received his final prize awards. Nonetheless, it was left to others to develop the man-

Fig. 445. JOHN HARRISON’S H.4 CHRONOMETER, COMPLETED 1759. Diameter of the original: 13.2 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London. The Image Works.

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ufacturing methods necessary to mass-produce accurate chronometers. Despite Harrison’s successes, few of his specific innovations would be used, and later chronometers instead followed designs quickly pioneered in France by Berthoud and Le Roy. Harrison had proved the concept, but his specific methods were abandoned. Initially, production was slow: Kendall took several years to build K.1, while at his fastest Berthoud produced only two or three chronometers a year. Affordable chronometers were not widely available until the 1790s, when the competing businesses of John Arnold and Thomas Earnshaw charged 65–80 guineas for each timepiece. Arnold, especially, worked out methods to produce large numbers of chronometers by subcontracting the simpler parts; his chronometers were particularly favored by the East India Company, and he claimed in 1793 to have already produced more than nine hundred (Betts 1996; Cook 1985). Adoption of the New Technologies Neither chronometers nor lunar distances were immediately heralded as the solution to finding longitude at sea. Chronometers were not widely found on ships until the 1790s or later, and while lunar distances were increasingly popular after the methods were simplified in the late 1760s, officials still found it easier to train new navigators than to convince more experienced ones to change their methods. Both methods presented significant problems and required further refinement and development; in 1795 the French state established its own Bureau des longitudes, which persists into the twenty-first century, primarily to continue to standardize instruments and practices (Schiavon 2016), and the Amsterdam Admiralty had a similar goal when it founded a longitude committee in 1787 (Davids 2016). Even in the early nineteenth century, navigators could still boast about not needing the new methods, although they were coming to be the exception rather than the rule. Moreover, other techniques were not immediately abandoned. Thus, after 1758, as new technologies permitted the shortening of telescopes without reducing their power, proposals proliferated to develop stable shipboard platforms from which to observe Jupiter’s satellites. The unsuccessful test in 1763 of Christopher Irwin’s “marine chair” did not prevent either the British or the French from continuing to entertain proposals for similar technologies through the 1820s; indeed, one projector in 1827 argued that the use of Jupiter’s satellites was made necessary because Harrison’s chronometer, “in common with all others,” was “liable to many imperfections” and so could not be relied on (Dunn 2012, esp. 151; Chapuis 1999, 64–67). Some French astronomers rejected lunar distances as the method of an elite

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(Chapuis 1999, 69) and advocated a different procedure, of calculating longitude from the ship’s latitude, the meridional height of the moon, and a close approximation of the longitude; this is an iterative process, but simpler overall than lunar distances (Boistel 2002, 113–16). In practice, chronometers required an extended technological system. Each chronometer had to be carefully studied to determine its rate, and how that rate varied over time, so that the appropriate adjustments could be made to the chronometer at sea. A major element in the work of new observatories set up in major ports after 1800 was to test and regulate chronometers, and the French worked (with limited success) to set up a system of naval observatories to synchronize chronometers (Boistel 2006, 140–48; 2010, 161–68). Also, they needed to be set to the proper time before departure. Initially, the time was determined by each navigator via astronomical observations, but the complexity of this process negated the apparent simplicity of the chronometer’s use. In port, a ship could check the chronometer against the clocks at a nearby observatory, provided they carried a portable timekeeper to carry the time from the observatory to the ship. But as chronometers became increasingly important, so too did finding simple methods to set them. The solution was the time ball, first suggested by Captain Robert Wauchope of the Royal Navy as early as 1818. The idea was that a port’s observatory would hoist and then drop a large ball at a specified time—often 1 p.m. so that both navigators and astronomers could make noon observations—and ships in the port could set their chronometers by noting the exact second the ball dropped. Time balls were first installed at Portsmouth in 1829 and in Greenwich in 1833, and thereafter became common throughout the British Empire (Howse 1980, 227–28; Bartky and Dick 1981). While chronometers were generally twice as precise in determining longitude as the method of lunar distances, they remained prohibitively expensive into the nineteenth century (Howse 1996, 159). However, through the nineteenth century, it remained standard practice for captains to supply their own chronometers, in addition to any official ones, and it became increasingly common for ships to carry numerous chronometers (May 1977, 656–61). Despite the work of Berthoud and Le Roy, chronometers were not standard aboard French ships until the 1820s or even later, perhaps not even until the 1890s (Boistel 2010). In Spain, despite concerted attempts to learn the new methods (first from the English, then from the French) and produce new workshops and training programs, longitude methods were slow to spread outside of the navy (Lafuente and Sellés 1985). While it is hard to get good data on how many ships used lunar distances, the method was increasingly popular in the last decades of the eighteenth century, before being

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largely replaced by chronometers by the 1840s in British ships; Guy Boistel (2010) argued that lunar distances remained the preferred French technique right through the nineteenth century. But even at its most popular, far fewer books of tables were printed than ships sailed. Lunar distance tables continued to be published in both the French Connoissance des temps and the British Nautical Almanac until the first decade of the twentieth century (Howse 1996, 160–61). A lis o n S and man See also: Connoissance des temps; Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain); Instruments for Angle Measuring: (1) Back Staff, (2) Octant and Sextant; Mayer, Tobias; Meridians, Local and Prime; Navigation and Cartography; Paris Observatory (France); Science and Cartography B i bliogra p hy Andrewes, William J. H. 1996a. “Even Newton Could Be Wrong: The Story of Harrison’s First Three Sea Clocks.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 189–234. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. ———, ed. 1996b. The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. Ashley, Raymond E. 2001. “Longitude and Scurvy: The Mechanicks of Problem Solving in the Age of Sail.” PhD diss., Duke University, Durham. Baack, Lawrence J. 2013. “‘A Practical Skill that Was Without Equal’: Carsten Niebuhr and the Navigational Astronomy of the Arabian Journey, 1761–7.” Mariner’s Mirror 99:138–52. Barrett, Katy. 2011. “‘Explaining’ Themselves: The Barrington Papers, the Board of Longitude, and the Fate of John Harrison.” Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London 65:145–62. Bartky, Ian R., and Stephen J. Dick. 1981. “The First Time Balls.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 12:155–64. Bennett, J. A. 1985. “The Longitude and the New Science.” Vistas in Astronomy 28:219–25. ———. 1987. The Divided Circle: A History of Instruments for Astronomy, Navigation, and Surveying. Oxford: Phaidon. ———. 2002. “The Travels and Trials of Mr. Harrison’s Timekeeper.” In Instruments, Travel and Science: Itineraries of Precision from the Seventeenth to the Twentieth Century, ed. Marie-Noëlle Bourguet, Christian Licoppe, and H. Otto Sibum, 75–95. London: Routledge. Betts, Jonathan. 1996. “Arnold and Earnshaw: The Practicable Solution.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 311–28. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. Boistel, Guy. 1999. “Le problème des ‘longitudes à la mer’ dans les principaux manuels de navigation Français autour du XVIIIe siècle.” Sciences et Techniques en Perspective, 2d ser. 3:253–84. ———. 2002. “Les longitudes en mer au XVIIIe siècle sous le regard critique du père Pezanas.” In Le calcul des longitudes: Un enjeu pour les mathématiques, l’astronomie, la mesure du temps et la navigation, ed. Vincent Jullien, 101–21. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. ———. 2006. “De quelle précision a-t-on réellement besoin en mer? Quelques aspects de la diffusion des méthodes de détermination astronomique et chronométrique des longitudes en mer en France, de Lacaille à Mouchez (1750–1880).” Histoire & Mesure 21, no. 2: 121–56. ———. 2010. “Training Seafarers in Astronomy: Methods, Naval Schools, and Naval Observatories in Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-

Century France,” trans. David Aubin and Charlotte Bigg. In The Heavens on Earth: Observatories and Astronomy in NineteenthCentury Science and Culture, ed. David Aubin, Charlotte Bigg, and H. Otto Sibum, 148–73. Durham: Duke University Press. ———. 2016. “From Lacaille to Lalande: French Work on Lunar Distances, Nautical Ephemerides and Lunar Tables, 1742–85.” In Navigational Enterprises in Europe and Its Empires, 1730–1850, ed. Richard Dunn and Rebekah Higgitt, 47–64. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Chabert, Joseph-Bernard, marquis de. 1753. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1750 et 1751, dans l’Amérique septentrionale, pour rectifier les cartes des côtes del’Acadie, de l’Isle Royale & de l’Isle de TerreNeuve; et pour en fixer les principaux points par des observations astronomiques. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Chapin, Seymour L. 1990. “The Men from across La Manche: French Voyages, 1660–1790.” In Background to Discovery: Pacific Exploration from Dampier to Cook, ed. Derek Howse, 81–127. Berkeley: University of California Press. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Cook, Andrew S. 1985. “Alexander Dalrymple and John Arnold: Chronometers and the Representation of Longitude on East India Company Charts.” Vistas in Astronomy 28:189–95. ———. 2006. “Surveying the Seas: Establishing the Sea Routes to the East Indies.” In Cartographies of Travel and Navigation, ed. James R. Akerman, 69–96. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Croarken, Mary. 2003. “Tabulating the Heavens: Computing the Nautical Almanac in 18th-Century England.” IEEE Annals of the History of Computing 25, no. 3:48–61. Davids, Karel. 1990. “Finding Longitude at Sea by Magnetic Declination on Dutch East Indiamen, 1596–1795.” American Neptune 50:281–90. ———. 2016. “The Longitude Committee and the Practice of Navigation in the Netherlands, c. 1750–1850.” In Navigational Enterprises in Europe and Its Empires, 1730–1850, ed. Richard Dunn and Rebekah Higgitt, 32–46. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Dekker, Elly. 2002. “The Doctrine of the Sphere: A Forgotten Chapter in the History of Globes.” Globe Studies 49–50:25–44. Despoix, Philippe. 2000. “Mesure du monde et représentation européenne au XVIIIe siècle: Le programme britannique de détermination de la longitude en mer.” Revue d’Histoire des Sciences 53: 205–33. Dunn, Richard. 2012. “Scoping Longitude: Optical Designs for Navigation at Sea.” In From Earth-Bound to Satellite: Telescopes, Skills, and Networks, ed. Alison D. Morrison-Low et al., 141–54. Leiden: Brill. Dunn, Richard, and Rebekah Higgitt. 2014. Ships, Clocks, and Stars. London: Harper Designs; Royal Museums Greenwich. Edney, Matthew H. 1997. Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765–1843. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Forbes, Eric G. 1974. The Birth of Scientific Navigation: The Solving in the 18th Century of the Problem of Finding Longitude at Sea. Greenwich: National Maritime Museum. ———. 1975. Greenwich Observatory, Volume 1: Origins and Early History (1675–1835). London: Taylor & Francis. Gingerich, Owen. 1996. “Cranks and Opportunists: ‘Nutty’ Solutions to the Longitude Problem.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 133–48. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. Gould, Rupert T. 1923. The Marine Chronometer: Its History and Development. London: J. D. Potter.

750 Howard, Nicole. 2008. “Marketing Longitude: Clocks, Kings, Courtiers, and Christiaan Huygens.” Book History 11:59–88. Howarth, Richard J. 2003. “Fitting Geomagnetic Fields before the Invention of Least Squares: II. William Whiston’s Isoclinic Maps of Southern England (1710 and 1721).” Annals of Science 60:63–84. Howse, Derek. 1980. Greenwich Time and the Discovery of the Longitude. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 1989. Nevil Maskelyne, the Seaman’s Astronomer. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 1996. “The Lunar-Distance Method of Measuring Longitude.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 149–62. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. ———. 1998. “Britain’s Board of Longitude: The Finances, 1714– 1828.” Mariner’s Mirror 84:400–17. Hsia, Florence C. 1999. “Jesuits, Jupiter’s Satellites, and the Académie Royale des Sciences.” In The Jesuits: Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts, 1540–1773, ed. John W. O’Malley et al., 241–57. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Jonkers, A. R. T. 2003. Earth’s Magnetism in the Age of Sail. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. King, Andrew L. 1996. “‘John Harrison, Clockmaker at Barrow; Near Barton upon Humber; Lincolnshire’: The Wooden Clocks, 1713– 1730.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 167–87. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. Kollerstrom, Nicholas. 2000. Newton’s Forgotten Lunar Theory: His Contribution to the Quest for Longitude. Santa Fe: Green Lion Press. Kuhn, Albert J. 1984. “Dr. Johnson, Zachariah Williams, and the Eighteenth-Century Search for the Longitude.” Modern Philology 82:40–52. Lafuente, Antonio, and Manuel A. Sellés. 1985. “The Problem of Longitude at Sea in the 18th Century in Spain.” Vistas in Astronomy 28:243–50. Leopold, J. H. 1996. “The Longitude Timekeepers of Christiaan Huygens.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 101–14. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. May, W. E. 1977. “How the Chronometer Went to Sea.” Antiquarian Horology 9:638–63. Murray, Lori L., and David R. Bellhouse. 2017. “How Was Edmond Halley’s Map of Magnetic Declination (1701) Constructed?” Imago Mundi 69:72–84. Olson, Richard G. 1983. “Tory-High Church Opposition to Science and Scientism in the Eighteenth Century: The Works of John Arbuthnot, Jonathan Swift, and Samuel Johnson.” In The Uses of Science in the Age of Newton, ed. John G. Burke, 171–204. Berkeley: University of California Press. Portuondo, María M. 2009. “Lunar Eclipses, Longitude and the New World.” Journal for the History of Astronomy 40:249–76. Quill, Humphrey. 1966. John Harrison: The Man Who Found Longitude. London: Baker. Radelet-de Grave, Patricia. 2002. “Les mathématiques au secours d’une résolution magnétique de la longitude.” In Le calcul des longitudes: Un enjeu pour les mathématiques, l’astronomie, la mesure du temps et la navigation, ed. Vincent Jullien, 203–34. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Randall, Anthony G. 1996. “The Timekeeper that Won the Longitude Prize.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 235–54. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. Sadler, D. H. 1976. “Lunar Distances and the Nautical Almanac.” Vistas in Astronomy 20:113–21. Schiavon, Martina. 2012. “The English Board of Longitude (1714–

López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás 1828) ou comment le gouvernement Anglais a promu les sciences.” Archives Internationales d’Histoire des Sciences 62:177–224. ———. 2016. “The Bureau des Longitudes: An Institutional Study.” In Navigational Enterprises in Europe and Its Empires, 1730–1850, ed. Richard Dunn and Rebekah Higgitt, 65–85. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Sobel, Dava. 1995. Longitude: The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time. New York: Walker. Stewart, Larry. 1992. The Rise of Public Science: Rhetoric, Technology, and Natural Philosophy in Newtonian Britain, 1660–1750. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tattersall, James J. 1987. “Thomas Jefferson and Douwes’ Method for Determining Latitude.” Historia Mathematica 14:275–81. Taylor, E. G. R. 1966. The Mathematical Practitioners of Hanoverian England, 1714–1840. Cambridge: For the Institute of Navigation at the University Press. Thrower, Norman J. W., ed. 1981. The Three Voyages of Edmond Halley in the Paramore, 1698–1701. 2 vols. London: Hakluyt Society. Turner, A. J. 1996. “In the Wake of the Act, but Mainly Before.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 115–32. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. Van Helden, Albert. 1996. “Longitude and the Satellites of Jupiter.” In The Quest for Longitude: The Proceedings of the Longitude Symposium, ed. William J. H. Andrewes, 85–100. Cambridge: Collection of Historical Scientific Instruments, Harvard University. Wepster, Steven A. 2010. Between Theory and Observations: Tobias Mayer’s Explorations of Lunar Motion, 1751–1755. New York: Springer. Wess, Jane. 2016. “Navigation and Mathematics: A Match Made in the Heavens?” In Navigational Enterprises in Europe and Its Empires, 1730–1850, ed. Richard Dunn and Rebekah Higgitt, 201–22. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Wigelsworth, Jeffrey R. 2008. “Navigation and Newsprint: Advertising Longitude Schemes in the Public Sphere, ca. 1715.” Science in Context 21:351–76.

López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás. Tomás López was born in Madrid in 1730. After studying at the Colegio Imperial, he was sent to Paris in 1752 to learn mapmaking and engraving with his compatriot Juan de la Cruz Cano y Olmedilla, both benefiting from state funding. At the Collège Mazarin, he studied mathematics under Nicolas-Louis de La Caille, and he privately studied astronomy with Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande and Pierre-Charles Le Monnier and geography with Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville. He worked with the engraver and mapmaker Guillaume Dheulland and married the daughter of the printseller Juan Carlos (Jean Charles) Gosseaume. While in Paris he engraved maps of the Gulf of Mexico and America (1755–58), a small atlas of Spain (1757), an atlas of Bohemia (1757), an atlas of America (1758), and a map that illustrates the Guía de forasteros to Madrid (1760) (Líter Mayayo and Sanchis Ballester 2002, 10–11; Patier 1992, 10–15). Political change in Spain meant that, on his return in 1760, López was forced to work on his own, though he signed himself pensionista de S.M. (Su Majestad) on his

López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás

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Fig. 446. TOMÁS LÓPEZ, MAPA GEOGRAFICO DEL REYNO DE VALENCIA (MADRID, 1788). The map contains not only an abundance of toponymic and administrative information, including the inset of the area around the city of Valencia, but also in the lower right a prologo comprising a

full description of the sources for its compilation, including the names of individuals who provided textual accounts or detailed maps. Copper engraving in four sheets, ca. 1:360,000. Size of the original: 79 × 74 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid (GMG/300 MAPA 31).

maps of Jaén (1761), Granada and Córdoba (1761), Valencia (1762), and Madrid (1763). After 1770, a further shift in power allowed him to sign as geógrafo de los dominios de Su Majestad. His children, Juan and Tomás Mauricio, joined his workshop, and in 1795 he proposed the creation of the Gabinete Geográfico, for which he and Juan formed and organized the collection. López never

performed surveys but gathered different sources to compile geographical maps for sale. Affirming he was a geógrafo de gabinete, he wrote: “A geographer works from home having in front of him various papers of the same area . . . It is not his office to draw up plans” (quoted in Líter Mayayo and Sanchis Ballester 2002, 14). As geographer to the king, he could ask for relaciones, responses

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to questionnaires, accompanied by sketches or vueltas del horizonte. Among his sources he lists 122 maps and 1456 informers, especially clergymen and civil authorities (Líter Mayayo and Sanchis Ballester 1998, 9) (fig. 446; and see fig. 42). The unfinished map of Spain by Jesuits Carlos Martínez and Claudio de la Vega (ca. 1740) (see fig. 320) allowed López to formulate a new plan and rework the wide-ranging and diverse documents that provided the foundation for the first cartographic coverage of Spain, not surpassed until that of Francisco Coello (1848–52). As a scholar López wrote Principios geográficos aplicados al uso de los mapas (2 vols., 1775–83) and Cosmografía abreviada: Uso del globo celeste y del terrestre (1786), a work based on classical sources. His most ambitious project, a geographical dictionary of Spain based on the relaciones, was neither completed nor published. López had published some two hundred maps before his death. His work exhibited various interests: a taste for current events, such as the Atlas abreviado de Bohemia (1757), and a passion for ancient geography, stimulated by d’Anville, such the Atlas elemental antiguo (1801). López produced the Atlas geográfico de España, completed in 1792 and published in 1804 by his sons (Hernando 2005). Juan López, who helped his father from 1781, collaborated in this work and in various colonial maps. There exists a globe signed by López in the Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid (GM/Globo 1) (Hernando 2014, 180–82). Critics have focused on the diversity of scales and

López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás

meridians of origin (Teide and Madrid) in Spain. López represented relief by “hairy caterpillars,” deduced from the hydrographic network. His lettering, both roman and italic, was clear and lithe. His contemporaries, such as Antonio José Cavanilles and Isidoro de Antillón, objected to his scant critical spirit and noted his errors, though recognizing his laborious contribution. He was a skilled engraver and popularizer, and, although he lacked innovation, he always corrected his second editions. López died in 1802. Vice nç M . Rosselló See also: Academies of Science: Spain; Administrative Cartography: Spain; Geographical Mapping: Spain; Map Trade: Spain; Urban Mapping: Spain Bibliography Hernando, Agustín. 2005. El Atlas geográfico de España (1804) producido por Tomás López. Madrid: Dirección General del Instituto Geográfico Nacional. ———. 2014. “The Construction of Terrestrial and Celestial Globes in Spain.” Globe Studies 59–60:160–97. Líter Mayayo, Carmen, and Francisca Sanchis Ballester. 1998. Tomás López y sus colaboradores. Madrid: Biblioteca Nacional. ———. 2002. La obra de Tomás López: Imagen cartográfica del siglo XVIII. Madrid: Biblioteca Nacional. Patier, Felicidad. 1992. La biblioteca de Tomás López: Seguida de la relación de los mapas impresos, con sus cobres, y de los libros del caudal de venta que quedaron a su fallecimiento en Madrid en 1802. Madrid: Ediciones El Museo Universal.

Lotter Family. See Seutter, Probst, and Lotter Families

M Madrid, Treaty of (1750). While the Treaty of Utrecht (1713–15) resolved Portugal’s territorial dispute with France over the northernmost border of its South American possessions, the Treaty of Madrid (1750) found Portugal negotiating its dominions in the Americas with its historical rival, Spain. Pope Alexander VI’s arbitrary division of the world between the two Iberian powers with a papal bull (1493, Inter caetera) and the Treaty of Tordesillas (1494) divided newly discovered lands between the Iberian neighbors only in the vaguest terms; the ownership of huge swaths of territory remained unknown. The complications arising from these early agreements increased in the following centuries, especially around three contested sites: the Amazon River region, a vast expanse of tropical forest and interconnected rivers; the area along the Paraná River, Portuguese America’s southwestern border with Spanish territory, where Jesuit missions perched precariously on a political precipice between the colonial regimes; and the southern coastal region, which included the Colônia do Sacramento, a small territorial outcropping in the Río de la Plata estuary that had been a center for contraband and had served as a negotiating chip between these two powers during many decades of geopolitical instability. With the death of Spain’s Felipe V in 1746 and the accession of Fernando VI, married to the daughter of Portugal’s King João V, conditions ripened for boundary negotiations in South America. The Spanish were keen to reestablish sovereignty along the Río de la Plata, while the Portuguese wanted recognition of their possession of the Amazon River basin. Ambassador Tomás da Silva Teles was the main negotiator for the Portuguese in Madrid, but the Brazilian-born Alexandre de Gusmão, private secretary to João V, was the primary architect of the treaty, which was designed around two principles:

first, a general respect for the natural features of the landscape, following rivers and mountain ranges in order to outline divisions between the respective empires using easily discernible boundaries; and second, the idea of uti possidetis, ita possideatis, the principle that occupation and possession at the time of negotiation would determine the future boundary lines of contested territory. To represent this last principle graphically and to accompany the text of the treaty, Gusmão worked to create a map that would establish the areas under Portuguese control where boundary lines were to be surveyed and established: “Mapa dos confins do Brazil com as terras da Coroa de Espanha na America meridional” of 1749 (fig. 447). The map, referred to as the “Mapa das Cortes,” ratified visually what would ultimately become the very real consequences of the Treaty of Madrid, which for the Portuguese (and later Brazil) meant the legal possession of Rio Grande do Sul, Mato Grosso, and the Amazonian provinces—regions that stood beyond the westernmost line of Tordesillas (fig. 448). The Spanish, in turn, acquired Colonia del Sacramento and consequently had to give up their possession of the Jesuit missions in the Paraguay River region (the so-called siete pueblos de las Missiones Orientales), founded between 1687 and 1707. All these negotiated agreements were represented in the 1749 Mapa das Cortes, which Gusmão sent to Madrid to serve as a visual guide to help Portugal in the negotiations. It was to function as the basis for negotiations as well as the template for the Luso-Hispanic boundary expeditions that would traverse the continent north and south later in the century. Some of the sources of the Mapa das Cortes are still in dispute, which has led to a polemical discussion over whether Gusmão intentionally diminished the size of Portuguese America in order to make it appear less menacing in the treaty negotiations, or whether he merely relied on sources (mostly Jesuit) that helped to create this impression. What is clear, in any case, is that various features of Brazil’s interior were shifted geographically in the Mapa das Cortes (such as the placement of the city of Cuiabá, situated on the same meridian line as the headwaters of the Amazon, a full 5° away from its actual position), which enabled Portugal

Fig. 447. “MAPA DOS CONFINS DO BRAZIL COM AS TERRAS DA COROA DE ESPANHA NA AMERICA MERIDIONAL,” 1749. Manuscript, ca. 1:8,500,000. This map, commonly called the “Mapa das Cortes,” served as the basis for the demarcation of territory between the colonial powers of Portugal and Spain in the diplomacy surrounding the Treaty of Madrid. The legend below the title of the map ex-

plains that yellow marks territory occupied by the Portuguese; pink, territory occupied by the Spanish; and area left white is not occupied. Size of the original: 60 × 54 cm. Image courtesy of the Acervo da Fundação Biblioteca Nacional–Brasil, Rio de Janeiro (ARC.030.01.009).

Madrid, Treaty of (1750)

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Fig. 448. UNTITLED AND ANONYMOUS MANUSCRIPT MAP OF SOUTH AMERICA. Map shows the extent of Portuguese territory according to the Treaty of Madrid (1750), together with indications of the areas of Jesuit missions. The area in red, east of the demarcation line defined by the Treaty of Tordesillas, is indisputably Portuguese territory; the area in yellow covers Portuguese territories confirmed by the Treaty

of Madrid. This undated map accompanied a copy of a letter from Pedro Antonio de Cevallos to Ricardo Wall (San Borja, 20 February 1759). Size of the original: 65.0 × 71.4 cm. Image courtesy of España, Ministerio de Cultura, Archivio Generale de Simancas, Valladolid (MPD, 04, 036).

to gain the upper hand in the negotiations that ensued, even though the map itself did not have any juridical force. No parallel map covering the same territory was produced by the Spanish prior to the boundary expeditions that followed in the wake of the treaty. The Mapa das Cortes thus showed a vastly diminished Brazil, making it seem as if Portuguese aims were not quite so extreme in the negotiations that followed.

José de Carvajal y Lancáster, Spanish minister of foreign affairs and primary negotiator for Spain, initially wished to maintain the broad outlines of Tordesillas, but the Mapa das Cortes persuaded him to agree to certain changes, including Brazilian possession of Mato Grosso, Amazonia, and Rio Grande do Sul. The fact that the Mapa das Cortes did not include numbers for the longitudinal lines made it unclear where the original longitu-

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dinal reference stood and how the map differed from the Tordesillas map (also vague in terms of which meridian it had used). The Treaty of Madrid was ratified on 14 January 1750, and provided specific articles to guide the boundary surveys of the territories of the two Crowns (Cortesão 1950–60, 4.1:460–78, 479–96). These articles created four teams of surveyors (comisários inteligentes) who operated according to detailed instructions appended to the treaty in 1751 (Cortesão 1950–60, 4.2:263–78 [doc CIV]). By using astronomical measurements and instrumental techniques, they transformed the cartographic image of South America, and they also acquired knowledge about the natural landscapes through which they passed, including the customs, behaviors, religions, and governments of the native populations. These comisários inteligentes had been ordered to make the determination of the boundaries so that there would not be “the minimal doubt in the future as to where the [divisionary] line should pass,” but in certain cases they never even met one another across the newly created international frontier (Cortesão 1950–60, 4.2:274). Although most of the agreements contained in the Treaty of Madrid were revoked a decade later through the Treaty of El Pardo (1761), the broad outlines of the accord were reinstated by the Treaty of San Ildefonso (1777), which recognized many of the same boundaries as the Treaty of Madrid, but obliged Portugal to return the Mission district, the Colônia do Sacramento, and other territories in America and Asia to Spain. Neil S afier See also: Boundary Surveying: (1) Portuguese America, (2) Spanish America; Portuguese America; Spanish America Bibliograp hy Almeida, Luís Ferrand de. 1990. Alexandre de Gusmão, o Brasil e o Tratado de Madrid (1735–1750). Coimbra: Instituto Nacional de Investigação Científica, Centro de História da Sociedade e da Cultura, Universidade de Coimbra. Cortesão, Jaime. 1950–60. Alexandre de Gusmão e o Tratado de Madrid. 5 vols. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério das Relações Exteriores/ Instituto Rio-Branco. Delgado Barrado, José Miguel. 2001. El proyecto político de Carvajal: Pensamiento y reforma en tiempos de Fernando VI. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Ferreira, Mário Olímpio Clemente. 2000. “Uma ideia de Brasil num mapa inédito de 1746.” Oceanos 43:184–95. ———. 2007. “O Mapa das Cortes e o Tratado de Madrid: A cartografia a serviço da diplomacia.” Varia Historia 23:51–69. Guedes, Max Justo. 1997. “A cartografia da delimitação das fronteiras do Brasil no século XVIII.” In Cartografia e diplomacia no Brasil do século XVIII, 10–38. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Ramos Gómez, Luis J. 1995. “Jorge Juan y Antonio de Ulloa y el meridiano de Tordesillas: La disertación histórica y geográfica (1747– 1776).” In El Tratado de Tordesillas y su época (Congreso Internacional de Historia), 3 vols., 3:1561–92. [Tordesillas]: Sociedad V Centenario del Tratado de Tordesillas.

Manuscript Reproduction. See Reproduction of Maps: Manuscript Reproduction

Map Collecting. Enligh tenment Aus trian Mo narch y D enmark France Great Britain Neth erland s O tto man Empire Po rtugal Rus s ia S pain S wed en-Finland S witzerland

Map Collecting in the Enlightenment. Map collecting

during the Enlightenment was an activity embraced by an increasingly wide social range of participants, from monarchs and nobles down to the middling sort. Early in the era, maps and geographical texts were already crucial elements of the library of anyone with a claim to education. Pontificating in 1703 about the proper contents of an English gentleman’s library, John Locke opined that no such person could be without William Camden’s Britannia (1587), especially in its much expanded 1695 edition, and then observed simply that “a good collection of maps is also very necessary” (Locke 1997, 353). Larger map collections were generally organized by region and by place depicted. There was little discrimination between “current” and “antiquarian” maps: all were of interest in shedding light on the present and the past, and it was not certain that more recent maps were actually better than older maps. The acquisition of cartographic collections was increasingly enabled by the same forces that exerted their influence on the map trade: the general growth of the European economies after 1650; the expansion of skilled copperplate engraving in many European capitals and the increased number of copperplate prints available on the market; an increase in the number of news journals and serials that incorporated maps or map discussion; the appearance of scholarly works and reviews; the new genre of bibliographic guides to maps, such as Johann Gottfried Gregorii’s Curieuse Gedancken von den vornehmsten und accuratesten Alt- und Neuen Land-Charten (1713) and Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy’s Méthode pour étudier la géographie (1716); the ability to travel because of more peaceful conditions after the Thirty Years’ War; and a growing awareness of the

Map Collecting

effects of travel and exploration to foreign lands. The growing access to maps is indicated in the increasing frequency of map-related instructions found in private correspondence, such as that of Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, marquise de Sévigné, to her daughter to follow travels “sur la carte” (Sévigné 1785, 5:173). Indeed, the increase in map consumption was satirized at midcentury by Laurence Sterne in his novel about Tristram Shandy (1759–67). The painful wound suffered by Shandy’s Uncle Toby during the siege of Namur in the Nine Years’ War led him to find welcome relief by acquiring a fortification plan of Namur (fig. 449) and by sticking a pin into the exact spot on the map where his injury occurred. This miracle cure was potent enough to lead him to collect all the plans of the fortified towns in Italy and Flanders important in that war, allowing him to follow news of battles as they were reported and to reenact sieges in the model fort he built on his bowling green (Sterne 1985, 108–9, 427–28). Yet there is a difference between the possession of a few maps or perhaps an atlas in the home and the concerted acquisition of maps and atlases conforming to a preconceived program, which marked the serious pursuit of map collecting. Enlightenment map collecting had its roots in the same acquisitive desires that underpinned the formation of seventeenth-century Wunderkammern or cabinets de curiosités, study rooms or cabinets filled with all manner of curious objects and books. Such cabinets often included maps, globes, and other scientific instruments among the fossils, artifacts, stuffed animals, and curios from faraway lands (fig. 450). The same yen for accumulation infused the topographic collections of the eighteenth century, assembled by men and women of sufficient leisure and income to build, house, and collate the collection. These collectors exhibited the culture of virtuosity that marked the public sphere of the eighteenth century (Brewer 1997, 427–89). Those with the means required to create ambitious collections included the military, merchants, the professional classes (lawyers, diplomats, doctors, administrators), geographical practitioners, the gentry and aristocracy, and monarchs, such as Frederik V and his wife Queen Juliane Marie of Denmark or George III of Great Britain. Collecting could be simultaneously vocational and personal. For example, the Clinton brothers, Sir William Henry and Sir Henry, British generals engaged in conflicts at the end of the eighteenth century, assembled a collection of around 400 maps (now in the Stephen S. Clark Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor), which they used during both their military and diplomatic careers and also for personal study. Nor should institutions be overlooked as collectors of maps and atlases. In addition to the large collections as-

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Fig. 449. FRONTISPIECE TO THE THIRD EDITION OF VOLUME 1 (1760) OF LAURENCE STERNE, THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENTLEMAN, 9 VOLS. (LONDON: R. AND J. DODSLEY, 1760–67). William Hogarth, designer, and Simon François Ravenet, engraver. Uncle Toby smokes under the fortification plan of Namur, prominently displayed on the wall, part of his collection of plans of fortified towns in the southern Netherlands and northern Italy. Size of the original: 14.8 × 9.0 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (C2 1760 St).

sembled by government agencies that made maps or that governed extensive territories, a variety of educational institutions, such as schools, colleges, religious establishments, and the newly formed public lending libraries, also collected maps as well as books. Institutional col-

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Fig. 450. THE WUNDERKAMMER OF THE DIMPFEL FAMILY, REGENSBURG, BY JOSEPH ARNOLD, 1668. This collection of diverse objects includes multiple globes, at least one map (at the end of the table at right), and views of landscapes and buildings. Gouache with gold highlights on leather.

Size of the original: 14.9 × 19.1 cm. © Ulmer Museum, Ulm (Inv. Nr. 1952.2611).

lecting took place throughout Europe and in the colonies (Bosse 2008). One aspect of map collections discussed in the following entries is the physical form in which such collections were stored or displayed. Not all collectors had the means to create special libraries or rooms with specially designed shelves or drawers for their collections, but a recurring method of organizing and safekeeping was to paste the maps, views, and plans onto folio sheets, arrange them in a particular order, and bind them into folio volumes. The term “atlas” was used by their owners to designate these complex collections and collations, and they represent a version of what we would include

in the term “composite atlas” (atlas factice or Sammelatlas). These atlases could comprise many volumes, for example, the 49 assembled by the British antiquary Richard Gough or the 501 compiled by the Bern lawyer Johann Friedrich von Ryhiner. Collectors in the German states offer various examples of the varieties of this phenomenon. One of the first of these large atlas collections was that of August II, elector of Saxony and king of Poland (r. 1697–1733), whose “Atlas Royal” of 1,400 maps was bound in nineteen volumes; he also created the “Atlas Selectus” in twenty-five volumes for his grandson (Hantzsch 1904, 62–64, 69–71). R. A. Skelton (1972, 46) also pointed to

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August II as the creator of the first separate map room in a library. An even larger map collection housed in a composite atlas is that of Bernhard Paul Moll, a Bavarian diplomat who was a counselor to several German legations in Vienna. A map collector from boyhood, Moll focused on collecting cartographic material that depicted the Habsburg Empire as well as lands related to it geographically and historically. His collection comprised nearly 13,000 maps, town plans, views, architectural drawings, and reproductions of inscriptions, placed onto 8,000 sheets bound into sixty-eight volumes, with five additional volumes of his own research notes and catalog. Moll divided his collection into two large groups: the “Atlas Austriacus” (which included Austrian lands, Czech lands, ancient Burgundy, Italy, and Hungary) and the “Atlas Germanicus.” The entire collection is now in the Moravian Library (Moravská zemská knihovna), Brno, in the Czech Republic and may be consulted online (Papp 2005). German scholar Christoph Daniel Ebeling of Hamburg had by 1799 collected nearly 20,000 maps specifically in support of his studies of the discovery, history, and contemporary geography of North America. After his death in 1818, his collection was purchased by Edward Everett for Colonel Israel Thorndike and presented to Harvard College (Brown 1940, 472–74; Skelton 1972, 52). The fragmentary nature of the available evidence about collectors and their collections means that we generally know only about the more substantial accumulations of material that found their way into permanent institutions. For example, Richard Gough—who would observe that “a public library is the safest port” for any collection (Gough 1780, 1:xlvii)—acquired the thirteenth-century map of Britain that now bears his name from the posthumous sale in 1774 of the manuscripts collected by Thomas Martin, who had first displayed the map at a meeting of the Society of Antiquaries in 1768; but the map’s preservation was assured only when Gough’s own collections were deposited with the Bodleian Library in 1809 (Lilley and Millea 2011). Many other collections like Martin’s, both large and small, were undoubtedly dispersed after their creators’ deaths. Without substantial effort in the archives and auction records, our overall picture of early modern cartographic collections will therefore necessarily remain incomplete. M ary S p on be r g P e dl e y a n d Mat t h ew H . Ed ney See also: Atlas; Consumption of Maps; Decoration, Maps as; Globe; Map Trade; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Public Sphere, Cartography and the B i bliogra p hy Bosse, David. 2008. “Institutional Map and Atlas Collecting in Eighteenth-Century America.” Coordinates: Online Journal of the Map and Geography Round Table, American Library Association, series B, no. 9.

759 Brewer, John. 1997. The Pleasures of the Imagination: English Culture in the Eighteenth Century. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux. Brown, Ralph H. 1940. “Early Maps of the United States: The Ebeling-Sotzmann Maps of the Northern Seaboard States.” Geographical Review 30:471–79. Gough, Richard. 1780. British Topography; Or, an Historical Account of What Has Been Done for Illustrating the Topographical Antiquities of Great Britain and Ireland. 2 vols. London: T. Payne and Son, and J. Nichols. Hantzsch, Viktor. 1904. Die Landkartenbestände der Königlichen öffentlichen Bibliothek zu Dresden. Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz. Lilley, Keith D., and Nick Millea. 2011. “Historiography and Prosopography.” In Linguistic Geographies: The Gough Map of Great Britain. Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. © King’s College London. Online publication. Locke, John. 1997. “Some Thoughts Concerning Reading and Study for a Gentleman.” In Locke: Political Essays, ed. Mark Goldie, 348– 55. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Papp, Júlia. 2005. “The Catalogue of Bernhard Paul Moll (1697–1780) and His Atlas Hungaricus.” Imago Mundi 57:185–94. Sévigné, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal. 1785. Recueil des lettres de Madame la marquise de Sévigné, a Madame la comtesse de Grignan, sa fille. New aug. ed. 8 vols. Paris: Par la Compagnie des Libraires. Skelton, R. A. 1972. Maps: A Historical Survey of Their Study and Collecting. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sterne, Laurence. 1985. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. Ed. Graham Petrie. New York: Penguin Books.

Map Collecting in the Austrian Monarchy. The birth of

the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek is traditionally regarded as 1368, when the canon Johannes von Troppau sent a magnificently illuminated manuscript of the gospel to the Habsburg bibliophile Albrecht III, duke of Austria. The oldest evidence that cartography was collected in Austria stems from the 1420s, when Georg Müstinger, the provost of the monastery Klosterneuburg and a prominent member of the so-called first Viennese school of mathematics and astronomy, sent for a manuscript of Ptolemy’s Geography from Italy. Under Emperor Frederick III, a small single-sheet copperplate engraving collection already existed in the Kaiserliche Hofbibliothek. During the sixteenth century, important cartographically interested Renaissance scholars like Conrad Celtis, Johannes Cuspinianus, and Wolfgang Lazius used the Kaiserliche Hofbibliothek and sometimes bequeathed to it their own books and cartographic items (Wawrik 1991–92, 141–43, 145). During the seventeenth century the Hofbibliothek’s map holdings grew continuously, especially through purchases and inheritances from scholars’ or aristocrats’ libraries, through presentation copies (Widmungsexemplare) from authors, as well as through gifts. Also, Austrian archdukes who had spent their youths in Madrid at the Spanish court returned to Vienna with maps of regions of this world empire. After the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48), scientifically interested and bibliophilic Habsburg rulers like Ferdi-

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nand III, Leopold I, Charles VI, and Joseph II made significant acquisitions: in 1656, Ferdinand III purchased the library of the humanist Georg Fugger, which totaled 14,000 volumes including several works by cosmographer Johannes Schöner and exemplars of Ptolemy’s Geography from 1482 and 1513 corrected by Schöner. After the extinction of the Tyrolean line of the Habsburgs (1665), the head of the library, Peter Lambeck, at the request of Leopold I, collected books and manuscripts from the Ambraser Kunstsammlung, founded by Archduke Ferdinand II of Austria, and transported them from Innsbruck to Vienna (Wawrik 1995, 210–13). Maps and atlases were among them. The activity of collecting cartographically relevant objects reached its height in the eighteenth century during the Enlightenment. After the long years of war, Emperor Charles VI wanted to establish an era of peace in which artistic and scientific activities would have priority. In this spirit, he built the grandiose ceremonial room of the Kaiserliche Bibliothek (Österreichische Nationalbibliothek) from 1723 to 1726. Most of the important and wealthy art collectors were in Austria, such as military commander and politician Prince Eugene of Savoy, traveler and later Saxon librarian Philipp von Stosch, and Albert Kasimir von Sachsen-Teschen. Among Eugene’s acquisitions were numerous geographical works, travel reports, atlases, and maps— possibly a credit to his advisor, Pierre-Jean Mariette, whose forefathers had at times had a close professional relationship with Nicolas Sanson (Wawrik 1986). The most well-known item of Eugene’s cartographic collection is the unique Peutinger map, a late medieval copy of a Roman world map from the fourth century. A further unique treasure was acquired by Eugene in 1730, the Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem, a forty-six-volume baroque composite atlas (Sammelatlas) that was assembled midseventeenth century by the wealthy Amsterdam lawyer and banker Laurens van der Hem. Four volumes of the monumental work constitute the “Secret Atlas of the Dutch East India Company,” a selection of contemporary copies of the company’s secretly held maps (Van der Krogt and De Groot 1996–2011, 5:225–416). After Eugene’s death, his heiress sold the library encompassing 15,000 prints, 240 manuscripts, and more than 500 boxes of illustrations to Charles VI in 1736. Stosch, a relative of the Austrian state chancellor Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz, lived in Rome and Florence for a long time (Kinauer 1950; Zeilinger 1995, 233–37) and acquired a very large collection of maps, plans, views, and architectural drawings, bound in a total of 328 portfolios. The sheets pertaining to Italy were a clear highlight. On the occasion of Stosch’s death, the famous art historian Johann Joachim Winckelmann compiled a register listing over 28,000 printed and 2,550 manu-

Map Collecting

script sheets. Eventually the Hofbibliothek acquired the gigantic collection; due to Empress Maria Theresa’s chronic financial difficulties, the head of the library, Gerard van Swieten, is thought to have loaned her the purchase price of 8,500 florins (Gulden). A third notable graphics collector, active from 1768, was Albert Kasimir, son of King August III of Poland and son-in-law of Maria Theresa (Koschatzky and Antoniou 1988). As a follower of the Enlightenment and Freemasonry, he conformed to a new collector’s ideal, namely to bring together works of art, systematically order them, identify the relevant artists and engravers, and protect the works for posterity. His agents, active in many countries, acquired more than 30,000 prints in less than two years. His adopted son Charles, archduke of Austria, the victor over Napoleon at Aspern-Essling (1809), and his descendants continued the collecting activity at a limited level. In the 1920s, the private collection was nationalized as the Grafische Sammlung Albertina. At the same time 6,000 maps and several atlases were transferred to the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek’s map collection. Franz II, Holy Roman emperor and later Austrian emperor, was also an enthusiastic and knowledgeable bibliophile who single-handedly managed his collection until 1806. As emperor, he transformed this collection into the Habsburg estate and entailment library (Fideikommißbibliothek), to ensure that its assets would remain held by the family forever. While in Paris in 1814, the emperor personally arranged the purchase of some exemplars of Cassini maps from France. But above all he was concerned with acquiring maps of Austrian territories, such as the Ducatus Carnioliæ (fig. 451) (Dörflinger 1984, 49). During the Congress of Vienna (1814–15) the emperor sometimes led his aristocratic guests through the collection personally. When he died in 1835, the collection totaled more than 3,000 maps and 9 globes (Wieser and Kittler 1987, 264). In 1711 Emperor Joseph I added a military archive for the administration of documents, including maps, collected by the Hofkriegsrat since its foundation in 1556 (Paldus 1914; Hillbrand 1975). In 1776, this archive would become a central storage and work station for military cartography, especially because of the Austrian monarchy’s Josephinische Landesaufnahme, implemented in 1764, which ultimately encompassed some 4,000 sections. Gifts from Joseph II as well as the acquisition of great numbers of maps from the property of Austrian field marshal Karl Alexander von Lothringen allowed the collection to grow quickly. Of historical interest were the military operations maps such as the twenty-sheet “Theatrum belli Rhenani” (1702–13) by the engineer-officer Cyriak Blödner that reflected the war’s progression in southwest Germany at the begin-

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Fig. 451. DETAIL WITH THE CARTOUCHE FROM IVAN DIZMA FLORJANCˇICˇ DE GRIENFELD, DUCATUS CARNIOLIÆ TABULA CHOROGRAPHICA (LAIBACH, 1744). Colored copperplate engraving in twelve sheets, ca. 1:100,000. At the request of the representatives of the Duchy of Carniola,

Cistercian Father Florjancˇicˇ (Floriantschitsch) made this large map, based to some extent on up-to-date survey methods. Size of the entire original: ca. 182 × 190 cm; size of detail: ca. 46.0 × 75.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Kartensammlung, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (FKB C.44.a.2d).

ning of the eighteenth century. Also archived were maneuver, march, and deployment maps (Marschroutenkarten); encampment, siege, battle, and combat plans; and their corresponding land descriptions. In 1801, the map collection was incorporated into the war archive established by Archduke Charles as part of an army reform.

Krogt, Peter van der, and Erlend de Groot, comps. 1996–2006. The Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem of the Austrian National Library. 8 vols. Ed. Günter Schilder, Bernard Aikema, and Peter van der Krogt. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Paldus, Josef. 1914. “Die Kartenabteilung des k. u. k. Kriegsarchivs.” Mitteilungen der k. k. Geographischen Gesellschaft in Wien 57: 395–435. Wawrik, Franz. 1986. “Die Bestände der Bibliotheca Eugeniana in der Kartensammlung der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek.” In Bibliotheca Eugeniana: Die Sammlungen des Prinzen Eugen von Savoyen, ed. Otto Mazal, 91–93. Vienna: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek. ———. 1991–92. “Zur Vorgeschichte und Entstehung der Kartensammlung der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek.” Studien zur Wiener Geschichte: Jahrbuch des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Wien 47–48:141–61. ———. 1995. “Kartensammler und -sammlungen in Österreich.” In Karten hüten und bewahren: Festgabe für Lothar Zögner, ed. Joachim Neumann, 205–20. Gotha: Justus Perthes. Wieser, Walter G., and Robert Kittler. 1987. “Bilder—Zeugen der Kulturgeschichte: Porträtsammlung und Bildarchiv.” In Ein Weltgebäude der Gedanken: Die Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, 261–315. Graz: Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt. Zeilinger, Elisabeth. 1995. “Das India orientalis-Konvolut aus dem Atlas Stosch der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek.” In Karten

Fr a n z Wawrik See also: Austrian Monarchy B i bliogra p hy Dörflinger, Johannes. 1984. Österreichische Karten des 18. Jahrhunderts. Vol. 1 of Die österreichische Kartographie im 18. und zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Privatkartographie zwischen 1780 und 1820. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Hillbrand‚ Erich. 1975. “Die Kartensammlung des Kriegsarchivs Wien.” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs 28:183–96. Kinauer, Rudolf. 1950. “Der Atlas des Freiherrn Philipp von Stosch der Oesterreichischen Nationalbibliothek: Ein Beitrag zu seiner Rekonstruktion und zur Geschichte der Atlanten.” Philosophische Dissertation, Universität Wien. Koschatzky, Walter, and Renata Antoniou. 1988. Albert, Herzog von Sachsen-Teschen, 1738–1822: Zum 250. Geburtstag. Vienna: Graphische Sammlung Albertina.

762 hüten und bewahren: Festgabe für Lothar Zögner, ed. Joachim Neumann, 233–54. Gotha: Justus Perthes.

Map Collecting in Denmark. Map collecting in Denmark

has not been the focus of any refined studies; for this brief survey we rely on descriptions of the collections themselves and descriptions in the large number of auction catalogs that exist in the Kongelige Bibliotek, which was established in the 1650s and luckily avoided the many fires in Copenhagen. By contrast, the Universitetsbibliotek, founded in the late fifteenth century, was devastated by a large fire in 1728 and again by fire in 1795. The castle at Christiansborg was burnt in both 1794 and 1884. As a result of these disasters, a large number of collections of maps were destroyed. For example, the Universitetsbibliotek lost the collection of the mayor of Copenhagen and Denmark’s first important topographer, Peder Hansen Resen. As part of his effort to assemble his Atlas Danicus, Resen had collected maps and other topographical material in thirty-six large boxes. All the contents were destroyed except for a few items that had been loaned unofficially to readers (Ilsøe 1991). Fire also destroyed several private collections. The Kongelige Bibliotek, lucky survivor of these conflagrations, holds several sixteenth-century atlases, donated or bought by Danish kings, such as special editions of Civitates orbis terrarum of Georg Braun and Frans Hogenberg, sea atlases by Lucas Jansz. Waghenaer, and globes by Willem Jansz. Blaeu and others. The library also houses a significant collection of manuscript maps made by Johannes Mejer, appointed as cartographer to the king in 1647. Of particular importance to the history of map collecting, the library preserves a number of large map collections that were established in the eighteenth century, three of which are noted here. Many book collectors added maps and atlases to their collections but in smaller numbers than these three major collections, and those collections await further study (Ilsøe 2007). The statesman Count Otto Thott maintained the largest of the three collections with more than 200,000 items, which were sold at auctions between 1785 and 1792; the catalog of the collection fills eleven volumes. The atlases in the collection included thirteen different editions of the Theatrum orbis terrarum of Abraham Ortelius, eleven editions of the work of Sebastian Münster, and fifteen editions of the work of Gerardus Mercator, among others. The catalog also contains information about the purchasers of the books and maps, making it possible to learn where some of the maps went and to whom, especially those sold either to the king, to the university, or to Daniel Gotthilf Moldenhawer, who was then head of the Kongelige Bibliotek. Thott, however,

Map Collecting

did not mark his books with his own special numbers or letters, making it difficult to reconstruct his collection today from existing materials. Thott’s collection was followed in size by that of Johan Ludvig Holstein, Danish prime minister. His large map collection is also known through an auction catalog, but without annotations regarding purchasers. It has been discovered that two of the entries in the 1812 catalog refer to two composite atlases now in the library, part of the Holstein collection. Entry number 8709-73 describes an “Atlas major, auctore F. de Vit. vol. 1–64. Amstelodami” (Grønbæk 2001, 59); this is actually the largest composite atlas in the Kongelige Bibliotek, bound in sixty-five folio volumes containing more than 4,000 maps. Unfortunately, volume thirty-eight, containing maps of Denmark, is missing. It is not known whether Holstein collected this atlas himself or purchased it whole, since there is no sign of his name or other proprietary mark on any volume. The second composite atlas described in the auction catalog and now also in the same library was Holstein’s atlas of 794 maps in thirteen volumes, each volume bearing his initials, “JLH,” on the back. This atlas contains mostly town plans and maps covering the area around the cities. The Holstein and Thott collections were joined in the Kongelige Bibliotek by that of Frederik V. He received a map collection as a baptismal present and continued collecting maps all his life, as did his queen, Juliane Marie. Their enthusiasm resulted in two very large composite atlases. The so-called Frederik den Femtes Atlas comprises fifty-five leather volumes containing 3,535 sheets, mostly copperplate maps and plans, and including more than 400 manuscript maps (Kejlbo 1969), covering the whole world and every country, including three volumes of maps of Denmark. Juliane Marie’s composite atlas is divided into thirty-eight volumes with content similar to the king’s collection but with little overlap in map titles; it is housed in the queen’s private library at Amalienborg Castle (Kiaer 1966). H enri k Dupont See also: Denmark and Norway; Map Trade: Denmark Bibliography Grønbæk, Jakob H. 2001. “Gehejmestatsministerens bibliotek på Ledreborg: Om et 1700-tals herregårdsbibliotek.” Fund og Forskning 40:49–80. Ilsøe, Harald. 1991. “Peder Resens nordiske bibliotek: Katalog, bibliografi og boghandel i sidste halvdel af 1600-tallet.” Fund og Forskning 30:26–49. ———. 2007. Biblioteker til salg, om danske bogauktioner og kataloger 1661–1811. Copenhagen: Kongelige Bibliotek; Museums Tusculanum. Kejlbo, Ib Rønne. 1969. Manuscript Maps in the Frederik den Femtes Atlas. Copenhagen: Royal Library. Kiaer, H. F. 1966. “The ‘Juliane Marie Atlas’ in Copenhagen.” Imago Mundi 20:82–84.

Map Collecting

Map Collecting in France. Three convergent phenomena

characterize map collecting in France during the Enlightenment. First, the growing supply of maps at the turn of the eighteenth century encouraged the development both of collections by amateurs and of a literature intended to guide them in their selections. Second, the spread of cartography as a tool impelled a growing number of specialists (geographers, engineers, and important state officials) to establish personal collections. Third, the growth of map use for administrative purposes spurred a trend to create great repositories of official maps (Bibliothèque du Roi, Dépôt de la Guerre, Dépôt de la Marine, Dépôt des Affaires étrangères), which drew in part upon the first two types of collections. Mireille Pastoureau (1984) analyzed the first group of map collectors, the amateurs. Their number included great print collectors such as Roger de Gaignières who might allocate a large portion of their collections to topography (plans and views of cities, chateaux, and monuments; Casselle 1976, 159–72), sometimes even commissioning maps prepared in the field. Until the third quarter of the seventeenth century, amateurs depended on atlas maps available in the marketplace: the so-called Ptolemy maps, the atlases of Abraham Ortelius and the Dutch, and the Sanson atlases (ca. 1660). But as maps multiplied and became available as separate sheets distributed by competitors of the Sanson family (for example, Jean-Baptiste Nolin, Nicolas de Fer, Guillaume Delisle) the phenomenon of the atlas du choix (atlas factice or composite atlas) developed, composed with a specific focus in an acceptable price range, dependent upon the available stock of the geographer or map merchant. It very quickly became apparent that the amateur needed advice in choosing maps. Beginning in 1716, the geographer Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy provided a guide by publishing a list of the works of the “best” French geographers in his Méthode pour étudier la geographie (1716, 1:cxv–cxxii), including its “Catalogue des meilleures cartes geographiques” (3:439–552). For his putative atlas comprising seventy-five recommended maps, fifty-seven were by the Sansons and seven by Delisle (1:cxxvii–cxxxii). In the successive editions of the Méthode (1736, 1741–42, and 1768), new names appeared: le Père Placide, the Dutch firm of Covens & Mortier, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, Gilles Robert Vaugondy and Didier Robert de Vaugondy, and Jean de Beaurain. In the middle of the century, Beaurain offered individualized atlases in several volumes stating on the title pages that they were “based upon the collection of the Sr. de Beaurain” and containing maps by various authors (including Nicolas Sanson, AlexisHubert Jaillot, Nolin, Delisle, Gilles Robert Vaugondy and Didier Robert de Vaugondy, Guillaume Dheulland,

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and Georges-Louis Le Rouge). The mapseller RochJoseph Julien opened the first boutique in Paris offering a supply of maps from anywhere in Europe, thanks to his international network of correspondents. In 1763 he published his very complete Nouveau catalogue de cartes géographiques et topographiques aimed at helping the amateur consumer choose from the prodigious array of cartographic products available (fig. 452). The second type of collection, that of the specialists, was conceived as providing veritable working tools or maps brought together for a specific purpose; these collections also multiplied and became more diverse. If ceded to public collections (e.g., the royal library, libraries of abbeys, cartographic depositories), they were often better preserved in the eighteenth century than they had been in the past and are more easily reconstructed than those of the amateur collectors. This is the case for collections assembled by scholars who specialized in geography, such as Michel-Antoine Baudrand and Jean-Nicolas de Tralage (who published maps under the names Tillemon, Tillemont, and Tillemonius), or professional geographers such as d’Anville. The Baudrand and Tralage collections were given to the libraries of religious institutions and that of d’Anville to the Ministère des Affaires étrangères. On the other hand, the collection of Jean-Baptiste-Michel Renou de Chauvigné, dit Jaillot, which comprised some eight to nine thousand items, was dispersed. On a smaller scale, ingénieurs du roi assembled map portfolios, typically including 150 to 200 maps, which they used as valuable theoretical and practical models (such as the Auclair collection assembled by the engineer Gourdon), but very few have survived unless they were bound together by their owners. In this group of specialist collections were those of eminent members of the aristocracy or great state officials (Gaston d’Orléans; Jules-Louis Bolé de Chamlay; François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois; VictorMarie d’Estrées; Antoine-René de Voyer d’Argenson, marquis de Paulmy) who collected maps in the course of carrying out their duties. Like that of Gaston d’Orléans, the collection of the marquis de Paulmy, now held at the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, is only part of a vast collection of books (52,000 volumes) and prints (592 portfolios) that he acquired as a confirmed bibliophile. His interest in cartography was directly linked to his role as adjutant to his uncle Marc-Pierre de Voyer de Paulmy, comte d’Argenson, ministre de la Guerre, and to the various tours he made of the frontier locations and maritime forts of the realm between 1752 and 1755. The collections of Emmanuel de Croÿ-Solre and Charles-Étienne Coquebert de Montbret show their interest in specific domains of research. Croÿ-Solre, an eminent member of the French nobility and maréchal of

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Fig. 452. PAGE FROM NOUVEAU CATALOGUE DE CARTES GÉOGRAPHIQUES ET TOPOGRAPHIQUES, 1763. The first page (5) from the catalog published in Paris by the mapseller Roch-Joseph Julien listing the world maps available from his shop in Paris with prices noted on the right. Julien was the first map dealer in France to offer his clientele a wide choice of foreign maps as well as maps by French geographers. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge FF 7402–7403).

France, became famous on the battlefield before making his reputation as a lover of the sciences. Impassioned by the discoveries of Louis-Antoine de Bougainville and James Cook, he assembled a large collection of maps that showed his taste for exploration. In 1773 he financed the second voyage of Yves-Joseph de Kerguelen-Trémarec

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and commissioned from Didier Robert de Vaugondy a special map, the Hémisphère austral ou Antarctique, which emphasized the South Pacific voyages (Dion 1987). Coquebert de Montbret, for his part, occupied various diplomatic posts and the upper ranks of public administration under the Ancien Régime, the Revolution, and the Empire, notably in the Bureau de la Statistique (1806). He was also the editor of the Journal des Mines (1794) and a member of various scholarly societies. In 1823, he published a map titled Essai d’une carte géologique de la France, des Pays-Bas et de quelques contrées voisines with Jean-Baptiste-Julien d’Omalius d’Halloy. Coquebert de Montbret’s collection of 868 maps, carefully inventoried and held today in the municipal library of Rouen, show their owner’s interest in geology and mineralogy through their annotations and other marks of usage. In the last third of the seventeenth century, the creation of official cartographic depositories began, constituted in large part of maps acquired by purchase, by gift of private collections, or by obligation of agents of the state to deposit their work. The Bibliothèque du Roi benefited from legally required deposits, which included estampes (prints) beginning in 1672 and maps expressly from 1713. Thus throughout the eighteenth century, the portefeuilles du roi (portfolios of the king) were supplied with the latest cartographic publications. In 1667 the Bibliothèque du Roi received the collection of Gaston d’Orléans, uncle of Louis XIV and an eminent soldier (2,000 maps mounted in 18 folio volumes). The creation at the end of the seventeenth century of the Cabinet des estampes brought together the great amateur collections, notably those of Michel de Marolles (in 1667), Gaignières (in 1716), and Michel Joseph Hyacinthe Lallemant de Betz (in 1753), which included large numbers of topographic subjects. During the Revolution, the Bibliothèque du Roi benefited from confiscations, notably those from ecclesiastical houses. Thus, the rich collections of the abbeys of Saint-Victor (the Tralage collection) and Saint-Germain-des-Prés (the Baudrand collection) entered the now-renamed Bibliothèque nationale. In 1828, the establishment of the Département des cartes et plans joined these last collections with the portefeuilles du roi, creating a collection of about 13,000 maps divided into 140 portfolios. In the course of the eighteenth century, map depositories were established that were directly linked to ministerial archives. At the end of the seventeenth century, the marquis de Louvois, Louis XIV’s secrétaire d’État à la Guerre, established the Dépôt de la Guerre as part of an effort to organize the archives and the items produced by his ministry. From 1690, high-ranking military officers were required to hand over all papers of public interest to the ministry. In 1730, a Dépôt des cartes et plans

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(of the Ministère de la Guerre) was established, bringing together three types of maps: the documents drawn up by soldiers in the field and sent to Versailles to support their reports, the cartographic documents of every provenance assembled to help understand the terrain and to develop strategy, and finally maps of past conflicts produced as instruments of instruction. In 1742, twelve years after its creation, Jean-Baptiste Naudin, custodian of the depository, prepared the État au vrai des cartes et plans qui existent actuellement au dépôt du bureau de la guerre, which provided a picture of the collection: 1,087 manuscript maps and engravings grouped in 85 bundles or portfolios, concerning primarily the frontier provinces and the countries forming the theaters of operations. During the Revolution, under the direction of General Etienne-Nicolas Calon (1793), the Dépôt de la Guerre assumed complete control of all cartographic production and its diffusion. The Dépôt continued to enrich itself through revolutionary confiscations and seizures of foreign depositories. The Marine similarly created an archival depository (1699) that preceded the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (1720), intended to collect, maintain, and better control hydrographic documents. An ordonnance of 1681 obliged merchant marine captains to send their logbooks to the office of the Admirauté. The Dépôt began to produce its own maps from 1737 with the publication of a map of the Mediterranean in three sheets. Later publications were supervised by Jacques-Nicolas Bellin, who arrived at the Dépôt in 1721 and became the first ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine in 1741. Besides benefiting from documents arriving from ports, the Dépôt was enriched by complete or partial collections of former officials (e.g., maréchal d’Estrées, 1742, or Michel Bégon, intendant de la Marine, 1772). In 1742, a stamp was created to mark the documents of the Dépôt. Two other military depositories, straddling the work of the ministries of war and the navy, were established autonomously before being attached to the Dépôt de la Guerre. The Dépôt des fortifications brought together the memoirs, plans, and projects of the engineers (of the Génie) working in the departments of war and the navy. The Dépôt des fortifications des colonies was created in 1778 following a ministerial decision of 1776 to assemble a complete collection of plans surveyed in the colonies. The Ministère des Affaires étrangères was late in establishing a map depository. In 1774 the Bureau des limites was put in place with a mission to collect from all over France cartographic materials related to the frontiers. The Bureau was also charged with copying maps necessary for the departmental service and with preparing a general map of frontiers, by conducting surveys of terrain if necessary. In 1778 the catalog numbered only

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Fig. 453. “INVENTAIRE DE LA COLLECTION GÉOGRAPHIQUE DE MR D’ANVILLE.” With 8,790 items assembled during his long career, the collection of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville is a rare example of a geographer’s intact working map collection. It was acquired by King Louis XVI, who placed it with the Ministère des Affaires étrangères, where it remained until its transfer in 1924 to the Bibliothèque nationale. This inventory carries the stamp of the library of Jacques Augustin Hébert de Hauteclair, d’Anville’s son-in-law. Page 1 lists nine premières mappemondes. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2044 [RÉS]/Arch 46 bis, f. 1).

several hundred pieces in seventeen portfolios. Their efforts were capped by the acquisition of the collection of d’Anville (8,790 maps) in 1780 (Pastoureau 1984, 10) (fig. 453). Cath eri ne H ofm ann See also: Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’; Dépôt de la Guerre (Depository of the War Office; France); Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Depository of Maps and Plans of the Navy; France); France; Map Trade: France

766 Bibliograp hy Casselle, Pierre. 1976. “Le commerce des estampes à Paris dans la seconde moitié du 18ème siècle.” Thèse, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Devos, Jean-Claude, and Marie-Anne Corvisier-de Villèle, eds. 2001. Guide des archives et de la bibliothèque. 2d ed., rev. and enl. Ed. Thierry Sarmant and Samuel Gibiat. Esp. 174–85 (“Le fonds de cartes du Dépôt de la Guerre”) and 269–90 (“Archives techniques du Génie”). Vincennes: Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre. Dion, Marie-Pierre. 1987. Emmanuel de Croÿ (1718–1784): Itinéraire intellectuel et réussite nobiliaire au siècle des Lumières. Brussels: Editions de l’Université de Bruxelles. Du Bus, Charles. 1940. “Gaston d’Orléans et ses collections topographiques.” Bulletin de la Section de Géographie 55:1–35. Hofmann, Catherine. 2018. “La ‘Collection d’Anville’ au ministère des Affaires étrangères (1772–1828): Modalités et enjeux d’une appropriation.” In Une carrière de géographe au siècle des Lumières: Jean-Baptiste d’Anville, ed. Lucile Haguet and Catherine Hofmann, 361–96. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation / Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Laboulais, Isabelle. 2004. “Reading a Vision of Space: The Geographical Map Collection of Charles-Etienne Coquebert de Montbret (1755–1831).” Imago Mundi 56:48–66. Le Guisquet, Bernard. 1992. “Le Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine sous l’Ancien Régime (1720–1789).” Annales Hydrographiques, 5th ser., 18:5–31. Lenglet du Fresnoy, Nicolas. 1716. Méthode pour étudier la géographie. 4 vols. Paris: Charles Estienne Hochereau. Orgeix, Émilie d’. 2000. Plans de fortifications et de batailles, 1677– 1779: Catalogue de la collection Auclair 21 Fi. Bourges: Conseil Général du Cher. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1984. “Collections et collectionneurs de cartes en France, sous l’Ancien Régime.” Revue de la Bibliothèque Nationale 12:6–15. Poindron, Paul. 1943. “Les cartes géographiques du ministère des Affaires étrangères (1780–1789): Jean Denis Barbié Du Bocage et la collection d’Anville.” In Sources: Études, recherches, informations chronique des Bibliothèques Nationales de France, 46–72. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale.

Map Collecting in Great Britain. Map collecting, as opposed to book collecting, is first seen in England in the mid-sixteenth century. By the mid-seventeenth century there were statesmen, soldiers, and admirals who envisaged their professional concerns in spatial terms and tended to regard maps as information sources and instruments for decision making. There was a spectrum of institutions that collected maps and atlases ranging from the fully governmental, such as the Board of Ordnance (particularly from 1683 when the officers were specifically commanded to collect maps and plans), to the semiofficial, like the trading companies, and the effectively private, like the Oxford and Cambridge colleges. Antiquaries and academics like William Stukeley regarded maps as a way of illuminating the past—and particularly the British past—and acquired their own maps for research purposes. Finally, from about the 1650s there was a growing number of map publishers who created their own working collections. Dutch charts now in the Rotterdam Maritime Museum, and formerly

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in Corpus Christi College Oxford, may once have been owned by an English chartmaker like John  Thornton. His maps and advertisements, like those of other early English chartmakers and map publishers, demonstrate that they also owned some copperplates as well as maps and atlases of their Dutch and later British competitors. In most cases, individual collections have long since been dispersed, leaving, at best, only catalogs or, more usually, informal lists. In a few cases, a fragment survives but not in its original arrangement. In the forefront of collectors after 1660 were British monarchs acting in a private capacity and not as nominal owners of the royal library, where atlases accumulated rather than being collected. A significant fragment of their working map collections from 1660 is preserved as part of George III’s Geographical Collections shared between the British Library and the Royal Library at Windsor. These, and some volumes in the King’s (i.e., George III’s) Library in the British Library, reflect Charles II, James II, and George III’s lively personal and professional interest in maps. The private map collections of George I and George II are in the Leibniz Library in Hanover (Barber 2014, 154–55). Cartographic interest percolated downward to ministers like William Blathwayt, a secretary to the council on Trade and Plantations whose extensive collection of official and semiofficial maps predominantly of the American colonies is now in the John Carter Brown Library, Providence. Francis Gwyn occupied a lower rung in the administrative hierarchy as under-secretary of state in the 1680s, but a part of his map collection is now in the British Library (Add. MS 16369–71). Blathwayt began his career as a diplomat, and there were several other British envoys who seem to have had their own reference map collections, judging from surviving single items or from informed comments about the use of maps in their correspondence. Richard Graham, first viscount Preston, Charles II’s ambassador to France in the 1680s, and Sir William Trumbull, who was active in the next decade, almost certainly fall into this group. Soldiers and sailors also had collections. A large part of the map and atlas collection of George Legge, first baron Dartmouth, is now in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, while that of William Augustus, duke of Cumberland, is split between the British Library and the Royal Library at Windsor, and that of the later-eighteenth-century military dynasty of the Clintons is now at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Stephen  S. Clark and William L. Clements Libraries). The maps and charts assembled in the mid-eighteenth century by Admiral Richard Howe, Earl Howe, are now also scattered through the British Library’s collections. The distinction between the professional and antiquarian map collector is difficult to draw in cases such

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as Samuel Pepys, a secretary to the Admiralty whose extensive collection survives in Magdalene College, Cambridge, or his friend and mentor, the polymath John Evelyn. Toward the end of the next century, Alexander Dalrymple, the hydrographer to the East India Company and to the British Admiralty, assembled a large collection of maps in part for professional reasons but also because of his passionate private interest in the history of discoveries. The interest in map collecting was more obviously linked to antiquarianism in the cases of the London bookseller John Innys, whose 113-volume collection is now owned by the earl of Leicester and housed in Holkham Hall in Norfolk, and Richard Gough, whose equally large collection, including the famous detailed late fourteenth-century map of the British Isles that is named after him, is now one of the glories of the Bodleian Library in Oxford. The outstanding example of the self-assembled multivolume “geographical atlas” is, however, that part of George III’s geographical collections known as the King George III’s Topographical Collection in the British Library, with an estimated 50,000 maps, views, and atlases (fig. 454). Before about 1730 maps generally seem to have been

grouped with other prints or manuscripts and to have been pragmatically organized by place and event depicted but in no particular hierarchy. After that date, the great map collections tended to be hierarchically organized along geographical lines in accordance with the eighteenth-century Enlightenment love of classification. They also reflected the growing scholarly interest in geography and in scientific precision in mapping. Map collectors could exercise a real influence on the evolution of cartography. Samuel Pepys’s personal interest and cartographic knowledge and sophistication, for example, made him determined to improve the quality of British official mapping by appointing skilled chart- and mapmakers. For the same reason, he supported the foundation of the Mathematical School at Christ’s Hospital in London (1673). George III also did what he could to the same end. As elector of Hanover, he was responsible for the detailed military surveys of his German dominions between 1764 and 1786 and, though unable to counter the reluctance of the British parliament to undertake a similar survey of the British Isles until the 1790s, he provided private support, for instance by sponsoring Jesse Ramsden’s giant theodolite, which enabled William Roy to survey the baseline

Fig. 454. ENGRAVING OF KING GEORGE III’S MAP LIBRARY AT QUEEN’S HOUSE (NOW BUCKINGHAM PALACE). From Frederick Augusta Barnard, Bibliothecæ Regiæ catalogus, 5 vols. (London, 1820–29), 1:i. The image is based on an 1819 watercolor (which seems to be lost) by James Stephanoff. The room dates from 1762–64 and was designed by George’s favorite architect, William Chambers; the image represents the room as it was in ca. 1800. Of particular note

are the solander boxes in the bottom shelf in the front, which contain the loose items from the king’s multivolume “General Atlas.” Many of the boxes—or at least their backs—are still to be seen in the British Museum’s Enlightenment Gallery, formerly known as the King’s Library. Size of original: 8.2 × 17.8 cm. Image courtesy of the Harlan Hatcher Graduate Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

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for the Greenwich-Paris triangulation. At a local level, wealthy and sophisticated map collectors were also able to exercise influence over the quality of the large-scale mapping of their country directly through both their individual patronage of local estate and county surveyors and through their membership in learned societies, which to varying degrees sponsored many of the larger projects. Peter Barber See also: Great Britain; Map Trade: (1) Great Britain, (2) British America Bibliograp hy Barber, Peter. 2005. “George III and His Geographical Collection.” In The Wisdom of George the Third, ed. Jonathan Marsden, 262–89. London: Royal Collection Publications. ———. 2014. “Mapmaking in Hanover and Great Britain.” In Als die Royals aus Hannover Kamen: The Hanoverians on Britain’s Throne, 1714–1837, ed. Katja Lembke, 146–59. Dresden: Sandstein. Blathwayt, William. 1970–75. The Blathwayt Atlas: A Collection of 48 Manuscript and Printed Maps of the 17th Century . . . by William Blathwayt. 2 vols. Ed. Jeannette Dora Black. Providence: Brown University Press. Delano-Smith, Catherine. 1997. “Map Collections and Libraries in England and Their Place in the History of Cartography.” In La Cartografia Anglesa, by Catherine Delano-Smith and Roger J. P. Kain, 253–69. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. Skelton, R. A. 1972. Maps: A Historical Survey of Their Study and Collecting. 2d ed. 1975. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Tyacke, Sarah, comp. 1989. “Maps.” In Catalogue of the Pepys Library at Magdalene College, Cambridge, vol. 4, Music, Maps and Calligraphy, v–67. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. Wallis, Helen. 1973. “The Map Collections of the British Museum Library.” In My Head Is a Map: Essays & Memoirs in Honour of R. V. Tooley, ed. Helen Wallis and Sarah Tyacke, 3–20. London: Francis Edwards and Carta Press.

Map Collecting in the Netherlands. The Republic of the United Netherlands assumed a prominent and progressive position in several modes of cartography during the seventeenth century. On the one hand, the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) and the West-Indische Compagnie (WIC) promoted the mapping of unknown or barely known areas of the world; on the other hand, the large publishing houses of Janssonius and Blaeu were competing to bring the most comprehensive atlas onto the market. Research on the collecting of cartographic material in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is still relatively recent and fragmentary. The first important initiative was the work of Cornelis Koeman, who charted an unusually broad area: both the collection of geographical material by individuals and the production and purchase of commercial atlases from the sixteenth to the twentieth century. A more recent aid is the publication on microfiche of all book auctions, art sales, and commercial catalogs from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Although these sources yield only limited information, they do make it possible to reconstruct, in

part, a number of collections. A reasonably detailed picture of the nature of collecting is thus possible. Two closely related phenomena can be distinguished before 1650–1700: the collecting of atlases (and maps) and the creation of collector’s atlases. The latter, often called “mirror” or “theater,” became popular in the beginning of the seventeenth century and were histories of the Dutch Revolt illustrated with maps and prints. Cartographic collections consisted mainly of a multivolume atlas by Janssonius or Blaeu, enhanced by the addition of a celestial atlas, one or more maritime atlases, and several city books. These were relatively limited collections, which usually were an integral part of a private library. This changed after the publication of Joan Blaeu’s Atlas maior in 1662. This atlas consisted of nine to twelve volumes, but owners usually considered this only a starting point and supplemented them with as many as another thirty volumes of maps and prints. These multivolume atlases could be regarded as an integral part of  the library, but more often they were treated differently from normal books and were stored in specially manufactured cabinets. Most of the atlases are now known only from auction catalogs, for example those of Johan Huydecoper, Cornelis Nicolaï, and Jacob Cromhout. Complete or partially preserved are the atlases of Michiel van der Grijp (Rotterdam, Historisch Museum) and Frederik Willem van Loon (Amsterdam, Scheepvaartmuseum; Amsterdam, Universiteitsbibliotheek; The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek); and the twenty-four volumes (of an original twenty-seven) assembled by the wealthy sugar merchant Christoffel Beudeker (London, British Library) (Simoni 1985). The atlas owners were invariably wealthy merchants whose collections were not limited to cartographic material but also included books, paintings, coins, or rarities. It is clear that their atlases were for external show and functioned not only as a source of information but also as a status symbol. The atlases’ strong focus on Europe is remarkable. The maritime maps and maps of parts of Africa, America, and Asia, which the VOC and WIC produced for their own use, found their way into individual collections only rarely. The most well-known example is that of the Amsterdam lawyer Laurens van der Hem, who, between 1660 and 1678, put together a forty-six-volume collection (see fig. 489), about half of which consisted of original material such as manuscript maps and topographical drawings of regions and places throughout the world (De Groot 2006). Through the publisher Joan Blaeu, also the official mapmaker of the VOC, Van der Hem was able to have copies made of the maps that were used for the company’s intercontinental voyages. The collection did not have a professional purpose; like

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many contemporaries, Van der Hem regarded collecting modern maps as an honorable pastime that befitted a gentleman. His collection attracted the attention of Prince Eugene of Savoy, who bought it, and it is today in the Österreichsische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna. Van der Hem’s composite atlas emulated similar collections elsewhere, such as those of Cosimo III de’ Medici and Queen Christina of Sweden, who created similar atlases, which have been preserved (Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, and Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, respectively). Although the sales catalogs of publishers such as Cornelis Claesz. in the early seventeenth century and the Van Keulen family in the eighteenth century indicate that they offered manuscript maps for sale, little is known about the results of these commercial activities. Who purchased the maps, where the maps ended up, and how many of them have survived is still largely unknown. Collecting in the eighteenth century was characterized by greater classification, efforts to be comprehensive, and an enormous increase in the scale of collecting with ever less emphasis on pomp. Collectors put together huge atlases in portfolios that consisted largely of easily obtainable prints. In contrast to the seventeenthcentury atlases, these atlases were no longer colored and bound in luxurious bindings or kept in specially manufactured cabinets. The collectors were always conscious of further expanding their collections and thus kept the maps as loose leaves or in portfolios. Examples of these types of atlases are the Grand theatre de l’univers of the wealthy merchant and bibliophile Gosuinus Uilenbroek, consisting of 125 portfolios, and the 103-volume atlas of art lover and bibliophile Theodorus Boendermaker. Both were put up for sale in the early eighteenth century and then sold to the Portuguese ambassador; part of the latter collection remains in Portugal (Koeman 1961, 65). The collectors aimed to depict the world systematically with the help of topographical and geographical material available at the time. Their goals were, however, only partly realized. Because there was limited access to maps of other continents, Europe was heavily overrepresented. An exception was the so-called Atlas Amsterdam, but this was no individual initiative. In 1691, the mapmaker Isaac de Graaf obtained a commission from the Amsterdam chamber of the VOC to create an atlas of the company’s territories using all its available resource material. The result was a two-part atlas with 187 extremely detailed manuscript maps copied from the most recent and best VOC material. Areas beyond Europe played only a small role in geographical and topographical collections of the eighteenth century, but collectors obtained an increasingly accurate picture of their own country and its surroundings. They hired draftsmen to chart all towns and areas of the coun-

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try, and they traveled the countryside themselves to describe and draw the topography and history of places in as detailed a manner as possible. The atlases contained ever fewer maps, and consisted to a large extent of views of towns and buildings. The collectors were mostly amateur antiquarians with a keen interest in national history who not only compiled atlases, but also sought to publish topographic histories. Authors of these histories include Andries Schoemaker and his son Gerrit, Mattheus Brouërius van Nidek, Isaak Le Long, and Floris Jacobsz. Lijnslager, who compiled extensive atlases of the Netherlands or parts of it. After their deaths, their collections were broken up. The contents were initially dispersed to larger private enterprises, which in turn formed the core of the institutional collections founded in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Thus, large collections of topography and history, such as the Atlas van Stolk in Rotterdam and the Stadsarchief Amsterdam, still preserve much of the material originally created and compiled by eighteenth-century antiquarians. Erlend d e Groot See also: Map Trade: Netherlands; Netherlands, Republic of the United Bibliography Groot, Erlend de. 2006. The World of a Seventeenth-Century Collector: The Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem. Vol. 7 of The Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem of the Austrian National Library, comp. Peter van der Krogt and Erlend de Groot, ed. Günter Schilder, Bernard Aikema, and Peter van der Krogt. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Koeman, Cornelis. 1961. Collections of Maps and Atlases in the Netherlands: Their History and Present State. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Plomp, Michiel C. 2001. 18de-eeuwse Hollandse verzamelaars van tekeningen en hun collecties. Vol. 1 of Hartstochtelijk Verzameld. Paris: Fondation Custodia; Bussum: Uitgeverij Thoth. Schilder, Günter, et al. 2006. Atlas Isaak de Graaf/Atlas Amsterdam. Vol. 1 of Grote atlas van de Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie = Comprehensive Atlas of the Dutch United East India Company, ed. J. R. van Diessen. Voorburg: Atlas Maior. Simoni, Anna E. 1985. “Terra Incognita: The Beudeker Collection in the Map Library of the British Library.” British Library Journal 11:143–75. Zandvliet, Kees. 1998. Mapping for Money: Maps, Plans and Topographic Paintings and Their Role in Dutch Overseas Expansion during the 16th and 17th Centuries. Amsterdam: Batavian Lion International.

Map Collecting in the Ottoman Empire. The evidence for

map collecting by the Ottomans is found almost completely in the collections of libraries inside the boundaries of the Ottoman Empire. Thus any research on this topic is largely dependent on the study of libraries and their holdings. Book collecting itself by the Ottomans was common throughout the empire, evidenced by collections in Istanbul, Anatolia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Medina, Egypt, and elsewhere (Erünsal 1985, 1991, 1996, 2001, 2004; Gümüs¸çü 2006; Rukancı and Anameriç 2006; Artan 1999; King, 1981–86 [Cairo]; Kenderova

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and Ivanova 1999 [Bulgaria]; Erünsal 1996, 116n126 [Sarajevo, largely recently destroyed]). Researchers are slowly understanding how each library developed, usually under the aegis of an individual Ottoman who built mosques, madrasas, and personal libraries. The popular collecting of books is best evidenced by the collections now in the library of Süleymaniye in Istanbul, which houses, by recent count, 152 separate collections. Map collecting by the Ottomans is much less well known, and, with the possible exception of the Topkapı Sarayı and Köprülü libraries, both in Istanbul, no other single extant library seems to have been the repository of maps during the period 1650–1800. The location of most maps in Turkey is known, but when or how they arrived in various collections is less clear. It is certain that almost all of them were made for the court circles and that few people saw them. Many maps also happened to be bound in books, mostly old books, a circumstance that can make their presence less obvious in library catalogs and may account for why so few of the many old maps that were made over the centuries exist today. Other avenues of research are the study of ownership seals on books and maps and the analysis of probate inventories, both of which might shed light on private map collecting in the period. In order to assemble the evidence for the variety of maps that existed, as presented in other essays in this volume, an inventory of extant Ottoman maps and their locations is required. A major step in this direction is the slow painstaking progress made by the publication of Türkiye yazmaları toplu katalog˘u (the union catalog of manuscripts in Turkey, 1979–), which has yielded fine results for maps in libraries in Istanbul but little for those outside of that city. Most of the maps discussed in this volume are in manuscript, although printing was an innovation of the period, as were maps painted on walls (Kut and Türe 1996; Renda 1988). Most of the maps produced before 1800 either in Turkey or in any other part of the huge Ottoman Empire, which was at its greatest extent in this period, reside in the two collections within Topkapı Sarayı: the library (Goodrich 1993) and the archives (nothing has yet been published on the maps in the archives, but for the maps in the Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi, Istanbul, see Aktas¸ 2000). The history of the imperial libraries is a complicated one that began with the establishment of the Ottoman capital in Istanbul in 1453 and the energetic Meh.med II (“Bibliothèque et musées” 1983, 1984; Pinto 2016, 219–78). Interest in books and maps varied significantly over the centuries. Some materials entered as gifts and loot; some materials departed as gifts and objects of theft. A large Ottoman manuscript world map was given by Sultan Mura¯d IV to the Habsburg ambassador, Hans Ludwig von Kuefstein (1628–29), a year or

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two after its completion. Based on an Ortelius-type map, perhaps that printed by Arnold Floris van Langren in 1594, it now hangs in Schloss Greillenstein in Austria, where it joins many other Ottoman maps that need to be studied in terms of their origins and sociopolitical context (S¸engör and Kuefstein 2008). Some items disappeared from the scattered ill-protected libraries in the palace. (A few manuscripts with maps once in the palace are now in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, and Dublin, Chester Beatty Library.) There were a number of separate libraries scattered around the palace, and sultans occasionally gave materials to libraries outside the palace, such as those that went to create the mosque library in Ayasofya or those now in the rare-book collec. tion at the Istanbul Üniversitesi (Çag˘man 1987; Çag˘man and Tanındı 1986). The sultans following Meh.med II seem to have not collected maps but to have amassed them rather haphazardly and secreted them, such as the world maps by Pı¯rı¯ Reʾı¯s (Soucek 1996). A similar history applies to other libraries within the empire between 1650 and 1800. Two collections with both manuscript and printed volumes joined the Köprülü Kütüphanesi: those of Hacı Ah.med Pas¸a in 1170/1756–57 and Meh.med ʿAs.ım Bey in 1228/1813. R. A. Skelton states that “deliberate and purposeful map collecting begins in the Renaissance, more precisely at the turn of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries” (1972, 35). While considerable trade took place between Italian cities and Istanbul, the idea of collecting maps did not take root in Istanbul. Skelton enumerated several reasons for the emergence of map collecting in Europe around 1500: increased map production through printing, a growing variety of maps produced, the expanding interest in geography linked to maps stimulated by knowledge of new trade routes, patrons commissioning new maps, an organized book trade, and finally mapmakers themselves collecting maps. Perhaps only the third and fourth of these conditions existed in Istanbul and other Ottoman centers. An example of a failed effort to enter or create an Ottoman map market may be seen in the publishing entrepreneur in Venice who, thinking there might be a market for maps in the Ottoman Empire, commissioned the cordiform world map from one “Hacı Ah.med” in 967/1559–60. Not printed until probably 1794, at least eleven impressions are known to exist, but none within the boundaries of the former Ottoman Empire (Arbel 2002). Maps were acquired almost randomly, many by virtue of their location inside collectible books. Around the mid-seventeenth century, Mus.t.afa¯ ibn ʿAbdulla¯h Ka¯tib Çelebi bought European atlases and owned other books with maps such as the “Ta¯rı¯h-i Hind-i ġarbı¯” (History of the West Indies). Much may˘be gleaned from the examination of the transfer of a volume from one owner to

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another, as in Ka¯tib Çelebi’s case (Hagen 1998). Probate inventories provide some indication .for private maps collected, such as those of Nevs¸ehirli Ibra¯hı¯m Pas¸a and Kaymak Mus.t.afa¯ Pas¸a around 1700, but these collections may have also exhibited a sort of consumerism as well as an openness to existing knowledge (Artan 1999, 90–91). While the location or dispersion of these map collections is now unknown, the interest they reflect in newer geographic knowledge and the New World around 1700 is supported by the number of existing manuscript copies of the century-old “Ta¯rı¯h-i Hind-i ġarbı¯” from that period. Nonetheless, these ˘ copies of “Ta¯rı¯h-i Hind-i ġarbı¯” have no maps, even though the early ˘manuscript copies often had two. It is also clear . from the printed work of Ibra¯hı¯m Müteferrik.a that he had gathered together a significant collection of maps in order to produce those accompanying the printed version of Ka¯tib Çelebi’s Kitaˉb-i Cihaˉnnümaˉ (Sarıcaog˘lu and Yılmaz 2008). Similarly, Ka¯tib Çelebi used a variety of cartographic sources, as his sketches in his copy of Sipa¯hı¯za¯de Meh.med’s work attest (Hagen 2006). More evidence for private collecting awaits further research to establish the provenance of the large number of old maps in libraries established in the two centuries since 1800. The best evidence to date comes from the documented collections in Istanbul. Of the 152 individual collections in Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, twenty-nine existed in 1800, which comprised about 28,000 manuscripts and 800 printed books. At least ten of the pre1800 collections hold cartographic items, nearly half of which were produced or printed in the eighteenth century. In the Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi there are no separate maps; all are bound within books, but no itemized list for this or other libraries is complete at the time of writing. Five other old libraries in Istanbul are housed in separate buildings, though administratively dependent on Süleymaniye: Köprülü (founded in 1661), Atıf Efendi (1741), Ragıp Pas¸a (1763), Nuruosmaniye (1755), and Hacı Selim Ag˘a (1781). Stored in the Beyazıt Devlet Kütüphanesi is the collection of S¸eyhüllislam Veliyüddin Efendi (1783). The relatively few maps in books contained in these separate libraries of individuals may be contrasted with the governmental collections in which many cartographic items are housed: the Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi, the Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi, and the Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi. The maps found in collections outside Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi are copies of a modest number of different though varied works: pre-Ottoman authors (Ibn H . awqal, Claudius Ptolemy, al-Is.t.akhrı¯, al-Muqaddası¯, ˘ ¯ n), water supply al-Idrı¯sı¯, Ibn al-Wardı¯, and Ibn Khaldu drawings (separate maps, all in Köprülü Yazma Eser

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Kütüphanesi), European printed works, the works of Ka¯tib Çelebi, the “Kita . ¯b-ı bah.riyye” by Pı¯rı¯ Reʾı¯s, the “Maʿrifetna¯me” by Ibra¯hı¯m . ak.k.ı Erzurumı¯, and copies . H of three works printed by Ibra¯hı¯m Müteferrik.a. Given the tens of thousands of manuscripts and many printed works in the libraries of Istanbul, what does the paucity of cartographic items mean? First, it may be that geography and cartography were not wedded, and that the study of place did not require maps, a condition similar to medieval Europe. Second, the visualization of space did not undergo a transformation parallel to the Western European experience of reassessing the value of Ptolemaic coordinates and applying mathematical and astronomical surveying techniques to mapmaking. The growing interest in mapping in eighteenth-century Europe touched the Ottoman Empire, but not greatly. Third, the court and its ministers were the major collectors of maps, excluding broader public exposure and ensuring that a commercial market for cartography simply did not exist. To all these suggestions must be added the caveats that the search for maps in libraries or other organized collections is incomplete. Because the definition of what constitutes a “map” varies, it is possible that items remain unaccounted for because they are not thought to be maps. There is much more to be learned from regional centers such as Sofia and Cairo, from archival documents such as probate inventories, and from the history of acquisitions of maps by more recently established libraries such as those in the universities . throughout the old empire and institutions like Istanbul Arkeoloji Müzeleri Kütüphanesi and others outside the empire. Th o mas D . Go odrich See also: Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and Visualization of Space in the Bibliography Aktas¸, Necati, ed. 2000. Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi rehberi. Istanbul: Bas¸bakanlık Devlet Ars¸ivleri Genel Müdürlüg˘ü. Arbel, Benjamin. 2002. “Maps of the World for Ottoman Princes? Further Evidence and Questions Concerning ‘The Mappamondo of Hajji Ahmed.’” Imago Mundi 54:19–29. Artan, Tülay. 1999. “Problems Relating to the Social History Context of the Acquisition and Possession of Books as Part of Collections of Objets d’Art in the 18th Century.” In Art turc: 10e Congrés international d’art turc / Turkish Art: 10th International Congress of Turkish Art, 87–92. Geneva: Fondation Max Van Berchem. Aydüz, Salim. 2006. “Süleyman Sûdî . Efendi’nin Kütüphanesi.” In Essays in Honour of Ekmeleddin Ihsanog˘lu, 2 vols., comp. Mustafa Kaçar and Zeynep Durukal, 1:775–811. Istanbul: IRCICA. “Bibliothèque et musées.” 1983. Section in Travaux et Recherches en Turquie 1982, Collection Turcica 2, with articles by Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont and Nicolas Vatin, Muammer Ülker, and Zarif Orgun and Serap Aykoç, 99–152. Leuven: Éditions Peeters. ———. 1984. Section in Travaux et Recherches en Turquie II, Collection Turcica 4, with articles by Bertrand Lafont, Francis Joannes, S¸ule Aksoy, Erdem Yücel, Muammer Ülker, and Havva Kıvırcık and Nicolas Vatin, 179–225. Leuven: Éditions Peeters.

772 Brentjes, Sonja. 2005. “Mapmaking in Ottoman Istanbul between 1650 and 1750: A Domain of Painters, Calligraphers or Cartographers?” In Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West. 2 vols., ed. Colin Imber, Keiko Kiyotaki, and Rhoads Murphey, 2:125–156. London: I. B. Tauris. Çag˘man, Filiz. 1987. “The Topkapı Collection.” Aramco World Magazine, March–April:6–37. Çag˘man, Filiz, and Zeren Tanındı. 1986. “The Topkapı Saray Museum: The Library and Its Origins.” In The Topkapı Saray Museum: The Albums and Illustrated Manuscripts, trans., expanded, and ed. J. M. Rogers, 11–14. Boston: Little, Brown. . Erünsal, Ismail E. 1985. “Medieval Ottoman Libraries.” Erdem 1:745–54. ———. 1991. Türk Kütüphaneleri Tarihi II: Kurulus¸tan Tanzimat’a kadar Osmanlı kütüphaneleri. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi. ———. 1996. “The Development of Ottoman Libraries from the Conquest of Istanbul (1453) to the Emergence of the Independent Library.” Belleten 60:93–125. ———. 2001. “A Brief Survey of the Development of Turkish Library Catalogues.” Libri 51:1–7. ———. 2004. “Ottoman Foundation Libraries in the Age of Reform: The Final Period.” Libri 54:247–55. Goodrich, Thomas D. 1993. “Old Maps in the Library of Topkapi Palace in Istanbul.” Imago Mundi 45:120–33. ———. 1997. “Early Islamic and Ottoman Maps at Yale.” Yale University Library Gazette 72:27–40. Gümüs¸çü, Osman. 2006. Tarihi cog˘rafya: kavramlar-tarihçe-kaynaklar-mekan-metod. Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayınevi. Hagen, Gottfried. 1998. “Kâtib Çelebi and Târîh-î Hind-i Garbî.” Güney-Dog˘u Avrupa Aras¸tırmaları Dergisi 12:101–15. ———. 2006. “Kâtib . Çelebi and Sipâhîzâde.” In Essays in Honour of Ekmeleddin Ihsanog˘lu, vol. 1, Societies, Cultures, Sciences: A Collection of Articles, comp. Mustafa Kaçar and Zeynep Durukal, . 525–42. Istanbul: IRCICA. Ihsanog˘lu, Ekmeleddin, ed. 1995. Türkiye yazma eser kütüphaneleri ve bu kütüphanelerde bulunan yazmalarla ilgili yayınlar bibliyografyası. Istanbul: IRCICA. Kaya, Nevzat. 2000. “Süleymaniye Kütüphanesi.” Akademik Aras¸tırmalar Dergisi 4–5:523–36. Kenderova, Stoyanka, and Zorka Ivanova, comps. 1999. Iz sbirkite na osmanskite biblioteki v Bulgaria XVIII–XIX vek = From the Collections of Ottoman Libraries in Bulgaria during the 18th–19th Centuries. Sofia: Narodna Biblioteka. King, David. 1981–86. A Catalogue of the Scientific Manuscripts in the Egyptian National Library. 2 vols. Cairo: Da¯r al-Kutub alMis.rı¯yah. Kut, Turgut, and Fatma Türe. 1996. Yazmadan basmaya: Müteferrika, mühendishane, Üsküdar. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Kültür Merkezi. Pinto, Karen C. 2016. Medieval Islamic Maps: An Exploration. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Renda, Günsel. 1988. “Traditional Turkish Painting and the Beginnings of Western Trends.” In A History of Turkish Painting, by Günsel Renda et al., 2d ed., 15–86. Geneva: Palasar; Seattle: In association with University of Washington Press. Rukancı, Fatih, and Hakan Anameriç. 2006. “Libraries as Scientific, Educational and Cultural Institutions in the Ottoman Empire (XIVth–XVIIth Centuries).” Libri 56:252–63. Sarıcaog ˘ lu, Fikret, and Cos¸kun Yılmaz. 2008. Müteferrika: Basmacı . . Ibrahim Efendi ve Müteferrika Matbaası = Basmacı Ibrahim Efendi and the Müteferrika Press. Trans. Jane Louise Kandur. Istanbul: Esen Ofset. S¸engör, Celal, and Elisabeth Countess Kuefstein. 2008. “A New Ottoman World Map from the Early Seventeenth Century.” In International Turkish Sea Power History Symposium: The Indian Ocean

Map Collecting and the Presence of the Ottoman Navy in the 16th and 17th Centuries, VI-2 through VI-19. Istanbul. In Turkish: “17’nci yüzyılın bas¸larına ait yeni bir Osmanlı dünya haritası.” In Uluslararası türk deniz gücü tarihi sempozyumu: 16’nci ve 17’nci yüzyıllarda Hint Okyanusu’nda Osmanlı deniz varlıg˘ı, VI-2 through VI-19. Istanbul. Skelton, R. A. 1972. Maps: A Historical Survey of Their Study and Collecting. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Soucek, Svat. 1996. Piri Reis & Turkish Mapmaking after Columbus: The Khalili Portolan Atlas. New York: Nour Foundation in association with Azimuth Editions and Oxford University Press.

Map Collecting in Portugal. Following the War of the

Spanish Succession, the reign of João V (1706–50) marked a renewal in Portugal’s cultural and scientific life. The king ordered his diplomats in France, Holland, Italy, and England to acquire books, works of art, and scientific instruments as part of an ambitious program to enrich both the libraries of the royal palaces in Lisbon and Mafra and the university library of Coimbra (Biblioteca Joanina). In this context, many maps and other cartographic objects were purchased and acquired, including atlases by Pieter van der Aa and globes by Vincenzo Coronelli, the latter still part of the collection of the Sociedade de Geografia de Lisboa. Among the atlases in the Portuguese royal collection was one by Guillaume Delisle in 6 volumes, specially organized for João V by the French king’s geographer (ca. 1721); Joan Blaeu’s Atlas maior in 10 volumes; an atlas in 3 volumes by Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville; an atlas by the abbé Jean de Vayrac, purchased in 1724 and repaired by d’Anville; and the so-called Boendermaker Atlas, named for its Dutch collector, in 103 volumes (many now lost) that included maps from different European nations and plans of Europe’s most prominent cities as well as an exceptionally large quantity of engravings treating a broad range of topics (Mandroux-França 2003, 74–84). In addition, the collection contains several smaller, more portable atlases purchased at the behest of the king to prepare for a journey through Spain, France, England, Holland, Prussia, and Italy. This European tour, meant to take place between 1715 and 1717, never came to fruition. Nevertheless, this list provides some notion of the cartographic materials the king had acquired at this time, since the very diversity of atlases published before 1740 listed among the royal library’s 80,000 volumes (all of which were sent to Brazil in 1808 following the transfer of the Court to Rio de Janeiro) suggest that they were purchased during João V’s reign. On the other hand, not everything in Portugal was sent to Brazil. Many of the French and Dutch atlases that were part of the former royal libraries of Mafra and the Ajuda Palace likely date from the same period, not to mention the atlases at the Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, remained in Portugal. Alongside these collections, other groups sponsored or supported the collection of cartographic materials.

Map Collecting

These included the high aristocracy, such as the marqueses of Abrantes, Fronteira, and Castelo Melhor; the erudite, such as the bishop Frei Manuel do Cenáculo Villas Boas and Diogo Barbosa Machado (whose collection is in the Biblioteca Nacional, Rio de Janeiro); the religious orders, including Jesuits, Franciscans, and Oratorians; and scholarly and military institutions, such as the Academia Real de História Portugueza and the army and navy. Aside from representing wealth and prestige, these maps, atlases, and globes were collected for specific purposes: to construct discourses of power, to discuss geopolitics, to help define jurisdictional spaces, and to plan warfare on land and at sea. During the reign of José I (1750–77), the role of maps as instruments of power was reinforced by the action of the king’s favorite, Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, marquês de Pombal. During this period, cartographers, engineers, and architects produced and collected manuscript maps on local and regional scales to respond to state reforms or to exceptional circumstances, such as the reconstruction of Lisbon following the 1755 earthquake. In South America, boundary disputes with France and most importantly Spain following the Treaties of Utrecht (1713–15) fostered the collection of manuscript and printed maps of the contested regions, whether through the actions of Portuguese diplomats or the court itself. In the case of Brazil, it was necessary to produce maps of various regions and collect geographical information from explorers and backwoodsmen (sertanistas). The “Mapa dos confins do Brazil” (1749) (see fig. 447) was used as the basis of the 1750 Treaty of Madrid. The map itself was derived from several different manuscript and printed maps of varied scales, sizes, and purposes: from CharlesMarie de La Condamine’s map of the Amazon River basin to written narratives and sketches by explorers from Mato Grosso. The number of administrative map collections increased significantly following the Treaty of El Pardo (1761), which nullified the Treaty of Madrid (1750), especially those collections belonging to high-level Crown administrators, some of whom had served as governors of Brazilian captaincies. The relationship between colonial power (military, administrative, and economic) and map collecting in Portugal and Brazil is clearly found in the collections of Luís António de Sousa Botelho Mourão, fourth morgado de Mateus and governor of the São Paulo captaincy (1765–75); Luís Pinto de Sousa Coutinho, visconde de Balsemão, who governed Mato Grosso (1767–72); and Luís de Albuquerque de Melo Pereira e Cáceres, also governor of the captaincy of Mato Grosso and Cuiabá (1772–89). These collections consist almost exclusively of manuscript maps, either

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originals or copies, in which the represented territories correspond to the captaincies of Brazil that the collectors governed. The one exception is the collection of the visconde de Balsemão, held today at the Biblioteca Pública Municipal do Porto, which contains many important printed maps and atlases relating to Europe and North America as well as maps of the northern, southern, and western portions of Brazil. The breadth of the visconde de Balsemão’s collection likely derives from his later positions both as Portuguese ambassador to London and as minister of foreign affairs, not to mention the key role he played in preparing the new boundary treaty with Spain in 1777. These collections of loose maps often included manuscript memoirs, journals, and route descriptions, as well as notes on boundary demarcations and astronomical observations. Often, they were part of important libraries, which frequently included many atlases. At the very end of the eighteenth century, three institutions were created in Lisbon that were designed, among other purposes, to consolidate, study, and safeguard cartographic collections: the Academia Real das Sciências (1779), the Real Biblioteca Pública da Corte (1796), and the Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica (1798). During the period of the Portuguese royal family’s extended stay in Brazil (1808–21) and the occupation of Portugal by French and British armies, many of the cartographic collections were dispersed, ending up in archives and libraries in Rio de Janeiro, Paris, and London. J oão Carlo s Garcia and And ré Ferrand d e Alm eida See also: Map Trade: Portugal; Portugal Bibliography Adonias, Isa. 1960. Mapas e planos manuscritos relativos ao Brasil colonial conservados no Ministério das Relações Exteriores. 2 vols. in 1. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério das Relações Exteriores, Serviço de Documentação. Almeida, Luís Ferrand de. 1991. “D. João V e a Biblioteca Real.” Revista da Universidade de Coimbra 36:413–38. Cortesão, Jaime. 1965–71. História do Brasil nos velhos mapas. 2 vols. Rio de Janeiro: Ministério das Relações Exteriores, Instituto Rio Branco. Garcia, João Carlos, ed. 2001. A Nova Lusitânia: Imagens cartográficas do Brasil nas colecções da Biblioteca Nacional (1700–1822), Catálogo. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. ———, ed. 2002. A mais dilatada vista do mundo: Inventário da colecção cartográfica da Casa da Ínsua. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. Mandroux-França, Marie-Thérèse. 2003. “Le ‘Corpo de Estampas’ de la bibliothèque royale portugaise sous le règne de Jean V ‘Le Magnifique’ (1707–1750).” In vol. 1 of Catalogues de la collection d’estampes de Jean V, roi de Portugal, by Pierre-Jean Mariette, ed. Marie-Thérèse Mandroux-França and Maxime Préaud, 45–289. Paris: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian (Centre Culturel Calouste Gulbenkian); Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France; Lisbon: Fundação da Casa de Bragança.

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Map Collecting in Russia. Map collecting in Russia in the eighteenth century consisted mainly of accumulation and archiving. In line with the general development of Russian cartography, the period may be subdivided into two phases. The first phase saw the general gathering together of cartographic production in the country and the second concerned more deliberate aggregation and archiving. The defining feature of the first phase was its official nature. Mapping management was concentrated in central and local governing departments (prikazy), who were the main customers of map production. The cartographic documents of the first period were mostly manuscript geographical drawings (chertëzhi). This type of mapmaking was stimulated by the land surveying statutes of the Sobornoye Ulozhenye of 1649 and continued from 1650 to 1690. As a consequence, hundreds of such map sketches were accumulated in the prikazy: the privy council of Prikaz taynykh del; the military Razriyadnyy prikaz; the foreign affairs Posol’skiy prikaz; the interior Pomestnyy prikaz; and the Siberian Sibirskyy prikaz. Sketchy descriptions of these collections were cited in inventories of maps (rospisi chertëzham) made in this period; six such inventories are known. Researchers have analyzed in detail these rospisi (Bagrow 1917, 1975; Kusov 1989, 2003; Postnikov 1985, 1996) and established the loss of the majority of maps mentioned. Two special catalogs describe more than a thousand surviving chertëzhi and cite eighteen archives, libraries, and museums where they are now kept (Kusov 1993; 2007, esp. table 2). The works of Seme¨ n Ul’yanovich Remezov reflected the original national cartographic traditions but also symbolized the transition of Russian cartography into a new epoch. There are some indirect references that indicate Remezov collected chertëzhi during his life. Those who have studied his life and activities have paid scant attention to this part of his work. Remezov indicated in the prefaces to his atlases (1697–1711; 1701; 1702–30) that he had used earlier maps while compiling his new maps (fig. 455), but his collection has not survived. In about 1700, a new stage of Russian political and economic activity began. More advanced cartography was an essential requirement for the growth of exploration, significant territorial expansion, creation of a new navy and army, and development of industry and trade. As in the seventeenth century, Russian cartography in the eighteenth century proceeded mainly under central government management, and the executive authorities enforced special control over map compiling, storage, and use. The senate and the Akademiya nauk organized general and particular (regional) instrumental surveys of the country as a whole. Officers in the service of the quarter-

Map Collecting

Fig. 455. REMEZOV’S SOURCES FOR COMPILING “CHERTËZHNAYA KNIGA.” In this manuscript fragment of the preface to his “Chertëzhnaya kniga Sibiri” ([Tobolsk], 1701), Remezov referred to earlier map sketches he had used for compiling the atlas. Size of the entire original: 54 × 38 cm; size of detail: ca. 15 × 18 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Manuscript Department, Ф.246.365).

master general and the General Staff compiled maps for the army. The Admiralteystv kollegiya charted the seas and rivers. The drawing office of the senate’s land survey expedition, Mezhevaya ekspeditsiya, carried out general land surveying. By the end of the century, Russian cartography reached a European level of development, and the majority of significant cartographic documents created were printed, or otherwise replicated, and stored in archives, libraries, and museums. The most significant official collections were described in bibliographic works (Anonymous 1748; Gnucheva 1946; Kolgushkin 1958; Lemus 1961). This map collecting was largely an official enterprise, but it is important to note several examples of early private collecting. Yakov Vilimovich Bryus, a statesman and the supervisor of mapping in the beginning of the eighteenth century, possessed a significant cartographic collection. He collected maps compiled in Russia, the majority of them created or revised under his supervision before printing. He also tried to purchase the best contemporary maps of Russia and other countries. In his will, his collection of 146 maps and 8 atlases was left to the Geograficheskiy departament of the Akademiya nauk in St. Petersburg. Peter I possessed a similar, valuable collection of maps that he gifted to the Akademiya nauk at his death. Joseph-Nicolas Delisle collected maps

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in the Akademiya nauk during his stay in Russia, returning to Paris with more than 300 clandestinely removed maps and related documents (Fel’ 1960, 180–83). By the middle of the century, private map collecting had also developed within a framework of antiquarianism. Collecting valuable articles was common among many aristocratic families, and it became routine during the reign of Catherine II (r. 1761–96). The most famous owners of the private map collections were Nikolay Petrovich Rumyantsev, Aleksey Ivanovich Musin-Pushkin, and Vasiliy Stepanovich Sopikov. Also well known were the collections accumulated at the beginning of the nineteenth century of Pe¨ tr Mikhailovich Volkonskiy, Aleksandr Ivanovich Chernyshe¨ v, Aleksandr Dmitriyevich Chertkov, Pe¨ tr Yakovlevich Chaadayev, Pavel Mikhailovich Stroyev, Aleksandr Filippovich Smirdin, Avraam Sergeyevich Norov, Mikhail Petrovich Pogodin, and Sergey Dmitriyevich Poltoratskiy. But only the collection of Aleksandr Yakovlevich Lobanov-Rostovskiy, numbering 2,269 items, comprised only maps, and the General Staff eventually inherited it. Rumyantsev’s collection, which became the foundation of the state library, Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow, included more than five hundred cartographic works, with Remezov’s “Chertëzhnaya kniga Sibiri” (1701) among them. The Musin-Pushkin collection included the “Kniga Bol’shomu chertëzhu” (1627), a manuscript text containing the topographic description of a strategic map of the Russian state, which was lost in the Moscow fire of 1812 (Goldenberg 2007, 1859, 1864–66). Mainly military and topographic maps were in the collections of Volkonskiy and Chernyshëv, most of which are now dispersed among numerous archives, libraries, and museums (Bokachëv 1890). L i u d mila Zinch uk See also: Map Trade: Russia; Russia B i bliogra p hy Anonymous. 1748. Reyestr landkartam, chertezham i planam Rossiyskoy Imperii, nakhodyashchimsya v Geograficheskom departamente pri Imp. Akademii nauk. St. Petersburg: Akademiya nauk. Bagrow, Leo. 1917. Istoriya geograficheskoy karty. Petrograd: Sunodal’naya Tipografiya. ———. 1975. A History of Russian Cartography up to 1800. Ed. Henry W. Castner. Wolfe Island: Walker Press. Bokache¨ v, Nikolay. 1890. Opisi Rossiyskikh bibliotek i bibliograficheskiye izdaniya, nakhodyeshchiyesya v istoricheskoy i arheologicheskoy biblioteke N. Bokachëva. St. Petersburg. Fel’, S. Ye. 1960. Kartografiya Rossii XVIII veka. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Geodezicheskoy Literatury. Gnucheva, V. F. 1946. Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka. Ed. A. I. Andreyev. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Goldenberg, L. A. 2007. “Russian Cartography to ca. 1700.” In HC 3:1852–1903. Kolgushkin, V. V. 1958. Opisaniye starinnykh atlasov, kart i planov XVI, XVII, XVIII vekov i poloviny XIX veka, khranyashchikhsya v

arkhive Tsentral’nogo kartograficheskogo proizvodstva Mezhdunarodnyy Balyutnyy Fond. Leningrad: Nachal’nika Gidroficheskaya Sluzhby. Kusov, V. S. 1989. Kartograficheskoye iskusstvo Russkogo gosudarstva. Moscow: “Nedra.” ———. 1993. Chertezhi zemli russkoy XVI–XVII vv. Moscow: “Russkiy Mir.” ———. 2003. Pamyatniki otechestvennoy kartografii. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Moskovskogo Universiteta. ———. 2007. Moskovskoye gosudarstvo XVI–nachala XVIII veka: Svodnyy katalog russkikh geograficheskikh chertezhey. Moscow: Russkiy Mir. Lemus, N. V. 1961. Russkiye geograficheskiye atlasy XVIII v. Svodnyy katalog. Leningrad: GPB. Postnikov, Alexey V. 1985. Razvitiye kartografii i voprosy ispol’zovaniya starykh kart. Moscow: “Nauka.” ———. 1996. Karty zemel’ rossiyskikh: Ocherk istorii geograficheskogo izucheniya i kartografirovaniya nashego otechestva. Moscow: Nash Dom–L’Age d’Homme. In English, Russia in Maps: A History of the Geographical Study and Cartography of the Country.

Map Collecting in Spain. From the Middle Ages, secular and religious nobility were the traditional owners of cartographic works in Spain. Spanish editions of Abraham Ortelius’s Theatrum orbis terrarum (1588–1612), Johannes Janssonius’s Atlas novus (1653–66), Joan Blaeu’s Atlas maior (1659–72), and the lists of subscribers to works such as the Robert de Vaugondy family’s Atlas universal (1757) (Pedley 1979) bear witness to a continuous demand, even though Spain lacked an indigenous cartographic industry. In addition to the cartographic patrimony treasured by the nobility, there is the patrimony of secular and religious institutions. In the vanguard was the Colegio Imperial, run by the Jesuits and incorporating the collections of the Academia de Matemáticas, founded in Madrid in 1582 by Felipe II, and the archives of the official cosmographer. Educational centers for missionary orders also accumulated considerable cartographic collections in their libraries (García López and Ortega Lamadrid 1960). Among the secular centers, universities stand out, especially those with the greatest reputations, such as Salamanca and Valencia. The enlightened spirit of the time encouraged the creation throughout the country of different secular associations and academies, from private groups such as the Sociedades de Amigos del País (1774) to official organizations such as the Gabinete Geográfico (1795) attached to the secretary of state. The evidence for the existence of private collections is scarce. The collection of Vincencio Juan de Lastanosa (fig. 456) (Hernando 2007) and those of some enlightened individuals, such as Jorge Juan (Navarro Mallebrera and Navarro Escolano 1987), have been studied. The rhetorical variety that geographic knowledge employs explains the heterogeneous forms of cartography collected. Atlases were the most valued jewels acquired

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Fig. 456. FIRST PAGE OF MANUSCRIPT CATALOG LISTING THE MAPS OF THE VINCENCIO JUAN DE LASTANOSA COLLECTION. Image courtesy of Andrea Davis Kronlund/Kungliga biblioteket, Stockholm (ms. U-379, f. 96r).

outside Spain for the libraries of the nobility, convents, and universities. Francisco de Aefferden’s El atlas abreviado (1696), illustrated with forty-two maps, is the first geography written in Spanish, but not until the second half of the eighteenth century did Spanish authors publish their first atlases (Hernando 2005). Examination of modern cartobibliographies reveals the publication of nautical and urban atlases in Spanish. Private library inventories from this period also note the existence of spheres and globes, which were considered mathematical instruments, but their presence in collections was unusual (Hernando 2014). Regarding sheet maps not in atlases, such as wall maps or large regional maps, the wills and testaments of scholars and collectors often reveal ownership of a particular map, often depicting the region in which the deceased resided. Such is the case in libraries of some academicians, professors, and military men. The limited familiarity of the appraiser with cartographic collections relegated maps to the bottom of such inventories, where they received much less descriptive attention than

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that given to books. Eighteenth-century appraisals reflect commercial criteria and social esteem quite different from that which prevails today (Patier 1992). Practical motives or future uses of the information conveyed by maps justified the formation of a collection; less consideration was given to map collecting as an intellectual expression, an artistic contribution, or a symbolic image. A request for an atlas in a letter, or the urgent demand for some cartographic copies, can reflect the political, military, or administrative context of a collection’s use. Although we lack significant records or accounts, we assume a similar use of collections in religious or commercial contexts. Literary and graphic silences concerning rooms where maps hung on walls are quite telling. Although these lacunae may be construed as evidence for low esteem or limited familiarity with cartography, the publication of wall maps of Spain, Catalonia, Valencia, and Aragon prove the existence of a considerable demand. The increased number of professionals specializing in cartographic production facilitated both the means and the growing taste for map collecting. The geographer Tomás López was able to gather a splendid collection (Patier 1992). Nonetheless, recent exhibits as well as inventories of library collections and the study of printmaking in Spain demonstrate that religious imagery dominated the market; engravings with scientific themes, including maps, do not stand out (Carrete Parrondo, Fernández Delgado, and Vega González 1982). It is only in the nineteenth century that we find the first great collectors and discover true cartographic jewels in their collections. In the eighteenth century, the examples gathered seem modest: an inherited library with some atlases, an antique portolan chart guarded at a convent, or documents from an archive, and, except for atlases, their presence is not worthy of special consideration. The preservation of maps was not easy, and the most up-to-date versions needed to be imported, involving difficulties of time, cost, and accessibility. Agustí n Hernando See also: Map Trade: Spain; Spain Bibliography Capel, Horacio. 1990. “El público y la circulación de obras de geografía en la España del siglo XVIII.” In La Ciencia y su público: Perspectivas históricas, comp. Javier Ordóñez and Alberto Elena, 225–310. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Carrete Parrondo, Juan, Javier Fernández Delgado, and Jesusa Vega González. 1982. “Catálogo.” In Estampas: Cinco siglos de imagen impresa, 45–292. Madrid: Subdirección General de Museos. García López, Santiago, and Paulino Ortega Lamadrid. 1960. Obras de Geografía: Manuscritos, incunables y raros e impresos (siglos XVI–XVIII). Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid. Hernando, Agustín. 2005. El Atlas geográfico de España (1804) pro-

Map Collecting ducido por Tomás López. Madrid: Dirección General del Instituto Geográfico Nacional. ———. 2007. Coleccionismo cartográfico en el siglo XVII: Ejemplares reunidos por Vincencio Juan de Lastanosa (1607–1681) y su significado. Huesca: Instituto de Estudios Altoaragoneses. ———. 2014. “The Construction of Terrestrial and Celestial Globes in Spain.” Globe Studies 59–60:160–97. Navarro Mallebrera, Rafael, and Ana María Navarro Escolano. 1987. Inventario de bienes de Jorge Juan y Santacilia. Alicante: Caja de Ahorros Provincial de Alicante; Instituto de Estudios Juan GilAlbert de la Diputación Provincial de Alicante. Patier, Felicidad. 1992. La biblioteca de Tomás López: Seguida de la relación de los mapas impresos, con sus cobres, y de los libros del caudal de venta que quedaron a su fallecimiento en Madrid en 1802. Madrid: Ediciones El Museo Universal. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1979. “The Subscription List of the 1757 Atlas Universel: A Study in Cartographic Dissemination.” Imago Mundi 31:66–77.

Map Collecting in Sweden-Finland. Map collecting in

Sweden-Finland in the period 1650–1800 was rarely a hobby, even for antiquarian reasons, but was mainly connected with professional activities. Maps were usually collected for reference and practical use. After the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48), Sweden emerged as a great European military power. This meant that an increasing amount of war booty, including books and maps from libraries in Denmark, Germany, Poland, and Moravia, came to Kungliga biblioteket, to the universities and gymnasiums, and to some extent to military leaders themselves. It also meant increased resources for the Swedish nobility to purchase material in the expanding book market, especially in the Netherlands. This phenomenon continued until the death of Karl XII in 1718 and the end of Sweden’s preeminent position; nevertheless collection building, especially by private individuals, continued and even expanded, financed by landownership, trade, and industry. Some of the Finnish sources for this aspect of collecting are retrievable through the Henrik online database of books and their owners to 1809 in Finland, culled from estate inventories and auction records. The principal sheet map collections in this period were those assembled within map producing bodies like Lantmäteriet (land survey), founded in 1628, the Fortifikationen (fortification administration), founded in 1635, Finska Rekognoseringsverket (Finnish reconnaissance authority), established 1776, or the hydrographical survey, going back to 1680, but not established as an independent agency until 1809. The Fortifikationen and the hydrographical survey would also collect foreign maps and atlases, when their tasks so demanded. Although Kungliga biblioteket was largely destroyed in 1697 in the palace fire, King Karl XI’s luxury edition of Joan Blaeu’s Atlas maior (1662) survived. In the following century the collections were restored by pur-

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chase, legal deposit (beginning in 1661), and donations, sometimes of antiquarian prestige objects. Uppsala universitetsbibliotek, founded in 1620, was enriched by donations from the king and nobility, e.g., by Magnus Gabriel De la Gardie, Sweden’s greatest book collector in the seventeenth century, or his contemporary Clas Rålamb, who in 1656 was in possession of large parts of the confiscated library of the Jesuit College at Poznan´, Poland, including a dozen atlases (Kungliga biblioteket, MSS., catalog Cod. Rål. fol. 178a). Later additions came from university scholars and foreign travelers. The main contribution was 4,500 maps in 1811 from the collections of Carl David Gyllenborg, a frequent buyer at auctions in Stockholm (Taube 1921; Davidsson 1956). Lund University, founded in 1666 to consolidate Swedish rule in the recently conquered Skåne region, received a royal donation in 1684 including important cartographic works by Jacob Ziegler, Sebastian Münster, Abraham Ortelius, Gerardus Mercator, Willem and Joan Blaeu, Georg Braun and Frans Hogenberg, and Giovanni Antonio Magini. They had belonged to the history professor and royal councillor Emund Gripenhielm, which explains their antiquarian flavor (Richter 1959, 69–70). In Finland, the Turku (Åbo) academy was founded in 1640. It inherited the library of the gymnasium founded in 1630, which consisted of twenty-one volumes, among them works of Münster and Peter Apian and two globes. The academy later acquired remarkable works ranging from Ptolemy to Pierre Louis Moreau de Maupertuis. After a fire in 1827, the academy moved and later became Helsinki University (Vallinkoski 1948–75). The library of the gymnasium of Viipuri (Viborg), founded in 1641, held maps from the sixteenth century. In 1735 a threevolume Blaeu atlas was bought and also three globes, probably for education and reference (Nohrström 1927). In Sweden proper, around 1700 there were ten gymnasiums, the oldest being Västerås, founded in 1623. Their libraries usually contained some atlases, maps, and globes. Göteborg (Gothenburg) gymnasium, for example, in 1778 possessed some twenty books in geography and cosmography, the oldest being those of Apian, Münster, and Heinrich Bünting, but only three atlases, including the Atlas historique (1705–20) probably by Zacharias Châtelain, the Atlas maritimus & commercialis (1728), and work by Johann Baptist Homann. Printed catalogs for the gymnasium libraries of Göteborg (1778), Skara (1830), and Kalmar (1876) are in Kungliga biblioteket. The private gymnasium on Visingsö Island, founded in 1636 by statesman Per Brahe, held one work of Ortelius, one of Mercator, two globes (one celestial, one terrestrial), and seven mounted maps; the catalog is in the Växjö stadsbibliotek (MS. fol. 78).

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There were also private collectors and collections. The best preserved private library from seventeenth-century Sweden is at Skokloster Palace, comprising the collections of Field Marshal and Admiral Carl Gustaf Wrangel and the noble families of Brahe, Bielke, and Scheffer. Wrangel was the first in Sweden to buy books through newspaper advertisements. The Wrangel collection contains several Blaeu and Janssonius atlases, works by Petrus Bertius and Georg Horn, as well as Robert Dudley’s Arcano del mare (1647), whereas the Brahe collection has a wider range, including works by Jacob Aertsz. Colom, Nicolas de Fer, Pieter Goos, Jan van Loon, and Lucas Jansz. Waghenaer, as well as city views, wall maps, and globes. The largest collection is that of Carl Gustaf Bielke, one of the leading book collectors of his age, who stayed in contact with Amsterdam publisher François l’Honoré for a decade (Lindberg 1976). The most conspicuous collector of the eighteenth century, Carl Gustaf Tessin (fig. 457), a great contributor

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to Kungliga biblioteket, owned some fifty atlases and portfolios, including, as recorded in 1742, the “Great Paris map glued to cloth with a mechanism to pull it up and down” (Kungliga biblioteket MS. S.12, p. 113r) but nothing by Ortelius or Mercator (Kungliga biblioteket, MSS., catalog Cod. U.401; original in Universitetsbibliotek, Lund, MS De la Gardie IX:6). Book collecting, including maps, in Sweden and Finland during the eighteenth century spread beyond the ranks of the nobility to civil servants, doctors, businessmen, and urban bourgeoisie. Through book auction records and estate inventories in Stockholm, we have evidence for thirty collections with more than twenty maps, with owners including King Adolf Fredrik, art professor Pehr Floding, physics professor Johan Carl Wilcke, and town judge Eric H. Ström. With their increasing domestic production and importation, sheet maps came to predominate in collections rather than the great atlases. In Finland, our knowledge of private book collections is scanty. Among map owners were Bishop Jacob Haartman in Turku and history professor Henrik Gabriel Porthan, a leading figure in Finland’s cultural history, with six atlases and twenty-three maps. Land surveyor Gustaf Adolph Tuderus at Tampere (Tammerfors), owned a book collection of some two thousand titles, but only one atlas and fifty-two maps (Mäkinen 2005). The library at Åminne manor (catalog in the Kansalliskirjasto, Helsinki), was owned by courtier and diplomat Gustaf Mauritz Armfelt. It contained twenty maps acquired up to 1809, including Austrian, British, French, German, Russian, and Swedish examples. In Sweden, by 1800, some clearly antiquarian items were being purchased, e.g., the library of bibliographer Carl Gustaf Warmholtz, auctioned in 1799, including ten atlases beginning with Ptolemy’s Geography (1513). Prices were relatively high due to the presence of genuine collectors such as Count Gyllenborg. This is evident at the Engsö auction in 1803 (Carl Fredrik Piper family), where the prices paid for Blaeu’s Atlas maior and an Ortelius atlas signal the arrival of antiquarian map collecting. Gö ran Bäärnh ielm and Lee na M i ekkavaara

Fig. 457. UNDATED PORTRAIT OF COUNT CARL GUSTAF TESSIN BY JACQUES-ANDRÉ-JOSEPH AVED. Count Tessin, surrounded by his books, coins, and art, gives the globe a prominent place in his collection. Oil on canvas. Size of the original: 149 × 116 cm. © Nationalmuseum, Stockholm/Bridgeman Images.

See also: Map Trade: Sweden-Finland; Sweden-Finland Bibliography Davidsson, Åke. 1956. Handritade kartor över Sverige i Uppsala universitetsbibliotek: Katalog. Uppsala: N.p. Lindberg, Sten G. 1976. “Biblioteket på Skokloster: Vårutflykt till vårt rikaste 1600-talsbibliotek.” Biblis, 133–72. Mäkinen, Ilkka. 2005. Bokvurm i Tammerfors: Lantmätare Gustaf Adolph Tuderus (1766–1817) bibliotek. Tampere: Tampereen Yliopiston Virtain Kulttuurintutkimusasema. Nohrström, Holger. 1927. Borgå gymnasiebibliotek och dess föregångare bland Finlands läroverksbibliotek. Helsinki: N.p. Richter, Herman. 1959. Geografiens historia i Sverige intill år 1800. Uppsala: Lärdomshistoriska Samfundet. Taube, N. E. 1921. “Några ord om utländska kartor i Uppsala uni-

Map Collecting versitetsbibliotek.” In Uppsala universitetsbiblioteks minneskrift, 1621–1921, 526–36. Uppsala: Almqvist och Wiksell. Vallinkoski, Jorma. 1948–75. The History of the University Library at Turku. 2 vols. Helsinki: N.p.

Map Collecting in Switzerland. Until the end of the eighteenth century, government activity in Switzerland, including the formation of official map collections, was organized by individual cantons. Official cartography was a function of the military and of the expansion of civil administration. Although largely undertaken with private support and at individual expense, many of the resulting maps and plans were kept—along with other official documents—at government offices and state archives to which only a limited circle of people had access. Significant manuscript map collections from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries can now be found within cantonal archives, such as those in Zurich and Bern. Engineers and officers also compiled private collections, which in some instances have ended up in public collections. A growing interest in publicly obtainable maps gave rise to an increasing number of private collections during the seventeenth century. The rise of widespread formal education in the eighteenth century led to further interest in cartographic knowledge by the Swiss public, which in turn led to cheaper maps for a broader range of customers. Such interest was sustained by the Enlightenment’s concerns for the natural sciences and the new cartographic endeavors that resulted, such as precise baseline measurements and the first altitude measurements. In addition, maps were used as a basis for scientific research. Bern geographer and bibliophile Samuel Engel repeatedly cited the maps he had consulted as sources for his comprehensive studies of the longitudinal extent of Asia. Engel was a close relative of the renowned Albrecht von Haller and was his successor as chief librarian in Bern (Klöti 1994, 310). As of 1700, one can discern efforts to definitively describe map holdings and reproductions in catalogs or bibliographies, and such cartobibliographic work intensified in the second half of the eighteenth century. Bern historian Gottlieb Emanuel von Haller, son of Albrecht, assembled a large map collection and compiled an index of maps of Switzerland and its parts in 1766; it was published by Anton Friedrich Büsching (Haller 1771). In a later work, Haller listed a number of mostly Swiss collections of maps and views of Switzerland. He reported that “the most outstanding [collections] I know are in Zurich, collected by the City Councillor [Johannes] Leu and Mr. Leonhard Ziegler; at the public library in Bern and also with the Stiftschaffner [administrator of the collegiate chapter of Saint Vincent] Joh[ann] Fried[rich von] Ryhiner; in Basel, with Pastor [Hiero-

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nymus] Falkeisen and Mr. J[ohan] Rud[olf] Frey of the High Council and Rechenrath [finance council] and at the public library there” (Haller 1785–88, 1:2; Höhener 1995, 57–60; 2010b, 49–50). The collection assembled by the Bern statesman and geographer Johann Friedrich von Ryhiner, donated to the Stadtbibliothek of Bern in 1867, is preeminent among the private map collections of eighteenth-century Switzerland. For Ryhiner, maps were an aid for the further development of geographic science. He acquired about 16,500 maps, topographical views, and plans, which he bound in 501 regionally and thematically organized volumes: the collection covers Switzerland, Europe, and the rest of the world and also includes celestial and world maps, historical maps, and miscellaneous others (Klöti 1994, 370–76; 2003, 1:11, 4:1,535–44). Ryhiner also wrote a detailed set of instructions, which remain unpublished, about acquiring, organizing, and cataloging a map collection (Klöti 1994, 288–324, 359–61). François Jacques Durand described Ryhiner’s collection in glowing terms in 1795: “It would be difficult to find a more complete collection, and geographic maps so carefully chosen, than that of Mr. Ryhiner, Councillor of the Republic [of Bern]. It encompasses all of the rarest old maps, and all those of the most celebrated modern geographers” (quoted in Klöti 1994, 320). According to map historian Peter H. Meurer, in its significance and size the collection is comparable to the Philipp von Stosch collection in Vienna and the collection of Bernard Paul Moll in Brno (Klöti 1994, 322–23). The Zurich collectors were Councillor Johannes Leu, son of Mayor Hans Jakob Leu, and paper miller and bookseller Leonhard Ziegler. After Johannes Leu’s death, his collection was partially subsumed into the Ziegler collection. An index of 300 items in the Ziegler collection was published in 1780, while an unpublished catalog listed 907 maps and views. Ziegler’s son donated the map collection to the Stadtbibliothek in 1854 (Höhener 2010a, 172; 2010b, 50). Also in Zurich, a group of military officers founded the Mathematisch-Militärische Gesellschaft in 1765; with the formation of its library in 1769, the society assembled an important map collection. The society’s collection of 379 maps eventually came into the possession of Zurich’s Stadtbibliothek in 1897 (Höhener 2010a, 172). The Universitätsbibliothek in Basel also possessed a significant map collection in the eighteenth century, comprising some two hundred individual sheets, atlases, and books of geography and cosmography. In 1884 the library would acquire the significant collections of ecclesiastical historical documents and maps of Switzerland compiled by the Antistes (presbyter) Hieronymus Falkeisen (Hunger 2010, 66). T h o m as Klöti

780 See also: Map Trade: Switzerland; Switzerland Bibliograp hy Haller, Gottlieb Emanuel von. 1771. “Verzeichniß derjenigen Landcharten, welche über Helvetien und dessen verschiedene Theile bis bicher verfertigt worden sind.” Magazin für die Neue Historie und Geographie 5:241–98. ———. 1785–88. Bibliothek der Schweizer-Geschichte und aller Theile, so dahin Bezug haben. 7 vols. Bern: In der Hallerschen Buchhandlung. Höhener, Hans-Peter. 1995. “Zur Geschichte der Kartendokumentation in der Schweiz.” In Karten hüten und bewahren: Festgabe für Lothar Zögner, ed. Joachim Neumann, 57–66. Gotha: Justus Perthes. ———. 2010a. “Die Kartensammlung der Zentralbibliothek Zürich.” In Kartographische Sammlungen in der Schweiz: Beiträge über ausgewählte Sammlungen und zur Kartographiegeschichte der Schweiz, ed. Jürg Bühler et al., 171–80. Bern: Arbeitsgruppe Kartenbibliothekare. Online publication. ———. 2010b. “Das schweizerische Kartengedachtnis: Bibliographien von Schweizer Karten.” In Kartographische Sammlungen in der Schweiz: Beiträge über ausgewählte Sammlungen und zur Kartographiegeschichte der Schweiz, ed. Jürg Bühler et al., 49–55. Bern: Arbeitsgruppe Kartenbibliothekare. Online publication. Hunger, Dominik. 2010. “Die Kartensammlung der Öffentlichen Bibliothek der Universität Basel Ziegler’sche Kartensammlung.” In Kartographische Sammlungen in der Schweiz: Beiträge über ausgewählte Sammlungen und zur Kartographiegeschichte der Schweiz, ed. Jürg Bühler et al., 59–70. Bern: Arbeitsgruppe Kartenbibliothekare. Online publication. Klöti, Thomas. 1994. Johann Friedrich von Ryhiner, 1732–1803: Berner Staatsmann, Geograph, Kartenbibliograph und Verkehrspolitiker. Bern: Geographische Gesellschaft Bern. ———, ed. 2003. Sammlung Ryhiner: Karten, Pläne und Ansichten aus dem 16. bis 19. Jahrhundert. 4 vols. Bern: Stadt- und Universitätsbibliothek.

Map Trade. E n l i g ht e n me n t D e n m ark F ran ce G e rman Stat e s G re at Bri ta i n Bri t i sh Ame r i c a I tal i an Stat e s N e t he rl an ds Poland P o rtu g al Ru s s i a S pai n S w e de n -F i n l a n d S w i t ze rl an d

Map Trade in the Enlightenment. The map trade in

eighteenth-century Europe concerned maps, charts, plans, and globes that were printed for sale. The stock of the trade comprised, in general, the products of geographical, urban, celestial, marine, and topographical mapping. Other modes of mapping might have gener-

Map Trade

ated printed maps, but not for commercial purposes. Maps of geodetic triangulations, if printed, accompanied published books or pamphlets that explained their importance and use. Certain maps were printed if a wider distribution was desired than manuscript copies could provide, even if to a restricted audience, or if consistency between images was important. Such conditions applied, for example, to certain land grant maps in British North America (Edney 2011) and to the waterschappen maps in the Netherlands, printed for the use of polder officials (Kain and Baigent 1992, 18–19; Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1267–68). Boundary maps could also be printed for restricted distribution, as in the case of Thomas Jefferys’s maps of Nova Scotia for the boundary commission of 1750 (Pedley 1998). Thus, the act of printing should not be confused with publication. That was the task of the map trade, concerned with creating maps for commercial purposes, generally printing them from copperplates, and selling them for a profit within the broader marketplace for books and other printed goods that itself was part of a larger marketplace for luxury consumables. Participants Participants in the trade therefore comprised three overlapping groups: creators, engravers, and distributers. The creators included the geographers, surveyors, and map editors who compiled cartographic material. The engravers inscribed the material on the copperplate; they were often identified on the maps themselves and are sometimes well known to historians. These roles were not always distinct: it was not unusual for engravers to learn the process of map compilation, as with the Homann Heirs or the members of the firm of Covens & Mortier, or for geographers to learn the craft of engraving as, for example, Tomás López, Samuel Mikoviny, and Giovanni Maria Cassini. Moreover, some institutions served as both creators and engravers. The distributors were usually mapsellers or printsellers or members of the book trade; they paid for the printing and publication of the map and housed the stock. Creators could also be distributors (e.g., Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville in Paris), as could engravers (e.g., Thomas Jefferys in London). Other distributors were more strictly traders within the general marketplace, including provincial vendors who bought wholesale from the major production centers and sold retail to their local markets; these distributors are generally identifiable only through catalogs, newspaper advertisements, and related documentation. Any participant in this distributed network could undertake the publication of a map, whether individually or in concert with others, if they had the money to underwrite its creation. Ultimately, control of the trade rested with the owners of the copperplates from which the maps were printed,

Map Trade

for the plates represented capital investment and intellectual property. Although anyone could make a map for publication, the map trade relied heavily on geographers and surveyors for the raw material of the printed map. Geographers compiled maps at various scales by analyzing and rendering both graphic and literary sources into map form and by editing existing maps with information based on more recent observations and descriptions. On the printed map, the geographer or editor might remain anonymous, particularly on maps copied or revised from previous material. With sufficient funds to serve as capital, a geographer could be his own publisher, supervising the engraving of his work and maintaining control of the copperplates, selling the maps from his own address and keeping the profits. In countries or regions where state support or local patronage for geographers was absent or where map or book publishers controlled the capital and resources of printing, the incidence of geographers as publishers was rare. In general, geographers were also teachers of mathematics, history, and geography and in this context wrote on geographical and historical topics that led to specific map publishing projects. In France, the most eminent self-publishing geographers were the Delisle family, Philippe Buache and his successors, d’Anville, and the Robert de Vaugondy family. Their printed maps were often accompanied by cartographic memoirs explaining the sources and process of compilation. Similarly, geographers like López in Spain and Vincenzo Coronelli and Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni in Italy controlled their own map production. In the Ottoman empire in the late seventeenth century, Evliya¯ Çelebi described the mapmakers among the guildsmen in Istanbul. He specifically mentioned eight shops where fifteen mapmakers were employed, well versed in several languages, especially Latin, who sold their works to seamen (Özdemir 2008, 138–42). Military engineers and private surveyors also provided the map trade with raw material. In Great Britain, engineers controlled their own work and might sell it to map publishers, as in the case of John Montresor to Mary Ann Rocque or Samuel Holland to Jefferys (Pedley 2005, 130–31). In France, some engineers became map publishers, such as Jean de Beaurain and his son JeanBaptiste Jacques de Beaurain, Georges-Louis Le Rouge, and Roch-Joseph Julien. The work of military engineers was particularly valuable for the production of theater of war maps and for commemorative battle maps, as for example the maps published by Eugène Henry Fricx in the Southern Netherlands; Fricx compiled the work of military engineers from both French and Austrian sides during the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14). Private surveyors provided the basis for much of the county mapping in Great Britain.

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Institutions also participated in commercial cartography as map publishers. Private trading companies such as the East India Company, the Compagnie des Indes, and the Dutch Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) employed hydrographers (Alexander Dalrymple, JeanBaptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette, and the Van Keulen family, respectively) to produce charts for sale, sometimes in atlas form (d’Après de Mannevillette’s Le Neptune oriental; Van Keulen’s De Nieuwe groote lichtende Zee-Fakkel). France’s Académie des sciences provided astronomical observations used in the compilation of both geographical maps and largerscale topographical maps. The French navy’s Dépôt de la Marine issued two major atlases for commercial sale during the eighteenth century. Similarly, the Akademiya nauk in Russia supported the publication of the Atlas Rossiyskoy (1745). The Calcografia Camerale in Rome included maps of various sorts in its publication program. Portugal’s Academia Real de História Portugueza, Real Academia das Sciencias de Lisboa, and Sociedade Real Marítima published maps both separately and to accompany the printed works of these institutions. Sweden’s Kungliga Vetenskapsakademien promoted the publication of globes, and the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab supervised, executed, and published the large-scale survey of Denmark. The role of engravers in the map trade cannot be overemphasized. Not only were their skills integral to the transfer of the manuscript map to copperplate, many also learned how to compile maps from other cartographic sources or how to copy maps skillfully. The skills required for engraving maps included the ability to engrave the meridians and the parallels of the projection accurately, together with the geographic outlines of coasts, borders, and rivers, to render topography with sensitivity, and to engrave italic and Roman letters legibly and clearly. In several regions, engravers dominated the map trade (Netherlands, German States, Great Britain) because they owned and controlled the copperplates from which maps were printed. In Great Britain, engravers of maps often used the title “geographer,” and they even received royal warrants under that title, yet in this context the title referred not to scholarly contributions to the study of geography but to their work as tradesmen who possessed a diverse stock of maps that could meet their patrons’ needs. Limitations Three major impediments to the map trade were: national policies of secrecy and security, which viewed maps as sensitive information to be limited in accessibility; the scarcity of a skilled workforce, especially engravers; and the capital required to meet the large expense of engraving and printing. National policies of secrecy particularly affected the

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Fig. 458. DETAIL FROM A WORLD MAP SHOWING ICONS OF LUXURY COMMODITIES SOLD BY GEORGE WILLDEY IN LONDON. Willdey had acquired the copperplates for a series of two-sheet maps, including this map, A New and Correct Map of the World (1714), from Charles Price, who had kept them as his share of his partnership with John Senex, which had ended in 1710. Willdey treated maps as just one more commodity and used them, as here, to advertise the various mathematical instruments and other

commodities—combs, spectacles, snuff boxes, firearms, gameboards—all “made to the utmost perfection and sold wholesale or retaile” by Willdey at his “Great Toy Shop” near St. Paul’s Cathedral. Size of the entire original: 62 × 99 cm; size of detail: ca. 20.5 × 99.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (OS-1714-5).

control of military and hydrographic information. In the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal) and in Scandinavia (Sweden and Finland, Denmark and Norway), the old habit of viewing maps and charts as state secrets prevailed until the second half of the eighteenth century, keeping many cartographic documents in manuscript and inaccessible to both scholarly geographers and the wider public. Governments exerted control on the letterpress and copperplate print trade to varying degrees. In Russia, for example, all printing was done under government auspices until 1771, while in British America, no surveillance operated, though the region suffered from the lack of competent workers and capital. Skilled copperplate engravers were vital for map production. In Great Britain, France, the Netherlands, and the German States, strong guild traditions of apprenticeship training of engravers helped the map trade to flourish. In other regions, including Portugal and British America, the dearth of capable engravers reduced the opportunity for map publication. In these regions, the book trade filled the gap by selling imported work. Toward the end of the century Spain, Russia, and some of the Baltic regions began to develop their own map production centers.

The final impediment to a flourishing trade was the lack of capital required for map engraving and printing. The costs of producing a manuscript map ready for engraving is difficult to ascertain from archival sources, but the high degree of plagiarism within the map trade suggests it was considerable. It is certain that the costs of engraving and printing, which are archivally more accessible, far outweighed the price of a single map. This led to a marked imbalance between the costs of production and potential revenue from sales. Costs Despite the steadily growing popularity of and interest in maps throughout our period, the map trade was a fragile and expensive business with no guarantee of success. Map production was costly both for the acquisition of content and the engraving of the copperplate. The time-consuming process of map compilation required mathematical, linguistic, and historical prowess for the necessary research and the ability to interpret field surveys and verbal descriptions. The work was rarely the result of one person’s labors, as the efforts of engineers, surveyors, topographers, travelers, and scientists often contributed material to a new map project, while trained designers and draftsmen were needed to

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render the information onto the projected flat plane of the map. Costs varied with the degree of sophistication of the work, and an array of such costs in France and England from the most expensive initial surveys to the per diem for a “good designer” have been documented (Pedley 2005, 205–8, 222–24). The initiation of a new project, while a stimulus for trade, was fraught with financial danger: proposed county surveys in Great Britain led the engraver and publisher Jefferys to bankruptcy; the enormous Cassini Carte de France was abandoned by the monarchy, forcing Jean-Dominique Cassini (IV) to rely on private subscriptions for its completion (Pelletier 2013, 159–85). Many other ventures that were designed to be published were canceled or abandoned because of lack of funds. It is no surprise, then, that map publishers who were neither geographers nor competent map compilers sought to avoid the expense of map creation de novo by simply copying maps that were already printed and on the market. The unaltered copying of maps, published with the addition of only a new address or modified title, was done frequently without attribution to the original. Contemporary criticism sometimes analyzed the results of plagiarism, not without a certain outrage, as

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in the case of d’Anville’s review of Dutch copies of his own maps discussed in the entry on “Art and Design of Maps.” Absent the cartographic memoir that explains the map’s construction, a modern critic must be cautious when using a commercially printed map as evidence of received geographic knowledge, as the practice of copying allowed both misunderstood features to enjoy an extended afterlife (e.g., California as an island, the Sea of the West, the islands of Lake Superior) and images of one place to be substituted for another, as in the case of the Nowel Amsterdam en l’Amerique [1672] of François or Gerard I Jollain that had been copied from the sixteenth-century urban view of Lisbon by Georg Braun and Frans Hogenberg. The rhetoric of the trade, found in title cartouches, that claimed the map was “based on astronomical observations” or “taken from the most recent sources” often proves to be unfounded after careful study determines the map to be an outdated copy. Such copying was not plagiarism in the strict sense, as it was usually performed across national boundaries, and the copied map did not claim to be original work. The eighteenth century in fact saw the development of both the rights of authorship for mapmakers and mechanisms for their enforcement. In many countries, a map

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editor or publisher sought a copyright or privilege, registered with the government, for his work, but there were limitations in terms of a map’s claim to originality. A basic question lay at the heart of any claim of infringement of cartographic privilege: can anyone own the idea of the geographic outline of the earth and its parts? The finding that the graphic interpretation of the earth and its contents was indeed an intellectual construction was difficult to prove without the cartographic memoire to explain the map’s construction. Thus the ease and frequency with which one mapmaker could copy another continued to be an essential part of the map trade and the acquisition of stock. After the production of a publishable manuscript map, engraving the copperplate accounted for a large portion of production costs. The plate itself was a significant acquisition, and paper, ink, and presswork took a further toll. Yet those costs paled in comparison to the labor-intensive engraving costs, which reflected the skill and time required to interpret and re-create the effect of the manuscript design, to handle the engraving burin, to control the etching acid, and to apply the drypoint for the desired relief effects of shading and hachuring. Lettering required precision and an aesthetic sense of space. The final cost of engraving could be as much as two hundred to two thousand times the price of one copy of the final printed map (Pedley 2005, 205–37; 2018, 102–4). For some participants in the map trade, costs might be controlled by acquiring already engraved copperplates and, once again, adding a new imprint. The trade in copperplates seems generally to have been of older, worn copperplates, which could be retouched at a fraction of the cost of engraving a map from scratch. On occasion, bankrupt engravers would sell off their copperplates to pay off their debts or to raise new capital. Such practices emphasized the manner in which copperplates were intellectual properties, their value to be realized by the sale of impressions just like any other commodity (fig. 458). Costs could also be controlled by employing inhouse engravers (Homann Heirs, the Artaria firm) or having the map compiler also do or supervise the engraving, as in the case of British map publishers such as Thomas Jefferys, William Faden, and Emanuel Bowen. In some regions, geographers learned to engrave. López was sent by the Spanish government to Paris to learn engraving with Guillaume Dheulland and geography with d’Anville. Geographer Samuel Mikoviny worked in his early years as an apprentice in the book and map publishing trade; his first engraved works were views of Nuremberg and Altdorf. In France, certain engravers, like Guillaume-Nicolas Delahaye, ran their own workshops of map engravers (Pedley 2005, 45). One of Rizzi Zannoni’s achievements in Naples was to create

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a veritable school of map engravers, exemplified in the work of Giuseppe Guerra and Aniello Cataneo on the Atlante marittimo del Regno di Napoli (1785–92) (see fig. 613), which was praised for rendering landscape as if it were the original manuscript: “the mountains are sketched out by etching and finished in drypoint with as much taste as the manuscript design being copied” (Bacler d’Albe 1803, 74). Skimping on engraving meant publishers risked commercial failure, the quality of the map being only as good as its engraving. Contemporary critics remarked on the “look” of the map as much as on the content: Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy described a map by Gaspard Baillieul of the Electorat of Trèves as follows: “although good it is harshly and heavily engraved, which only spreads the confusion.” He compared the map of Tours by Delisle (“it is, like all the maps of this geographer, very confused and badly engraved”) to that of Jaillot (“clearer and more distinct and by consequence of better use”) (Lenglet du Fresnoy 1741–42, 3:492, 4:504). The costs of design and engraving were rarely offset by sales alone; extra capital was required. Economic viability for the map trade was achieved in several ways. The infusion of needed capital through marriage or patronage could support the map producer (explored in the French context by Petto 2007, 2009). Marital support may be seen in the revival of fortune of the Homann firm when Anna Felicitas Franz, the widow of Jacob Heinrich Franz, and Barbara Dorothea Monath, daughter of Johann Georg Ebersberger, managed the company. Subscription offered another method of raising money in advance of production and ensured sales. Finally, a diversity of stock could secure business success by adding the sale of prints, views, globes, atlases comprising popular maps and less popular subjects, and other engraved materials such as trade cards, stationery, and standardized forms like bills of lading and certificates (fig. 459). Because maps were perceived as not only sources of geographical information but also as highly decorative objects, they were often advertised, like prints and views, as being suitable for framing and display. Compared to the high cost of production, the price of a single map was low and relatively affordable when compared to living costs. In France and England, the average prices of a one-sheet folio-size map were one to two livres and one to two shillings, respectively. Such prices represented roughly a day’s wage for a shop boy or a printer’s apprentice. Finer paper, fabric, or the addition of coloring always raised the price. Atlases, especially well bound as folio-sized books, fell into the luxury zone, with prices as high as 120 livres or £20 to £30; in Sweden, the price of a French atlas at auction was as much as that of a horse. The format of maps also affected the price. They could be mounted for hang-

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Distribution In general, the map trade disseminated its wares from the larger cities, with only one or two dominant in each region: Paris and Lyon; London; Rome and Venice; Amsterdam and Leiden; and Augsburg and Nuremberg. Maps were sold retail and wholesale from the address of the owner of the plates, whether the geographer or engraver or map editor (fig. 460). Resellers ranged from larger emporia in the main cities—in Paris, from at least 1752, Julien opened a map store from which he sold not only French maps but also those imported by his agents from Homann Heirs in Nuremberg, Gosse & Pinet in Amsterdam, Andrew Dury in London—to smaller outlets in the provinces (see fig. 472). In the Baltic regions of Poland, Sweden-Finland, and Russia, government limitations on the book trade meant that very few active booksellers capitalized on the opportunities to import maps, and only a small market existed. A similar situation applied in the Mediterranean and the Iberian Peninsula, where the dearth of engraving talent meant that booksellers dominated the scant trade there, although distribution was geographically wide (see fig. 491). In Spain from the 1750s, the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando in Madrid trained copperplate engravers and supported their further training in France and Italy in order to compete with foreign imports. Map consumption in regions where the local markets were weak operated through private channels: by networks of personal correspondence to booksell-

Fig. 459. FRONTISPIECE TO ROBERT SAYER’S NEW AND ENLARGED CATALOGUE FOR THE YEAR M.DCC. LXVI. OF NEW, USEFUL, AND CORRECT MAPS [1766]. With a similar title on a scroll surrounded by prints and maps, the frontispiece demonstrates both in word and image the variety of engraved material available at a successful map store in eighteenth-century London. Size of the original: ca. 18 × 10 cm. Image courtesy of the Lessing J. Rosenwald Collection, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

ing on the wall, glued to the frame of a screen, placed on rollers, framed, left in sheets in a cardboard folder, separated and glued onto a linen backing suitable for folding, and placed in a specially designed box or étui or rolled in a tube for ease of carrying, printed on other materials such as silk or linen, or pasted onto to wood or cardboard and cut in shapes as a jigsaw puzzle (see figs. 222 and 251).

Fig. 460. INTERIOR OF THE COVENS & MORTIER MAP STORE, 1730. Detail from the title page of Guillaume Delisle, Atlas nouveau, contenant toutes les parties du monde (Amsterdam: Jean Cóvens & Corneille Mortier, 1730), a collection of maps copied from the work of Guillaume Delisle in Paris. The inset shows the interior of the map store as designed and engraved by Jacob Folkema. Size of the detail: 7.5 × 11.0 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Atl 1730 L’Isle).

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ers, mapsellers, engravers, and friends who supplied the desired map. Mapsellers’ catalogs list agents in other European cities, and private correspondence reveals the thriving network of exchange across national borders, as witnessed by that of d’Anville with the diplomat Pierre Michel Hennin and Cardinal Domenico Silvio Passionei in Rome (Marcel 1904, 1908); Leonhard Euler in Berlin with Johann Kaspar Wettstein, the Swiss-born chaplain to the British royal family; and Huguenot writer Pierre Des Maizeaux with Dutch map publisher David Mortier (Van Egmond 2009, 197, 264). The international distribution of maps aided the livelihood of many mapsellers, as may be discerned from the catalogs of Julien and of Covens & Mortier, the network of agents for the Homann firm, the subscription list for the Robert de Vaugondy Atlas universel (1757), and the letters to William Faden from European map dealers (Pedley 1979, 2000). The importation of maps into countries that did not have a robust book trade or the resources for local map production, such as British America, the Iberian Peninsula, or the Ottoman Empire, was the primary means of distributing geographic information to those remoter regions. Demand The map trade was successful when the maps printed were sold quickly and widely (Van Egmond 2009, 189). In addition to general sheet maps, the trade stocked atlases, globes, travel maps and itineraries, school atlases, maps of latest discoveries, news maps, maps and atlases of theaters of war, fortification plans, urban maps, wall maps (continents, countries, cities), games on cards and boards, and textiles or pottery with maps printed on them: fans, handkerchiefs (silk, linen), teacups. Maps followed current events and the impact of war, never far removed from European soil during the century, meeting the demand for broadsheets of battles and theater of war atlases. Another growing market developed around atlases designed to accompany the written work of geographers. The influential geographical writing of Anton Friedrich Büsching (Neue Erdbeschreibung, 1754–92) attracted mapmakers like Daniel Friedrich Sotzmann (Karte von Deutschland in XVI. Blatt, 1789) and Franz Johann Joseph von Reilly (Schauplatz der fünf Theile der Welt, 1789–1806). The Nouvel atlas portatif (1762) of Didier Robert de Vaugondy competed with the Atlas moderne (Jean-Thomas Hérissant and Jean Lattré, 1762) comprising maps by Rigobert Bonne and others because they were both designed specifically to accompany the pedagogical work of the abbé LouisAntoine Nicolle de Lacroix (Géographie moderne, 1752). The maps from these general atlases could also be sold separately, rebound into regional atlases or atlases designed specifically for schools, or reduced in format to a very small (octavo or sedecimo) size. Because

Map Trade

standard school curricula remained heavily oriented to the classics until well into the nineteenth century, maps of the ancient world formed a steady market stream for mapmakers and publishers. Patterns of taste are also revealed through the guidance provided to consumers by reviews in learned journals (e.g., Journal des Sçavans, Mémoires de Trévoux), the periodical press (Gentleman’s Magazine, Journal de Paris, Monatliche Correpondenz), and focused guides such as Lenglet du Fresnoy’s Méthode pour étudier la géographie or Jacques Le Long’s Bibliothèque historique de la France (new ed. 1768–78), which distinguished copies from original work. As Lenglet du Fresnoy pointed out regarding his list of maps of Great Britain: “these [maps] are not just for those who simply study geography, but also for those who would like to work on this science, who do not know where to get the original geographical maps of these kingdoms, of which the atlases are very exact copies” (Lenglet du Fresnoy 1741– 42, vol. 1, pt. 2, 9). These sources and the map collecting habits of consumers also demonstrate an interest in antiquarian material as well as the most recent maps. While the consumption of maps is covered elsewhere in this volume (see “Map Collecting”; “Consumption of Maps”; and “Public Sphere, Cartography and the”), some areas of potential research have not yet been fully explored. A thorough study of subscription lists to atlases and maps has the potential to create a nuanced picture of the location, social status, and affluence of map consumers, as well as information about the financing of an enterprise. Consumer information can also be gleaned from the published catalogs of mapsellers, sometimes in book or pamphlet form, often as a broadsheet tipped into an atlas or other publication. The inventories of possessions made upon the death of the owner provides a picture of private libraries (Delano-Smith 1995), as do contemporary auction catalogs of sales of private libraries and collections (Harley and Walters 1977, 1978; Bosse 2007). While these approaches have informed the history of the book and print trade, much work remains for the history of cartography. Following the lead of the history of the book, studies of maps as material objects and analyses of their production would benefit map history. Understanding the costs and problems of acquisition of copper, paper, and ink and identifying the location of printers and their relationship to engravers would enhance and deepen our knowledge of the forces at work in the map trade. A dictionary of paper suppliers to the eighteenth-century map trade (Pacha and Mairan 1996, 61–76) provides a starting point for further studies. Because the commercial printed map was reproduced in large quantities (a print run of 500 to 1,000 being common), it is the type of map most commonly avail-

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able today both on the antiquarian market and in map libraries. Thus, the printed map’s availability to the modern scholar means that its contemporary importance and impact are sometimes overestimated in terms of the information it contains. The context of a map’s production, its contemporary reception, and its use are all factors that should temper the argument about the impact of a commercially printed map. Ma ry S p on b er g Ped ley See also: Atlas; Consumption of Maps; Geographical Mapping; Globe; Map Collecting; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Privilege and Copyright; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Reproduction of Maps: Engraving and Printing B i bliogra p hy Bacler d’Albe, Louis Albert Guislain. 1803. “Gravure: Notice sur la gravure topographique et géographique.” Mémorial Topographique et Militaire, rédigé au Dépôt Général de la Guerre, no. 5:65–91. Bosse, David. 2007. “Maps in the Marketplace: Cartographic Vendors and Their Customers in Eighteenth-Century America.” Cartographica 42:1–51. Delano-Smith, Catherine, 1995. “Map Ownership in SixteenthCentury Cambridge: The Evidence of Probate Inventories.” Imago Mundi 47:67–93. Edney, Matthew H. 2011. “Competition over Land, Competition over Empire: Public Discourse and Printed Maps of the Kennebec River, 1753–1755.” In Early American Cartographies, ed. Martin Brückner, 276–305. Chapel Hill: For the Omohundro Institute of Early American History and Culture by the University of North Carolina Press. Egmond, Marco van. 2009. Covens & Mortier: A Map Publishing House in Amsterdam, 1685–1866. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Harley, J. B., and Gwyn Walters. 1977. “William Roy’s Maps, Mathematical Instruments and Library: The Christie’s Sale of 1790.” Imago Mundi 29:9–22. ———. 1978. “English Map Collecting 1790–1840: A Pilot Survey of the Evidence in Sotheby Sale Catalogues.” Imago Mundi 30:31–35. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Koeman, Cornelis, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Surveying and Official Mapping in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1670.” In HC 3:1246–95. Lenglet du Fresnoy, Nicolas. 1741–42. Méthode pour étudier la géographie. 3d ed. 7 vols. Paris: Rollin fils et de Bure l’aîné. Marcel, Gabriel. 1904. “Lettres inédites du cardinal Passionei à d’Anville.” Bulletin de Géographie Historique et Descriptive, 19:418–38. ———. 1908. Correspondance de Michel Hennin et de d’Anville. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. Özdemir, Kemal. 2008. Ottoman Cartography. Istanbul: Creative Yayıncılık ve Tanıtım. Pacha, Béatrice, and Ludovic Miran. 1996. Cartes et plans imprimés de 1564 à 1815: Collections des bibliothèques municipales de la région Centre. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France / Agence Interprofessionnelle Régionale pour le Livre et les Médias. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1979. “The Subscription List of the 1757 Atlas Universel: A Study in Cartographic Dissemination.” Imago Mundi 31:66–77. ———. 1998. “Map Wars: The Role of Maps in the Nova Scotia/Acadia Boundary Disputes of 1750.” Imago Mundi 50:96–104. ———, ed. 2000. The Map Trade in the Late Eighteenth Century: Letters to the London Map Sellers Jefferys and Faden. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation.

———. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2018. “Convaincre ses mécènes: Un plan d’affaire prévisionnel pour faire commerce de cartes.” In Une carrière de géographe au siècle des Lumières: Jean-Baptiste d’Anville, ed. Lucile Haguet and Catherine Hofmann, 85–109. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation/Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Pelletier, Monique. 2013. Les cartes des Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed., rev. and corr. Paris: Éd. du CTHS. Petto, Christine M. 2007. When France was King of Cartography: The Patronage and Production of Maps in Early Modern France. Lanham: Lexington Books. ———. 2009. “Playing the Feminine Card: Women of the Early Modern Map Trade.” Cartographica 44:67–81. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. Società uomini e istituzioni cartografiche nel Mezzogiorno d’Italia. Florence: Istituto Geografico Militare. Wettstein, Johann Kaspar, and Leonhard Euler. “Euler’s Correspondence with Johann Kaspar Wettstein.” In Euler’s Correspondence, the Euler Archive website hosted by the Mathematical Association of America.

Map Trade in Denmark. Because there was very little

Danish map publication before 1800, due to expense and state limitations for reasons of secrecy, the Danish map trade has been little studied. This entry is based mainly on the general literature about the book trade and contemporary statements by the makers and publishers of maps and atlases. Overall, the economy of Denmark-Norway was weak after 1650, leaving the country open to external social and cultural influences, especially from Germany. By the late 1600s, German booksellers dominated the book trade in Copenhagen, whether as immigrants or as agents for larger German firms. The earliest information about the map trade dates from the 1620s and the opening of the Dutch trading booth in the newly established market building (Børsen) in central Copenhagen, which remained the most important locus of the book trade until 1800. Both of the Dutch booksellers, Janssonius and Elzevier, traded there for some decades, but none of their catalogs survive. However, two catalogs from booksellers Joachim Moltke and Jørgen Holst from the early 1640s are still extant (Ilsøe 1992, 186–87). In 1661, the first book auction to take place sold the collections of Poul Resen, a brother of the topographical writer and map producer Peder Hansen Resen (Ilsøe 1978). From catalogs extant in the Kongelige Bibliotek, it is evident that the auctions probably prevented the establishment of antiquarian booksellers (H. Ilsøe 1991; I. Ilsøe 1992). From the early 1700s, an emerging way of selling books and atlases began to dominate: the subscription. This became a very common way to sell or test the market for special publications. Among the titles produced by subscription was Erik Pontoppidan’s Den Danske

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Atlas, a multivolume topography with 17 maps, 74 town maps, and 187 other engravings (Cedergreen Bech 1969). Early map publication mainly comprised a few sea charts made by the Kongelige Søkort-Arkiv. The first significant Danish printed map production started in 1762, with general surveying and production of topographical maps sponsored by the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab on a scale of 1:120,000. The society’s archives allow one to follow the sale and distribution of these maps through prices paid and numbers sold. The Vajsenshusets bookstore did both the printing and selling until 1779, when the sale of the maps was transferred to a bookstore at the Bourse. Later, Johan Georg Blankensteiner took over the business. In 1813– 14 it was forbidden to sell maps because of the Napoleonic Wars. In total, the society sold a little more than 8,000 maps. Blankensteiner issued specialized map catalogs only in the last decade of the eighteenth century. His first catalog, from 1792, listed maps, atlases, and some instruments, as well as maps from Pontoppidan’s atlas, Swedish maps from different sources, and maps from the Homann firm in Nuremberg, with further catalogs through 1805 (Blankensteiner 1792, 1805). In the nineteenth century, the map trade began to flourish with new maps and atlases created for schools, to which the subject of geography had been introduced. H en r ik D upo nt See also: Denmark and Norway; Map Collecting: Denmark Bibliograp hy Blankensteiner, Johan Georg. 1792. Catalogus over forskiellige landkort og atlasser, som sælges i Nürnberger Boutiken paa Østergade No. 36 i Kiøbenhavn. Copenhagen. ———. 1805. Catalogue over alle danske og udenlandske nyeste landkort, atlasser og glober, tillige over alle sorter optiske, physicalske, mathematiske og andre instrumenter, som findes paa St. Kiøbmagergade No. 101. Copenhagen. Cedergreen Bech, Svend. 1969. Den danske Atlas og værkets tilblivelseshistorie. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger. Ilsøe, Harald. 1978. “Et krigsbytte fra 30-årskrigen fra den ældste danske antikvarkatalog til de første bogauktioner.” Fund og Forskning 23:19–32. ———. 1991. “Peder Resens nordisk bibliotek: Katalog, bibliografi og boghandel i sidste halvdel af 1600-tallet.” Fund og Forskning 30:26–49. Ilsøe, Ingrid. 1992. “Litteratur om dansk bogvæsen trykt, 1950–1990: Tryk, bind og boghandel, ca. 1482–1920.” Fund og Forskning 31:143–96.

Map Trade in France. The French map trade during the Enlightenment was heavily centered in Paris, the economic heart of France, where the confluence of political power and academic scientific interest promoted the production and collection of maps. From the reign of Henri IV to the Revolution, royal privilege protected the printed work of commercial mapmakers from counter-

feiting, royal pensions supported some geographers and engravers, and royal censors exerted authority over particular contents. The support of Louis XIV and his first minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, for scientific activities created the conditions for Paris to become the economic and technical engine for map endeavors in France. Scientific institutions, such as the Académie des sciences, provided a forum in which geographers and astronomers like the Cassinis, the Delisles, Philippe Buache, and Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville played an influential role. The availability of financial capital through patronage and subscriptions and the large pool of talented engravers and printers in Paris guaranteed high-quality cartographic products. Other French cities shared the benefits of Paris’s predominance in the map trade, and book- and printsellers in the provinces also played a role in the dissemination and distribution of cartographic material (Pedley 1979). The growing cultural dominance of Paris increased the influence of French maps within the European market. No longer overshadowed by Dutch production, French maps were sought after and copied in the major map markets of Europe: London, Amsterdam, Nuremberg, and Augsburg. The map trade in seventeenth-century France up to about 1670 is discussed thoroughly in volume 3 of The History of Cartography (Hofmann 2007), allowing the period under consideration here to span from roughly 1670 until 1789 on the eve of the Revolution, which disrupted patterns of production and distribution and also coincided with the death of many of the significant figures of the eighteenth century. From the seventeenth century, commercial French maps were almost always printed from engraved or etched copperplates. Engraved maps were essentially prints, part of a trade unrestricted by guild or corporate statutes but subject to a few regulations regarding content and material form (for example, a print could not include letterpress material of more than six lines nor any letterpress on the verso). Content of a political or insalubrious nature or of military sensitivity was supervised by the control of the book trade (the librairie) and the royal censor (Casselle 1976, 7–30, 174; Hofmann 2003). The print trade engaged a wide range of participants who energized commerce, a situation that continued into the eighteenth century (Hofmann 2007, 1580). The central role of the copperplate in the structure of the trade urges us to focus not merely on who was making maps but who owned the copperplates. The owner of the plate controlled a map’s entry into the marketplace and reaped the profits from its sale, making the copperplate a source of capital. Two main groups of map plate owners (i.e., publishers) may be discerned: academic geographers, who produced their own original works of compilation with

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explanatory mémoires, and map editors, who assembled maps from material acquired in a variety of ways from others, including geographers. The latter group included geographical engineers, engravers, and printsellers. The skills and activities of the geographers and map editors overlapped: geographers could sell their work like printsellers or engravers; engravers and printsellers could work as map editors; geographical engineers not only surveyed but also engraved and published their own work and that of others. The relationships between all the participants in the map trade were fluid and complex. A complete prosopography of commercial geographers and mapmakers in eighteenth-century Paris based on the available rich archival sources with a thorough bibliography of their map and globe production remains to be written, though the dictionary of Paris map editors has provided a start (Pacha and Miran 1996) and builds on seminal work (Pastoureau 1984). Continuity The map trade in the early eighteenth century continued to be dominated by the heirs of the seventeenth-century firms of Sanson, Jaillot, de Fer, and Nolin. The stock-in-trade of the Sansons passed through friends to the geographers Gilles Robert Vaugondy and Didier Robert de Vaugondy, father and son, who expanded and corrected the Sanson oeuvre with their own work, published in the form of atlases, separate maps, and globes from their address on the quai de l’Horloge until Didier Robert de Vaugondy’s death in 1786 (Pedley 1992). Their stock passed initially to globemaker Jean-Baptiste Fortin, and then to Charles-François Delamarche, who added the stock of Charles Dien the Elder. The firm passed to Félix Delamarche, son of CharlesFrançois, who published maps well into the nineteenth century. The stock of Alexis-Hubert Jaillot, engraver and map editor in partnership with Guillaume Sanson, remained in the Jaillot family until 1780. Jaillot’s son BernardJean-Hyacinthe, financially troubled, passed the firm to his son Bernard-Antoine, ingénieur géographe, who added new maps to the corpus until his death in 1749, when his sisters briefly but competently continued the business. One of them, Françoise Jaillot, married her cousin, Jean-Baptiste-Michel Renou de Chauvigné, grandson of Alexis-Hubert by his second marriage. Renou de Chauvigné took the name Jaillot and continued the lucrative contract for publication of the Liste générale des postes de France and the accompanying maps of post routes in France until 1771, when the postal administration took over publication of the Liste, though the maps continued to be edited by Jaillot and then by Louis-Charles Desnos (Pastoureau 1984, 233; Arbellot 1992, 28–29; Roland 1919; Fleury 1977, VIII–XV). Jail-

Fig. 461. TRADE CARD OF NICOLAS DE FER, 1705. The interior of the shop of de Fer, geographer and mapseller at the sign of La Sphère Royale, is represented as an elegant library, with the arms of the Bourbon King Felipe V of Spain and Louis, the Grand Dauphin, prominently displayed in the corners. Below the image is the catalog of de Fer’s large works and maps in one sheet. Size of the original: 36.2 × 24.8 cm, folded to 36.2 × 21.7 cm. Image courtesy of University of Central England Digital Services. © The National Trust, Waddesdon Manor, Aylesbury (acc. no. 3686.1.17.28).

lot stock was acquired by Desnos and by Jean-Claude Dezauche, who added the plates and maps to his stock of Delisle and Buache work. The stock of the engraver and map editor Nicolas de Fer (fig. 461) also remained in his family and in circulation after his death, though not improved or updated, by the marriage of his daughters to Rémi Richer and Jacques-François Bénard, both engravers, and Guillaume Danet, a paper merchant. Richer left the business, and Bénard and Danet had difficulty making a success of it. A final edition of de Fer’s Forces de l’Europe appeared in 1746, published by his grandson Pierre-Jean Desbois, who sold the de Fer stock of plates to Des-

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nos in 1760 (Pastoureau 1984, 169; Pacha and Miran 1996, 44). Jean-Baptiste Nolin had entered the trade by engraving and promoting the maps and globes of Vincenzo Coronelli, which provided profitable stock for his engraving workshop and the title géographe du roi for himself (Pastoureau 1984, 357–63). Nolin’s stock of theater of war atlases passed to his son Jean-Baptiste, who declared bankruptcy in 1749. Academic Geographers The first decades of the eighteenth century witnessed the increasing dominance in the map trade of the work of academic geographers who published their own maps, beginning with Guillaume Delisle. Supported by royal pension and the profits from their printed cartography, these geographers also published essays in serious periodicals (e.g., Journal des Sçavans) or mémoires of the Académies (Sciences and Belles-lettres). Except for the Robert de Vaugondys, they did not benefit from the acquisition of stock of previous cartographers. Delisle, his brother Joseph-Nicolas, his student and son-in-law Buache, and d’Anville created maps de novo, drawing upon a variety of sources both cartographic and literary, and justified their work and choices in detailed mémoires. They influenced the nature of geographical mapping throughout Europe, as witnessed by the copies and the imitations of their work published in other countries, giving impetus to the trade in which they participated fully. Guillaume Delisle sold his wide range of maps and globes from his address on the quai de l’Horloge in Paris and in partnership with Louis Renard in Amsterdam (Pedley 2005, 189). After Delisle’s death in 1726, his widow, Marie Darbisse, continued the sales, aided by Buache, who succeeded his father-in-law as premier géographe du roi. After Darbisse’s death in 1744, Buache continued to sell Delisle maps, though he focused his interests on aspects of thematic mapping and geographical theory. When Buache died in 1773, the Delisle-Buache stock passed to his nephew, Jean-Nicolas Buache, who sold it in 1780 to Dezauche, who combined it with his share of the Jaillot stock (fig. 462). D’Anville sold his maps from his address in the Galeries du Louvre, the special apartments set aside in this royal building for artisans of the state, befitting his position as tutor and later secretary to Louis Philippe I, duc d’Orléans. Before his death, d’Anville sold his entire working map collection to the king, while his intellectual legacy was continued to some extent by his student Jean-Denis Barbié Du Bocage. Jacques-Nicolas Bellin, hydrographe du roi in the Dépôt de la Marine, who also published mémoires concerning his methods of map and chart construction, was allowed by the Dépôt to sell marine charts from his ad-

Fig. 462. DELISLE / BUACHE / DEZAUCHE CARTOUCHE. The cartouche to Delisle’s map of Germany shows the succession of the plate to Philippe Buache in 1745, then to JeanClaude Dezauche in 1780, who reviewed and augmented the map. Detail from L’Allemagne (Paris: Dezauche, 1780). Size of the entire original: 50 × 62 cm; size of detail: ca. 18.0 × 18.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothéque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 11006).

dress in Paris. Like the other academic geographers, he also supplied maps to authors as illustrations. Although academic geographers were prolific in the publication of separate maps, except for the Robert de Vaugondys they did not produce coherently designed atlases (Bellin’s Le Petit atlas maritime [5 vols., 1764] was produced at the behest of Étienne-François, duc de Choiseul) nor did they produce maps in a variety of formats to meet popular demand.

géographes du roi Each of the geographers  described above and many others benefited from the title géographe du roi, granted by the king through the maison du roi (royal household) usually upon the presentation of a masterpiece map. The honorific entitled the holder to a certain annual pension, which varied in size (usually between 100 and 400 livres) and the right to append the title after the bearer’s name on his cartographic work (Broc 1975, 482; Pedley 2005, 30). Such an imprimatur lent authority to the map as it reflected royal favor, not a hollow honor, since both Louis XV and Louis XVI were well trained in cartography, having been tutored by map-publishing geographers (Delisle, d’Anville, Jean de Beaurain, Buache), and they made maps themselves

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(Mormiche 2010). Their active cartographic interest was clear in their support of the Cassini Carte de France and involvement in the preparation of maps for expeditions like that of Jean-François de Lapérouse. The particular title of premier géographe du roi, established for Guillaume Delisle, was worth more monetarily (1,200 livres) and also incurred the mapmaking obligations for various ministries (Dawson 2000, 82–93). Similar titles were offered by other members of the titled aristocracy. Georges-Louis Le Rouge styled himself ingénieur-géographe du Roy et A. S. Mgr le Comte de Clermont along with his rank as a lieutenant in the regiment of Maurice de Saxe. Desnos held a brevet as ingénieur géographe du roi de Danemarck, a title that obliged him to provide maps and books to the king of Denmark in return for 500 livres per year. Of more critical and competitive importance than royal appointment was membership in the Académie des sciences. Guillaume Delisle was an associate astronomer of the Académie (having been a student of JeanDominique Cassini [I]); his son-in-law Philippe Buache filled the newly created post of adjoint géographe from 1730 until his death in 1773, at which time d’Anville was elected followed by Jean-Nicolas Buache in 1782 (Heffernan 2014). Academic membership conferred a stamp of authority on maps produced, as the consumer was led to believe that a vetting process of presentation, discussion, and analysis had informed the map’s production. Map Editors: Ingénieurs géographes Despite the economic upheavals wrought by wars of the eighteenth century (the War of the Spanish Succession [1701–14], the War of the Austrian Succession [1740–48], and the Seven Years’ War [1756–63]), new energy enlarged the map trade with the growing participation of ingénieurs géographes as engravers and publishers of both their own maps and those of others. Trained to survey, compile, engrave, and print maps during times of conflict, they turned to the commercial market to deploy their cartographic skills as map editors in peacetime. They were responsible for the diffusion of the theater of war atlas, which emerged as a genre in the late seventeenthcentury, with the publication of plans and journals of campaigns and more comprehensive military histories that memorialized conflicts. Theater of war atlases reached a wide market, from military students and officers to the general public, hungry for information on current and past events. One of the first to participate in this genre was Jean de Beaurain, a student of Pierre Moullart-Sanson, royal tutor of Louis XV, and géographe du roi (Antoine 1989, 101; Hofmann 2003, 178–79). He published battle plans and maps of fortifications and campaigns fought

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during the reign of Louis XIV at the end of the seventeenth century as well as more recent conflicts from his address on the quai des Grands-Augustins (Hofmann 2003). His reputation was such that he was called upon to create an atlas factice in sixteen volumes for the French financier Marie-Joseph Savalette de Buchelay, now in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France. He was succeeded in 1771 by his son, Jean-Baptiste Jacques de Beaurain (Beaurain fils), also a géographe du roi, who continued publishing military atlases and maps, though not as successfully as his father, as attested by his bankruptcy in 1785. The plates of many Beaurain maps of Germany were acquired by the Dépôt de la Guerre in An VIII (1800) (Berthaut 1902, 1:233). Roch-Joseph Julien, military engineer, valet de chambre, and later intendant des bâtiments to Charles de Rohan, prince de Soubise, opened a map store in 1752 in the Hôtel de Soubise at the corner of the rue du Chaume and the rue Paradis on the Right Bank in the Marais (Pacha and Miran 1996, 49–50). There a buyer could choose from French maps and other maps imported from the major mapsellers in London, Amsterdam, The Hague, Nuremberg, and Augsburg. Julien’s Nouveau catalogue des cartes géographiques et topographiques (1763) gives prices and lists publishers, with occasional notes on the owners of plates and what stock has changed hands. His introduction (“Observations” [3–4]) outlines the difficulties he faced during the economic hardships of war, in spite of the heightened interest war provided for maps of the theaters of conflict. He describes his travels through Germany, Holland, and England to create a business of twenty years’ standing, resulting in a catalog of nearly 130 pages describing the maps that constituted the stock available in his store. His correspondence with the London map firm of Jefferys & Faden (Pedley 2000) demonstrates the strong links maintained with a network of mapmakers and mapsellers throughout Europe. From his considerable stock, Julien was able to create composite atlases, such as Le Theatre du monde (1759), comprising over 200 maps by French, German, and Dutch geographers and engravers from the late seventeenth century to mid-eighteenth century; its table of contents was left blank for the buyer to fill with the titles chosen to make up the atlas. As a map editor, Julien made his debut with Guillaume Dheulland, a geographic engraver and map designer (for Bellin, the Dépôt de la Marine, the Carte de France, and d’Après de Mannevillette); together they published the Theatre de la guerre en Italie in 1748 (2d ed., 1754). Dheulland also published the Théâtre de la guerre dans les Pays-Bas (with Nolin and Daumont, 1756) and the theaters of war in the German states during the 1750s. Dheulland and Julien developed the carte-atlas, a form of theater of war atlas created from a series of separate

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troduction à la géographie, 1748). His reputation and connections in London led him to work with Benjamin Franklin on the French edition of Franklin’s map of the Gulf Stream (Cohn 2000). In 1757 Desnos opened his shop for maps and globes on the rue Saint-Jacques, where he produced a prodigious number of atlases (the analysis of his stock noted plates for eighteen atlases) (Pacha and Miran 1996, 44–

Fig. 463. DETAIL FROM THE TABLEAU TOPOGRAPHIQUE QUI COMPREND LA PARTIE SEPTENTRIONALE DU LANDGRAVIAT DE HESSE CASSEL ET DE LA PRINCIPAUTÉ DE WALDECK (PARIS: ROCH-JOSEPH JULIEN, 1762), CA. 1:150,000. Julien experimented with twocolor printing and offered two versions of this map “printed in a unique manner, that is: the woods & mountains in carmine red, & the other details in black,” for 4 livres 10  sous; and the same map “printed in the ordinary way,” i.e., in black, for 2 livres (Julien’s Nouveau catalogue de cartes géographiques et topographiques [Paris: R. J. Julien, 1763], quotes on 28). Size of the entire original: ca. 49 × 72 cm; size of detail: ca. 4.5 × 8.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago (map4F G6373.H42 1762 J8).

sheet maps drawn on the same scale with an overall map of the same dimension containing the title. The collection could be assembled in a single atlas volume or assembled as a wall map, with the carte d’assemblage as the cartouche (Hofmann 2003). Julien also published maps by Bellin and Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni and practiced innovations such as printing in two colors (fig. 463). After his death, two of his engravers, François Perrier and Ambroise Verrier, who also engraved maps for other geographers and publishers, continued his business for a brief period. Le Rouge, ingénieur géographe who had served Louis, comte de Clermont, and as lieutenant in the regiment of Maurice de Saxe, during the War of the Polish Succession (1733–38), sold maps from his address in Paris on the quai des Grands-Augustins from 1741. He concentrated on military themes in his cartographic publications, which ran the gamut from theater of war atlases and battle and fortification maps to compilations of copies of English maps appropriate for understanding the Seven Years’ War and American Revolutionary War (Atlas Amériquain septentrional, 1778). Le Rouge’s enormous work on garden design (Jardins anglo-chinois) reflected his work and interests during his younger days as an engineer (Korzus 2004). His cartographic output was matched by his written work on military matters (e.g., Le parfait aide de camp, 1760) and geography (In-

Fig. 464. FRENCH EMPIRE AND COLONIES UNDER LOUIS XIV AND FRANCE UNDER LOUIS XV. From Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni, Atlas historique et géographique de la France ancienne et moderne (Paris: Sr. Desnos, 1764), pl. 32 and unnumbered pl. The striking repetitive format of using the same printed decorative frame for each map gave the atlas a coherent layout and a map ready for hanging on the wall if sold separately. Size of the originals: 26.2 × 31.5 cm. Images courtesy of the Stephen S. Clark Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

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46). For many of them he employed a distinctive format of a repeated decorative frame within which each map fit (fig.  464). Although he styled himself as ingénieur géographe, Desnos had apprenticed as a master metal founder; he met and married Marie Charlotte Loye, the widow of Nicolas Hardy, who had been a globemaker on the quai de l’Horloge. The marriage gave Desnos access to the stock of globes (cardboard and papier-maché shells on which gores could be pasted), spheres, copperplates, and tools of the trade from the Hardys (Nicolas and his father Jacques). Desnos sold globes, armillary spheres, and geographical maps using stock and plates purchased in 1760 from the de Fer descendants and from the plates acquired from the Jaillots in 1789 (Pacha and Miran 1996, 44; Pastoureau 1989; 1984, 233). Desnos’s catalogs, printed as broadsheets, were often tipped into his atlases and provide an inventory of his productions from the 1760s until his death in 1805. Academic geographers Delisle and Robert de Vaugondy and map editors Desnos and Jean Lattré (with Rigobert Bonne) joined scientific instrumentmakers Nicolas Bion, Jean-Baptiste Delure, and Jacques-Nicolas Baradelle to offer globes in a variety of sizes—three, six, nine, twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four inches. They relied on luxury craftsmen to produce innovative stands, ranging from plain wood with red edges to decoratively carved or lacquered stands to meet the fashionable tastes of the period, rococo or chinoiserie or neoclassical. The style of stand could demand a high price, as much as 1,000 livres for an eighteen-inch globe, “rich in ornaments, engraved with the arms of the subscriber” (Journal des Sçavans, April 1753, 255). Few engravers entered this specialized market, except when employed to engrave the globe gores.

Bonne, Rizzi Zannoni, and Jean Janvier. These same geographers also worked for Desnos, increasing competition within the map trade and leading to some fractious encounters (Pacha and Miran 1996, 46). Janvier became a map editor and publisher in partnership with Sébastian-G. Longchamp, Voltaire’s former valet and secretary. Longchamp had learned the fundamentals of map compilation and engraving from Desnos (Longchamp and Wagnière 1838, 2:337–44; Reitinger 2010). Other map engravers who published and sold maps were the Crépy family (Jean, sons Louis and Etienne-Louis, and grandson Jean-Baptiste), LouisJoseph Mondhare, and his son-in-law Pierre Jean (Casselle 1976, 219–20). The printsellers Esnaults & Rapilly participated in the map trade in the third quarter of the century with maps of Paris, of France, and of significant places in North America, although maps were not a major part of their stock (Casselle 1976, 101, 225). By the century’s close, marked by the disruptions of the French Revolution, the academic geographers—Delisle, Buache, Robert de Vaugondy, d’Anville—had died, each without a successor, and their stock consolidated into the hands of Dezauche, Desnos, and Delamarche. Delamarche added the stock of Lattré to his Robert de Vaugondy material; when his son Félix consolidated business with the engraver Dien, they added plates from the stock of Le Rouge. The difficult financial climate of Revolutionary France and a shortage of ready money made new ventures nearly impossible, and the increased demand for maps was met by older material already on the market. Geographers like Edme Mentelle entered the market through teaching and producing school atlases to accompany new geographical curricula (Heffernan 2005).

Map Editors: Engravers The integral role of engravers in map production cannot be overemphasized. Their skills in transferring the fine lines, legible lettering, and detailed topography of the manuscript map to the copperplate were crucial to the critical success of map sales. Some engravers who specialized in geographic engraving were inspired to become map editors and publishers. Lattré and his wife, Marie-Françoise (neé Vérard), a talented engraver, exemplify the combination of engraving skill with entrepreneurial instincts. Lattré published individual maps and many urban plans, as shown in his various catalogs, often tipped into the back of his atlases, and through advertisements in Paris periodicals. Like Dheulland, Lattré engraved maps for the Dépôt de la Marine (Hydrographie française) and also saw the profitability of publishing his own urban plans and atlases. His Atlas moderne (1762) went through several editions with maps compiled chiefly by the geographers

Location of the Trade In Paris, the close connection between all participants in the map trade (geographers, map editors, and engravers) is manifest in the close proximity of their addresses on the Left Bank of the Seine, within the Latin Quarter, where the letterpress trade was located, restricted by guild provisions and the requirements of government supervision (Pedley 1981; 2005, 97–99). The geographers tended to cluster around the makers of scientific instruments on the quai de l’Horloge on the Île de la Cité and on the nearby quai des Grands-Augustins, whereas the engravers spread along the busy rue Saint-Jacques, home to booksellers and printers since the Renaissance, and the streets adjacent. Such propinquity made for ease of transport of copperplates from engraver to printer to editor. Two exceptions to these locations were d’Anville’s residence in the Galeries du Louvre, where artisans in the employ of the monarchy were often housed, and Julien in the Hôtel de Soubise in the Marais on the Right Bank, far

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Fig. 465. PLATE 1 FROM DIDIER ROBERT DE VAUGONDY, TABLETTES PARISIENNES (PARIS: L’AUTEUR, 1760). This plan, Les Isles du Palais, S. Louis & Louviers, le Palais du Luxembourg, le Louvre, l’Opéra, l’Hôtel de Ville, la Comédie françoise, &c., has been annotated to show the areas in central Paris where the map trade was concentrated:

(1) Galeries du Louvre, (2) quai de l’Horloge on the Île de la Cité, (3) quai des Grands-Augustins at the south end of the Pont Neuf, and (4) rue Saint-Jacques. Size of the original: 20 × 22 cm. Image courtesy of the Stephen S. Clark Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

from the print and book trade but deeply ensconced in a district of hôtels particuliers of wealthy clientele (fig. 465). In Lyon, a similar phenomenon for the location of the print trade was apparent along the rue Mercière (the  medieval via Mercatoria) and streets adjacent in the second arrondissement of central Lyon, the heart of the district of letterpress printers (Martin de Vesvrotte

et al. 2002, 7–9, 151–53). While the map trade in provincial centers of France has not been thoroughly studied, research on the Lyon print trade suggests that maps were sold locally by printsellers, such as Jean-Louis Daudet, who was succeeded by his widow, Étiennette Leblond, and Louis Martin Roch Joubert. The widow Daudet and Joubert sold maps by de Fer, Jaillot, Crépy, Delisle, Bellin, and Le Rouge. Nicolas-Simon Duflos also

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had Paris connections with Le Rouge, Desnos, and the cartographic engraver Petit (Martin de Vesvrotte et al. 2002, 65–66). Commercial map production in Lyon itself seems to have been limited to maps of the city, the best known being the plan of Lyon (1735) by Claude Séraucourt, geometer and engraver. Subsequent plans of the city and region were edited by Joubert beginning in 1767. In both cases the mapmakers received financial support from the city to create these urban plans (Bruyère, Chiron, and Dureau 1997, 51–59). Economics of Map Production No matter who owned the plates, the most difficult hurdle in bringing maps to market was acquiring the capital to undertake the considerable costs of compilation, copperplates, engraving, and printing. While the titles of géographe du roi and premier géographe du roi carried annual pensions, providing support for living expenses, they hardly provided the kind of sums required for map production. Other forms of patronage supported individual map projects (Petto 2007), and mapmakers might enjoy position and financial support in aristocratic households, as evidenced by d’Anville’s role as tutor and secretary to the duc d’Orléans, who financed many of d’Anville’s maps. Membership in scientific academies brought stature but little remuneration. Many geographers taught geography and mathematics; some were royal tutors (Delisle, Buache, Beaurain, d’Anville), others simply advertised their courses in the periodical press (e.g., Robert de Vaugondy in the Journal de Paris, 28 July 1780) or even on their maps as did Le Rouge: “He teaches mathematics, fortifications, military art, design, German, and English” (below the neat line of Theatre de la guerre en Silesie [1741], and, similarly, in the Mémoires pour l’Histoire des Sciences & des Beaux Arts, June 1741, 1141). Another source of capital came through marriage: a wealthy wife could increase borrowing power as well as provide the necessary wherewithal for map publishing. Guillaume Delisle’s wife, Marie Darbisse, brought a dowry of 18,000 livres (Dawson, 2000, 259–62). Philippe Buache married the wealthy widow Elizabeth de Miremont in his second marriage, and d’Anville’s wife, Charlotte Testard, brought a dowry of roughly 400 livres per year (d’Anville website). Widows and daughters of men in the trade could bring their family business to a marriage, as in the cases of the daughters of de Fer and the wife of Desnos, noted above (Pastoureau 1984, 168; 1989; Pacha and Miran 1996, 44). Françoise Jaillot brought geographical stock worth 25,000 livres and other goods and cash worth 12,000 livres to her marriage to Renou de Chauvigné (Fleury 1977, X). Friends, too, provided help: Gilles Robert Vaugondy was supported by his lawyer friend Jean Frémont in the early years of his cartographic career (Pedley 1992, 24–26). Some map

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enterprises were accomplished as joint undertakings; the Atlas universel by Didier and Gilles Robert de Vaugondy was funded by the bookseller Antoine-Chrétien Boudet, though such an arrangement ran counter to guild regulations that protected the print (and therefore the map) trade from incursions by the letterpress community. A common means of securing advance funding was through subscription, which offered a discounted price on maps or atlases prior to publication, thereby providing significant capital for the project if enough subscribers signed on. The most well-known examples of subscription funding were the Cassini Carte de France and the Robert de Vaugondy Atlas universel (Pedley 1979). Julien offered a cogent explanation of the need for advance capital in his appeal to subscribers to the Theatre de la guerre en Italie (2d ed., 1754) (Hofmann 2003, 180) and emphasized the number of subscribers required to recoup costs. The Atlas universel attracted just over 1,100 subscriptions from 650 subscribers; Julien asked for at least 800. These numbers provide expected print runs. The French monetary units of the eighteenth century—livres, sous, and deniers (equivalent to pounds, shillings, and pence)—were the currency of costs. The price of a single sheet folio map was between 1 and 6 livres during the Enlightenment. By comparison, the premier géographe du roi received 1,200 livres in annual pension; a student needed 400–600 livres per year to live in Paris; an English diplomat requested 48,000 livres to live appropriately to his station. Although wages and prices were not fixed, fluctuating according to circumstances, and information gleaned from the archives must be analyzed in the context of the institution or individual source, some general patterns may be discerned. By consolidating the separate costs of copperplate, engraving, ink, paper, printing, and coloring, the cost of producing a single map could vary between 200 to 1,200 livres. An average of 600 livres for production meant that the price of a map at 1 livre represented only 1⁄600 the production costs, which did not include the time consumed by the editorial work of compilation and correction. To recoup the costs, a mapseller was obliged to sell at least 600 copies of every map title produced. This was especially difficult for more unusual titles and maps of obscure geographical areas. The mapseller often ran out of popular maps (world, continents, Europe, battles) and was left with excess stock of less popular areas and topics (ancient history, remote regions). The economic solution was a well-designed atlas, aesthetically pleasing and intellectually coherent, that offered a means of selling less popular maps bound with the more popular. Yet the price of an atlas like the Robert de Vaugondy Atlas universel was high: 150 livres for 107 folio maps on larger paper or 120 livres for the

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same maps on smaller paper. Smaller-format atlases of course cost less: Lattré’s Atlas moderne (1762) in large quarto was priced at 19 livres 10 sous bound in cardboard, 24 livres in leather, 25 livres 10 sous on highquality paper and colored, and 30 livres on fine paper, colored and bound in leather. Lattré raised these prices in his subsequent catalog of 1771 and doubled them in his 1777 list. The increased prices bought more elegant bindings, finer paper, and coloring, but not refined map content, which remained untouched (Pedley 2005, 205– 42; Hofmann 1999). Other aspects of production besides costs also affected the trade. The availability and competition for competent and talented engravers, the detailed and demanding process of noting errors and correcting them carefully, the experimentation with new techniques of etching (such as manière noire or mezzotint and aquatint) were constant concerns. Color printing and innovative formats offered challenges, too. The limitations of engraving in the production of historical maps and atlases required the imaginative rendering of time as well as space (Hofmann 2000a). Stock The stock maintained by most participants in the map trade comprised separate maps of the world, the continents, countries, regions, and cities; maps covering historical themes, current events, or events of the recent past; and maps required for schools (blank maps, simplified geographical or thematic maps, and, by the end of the century, maps of physical geography). As the century progressed, map publishers designed maps specifically for an atlas format, using similar scales, styles, projections, and presentation to create a coherent, visually attractive volume. Robert de Vaugondy, Julien, Desnos, and Lattré were particularly adept at creating such atlases, offering various sizes and bindings and even soft covers allowing a collection to be rolled up for easy carrying. Geographers offered textbooks on geography and the use of globes to expand their sales. The main forces driving market taste were education (both military and civilian), current events, and the practical use of maps by military officers, administrators, and travelers. The demand for maps, atlases, and globes in schools had been a constant from the early seventeenth century. The desire for maps to serve as vehicles for understanding history drove a strong market in historical maps and atlases in schools. The form and content of school atlases and maps changed with evolving pedagogical ideas, marked definitively first by the expulsion of the Jesuits from France in 1764, and the concomitant secularization of the history and geography curriculum, and later by the Revolution, with its new ideas about the accessibility and purpose of public education. The debate over the practicality and desirability of wall

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maps over atlases and the creation of atlases to meet the changing norms of the curriculum marked cartographic developments for schools in the last quarter of the century (Pastoureau 1997; Heffernan 2005). The wars that plagued Europe through the eighteenth century (in most of which France participated although no battles occurred on French soil) whetted public appetite for theater of war maps and atlases, whether of recent conflicts or retrospective maps describing famous military campaigns of earlier wars. The world map and the general atlas also attracted consumers by claiming to be up-to-date, showing recent discoveries, and being offered at affordable prices. Maps and atlases for wayfinding, such as route maps, itinerary maps, guide books, and road lists with timetables, also found a steady market. The reforms of Anne Robert Jacques Turgot in 1776 to create a national system of public transportation by diligence (public stagecoach) provided a further impetus to the making of route maps (Arbellot 1992, 49). Advertising and Criticism The range of maps available to the consumer was advertised in the catalogs of mapmakers, printed as broadsheets or small books, or tipped into atlases and other publications. The periodical press, such as the Gazette de Paris, Les Affiches de Paris, Mercure de France, and Journal de Paris, consistently reported the appearance of new maps, citing publishers, locations, and prices. Serious literary periodicals, such as the Journal des Sçavans and the Journal de Trévoux (Mémoires pour l’Histoire des Sciences & des Beaux-Arts), provided more detailed analyses of maps and atlases recently published and the opportunity for geographers to engage in description and debate concerning maps and map accuracy (Verdier 2015). These reviews and responses both educated and encouraged more discerning consumers. Two other contemporary publications offered critical assessments of maps that informed choice. The Méthode pour étudier la géographie (1741–42) by abbé Nicolas Lenglet du Fresnoy offered short, sharp critiques of the maps listed in each of its seven volumes. At the end of volume 1, he included a “Catalogue des meilleures cartes.” Jacques Le Long’s Bibliotheque historique de la France (1719), revised and corrected by Charles-Marie Fevret de Fontette (1768–78), opens the first of its five volumes with a chapter on the geography of France and lists of more than nine hundred geographical maps of France, its regions, and its neighboring districts. The sheer volume of cartography covered in this list, mostly of French production, impressively attests to the depth and range of the map trade from the late Renaissance to the eighteenth century. These catalogs and periodicals describing maps reveal the far-flung consumers of French maps and the

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long reach of the French map trade. The republication of French titles, whether through copying or selling the French maps directly, formed a significant portion of France’s foreign map trade, especially in Great Britain, the Netherlands, and the German States. Other sources, such as correspondence and subscription lists, also describe a trans-European trade: the subscription list to the Robert de Vaugondy Atlas universel (1757) shows that nearly 300 of the 1,118 subscriptions left France for other regions (Pedley 1979, 69 [fig. 3], 71). Delisle’s business correspondence with Renard attests to the strong demand for his maps in the Netherlands (Pedley 2005, 174–75, 189). The letters from French mapsellers (Julien, Lattré, Desnos) and geographers (Robert de Vaugondy, Rizzi Zannoni, d’Anville) to the firm of Jefferys & Faden reveal strong Anglo-French trade even in time of war (Pedley 2000). Volume was the volatile factor; since a map publisher was obliged to sell a large number of copies of a title to recoup its production costs, publishers hoped for, but rarely found, steady demand. The archived inventories after decease and bankruptcy filings illuminate the wide geographical range of a mapseller’s creditors who pushed him toward the precipice of debt. Desnos renegotiated his debt in 1761 and again in 1784 in a bankruptcy filing, listing creditors in Paris and throughout France and as far afield as Cádiz, Turin, Majorca, Seville, and Amsterdam. Undeterred by these low points in the business cycle, he continued to offer maps in all formats, atlases, globes, and special paper and writing tools for sketching and mapmaking until the year before his death at age eighty (Pedley 1995, 107–8; Pacha and Miran 1996, 44–46). By the end of the eighteenth century, France retained its position as a highly regarded center for commercial cartography. Through the consolidation of the stock of various mapselling firms into fewer hands and the expansion of the stock to include more than maps—prints, city plans, landscape views, books related to geography and mathematics, engraved stationery and forms—the map trade by the time of the Revolution was poised to become a more industrialized and centralized industry in the nineteenth century. Ma ry S p on b er g Ped ley See also: Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’; Atlas; Buache, JeanNicolas; Buache, Philippe; Delisle Family; France; Map Collecting: France; Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique; Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise; Robert de Vaugondy Family; Sanson Family B i bliogra p hy Antoine, Michel. 1989. Louis XV. Paris: Fayard. Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. Jean-Baptiste d’Anville: Un cabinet savant à l’époque des Lumières. Ed. Catherine Hofmann. Photographic credit, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cartes et plans. Website with all primary source documents. Arbellot, Guy. 1992. Autour des routes de poste: Les premières cartes

routières de la France, XVIIe–XIXe siècle. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale / Musée de la Poste. Berthaut, Henri Marie Auguste. 1902. Les ingénieurs géographes militaires, 1624–1831: Étude historique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Service Géographique. Broc, Numa. 1975. La géographie des philosophes: Géographes et voyageurs français au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Editions Ophrys. Bruyère, Gérard, Noëlle Chiron, and Jeanne-Marie Dureau, eds. 1997. Forma urbis: Les plans généraux de Lyon, XVIe–XXe siècles. Lyon: Archives Municipales. Casselle, Pierre. 1976. “Le commerce des estampes à Paris dans la seconde moitié du 18ème siècle.” Thèse, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Cohn, Ellen R. 2000. “Benjamin Franklin, Georges-Louis Le Rouge and the Franklin/Folger Chart of the Gulf Stream.” Imago Mundi 52:124–42. Dainville, François de. 1956. Cartes anciennes de l’église de France: Historique, répertoire, guide d’usage. Paris: J. Vrin. Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillery: Septentrion. Fleury, Michel. 1977. “Notice sur la vie et l’œuvre de Jean-Baptiste Michel Renou de Chauvigné dit Jaillot.” In Recherches critiques, historiques et typographiques sur la ville de Paris, 5 vols. and portfolio, by Jean-Baptiste-Michel Renou de Chauvigné, dit Jaillot, 1:VII–XXXII. Paris: Berger-Levrault. Fordham, Herbert George. 1922. “The Listes générales des postes de France, 1708–79, and the Jaillots, géographes ordinaires du Roi.” Library, ser. 4, 3:115–36. Heffernan, Michael. 2005. “Edme Mentelle’s Geographies and the French Revolution.” In Geography and Revolution, ed. David N. Livingstone and Charles W. J. Withers, 273–303. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2014. “Geography and the Paris Academy of Sciences: Politics and Patronage in Early 18th-Century France.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 39:62–75. Hofmann, Catherine. 1999. “L’enluminure des cartes et des atlas imprimés XVIe–XVIIIe siècle.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 159:35–47. ———. 2000a. “La genèse de l’atlas historique en France (1630– 1800): Pouvoirs et limites de la carte comme ‘œil de l’histoire.’” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 158:97–128. ———. 2000b. “Les ‘théâtres de la guerre’ ou la carte entre mémoire et anticipation (XVIIe–XVIIIe siècle).” Revue de la Bibliothèque Nationale de France, no. 4:39–42. ———. 2003. “L’édition des ‘atlas militaires’ en France aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles: Une activité sous étroite surveillance?” In Atlas militaires manuscrits européens (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles): Forme, contenu, contexte de réalisation et vocations, ed. Isabelle Warmoes, Émilie d’Orgeix, and Charles van den Heuvel, 165–83. Paris: Musée des Plans-Reliefs. ———. 2007. “Publishing and the Map Trade in France, 1470–1670.” In HC 3:1569–88. Julien, Roch-Joseph. 1763. Nouveau catalogue de cartes géographiques et topographiques. 2 pts. Paris: Julien. Korzus, Bernard. 2004. “Georges Louis Le Rouge: Un cartographe franco-allemand du XVIIIe siècle.” In Georges Louis Le Rouge: Jardins anglo-chinois, ed. Véronique Royet, 45–55. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Le Bitouzé, Corinne. 1986. “Le commerce de l’estampe à Paris dans la première moitié du XVIIIe siècle.” Thèse, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Longchamp, Sébastian-G., and Jean Louis Wagnière. 1838. Mémoires anecdotiques, trés-curieux et inconnus jusqu’a ce jour, sur Voltaire. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie de Béthune et Plon.

798 Martin de Vesvrotte, Sylvie, et al. 2002. Dictionnaire des graveurs-éditeurs et marchands d’estampes à Lyon aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon. Mormiche, Pascale. 2010. “Versailles, lieu d’enseignement des sciences.” In Sciences & Curiosités à la cour de Versailles, ed. Béatrix Saule and Catherine Arminjon, 173–87. Paris: Éditions de la Réunion des Musées Nationaux. Pacha, Béatrice, and Ludovic Miran. 1996. Cartes et plans imprimés de 1564 à 1815: Collections des bibliothèques municipales de la région Centre. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France / Agence Interprofessionnelle Régionale pour le Livre et les Médias. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1984. Les atlas français, XVIe–XVIIe siècles: Répertoire bibliographique et étude. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale, Departément des Cartes et Plans. ———. 1989. “Les Hardy—père et fils—et Louis-Charles Desnos ‘faiseurs de globes’ à Paris au milieu du XVIIIe siècle.” In Studies in the History of Scientific Instruments, ed. Christine Blondel et al., 73–81. London: Rogers Turner Books for the Centre de Recherche en Histoire des Sciences et des Techniques de la Cité des Sciences et de l’Industrie, Paris. ———. 1997. “French School Atlases: Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries.” In Images of the World: The Atlas through History, ed. John A. Wolter and Ronald E. Grim, 109–34. Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 1979. “The Subscription List of the 1757 Atlas Universel: A Study in Cartographic Dissemination.” Imago Mundi 31:66–77. ———. 1981. “The Map Trade in Paris, 1650–1825.” Imago Mundi 33:33–45. ———. 1992. Bel et utile: The Work of the Robert de Vaugondy Family of Mapmakers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. ———. 1995. “‘Commode, complet, uniforme, et suivi’: Problems in Atlas Editing in Enlightenment France.” In Editing Early and Historical Atlases, ed. Joan Winearls, 83–108. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. ———, ed. 2000. The Map Trade in the Late Eighteenth Century: Letters to the London Map Sellers Jefferys and Faden. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. ———. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pelletier, Monique. 2013. Les cartes de Cassini: La science au service de l’État et des provinces. New ed. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Petto, Christine M. 2007. When France was King of Cartography: The Patronage and Production of Maps in Early Modern France. Lanham: Lexington Books. Préaud, Maxime, et al. 1987. Dictionnaire des éditeurs d’estampes à Paris sous l’Ancien Régime. Paris. Promodis. Reitinger, Franz. 2010. “Voltaire’s Valet: The Career of Sebastian G. Longchamps from Servant to Map Publisher.” Sjuttonhundratal: Nordic Yearbook for Eighteenth-Century Studies 7:74–96. Roland, F. 1919. Alexis-Hubert Jaillot: Géographe du roi Louis XIV (1632–1712). Besançon: Imprimerie Jacques et Demontrond. Verdier, Nicolas. 2015. La carte avant les cartographes: l’Avènement du régime cartographique en France au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne.

Map Trade in the German States. Map publishing in the German States from 1650 to 1800 owed its multifaceted nature to the strong territorial fragmentation and the concomitant multiplicity of political and cultural centers. Nonetheless, the publishing houses of Homann and Seutter, Lotter, and Probst dominated the market in

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the eighteenth century until they were overtaken around 1780 by other large map publishing houses in Vienna, Weimar, and Berlin, as well as other cities. To a lesser degree, print and book publishers as well as independent copperplate engravers active in numerous cities also published maps. The large cartographic publishing houses have been relatively well researched although important business records have not survived, except those in the archives of the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin and the publishing archive of the Artaria house in Vienna. For this reason, only fragmentary material illuminates the financial aspects of mapmaking, which are often hard to compare due to the varying currencies and techniques of data measurement. Overall, these relationships have as yet been little researched. Publishing Centers The Thirty Years’ War (1618– 48), with its destruction and high loss of human life, almost completely disrupted the traditions of German cartography. Toward the end of the war, only a few publishing houses dealt with cartography, such as those of Paul Fürst in Nuremberg, Wolfgang Kilian in Augsburg, and Matthäus Merian in Frankfurt. Merian was known for lushly illustrated topographical and historical works from around 1623. The firm’s main publications, the Theatrum Europæum and the Topographie Germaniae by Martin Zeiller, continued to be published by Merian’s heirs after his death, who kept the large firm in business until 1727 or 1734, but it was better known for its prints and bird’s-eye views than for its numerous maps. The large Dutch publishing houses, which used the book fairs in Frankfurt and Leipzig to sell to German and international book- and printsellers, dominated the map market in the seventeenth century, a fact underscored by a contract of 17 March 1659 between Joan Blaeu and the German bookseller Alexander Harttung, in which the latter agreed to sell all of Blaeu’s products (Stadsarchief Amsterdam, Not. Arch. 3014/197). The slimmer, cheaper atlas compilations marketed by the Dutch publishers De Wit, Visscher, Danckert, Valk, and Schenk, less encyclopedic than those of Blaeu and Janssonius, were important products; French maps by Nicolas Sanson and Italian maps by Vincenzo Coronelli seem to have been less influential. The German-language publishing houses initially copied Dutch products and then attempted to emulate the companies themselves, having presumably met their successful Dutch counterparts at the book fairs, and thereby learned their work methods. Yet German cartography from the graphic print centers of Nuremberg and Augsburg as well as the bookfair cities of Frankfurt and Leipzig succeeded only sporadically against Dutch competition in the seventeenth century, and no publishing houses specializing in cartography

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were established. Some print and book publishers produced individual maps, usually for book projects or magazines, such as the Nuremberg publishing houses of Johann Hoffmann, active between 1658 and 1698, and Jacob von Sandrart, founder of the Nürnberger Malerakademie in 1662, who published maps from the 1690s, including folio maps for a world atlas with David Funck. While the number of copperplate engravers in Augsburg grew from six in 1661 to twenty-three in 1698, only Johann Stridbeck the Elder and Johann Georg Bodenehr were involved in cartography, publishing regional atlases and small-scale city and fortress maps (Ritter 2002c, 186). Around the turn of the century, larger individual projects appeared in Mainz, Leipzig, and Munich, such as Nicolaus Person’s Novæ archiepiscopatus Moguntini tabulæ (1694), Christophorus Cellarius’s Notitia orbis antiqui (1701–6), and Heinrich Scherer’s seven-volume Atlas novus (1698–1710). The eighteenth century saw a radically changed situation. In 1702, Johann Baptist Homann founded the first publishing house specializing in cartography in Nuremberg. He had collaborated on the works of Cellarius, Scherer, and Funck, and by ably exploiting the interests of buyers (especially in maps of the current participants in the War of the Spanish Succession), he was able to prevail over foreign map publishers in the German map market. Known as Homann Heirs from 1730, his publishing house largely copied Dutch map types and formats and became the leading enterprise in German commercial cartography until 1790. Also in Nuremberg, in the first quarter of the eighteenth century, the firm of Christoph Weigel the Elder and Johann Christoph Weigel (later Schneider und Weigel) published small-scale maps and atlases. A number of book and print publishers also operated in cartography, such as the Monath publishing house, which from 1713 published a few separate maps in addition to astronomic and mathematical books. Globes were manufactured in the first half of the eighteenth century by Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr, Johann Ludwig Andreae, and Johann Philipp Andreae as well as at the turn of the nineteenth century by the flourishing publishing houses of Klinger, Bauer, and Franz. Inspired by Homann’s success, Matthäus Seutter started his own cartographic publishing house in Augsburg around 1707. Since he was probably trained by Homann, his enterprise was markedly similar to Homann’s, and the Seutter publishing house (succeeded by Tobias Conrad Lotter, then Johann Michael I Probst) was for a long time the only significant domestic competitor of Homann in number of titles and in sales. Other publishing houses in Augsburg offered cartographic products throughout the first half of the eighteenth century: Jeremias Wolff, Gabriel Bodenehr, Elias Baeck, and Johann Andreas Pfeffel. Toward the end of the century,

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Fig. 466. DETAIL FROM PETRUS I SCHENK, HERR JOHANN PETZSCHENS HOFF UND BALLEN-HAUßZ (AMSTERDAM, CA. 1700). This engraving shows Schenk’s activity during one of his visits to the Leipzig book fair. Size of the original: ca. 21 × 25 cm; size of detail: ca. 8 × 10 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (Kart. Y 28352).

other Augsburg publishers took advantage of increased demand caused by a broader spectrum of buyers and the weakness of the old market leaders. Johann Martin Will and his son-in-law Johannes Walch started a new map publishing house in 1789 from the auctioned estate of the Lotter family publishing house. Besides the business of the international book fairs conducted within the sovereign borders of these two imperial cities, Leipzig and Frankfurt were also active in the map trade, Leipzig being of greater significance during the eighteenth century. The Dutch map and atlas publisher Petrus I Schenk attended the Leipzig fair regularly between 1701 and 1711 (fig. 466). His son Petrus II Schenk continued this tradition by publishing the Atlas Saxonicus novus (1752) and maintained a permanent address in Leipzig from around 1760. From 1720, Johann Georg Schreiber ran a small publishing house specializing in cartography whose primary work was the Atlas Selectus von allen Königreichen und Ländern der Welt, amply distributed in the German-speaking world, which grew from 27 maps in its first edition (around 1730) to 149 maps, keeping the firm in business into the nineteenth century. Many books with maps were published both in Leipzig and Frankfurt. Works dealing with contemporary wars were often illustrated with maps, and works on travel and exploration contained a surprising number of maps (e.g., Allgemeine Historie der Reisen zu Wasser und zu Lande, 1747–74, 21 vols. with over 300 maps). The broad orientation of the

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Fig. 467. JOHANN WILHELM ABRAHAM JÄGER, CARTE TOPOGRAPHIQUE DE LA WETTERAVIE ET DU CERCLE DU HAUT RHIN. Sheet 40 of the Grand Atlas d’Allemagne en LXXXI feuilles (Frankfurt: Jæger, ca. 1789), copper engraving. This important atlas sold for 44 guilders.

Size of the original: ca. 49.5 × 62.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (2° Kart. L 550-40).

publishing business allowed some entrepreneurs to experiment, such as the attempts of Johann Gottlob Immanuel Breitkopf to typeset maps. From 1762 to 1789 in Frankfurt, the former military officer Johann Wilhelm Abraham Jäger prepared a map of the Holy Roman Empire at ca. 1:220,000 on eighty-one large sheets, resulting in the Grand atlas d’Allemagne en LXXXI feuilles (fig. 467). Additional map production centers developed in a few of the cities with royal court residences. In Berlin, still a small city in Brandenburg-Prussia, the Akademie der Wissenschaften exploited the land mapping privi-

lege granted by Friedrich II by publishing separate maps as well as a maritime and a school atlas from the 1740s. The Schleuen firm likewise published maps and illustrations of Berlin and Brandenburg from 1740. Yet not until the end of the century did Berlin emerge as a center of cartographic publishing in the German-speaking world with maps by Carl Ludwig von Oesfeld (publishing from 1777), Daniel Friedrich Sotzmann (publishing from the 1780s), and the mapseller and publisher Simon Schropp (publishing from the 1790s). The most significant competition had shifted away from Augsburg and Nuremberg, especially after 1750, when the

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Homann Heirs suffered a financial crisis that had delayed by twenty years further investment in more up-todate maps, finally delivered by Franz Ludwig Güssefeld. No unequivocal market leader, however, was apparent from the 1780s, as Berlin was joined by Vienna, which rapidly became a center for map publishing from 1786 onward with the Artaria firm and large atlas projects initiated by Franz Anton Schrämbl in 1787 and Franz Johann Joseph von Reilly in 1789. In Saxe-Weimar, Friedrich Justin Bertuch founded the Landes-IndustrieComptoir in 1791. Bertuch’s marketing successes with the school atlas by Adam Christian Gaspari (1792–93) and the magazine Allgemeine geographische Ephemeriden (from 1798) motivated him to found the Geographisches Institut in 1804. In Bavarian Munich, the travel atlas by Adrian von Riedl appeared between 1796 and 1805, though the Perthes publishing house in the small city of Gotha (Saxe-Gotha) did not publish its first maps until after the turn of the century. Thus new map production centers were definitively established in the economically and territorially turbulent years of the Napoleonic Wars, when the free imperial cities lost their independence. Other maps, atlases, and books heavily illustrated with maps appeared as individual projects by authors who initiated them for ostensibly scientific or patriotic reasons but in fact intended to promote their careers in a royal court or the military. Given the desire for highquality results, these projects almost always encountered major financial problems. For example, Johann Weichard von Valvasor invested the entirety of his assets in the publication of a superb topography, Die Ehre des Hertzogthums Crain (1689). The large Scenographie of Vienna by Joseph Daniel von Huber (1778; see fig 889) was not a financial success. The superb globes produced by Johann Georg Franz in the early nineteenth century (after prototypes by Sotzmann) not only ruined him personally but forced his father to sell his half of the Homann firm in 1813 to cover his son’s debts (Heinz 2002a, 45). These ambitious individual initiatives especially enriched cartography and geography, but they also demonstrated the very careful calculations and long-term planning required for cartographic publication projects. Official or semiofficial map projects turned to cartographic publishing houses to handle the engraving and printing of the maps, such as the topographical survey of Bohemia, which was funded by the provincial governments for 24,000 guilders, surveyed by Johann Christoph Müller, and engraved on twenty-five plates by Michael Kauffer in Augsburg from 1720 until 1722 (Ritter 2010, 42–44). For its own topographical survey, the Silesian government contracted with Homann Heirs in

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1735 for the engraving and printing, stipulating that the staff in Nuremberg were to be responsible not just for the graphic rendering of the original manuscript maps but also for the representation of territories beyond the Silesian borders and for decorative elements. After corrections, 2,500 copies were to be pulled from each plate for the initiators of the project (Heyer 1891, 89–90). The professionalization of public administration and military demands in the second half of the century intensified the need for comprehensive large-scale maps. As these topographical surveys were made by the military, conflicts between military secrecy and administrative interests grew. For this reason, reduced copies of these maps were at times made and printed by civil draftsmen and copperplate engravers under the strict control of the military. These public commissions are beneficial for research since the study of archived correspondence and contracts could illuminate work methods and funding, including those of commercial firms. Publishing Houses The long activity and broad scope of the few large publishing houses that have been the subject of several studies (e.g., Ritter 2001, 2002a, 2002c; Stams and Stams 2004; Heinz 1997, 2002a) reveal patterns of production and structures and tendencies within the German map trade that contrast with the work of the many publishers who produced just one or only a handful of maps. The trends of the trade may be described in more detail through studying the large firms because they likely commanded over 50 percent of the market, giving them enormous importance. Homann maps were almost synonymous with printed maps in Germany in the second half of the eighteenth century, when folio maps were explicitly referred to as the Homann format (Homännisches Format). During the Enlightenment, printing businesses were organized into one of three trades: book publishing, printselling, or antiquarian bookselling. Cartographic publication fell under the purview of printsellers, who were allowed to trade only in works printed from copperplate or substantially illustrated printed works. Printsellers in Nuremberg were members of the so-called free trades, less regulated but of lower social prestige than the controlled trade of the book publishers. Printsellers were obliged to contract the letterpress portions of their works to booksellers. Neither booksellers nor printsellers were allowed to trade in bound works, so as not to poach business from the antiquarian booksellers, who in turn were not allowed to sell unbound (i.e., new) works. These rigid boundaries, arising from guild regulations, seem to have relaxed gradually during the eighteenth century. For instance, while the early atlas title pages from the Homann firm (Homann sold bound

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atlases from 1741 onward) always mentioned the book publisher who had prepared the title page and printed texts of the atlas, the later title pages were engraved and printed from copperplate, with the names of foreign publishers of the text portions removed. In only a few years the largest map publishing houses such as Homann and Seutter developed into multifaceted enterprises that carried out most of their production in house or commissioned it to heavily dependent outside firms. The work of the publishing houses began with the development of a publishing program, the acquisition and elaboration of master maps, the printing process, and finally culminated with sales. This type of publishing house seems to have been modeled on the major Dutch companies. These large firms were often founded by trained copperplate engravers, who initially ran small print publishing houses especially common in Augsburg and Nuremberg. Under favorable conditions and with the necessary personal initiative and penchant for risk taking, such enterprises expanded into larger cartographic publishing houses. Copperplate engraving was very costly, and founders of publishing houses could minimize this expense by doing much of the work themselves in the initial years. If cartographic engravers were unable to sell enough on their own, they could survive financially by working for other publishing houses while establishing their own business. The generation following the successful founders of publishing houses often did not continue as engravers but entered professions that were not craft oriented. Presumably, the founding of a publishing house was based on economic interests, even though the written statements to the government stressed the value of the planned enterprise to society. The decision to specialize in cartography may have stemmed from personal inclination or from envying someone like Matthäus Merian, whose assets were estimated at approximately 50,000 guilders in 1672 by virtue of an inheritance (Wüthrich 2007, 392). The big firms like Homann served as attractive models for envious imitators in the eighteenth century, as seen in the acquisition of a prestigious building by Homann Heirs in 1734 for 6,500 guilders and Seutter’s purchase of a two-floor residence for at least 1,600 guilders in 1723 (Sandler 1965, 6). It must be stressed, however, that success was achieved only through rigorous financial planning, as attested by the numerous personal bankruptcies of mapmakers in this period. Documents from the archives of the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin show that the sale of all their maps in what was perhaps the unusually unfavorable decade of 1772–82, yielded a total profit of a risible 286.50 guilders. Despite the complexity of the work, map-publishing

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firms appear to have been relatively small. Johann Wilhelm Abraham Jäger employed about ten copperplate engravers to work on his Grand atlas d’Allemagne (1789). Homann Heirs, as one of the largest enterprises in Nuremberg, probably seldom engaged more than thirty family members and other employees, as well as about thirty external illuminators (Briefmahler) to color the maps, and a few extra copperplate engravers who were occasionally commissioned. Publishing Policies The successful German mappublishing houses tended to combine larger-scale separate maps of localities and regions and smaller-scale general maps as their core business stock, supplemented at times by atlases and, to a lesser extent, views, globes, and wall maps. The decision about which maps to publish required a proper knowledge of the market, acquired through contacts with printsellers, correspondence, and travel. The most important criterion was economic feasibility. Due to the relatively small circle of buyers, it took a long time for the relatively high investment in the physical production to pay off. The maps had to be of general interest in order to be sold for as long as possible (for example, in atlases). Current or newsworthy interest in a particular area shortened the period for making an initial profit. The Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin, for instance, sold only 58 copies of the postal route map of 1754 in its first year, but 541 in the war year of 1759 (Hanke and Degner 1934, 44). Under normal conditions, new map production did not pay for itself for several years. Publishers invested more in the quality of the master map only when pressured by competition or personal ambition. As for master maps, it was not until the late eighteenth century that the accurate location of places within the geographical grid really became relevant. Indeed, greater interest lay in the competent overall composition of the map image, the decorative elements, fine and clear engraving, and neat coloring, since maps at this time served more as general representations of regions. In this context, history played a very important role, and, despite superficial appearances, the up-to-dateness of maps was not a top priority. Even though some maps were updated repeatedly in order to include changed borders, towns relevant to warfare, or new portraits of rulers—as with seven versions of Lotter’s map of Poland, and thirteen versions of Walch’s map of Poland—publishers rarely hesitated to add such adjectives as novissima to a map’s title itself, even when the map’s contents lagged decades behind current geographical knowledge. Only when map publishers entered the international market were they compelled to substantially improve

Map Trade

quality. In the 1740s, the Homann Heirs found that adopting these standards was financially risky. In general, the situation prompted publishers to constantly expand their offering to as many maps as possible. By the Napoleonic period, up-to-date information was required for all these maps, and the old publishing houses could not keep up. Master Maps The secondhand purchase of copperplates was the cheapest means of acquiring maps in the German-speaking world, as it had been for Dutch publishing houses of the seventeenth century. This practice seems to have been employed more by the Augsburg publishers (e.g., Joseph Carmine, who printed from a great number of plates from the defunct Amsterdam Ottens firm) than by those in Nuremberg. Copying maps that were already successful on the market saved the initial investment in cartographic compilation and was a nearly standard procedure in the start-up phase of a publishing house; it limited the costs to the acquisition of a selection of potential master maps for comparison and to a fixed sum for copying or redrawing the selected master. In addition, using another firm’s maps (Abkupfern) was often unavoidable since one could not easily find a cartographer for every region to be represented. Before about 1720, chiefly Dutch master maps were copied; after that date, French maps were used. Naturally, it was preferable to obtain master maps directly from the country to be represented. English maps were copied for just this purpose until the late eighteenth century; similarly, German maps of the Holy Roman Empire were copied abroad. At the same time, publishers were thoroughly aware that copying from other publishing houses was damaging and could adversely affect their firms, so they tried to protect themselves against copying by acquiring printing privileges (discussed below). Purchasing newly created maps for publication was legally less dubious but considerably more costly. Even after a government agency or private author delivered a newly created map of a region, the publishers had to compile a master map that included portions of the neighboring lands along the region’s boundaries, being attentive to avoid border disputes. This process might include creating an appropriate map projection and designing the parerga (embellishments), such as the title cartouches, scale data, and decoration. Even if the author of the map was paid very little, significant money was invested in subsequent preparation, sometimes involving the costly efforts of a highly qualified mathematician for new map projections, such as professor Johann Matthias Hase, hired by the Homann Heirs for Johann Wolfgang Wieland’s Atlas Silesiae in the 1730s. New cartouche designs required the expense of an art-

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ist. Compensation for original cartographic work was probably heavily contingent upon whether the author had approached the publishing house or vice versa. Unfortunately, sources on this topic are virtually unknown. Government agencies (and maybe even individual authors) often demanded a large number of the printed maps in recompense for their base map. For instance, in 1711 Homann included Johann Majer’s map of Württemberg in his publication program after the duke of Württemberg had paid 1,400 guilders for both its printing and for 1,000 copies, thereby relieving Homann of heavy initial investment in this commercially attractive map (Heinz 2003, 23–24). Yet such offers or commissions from governmental agencies or knowledgeable cartographic authors only came to map publishers of certain renown. Government involvement could also do harm by confiscating map prints and copperplates when there was disagreement about the represented borders. Expenses rose when publishing houses contracted a new design for a larger region or a continent based on an intellectual compilation process. It was difficult to find qualified geographers who could grapple with projections, assess written and cartographic sources in multiple languages, and draft a master map, since very few scientists dealt with cartography until the late eighteenth century. In this quest for talent, the location of a publishing house may have played a role. Nuremberg publishing houses enjoyed easier access to scientifically trained map authors than their competitors in Augsburg by virtue of Nuremberg’s proximity to the University of Altdorf. A mapmaker was expected to master map projections, use written and cartographic sources in many different languages, and draw base maps. In 1753 Homann Heirs issued “Die Kosmographische Lotterie,” a programmatic document that projected at least two years for each map compilation, but added the proviso that since each completed map could only be sold for the customary ten kreutzer, the cartographer would be paid for no more than one quarter of a year’s labor (Kosmographische Gesellschaft 1753, X–XII). Longer production periods for map designs are known from the correspondence with local persons invited to correct map designs. Solid information about the compensation for such projects is found only in the archives of the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin, which from 1752 employed Johann Christoph Rhode as Geograph der Akademie, but until 1772 only paid him after completion of projects. In that year, Rhode demanded twenty-two thaler for drawing a planisphere for a school atlas and thirty-six thaler for the map of the ancient world (fig. 468). These rates corresponded to the sale value of 528 and 864 maps, respectively (Hanke and Degner 1934, 39). In 1773, Rhode delivered the final

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Fig. 468. JOHANN CHRISTOPH RHODE, ORBIS VETERIBUS NOTUS (BERLIN: ACADEMIÆ REGIÆ SCIENTIARUM 1772). Copper engraving.

Size of the original: 31 × 36 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (Kart. U 2010).

drawing of a map of all the Prussian lands to the Akademie, which he had compiled from thirty-two different maps and map works and for which he charged 192 hours and 13 minutes (around 3 weeks, or 19 ten-hour workdays) and received forty-eight thaler (Hanke and Degner 1934, 59). These high costs meant that work on commission was very rare in German cartographic publishing. Probably the only highly qualified cartographer to be kept on a publisher’s staff was Tobias Mayer, employed by the successful Homann Heirs, but only from 1745 to 1750, during the short period of their heyday.

Technical Production The main work of map production resided in the preparation of the copperplates, the printing, and the hand coloring. Copperplate printing was exclusively employed, and the work conditions of copperplate engravers in the German-speaking world were probably the same as in other European countries. Yet the division of engraving labor that may be clearly observed in France for the different elements of line work—lettering, topographical elements, and decoration—was much less obvious in the German publishing houses. The Homann and Seutter publishing houses

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Fig. 469. MATTHÄUS FERDINAND CNOPF, GEOGRAPHISCHER ENTWVRF DER HOCHFÜRSTLICH BRANDENBVRG-, CVLM- UND ONOLZBACHISCHEN RINGS UM DIE REICHS STADT NÜRNBERG ANGELEGTEN (NUREMBERG, 1764). Copper engraving. The city

of Nuremberg had this map engraved by the Homann Heirs for 109 guilder and 30 kreuzer (see table 3). Size of the original: 54 × 59 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz; Kartenabteilung (Kart. M 7090).

hired engravers to work in-house but probably did not allow them to sign their work, a practice clearly indicated by the lack, with one exception, of any engraving signature of either Johann Baptist Homann or Matthäus Seutter on their own maps. Only about one-sixth of all the maps by the Homann Heirs publishing house bear any engraver signature at all, and those are presumably of outside contractors. Although finding additional copperplate engravers

for maps in Augsburg or Nuremberg would not have been a problem, complaints about the lack of qualified copperplate engravers for map projects were common in other German regions. Thus ambitious map publications, such as Müller’s map of Bohemia, were executed only by expert engravers in these two imperial cities. Conversely, the rise of new map production centers in the late eighteenth century accompanied the improved training of copperplate engravers in Vienna and Berlin.

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Table 3. Costs of engraving Geographischer Entwvrf der Hochfürstlich Brandenbvrg-, Cvlm- und Onolzbachischen rings, 1764 (fig. 469). The total production cost was the equivalent of the price of 657 maps. Cost Untreated copperplate Polishing the plate Engraving work Designing and engraving two cartouches Total

13 guilders 1 guilder, 30 kreutzer 80 guilders 15 guilders 109 guilders, 30 kreutzer

Percentage of total costs 12 1 73 14 100

Source: Staatsarchiv Nürnberg, Rst. Nürnberg, Stadtrechnungsbelege, Bündel 1564.

The costs of engraving an ordinary ten-kreutzer folio map are found in the invoice for the regional customs map of 1764 ordered by the city of Nuremberg from Homann Heirs (fig. 469 and table 3). The same invoice suggests that paper, printing, and illumination may be estimated at 2.5–5 kreutzer per map. Such external invoices included a profit margin for the publishers; the internal profit margin values assessed within the firm were probably lower. Yet such extant invoices are few, making it difficult to calculate average costs in various locations or to discern a pattern of development over time and space. The conclusion, however, that hundreds of maps had to be sold in order to recover the costs of the engraving alone is substantiated by other sources. The records of the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin show that engravers were paid differently according to the density of the lettering, a fact corroborated by Sotzmann’s map of Germany (in sixteen sheets, 1793). The engraver received 200 thaler (the equivalent of 175 map sets) for plates with many place-names but only 70 thaler (the equivalent of 50 map sets) for a simple index map (Sotzmann 1793, XVII). Carl Friedrich von Wiebeking calculated the following production costs for his map of the Duchy of Berg (four sheets, 1791): 990 thaler for initial survey and design of a master map and 1,250 thaler for printing and coloring 400 copies. He sought subscribers at 5 thaler (7.5  guilders) to cover his costs (1792, 16). His estimated costs per surface area were five times those of a Homann map. Data from the Homann firm show that the costs were recouped after 400 copies were sold, though this excluded the cost of the master map design. Based on the life of the printing plates, it took about five to eight years to sell 400 copies. Similar financial considerations apply to printing. After a period of expansion over approximately ten years, the large publishing houses probably acquired their own printing presses. Smaller publishing houses contracted printing to local printers who owned the required presses and skilled workers. The availability of printing presses

able to accommodate large map formats was occasionally a problem. Research into the origins of the paper used has not yet been undertaken. Experienced printers were definitely important to the long-lived publishing houses, which depended on the longevity of the copperplates and the quality of the engraving. Many printing plates were reengraved three or four times (verifiable in the case of the Homann firm), but sometimes a new identical plate had to be engraved. A peculiarity of the Homann firm was its simultaneous preparation of up to three nearly identical printing plates for particularly important maps (e.g., the world, the continents, Germany, France, Poland, Scandinavia, Great Britain, Russia, Spain, Italy, southeastern Europe), which probably ensured their ability to stock these maps in case any one plate became damaged. The number of prints pulled from a copperplate can only be estimated. Publishers who flourished long enough to have their plates reengraved multiple times before they became too faint from the repeated pressure of the rolling press could possibly pull a maximum of about 8,000 copies, a figure supported by documents in the archives of the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin. In 1789, Sotzmann stated that he was ashamed of the printing quality of the maps in the school atlas since the plates had already been printed 8,000 times (Hanke and Degner 1934, 40–41). Homann printed an average of 3,000–5,000 copies from a plate, this would yield approximate annual sales of twenty to fifty-five copies of a map based on a life expectancy for most maps of approximately one hundred years. Presumably the publishers would print only as many copies as they could sell within the foreseeable future so as not to have too many outdated copies in stock in case changes were necessary. In 1671, the Merian firm had in stock a total of 6,600 prints from copperplate engravings for sixty works (including 150 rolls or bales [Ballen] of the Theatrvm Evropæum, 460 bales of topography, and 400 bales of other publications) in addition to letterpress texts (Wüthrich 2007, 392). An inventory prepared for an inheritance in 1788 itemized about one-third of

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the warehouse stock of the Lotter publishing house in Augsburg, comprising 9,961 folio maps (7,165 colored and 2,796 uncolored) and 14,810 smaller maps (8,084 colored, 6,726 uncolored) (Stadtarchiv Augsburg, Kupferstecherakten 1723–1804, fol. 153). Assuming that the maps were printed from the 112 listed folio plates and available small plates, this constitutes an average of about ninety copies taken from each plate, roughly the number of prints that could be pulled from a printing plate in one day’s work. Thus, Lotter maintained just more than one year’s average sales volume by keeping a day’s printing in stock, a sensible approach since plates had to be cleaned and prepared before and after printing. Also significant is that small-size maps were expected to yield 30 percent more sales than the folio maps. These figures support the idea that 25 percent was added to the price for colored maps as opposed to uncolored maps. German maps were almost always illuminated with full color for the centrally depicted territories. The publishing houses prepared the master maps with templates for the colors that were later applied by hand. Around 1710, Johann Hübner described a systematic use of colors. His ideas were central to the Homann system, adopted in the following years, which used hues of a primary color consistently for the various provinces of a state, rather than contrasting colors as previously practiced. Several references confirm that this coloring work was usually done by women and children, often relatives of employees in the publishing house; coloring was also executed by the established guild of Briefmahler (illuminators) as well as other unaffiliated individuals. In 1735, 200 Briefmahler workshops were registered in Augsburg and probably as many as thirty external illuminators were active for the Homann firm around 1745 (Heinz 2002b, 1:148–49). The invoice between Homann Heirs and the city of Nuremberg in 1764 (see table 3) allows a calculation of 2.4 kreutzer per map for the coloring work, or roughly one quarter of the sales price. In 1793, Johann Georg Krünitz wrote that the illumination of land maps in Augsburg was carried out by children who were paid eighteen groschen or almost seven kreutzer for one hundred pieces completed in three days (Krünitz et al. 1773–1858, 60:150). Map Sales The structures for selling maps in the German-speaking world were even more complex than those for creating and printing them. A variety of measures promoted map sales or facilitated funding before publication, but there is little information about their efficacy. One approach involved the author or publisher presenting the master map to a high-ranking person to request permission to dedicate the work to him or her, but no research has as yet studied this process. Motivation for seeking dedication might have been for subsi-

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dies of printing costs or other financial benefits such as printing privileges. The incorporation of a famous personality on the map was presumably a useful publicity measure. The cartographer’s or publisher’s use of his title as an imperial geographer or comparable distinction, though evidently not linked to commissions or revenue, similarly could carry prestige. Homann had to pay 161 guilders and 30 kreutzer for the honor of becoming Kaiserlicher Geograph on 17 August 1715, along with a golden chain with a portrait medal of Charles VI. He immediately included the title on his maps. Around 1731 or 1732, his competitor Seutter also received the title, a date ascertained from his publications with the title after 1732. Similar titles, although less prestigious, were kurfürstlich sächsischer und königlich polnischer Geograph (Adam Friedrich Zürner, 1716) and Fränkischer Kreisgeographus (Johann Michael Franz, 1748, apparently given in lieu of support for his map publication plans). Royal printing privileges were originally a public sign of having passed government censorship, as demonstrated by conflicts surrounding the Atlas Saxonicus novus (1752) by Petrus II Schenk. For the publisher, privilege promised protection against copying and reprinting, at least in the territory of the provincial sovereign who granted them, and also provided some publicity. Petrus  II brazenly and publicly affirmed to the royal Saxon government that he had received its general privilege, though it was probably never granted. Nonetheless, he placed it on his publications, showing the importance of printing privileges to publishers. Homann Heirs held imperial printing privileges for ten years for all of their maps published between 1729 and 1750 as well as between 1762 and 1806. In 1729, the cost of the privilege was sixty guilders (equivalent to the cost of 240 to 360 maps). In 1741, the Seutter firm acquired a comparable printing privilege from the imperial vicar. The most effective way to invoke privilege was to file a complaint at the book fairs, where all the parties could be summoned before the imperial book commission. So far research has revealed only a few such proceedings in the cartographic industry. Subscriptions and advance payments made it possible for buyers to invest in maps still in production. Such methods of financing were relatively rare in the German map trade until the late eighteenth century. Unfortunately lacking are the published lists of subscribers, which might provide information on the social and geographic distribution of buyers, as in the case of England and France. Larger publishing houses advertised directly to booksellers or printsellers and to potential buyers with printed lists or catalogs of their products distributed. The Homann list of publications was engraved on

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Fig. 470. TWO PAGES FROM HOMANN HEIRS, VERZEICHNIß ALLER HOMANNISCHEN HIMMELS- UND LANDKARTEN, WIE AUCH DER BÜCHERE UND ATLASSEN (NUREMBERG, 1741). In this sixteen-page order form, dealers or private customers could fill in the number of

copies of each map in the right margin of pages 1–14 (page 1 shown on left) and sum up the costs of a complete atlas on pages 15–16 (page 15 shown on right). Size of each original: ca. 16.5 × 10.0 cm. Images courtesy of the Stadtbibliothek Nürnberg (Nor. 8. 1032).

copperplate from 1714 onward so that it could always be expanded with new maps, a model followed by the Seutter firm. Homann Heirs switched to letterpress in 1741 and updated its catalog booklet at short intervals until 1824. The Homann order form of 1741 was an unusual, perhaps unique, feature (fig. 470). Individual booksellers or printsellers also occasionally published lists of the maps available at their shops. Numerous books about cartography appeared in the first half of the century, which may have expanded the fame of map publishers and individual maps. The works usually served as guides for the purchase of other maps or atlases and indicated the best maps on the market by region, as exemplified by the work of Caspar Gottschling (1711), Johann Gottfried Gregorii (1713),

Eberhard David Hauber (1724), and Johann Hübner (1726). Until the late eighteenth century, map publishers only sporadically announced the appearance of new products in magazines, and map-related items were usually ignored in the catalogs of the book fairs. Nonetheless, Anton Friedrich Büsching’s trade journal Wöchentliche Nachrichten von neuen Landcharten (1773–89) and Bertuch’s Allgemeine geographische Ephemeriden (1798–1816; Neue Allgemeine geographische Ephemeriden, 1817–31) contained sometimes biased reviews. In 1800 the Ephemeriden (482–84) announced a plan to compile as completely as possible an international list of new publications, since individual announcements were usually so regional and publisher specific that they might not be seen by all interested parties even at the

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Fig. 472. NETWORK OF HOMANN DEALERS IN 1750. Map of the seventy-six cities where one could obtain the complete set of Homann Heirs maps in 1750. Cities outside the Holy Roman Empire are in red.

Fig. 471. DETAIL FROM JOHANN ADAM DELSENBACH, DER PLATZ BEY¨ DER ROSEN GENANT, AM KORNMARCKT IN NÜRNBERG, 1715. The building furthest to the right (with large shutters) is the house of Christoph Weigel. To its immediate left, Homann’s shop is recognizable by the pictures of globes on the smaller shutters. Size of the entire original: 21 × 31 cm; size of detail: ca. 16.5 × 8.5 cm. Image courtesy of Peter Bierl Antiquariat, Eurasburg.

place of publication. If this assessment was accurate for the entire period, then it must have been difficult for the consumer to locate available maps. The publishers who owned or rented an entire building could maintain shops at street level, as did Homann

from 1712 at what is now Josefsplatz 2, recognizable by its casement windows decorated with globes (fig. 471). Neither in Nuremberg nor in Augsburg was there a spatial concentration of publishing houses or printsellers within a city, as in Paris and London. Walk-in customers were certainly few in number, and most maps were sold and sent to individuals or more often to book- and printsellers in other cities. The Akademie der Wissenschaften shipped a box containing 13 school atlases, 6 sea atlases, and 237 individual maps from its own publishing house to 3 people in West Prussia for 247 thaler and 16 groschen in 1773 (Archiv der Berlin-Brandenburgischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, A.I.VII. Nr. 47). The dominant market position of the Homann house from about 1715 peaked in the 1740s with a network of distributors throughout Europe. The firm’s publishing list from 1750 included one hundred sellers in seventy-six cities; fifty-two were located within the Holy Roman Empire; the remainder spread west to Paris, London, and Amsterdam; north and east to Scandinavia, Russia, and Eastern Europe; and as far south as Sicily (fig. 472). The complexity of this market may be seen in the collaborative efforts with Roch-Joseph Julien in Paris and John Rocque in London to share the map market throughout Europe. It is unlikely that this

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Fig. 473. PETER REINICKE, FIGURINE OF STREET VENDOR SELLING CARTOGRAPHIC MATERIAL, MEISSEN, CA. 1750–60. Designed by Reinicke 1744. Street vendors sold maps all over Europe in large quantities. Height of the original: 17.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (C.924-1919).

distribution network survived in toto after the publishing house’s crisis in 1750. A comparably broad sales network for the Merian publishing house in 1672 may be ascertained in their accounts receivable from Amsterdam, Rotterdam, London, Zürich, Lucern, Geneva, Venice, Copenhagen, Salzburg, Rostock, Kaliningrad, Stettin (Szczecin), and many other cities. Thousands of maps were also sold via traveling salesmen, who plied their limited assortment—usually individual maps—in

Map Trade

places as far-flung as Istanbul (fig. 473) (Gatterer 1790, 299). Besides the large map publishing houses, which also sold maps of other firms, only one specialized map merchant is known to have existed in the eighteenth century; the school principal Johann Hübner in Hamburg established his Museum geographicum in 1711, which probably existed until midcentury. Hübner collected maps worldwide as a basis for his work on geographical schoolbooks and developed his method of coloring and designed dozens of atlas collections, which he published as the Museum geographicum (1726). The specially colored maps and atlases enjoyed success, as substantiated by some surviving volumes. Toward the end of the century, other specialists, like Simon Schropp based in Berlin and, from the 1770s, C. F. Bremer in Braunschweig, traded in foreign maps otherwise difficult to obtain. Yet by the 1780s, Bremer, too, mostly offered Homann maps. The book fairs in Frankfurt and Leipzig, which at the time took place twice per year, were significant central shipping points for maps, including those of Dutch map publishers. However, there is no reliable information about the transportation of the merchandise. The extent to which wars or import limitations motivated by mercantilism affected the map trade has not yet been researched. The prices of maps and atlases are based on isolated data, often difficult to compare due to the multiple currencies in use. The price of a map depended on its size (with greater expenses for especially difficult copperplate engraving), on paper types (printing on cloth cost from 25 percent to over 100 percent more), on costly coloring (up to double the price), and also on the ability of the producer to calculate compensatory prices. Large publishing houses were able to spread the expense of cost-intensive maps over all of their products, while individual mapmakers could not do so. Homann evidently was able to achieve success by maintaining very low prices for his maps. His price (ten kreutzer per folio map, verified from 1753) guaranteed a relatively wide distribution, yet it also hampered innovative map projects, which could not support the low price. Johann Wilhelm Abraham Jäger’s 1789 Grand atlas d’Allemagne (eightyone folio sheets) cost forty-four guilders (or forty-eight kreutzer per map sheet) competed with Homann’s Atlas Germaniae of 143 recognizably older maps at seven guilders, though the Jäger atlas seems to have been successful (see fig. 467). A smaller-scale school atlas of the Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin (1753, forty-one maps) initially cost five guilders, twenty-five kreutzer but was reduced to four guilders, thirty kreutzer in 1769, to compete with the Homann school atlas (fifty maps), offered for three guilders, forty-four kreutzer. In

Map Trade

the second half of the eighteenth century, Homann maps were offered by independent sellers at fifteen kreutzer, a 50 percent trade markup. While individual maps were a luxury for the majority of the population, atlases were completely unattainable. Eckhard Jäger found that a Homann map corresponded to two plates of food at an inn, or one-half week of a cook’s salary in Leipzig, but only cost 5 percent of a carpenter’s assistant salary. Yet a Homann atlas of 150 maps was equal to a full month’s salary of a town clerk in Frankfurt (Jäger 1978, 72–74). The Danish poet Ludvig Holberg relied on the presence of maps in the household of a manual laborer for his satirical play Den politiske Kandestøber (1722). In the introduction to his textbook Atlas Homannianvs illvstratvs (1753), Johann Jakob Schatz alluded to the affordability of maps, explaining that his text covered the maps from Homann Heirs, since their price was so low that even the poorer children at the gymnasium could buy them; their French and Dutch counterparts, in contrast, cost twice as much or were completely unattainable. An assessment of who could afford even a slender atlas and who could not is difficult since, on the one hand, multiple school atlases could be kept on the market and, on the other, the school atlas of the Berlin Akademie der Wissenschaften could be sold only at a reduced price since most of the schools in Brandenburg did not even have geography classes, as A. A. Rhode reported in 1768 (Hanke and Degner 1934, 34). If the customer wished to compile an atlas, an extra 20 percent was added to the cost of the maps for the bookbinder, a sum that included gluing maps to guards as well as the binding. An important feature of atlases in the German-speaking world was the additional guards bound into atlases to allow for more maps to be glued in later. Since the back of the maps included no text or other written material that imposed a special sequence of maps, atlases could be gathered ad libitum by the customer from maps by various publishers as long as the format was uniform. These two conditions resulted in numerous compilation atlases (atlas factices) in the German-speaking world that survive to the present, whose creation was often complex. Little research has looked into the expectation of buyers. Most maps served the interest of users seeking general information (e.g., newspaper maps like Lotter’s map of the Balkans, Kriegs Schauplatz zu leichter Erklaerung der Zeitungsblaetter, 1788) and were valued for their competent and accurate draftsmanship, clear engraving, neat coloring, and especially their low price, as described as late as around 1800 (Verzeichniss von Land-Charten, 1804, 8). From the mid-eighteenth century, demand grew. Around 1785, the prominent geographer Büsching asserted that if maps were to be useful

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then the placement of regions, their size, and the distances between places should be determined by careful astronomic calculations and accurate surveying, with precise map projection and manner of representation (Büsching 1785, 23–24). Büsching still expected historical data on the maps, which explains why maps—despite repeated emphasis on their currency—could still be sold with only minor changes in content or style over many decades. Not until the Napoleonic period, when traditional principalities and sovereignties disappeared from maps in great numbers, did buyers urgently expect actual up-to-date borders. The unsystematic structure of the map trade resulted in ambivalence regarding originality of maps. Since foreign originals were often unavailable or expensive, German publishing houses were praised for copying them, though the readers were aware of the damaging effect of this practice on business. In the economically tumultuous period after the Thirty Years’ War, small cartographic publishing houses developed gradually in the printing centers of Augsburg and Nuremberg based on Dutch models, and perhaps in emulation of the Merian publishing house. The Homann and Seutter publishing houses brought international fame to these centers in the eighteenth century and gave authors and states favorable opportunities to publish, as long as funding was available and no money was to be spent on a master map. This private commercial cartography dominated public access to maps completely and was reflected in almost every aspect of map production. While the requirements for maps gradually began to change from the mid-eighteenth century, the centers of map production did not shift until late in the century (ca. 1780–90) when newer cartographic publishing houses piggybacked onto the businesses of Homann and Seutter. By the early nineteenth century, the political, economic, administrative, and technical parameters changed substantially: the imperial freedom of Augsburg, Nuremberg, and Frankfurt ended, the official topographic bureaus expanded, and the technique of lithography came into use. The public demanded more astronomically correct positioning, more relevance to current affairs, and more everyday practicality. Markus Heinz See also: German States; Homann Family; Reproduction of Maps: (1) Engraving and Printing, (2) Typographic Printing; Seutter, Probst, and Lotter Families; Wiebeking, Carl Friedrich von Bibliography Bauer, Michael. 1982. “Christoph Weigel (1654–1725), Kupferstecher und Kunsthändler in Augsburg und Nürnberg.” Archiv für Geschichte des Buchwesens 23:693–1186. Büsching, Anton Friedrich. 1785. Große Erdbeschreibung. Vol. 1. Troppau: Joseph Georg Traßler. Diefenbacher, Michael, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, eds. 2002. “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels.

812 Gatterer, Christoph Wilhelm Jakob. 1790. Technologisches Magazin. Vol. 1. Memmingen: Seyler. Gottschling, Caspar. 1711. Versuch von einer Historie der LandCharten. Halle im Magdeburgischen: Renger. Gregorii, Johann Gottfried. 1713. Curieuse Gedancken von den vornehmsten und accuratesten Alt- und Neuen Land-Charten nach ihrem ersten Ursprunge/Erfindung/Auctoribus und Sculptoribus, Gebrauch und Nutzen entworffen. Frankfurt: Ritschel. Hanke, Michael, and Hermann Degner. 1934. Die Pflege der Kartographie bei der Königlich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften unter der Regierung Friedrichs des Grossen. Berlin: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften. Hauber, Eberhard David. 1724. Versuch einer umständlichen Historie der Land-Charten: Sowohl von denen Land-Charten insgemein. Ulm: Bartholomäi. Heinz, Markus. 1993. “A Research Paper on the Copper-Plates of the Maps of J. B. Homann’s First World Atlas (1707) and a Method for Identifying Different Copper-Plates of Identical-Looking Maps.” Imago Mundi 45:45–58. ———. 1997. “A Programme for Map Publishing: The Homann Firm in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 49:104–15. ———. 2002a. “Die Geschichte des Homännischen Verlages: Johann Baptist Hommann und Johann Christoph Homann, 1702–1730.” In “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848, ed. Michael Diefenbacher, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, 34–47. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. ———. 2002b. “Modell eines Werkskataloges des kartographischen Verlages Homann, Homanns Erben und Fembo in Nürnberg (1702–1848).” 2 vols. PhD diss., Universität Wien. ———. 2003. “Barocke Landkarten: Ein Beispiel aus dem Nürnberger Verlag Homann.” Weltkunst: Aktuelle Zeitschrift für Kunst und Antiquitäten 73:23–25. Heyer, Alfons. 1891. “Geschichte der Kartographie Schlesiens bis zur Preußischen Besitzergreifung.” PhD diss., Universität Breslau. Reprinted Acta Cartographica 13 (1972): 55–117. Homanns Erben, eds. 1741. Kurtze Nachricht von dem Homännischen grossen Landkarten-Atlas. Nuremberg: Homanns Erben. Hübner, Johann. 1726. Museum geographicum, das ist: Ein Verzeichniß der besten Land-Charten, so in Deutschland, Franckreich, England und Holland von den besten Künstlern sind gestochen worden. Hamburg: Felginer. Jäger, Eckhard. 1978. Bibliographie zur Kartengeschichte von Deutschland und Osteuropa: Eine Auswahl des kartographischen Schrifttums mit einem Exkurs über Landkartenpreise im 18. Jahrhundert im Vergleich zu anderen Kosten. Lüneburg: Nordostdeutsches Kulturwerk. ———. 1983. “Bemerkungen zur Auflagenhöhe älterer Kartenwerke: Beispiele aus der europäischen Landkartenproduktion des 16. bis 19. Jahrhunderts.” In Kartenhistorisches Colloquium Bayreuth ’82, 18.–20. März 1982: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe, Hans Vollet, and Erwin Herrmann, 109–24. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Kosmographische Gesellschaft, eds. 1753. “Die kosmographische Lotterie: Was diese seye und was die Deutsche Nation für Bewegungsgründe habe, derselben förderlich zu seyn.” In Der deutsche Staatsgeographus mit allen seinen Verrichtungen Höchsten und Hohen Herren Fürsten und Ständen im deutschen Reiche, I–XVI. Frankfurt: Johann Paul Krauß. Krünitz, Johann Georg, et al., eds. 1773–1858. Oeconomische Encyclopädie oder allgemeines System der Land- Haus- und StaatsWirthschaft in alphabetischer Ordnung. 242 vols. (title changed over time). Berlin: Pauli. Meurer, Peter H., and Klaus Stopp. 2006. Topographica des Nürnberger Verlages David Funck. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Mokre, Jan, and Markus Heinz. 1992. “Über Joseph Daniel von Hu-

Map Trade ber (1730/31–1788) und seinen Vogelschauplan von Wien.” Jahrbuch des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Wien 47–48:93–122. Ritter, Michael. 1997. “Der Augsburger Landkartendruck.” In Augsburger Buchdruck und Verlagswesen, ed. Helmut Gier and Johannes Janota, 405–22. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ———. 2001. “Seutter, Probst and Lotter: An Eighteenth-Century Map Publishing House in Germany.” Imago Mundi 53:130–35. ———. 2002a. “Die Augsburger Landkartenverlage: Seutter, Lotter und Probst.” Cartographica Helvetica 25:2–10. ———. 2002b. “Der Landkartenverlag Johannes Walch in Augsburg.” Cartographica Helvetica 26:23–29. ———. 2002c. “Der Verlag von Matthäus Seutter in Augsburg und andere Konkurrenten im Deutschen Reich im 18. Jahrhundert.” In “Auserlesene und allerneueste Landkarten”: Der Verlag Homann in Nürnberg, 1702–1848, ed. Michael Diefenbacher, Markus Heinz, and Ruth Bach-Damaskinos, 186–95. Nuremberg: W. Tümmels. ———. 2010. “Der Augsburger Landkartenstecher Michael Kauffer (1685–1727).” Cartographica Helvetica 41:37–46. ———. 2011. “Die Landkarten des Kunstverlegers Joseph Carmine (1749–nach 1822).” Cartographica Helvetica 44:43–49. Sandler, Christian. 1965. Johann Baptista Homann, Matthäus Seutter und ihre Landkarten: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Kartographie. Amsterdam: Meridian Publishing. Reprint of 1894. Satzinger, Walter. 1976. “Grand atlas d’Allemagne Edited by Johann Wilhelm Jaeger, Frankfurt am Main, 1789.” Imago Mundi 28:94–104. Schatz, Johann Jakob. 1753. Atlas Homannianvs illvstratvs, das ist: Geographische, physicalische, moralische, politische und historische Erklärung der nach des seligen Herrn Johann Hübners Methode illuminirten Homannischen Universal-Charten. 4th ed. Leipzig, Eisenach: Grießbach. Sotzmann, Daniel Friedrich. 1793. Repertorium zur Karte von Deutschland in XVI. Blättern. Berlin: Königl. Preuß. Akadem. Kunst- und Buchhandlung. Spamer, Adolf. 1930. Das kleine Andachtsbild vom XIV. bis zum XX. Jahrhundert. Munich: Bruckmann. Stams, Marianne, and Werner Stams. 2004. “Der Kartograph, Kupferstecher und erste sächsische Kartenverleger Johann George Schreiber aus Neusalza-Spremberg, 1676–1750.” Neues Lausitzisches Magazin, n.s. 7:110–37. Verzeichniss von Land-Charten und geographischen Werken welche, im Verlage des Landes-Industrie-Comptoira zu Weimar erschienen und daselbst zu haben sind. 1804. Halle: Neue Societäts-Buch- und Kunsthandlung. Wiebeking, Carl Friedrich von. 1792. Ueber topographische Carten. Mülheim am Rhein: J. C. Eyrich. Wiegand, Peter. 2007. “Bella cartographica: Die Grafen von Schönburg, Peter Schenks ‘Atlas Saxonicus Novus’ und die Karten der Zürnerschule.” Neues Archiv für Sächsische Geschichte 78:123–88. Wiest, Ekkehard. 1968. Die Entwicklung des Nürnberger Gewerbes zwischen 1648 und 1806. Stuttgart: Gustav Fischer. Wüthrich, Lucas Heinrich. 2007. Matthaeus Merian d.Ä.: Eine Biographie. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgemeinschaft.

Map Trade in Great Britain. The map trade in London

was dominated throughout the Enlightenment by the copperplate engravers, printers, and printsellers who made and brought the raw material of cartography to the marketplace. The training and general social organization of the trade was largely rooted in the tradition of craft guilds, or livery companies (so-called from the adoption by their senior members of a distinctive livery or style of dress), to which London mapmakers and

Map Trade

mapsellers generally belonged. The function of these companies was originally to control entry to the trade; to regulate wages, prices, and working conditions; to oversee training and standards; and to provide charitable relief for members and their families. In return for these activities, the guilds and their members were usually granted some form of monopoly over the practice of their trade. There were three usual routes to admission to a company: by “service,” the completion of an apprenticeship of usually, but not invariably, seven years to an existing freeman; by “patrimony,” the right of birth in being born to an existing freeman; and by “redemption,” which usually involved the payment of a substantial fee. An obvious home for the map trade was within the Worshipful Company of Stationers, formally incorporated in 1557. Its members were granted a near monopoly of printing in England and Wales and were called upon to police the output of the press as well as to regulate matters of copyright. Although many mapmakers were affiliated to the Stationers, the production of intaglio images (including maps) on a rolling press developed separately from letterpress printing and, largely by historical accident, London mapmakers also joined many other companies. A significant early group were the chartmakers of the so-called Thames School who were affiliated to the Drapers’ Company—a group including William Hack, John Thornton, and Joel Gascoyne (Campbell 1973; Smith 1978)—while another influential and interconnected group in the Weavers’ Company in the late seventeenth century included Joseph Moxon, Robert Morden, William Berry, Philip Lea, and Sutton Nicholls. Affiliation could run across several generations, as found in the master-apprentice line in the Merchant Taylors’ Company that descended from John Seller and included Charles Price, Emanuel Bowen, Thomas Kitchin, Thomas Jefferys, and their own numerous apprentices. The globemaker George Adams and his sons were members of the Grocers’ Company in a direct master-apprentice line from Augustine Ryther in the sixteenth century. A natural affinity with the engraving of decoration on gold and silver plate explains membership of map engravers in the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, including John Sturt, Francis Dewing (who migrated to Boston), John Pine, John Tinney, William Palmer, John Cary, and John Luffman. Other company affiliations included the Joiners (John Bowles, Thomas Bowles, and Carington Bowles), the Clothworkers (William Faden, William Darton, James Wyld, John Betts), the Tinplate Workers (Garnet Terry, Ebenezer Bourne, Thomas Foot), and the Cooks (Samuel John Neele, Sidney Hall, and Edward Mogg). Wyld exemplifies the nineteenth-century end of a direct master-apprentice line

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threading through various different companies back to William Rogers in the sixteenth century (Worms and Baynton-Williams 2011, xi–xx). As London expanded beyond its historical boundaries, the power and influence of the livery companies grew steadily less, particularly after the Great Fire in 1666. We have no evidence for the companies influencing prices or overseeing workmanship, at least as far as maps are concerned (although there was still regulation concerning letterpress printing and binding), but the formal apprenticeship system remained intact. Foreign members of the map trade, like Herman Moll and John Rocque, operating outside the formal boundaries of the City of London, appear never to have felt the need to affiliate to a company, but they were exceptions. Throughout the eighteenth century, most mapmakers still belonged to one or other of the companies. The advantages of mutual support, social cohesion, possibilities of collaboration, and even simple family sentiment ensured that this remained the case. The later seventeenth century was a time of considerable enterprise, innovation, and ambition in the British map trade, seeing, for example, the publication of the first British road atlas, the first wholly British maritime atlases, and the first large-scale and accurate maps of London. It was also a period of hesitation, projects and promises left unfulfilled, and frequent financial failure— a period of reliance on cost-paring miniature atlases, the endless refurbishing of old printing plates, and the continual recycling of outdated sources (Wallis 1978; Worms 2002). The fundamental problem was one of chronic undercapitalization or, as the mapmaker Morden himself succinctly put it on one occasion, “irresistible Poverty” (Morden 1693, dedication). Costs of production were high, financial reward modest and uncertain, and the expense of a fresh terrestrial or marine survey was generally well beyond the means of the map trade. It was only with official aid from the state that a publication such as Greenvile Collins’s Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot—a maritime atlas of forty-eight folio charts, engraved in London and based on original surveys conducted by Collins between 1681 and 1688—could be brought into being (see fig. 515). Yet such official aid was seldom forthcoming. A further problem for the map trade, still at this date almost wholly confined to London, was simply that of size. Biographical dictionaries (Tyacke 1978, 107–48; Worms and Baynton-Williams 2011) indicate that in 1693, the year the Coasting-Pilot was published, only a dozen individuals were actively engaged in producing maps commercially. This in itself was a form of vulnerability. Of the most significant names of the period, John Ogilby, William Morgan, Robert Greene, Joseph Moxon,

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William Fisher, and Robert Walton were already dead, while Moses Pitt was incarcerated for debt. With the deaths of John Seller in 1697, Philip Lea in 1700, Robert Morden in 1703, Joel Gascoyne and Richard Blome in 1705, and John Thornton in 1708, the map trade was all but wiped out. The majority of these men left no long-term successors. The Fisher business was successfully continued by Richard Mount (who published the Coasting-Pilot), Walton’s premises near St.  Paul’s passed in turn to Christopher Browne and George Willdey, and Lea’s business continued in a modest way under his widow, Anne, but a second generation of sons represented by James Moxon, Jeremiah Seller, and Samuel Thornton was short-lived and made no great impact (Tyacke 1973; Worms 2002). These were men not easily replaced. Ogilby’s drive and entrepreneurship in completing his road atlas and the great map of London produced with his kinsman Morgan were of a very rare order (Van Eerde 1976). Joseph Moxon had brought a seldom matched intellectual edge to the map- and globemaking of his time. John Seller’s historically poor reputation has been much modified in recent years; he is now seen as a crucial figure in the development of the trade, not just for the breadth and interest of his output but as the founder of a master-apprentice line in the Merchant Taylors’ Company, which was to form the nucleus of the map trade over several generations, giving a critically important bulwark of continuity in experience and training (Worms and Baynton-Williams 2011, xii, xvii, 595–98). Philip Lea’s death at the age of forty cut short a highly promising career, while his former master, Morden, is remembered not only for producing what became the standard set of maps of the English counties for upward of fifty years but also for such things as his magnificent wall map, This New Map of ye Earth and Water, According to Wright’s alias Mercator’s Projection (1699). Gascoyne, who migrated from Thames School chartmaker to land surveyor, produced the first multisheet county survey on a scale of one inch to one mile (1:63,360), A Map of the County of Cornwall (1699), establishing a standard for larger-scale mapping of the future (Ravenhill 1991; Ravenhill and Johnson 1995). Gascoyne’s method of publishing by subscription also offered a potential way of financing such ventures—one that, for want of an alternative, was much adopted over the ensuing century, despite its inherent drawbacks in requiring immense patience and perseverance with often difficult subscribers and much tiresome administration, advertising, and correspondence. Thornton, Gascoyne’s former master, uniquely combined his skills as a manuscript chartmaker with the publication of maritime charts and atlases. He oversaw the transition from manuscript to print in this area and made a significant

Map Trade

personal contribution to the charting of the wider world (Cook 1985). The eighteenth century was a time of rapid growth in trade and overseas expansion that brought fresh challenges to the map trade. Industry and manufacturing grew apace, and the need for better maps to carry the infrastructure forward was increasingly understood. What is discernable from the 1730s onward is not a uniform and undifferentiated map trade, but a division between those who saw maps as part of a wider stock issued primarily for decorative purposes, who were content for the most part to endlessly reprint existing maps, and those of altogether higher ambition who were capable of conducting a survey if funds allowed (Hodson 2009). Initially, the duty of 30 percent on imported maps, enacted in 1712, served to consolidate the London map trade (Howgego 1978, 17). In this period, almost by default, Herman Moll came to prominence. Moll had been employed as a highly skilled engraver in London since at least 1678, working for many of those named above, but his major works and his occupation of prominent retail premises only occurred after their demise. He enjoyed for a time a position of almost unparalleled dominance in the map trade, his work omnipresent in the publications of the time, becoming, in the words of his biographer, “Great Britain’s most celebrated geographer and mapmaker of the first half of the eighteenth century” (Reinhartz 1997, 1). Apart from Moll and (insofar as charts were concerned) Mount and his new partner Thomas Page (Adams 1993), the only other figures of real consequence were the various members of the printselling dynasties of the Bowles and Overton families: the elder and younger Thomas Bowles, later joined by John Bowles, John Overton, and Overton’s sons Henry and Philip, at their various retail establishments in prime locations across London (Worms 2000). Their maps enjoy no great reputation; they were primarily printsellers and wholesalers of all kinds of engraved material, although they capitalized on what was evidently a new market in pocket maps—portable maps for working purposes with the word “pocket” conspicuously in their title, a development attested by the spate of pocket road atlases appearing from 1718 onward. The first was a reduction of Ogilby’s Britannia by Thomas Gardner, rapidly followed by a similar work by John Senex and, in 1720, by Britannia Depicta or Ogilby Improv’d engraved by the young Emanuel Bowen and published by Thomas Bowles. Such road books were to join the conventional county atlas as a staple of the trade throughout the period, although few were as successful as Britannia Depicta, which ran to multiple editions over the years (D. Hodson 1984–97, 1:78–95; Y. Hodson 2009, 769–75). Printsellers like Bowles also began to produce local

Map Trade

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Fig. 474. CHARLES PRICE AND JOHN SENEX, A NEW & CORRECT GLOBE WTH YE TRADE WINDS &C. (LONDON: JOHN BOWLES, CA. 1740). A later issue of a pocket globe originally published by Senex and Price in about 1710,

it is contained in a wooden case bearing representations of the celestial hemispheres on its inner faces. Diameter of the original: 7 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps C.4.a.4.[11.]).

maps of London based on a regular cycle of annual revision, marking an interesting development in terms of organization and marketing, but Moll’s only serious rivals as specialist mapmakers (and much resented as such) were Price, a former apprentice of John Seller, and his protégé Senex (Worms 2004a, 6–7). Senex had been apprenticed in the Stationers to the bookseller Robert Clavell in 1695 and was made a freeman in 1706 and a liveryman in 1721, by which time he had turned map- and globemaker. Working in partnership, Price and Senex produced a number of globes (fig. 474) and a series of maps of all parts of the world between 1707 and 1711; the maps were published on two sheets of imperial paper, the particular format favored by Moll. Their partnership came to end, but Senex went on to produce a number of interesting maps and atlases, including A New General Atlas (1721) and A New Map of the County of Surrey (1729), the latter based on his own surveys, eight years in the making, and intended “as a Specimen of the rest of the Counties of England, to be performed after a new Method” (Post Boy [15–18 April 1721]). Senex was also involved in the publication of William Williams’s one-inch map of Denbighshire and Flintshire in about 1720 and Henry Beighton’s survey of Warwickshire (1728), an exceptional map (see fig. 834), far in advance of its contemporaries (Harvey and Thorpe 1959, 22–27). Senex became the leading British

globemaker of his time with an international reputation (see fig. 332), and, as a bookseller, he was the champion of the new empirical science, publishing Isaac Newton and all his protégés and disciples. Elected a fellow of the Royal Society in 1728, it is probably fair to see him as the first modern British mapmaker (Worms 2004a, 6; Woodfield 2009, 475–76). Price had little share in Senex’s success. After successive partnerships with Willdey, whose own quirky maps adorn many collections, and the instrument- and globemaker Benjamin Scott, he drifted into a period of obscurity, practicing for a time as a land surveyor before ending his career offering new sea charts at reduced prices from the Fleet Prison, where he had been confined for debt. Whether impractical, quarrelsome, or simply unlucky, his influence on the future of the map trade was nonetheless major, providing a link from John Seller to the next generation. His influence on Senex was crucial, while Scott, who later emigrated to Russia, founded a line of important globemakers, which continued through Thomas Heath to Tycho Wing and the great Adams family—the two Georges and Dudley. Price’s apprentice Richard Cushee assisted Senex on the survey of Surrey and became an important globemaker in his own right (see fig. 338), followed by his widow Elizabeth, her brother William Wyeth, her son Leonard, and Cushee’s own apprentice, Nathaniel Hill.

Map Trade

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Bowen, apprenticed to Price in 1709, also founded a distinguished line of mapmakers. Already mentioned as the engraver of Britannia Depicta, Bowen published a fine wall map of his native South Wales in 1729, which ranks alongside the county maps of Gascoyne, Williams, Beighton, and Senex in adhering to new standards of accuracy and detail. Bowen also engraved James Corbridge’s new survey of Norfolk (1730) and William Gordon’s map of Huntingdonshire (at two inches to one mile, 1731). Samuel Fearon and John Eyes’s A Description of the Sea Coast of England and Wales, from Black-Comb in Cumberland to the Point of Linus in Angelsea (1738), a survey that had crucial financial backing from a group of Liverpool merchants, was also engraved by Bowen, as were the surveys of the Orkneys by Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder, the first hydrographical charts based on triangulation, published as Orcades: Or a Geographic and Hydrographic Survey of the Orkney and Lewis Islands (1750) (see figs. 80 and 759). Bowen’s business was never secure and he is seen most often engraving smaller maps for magazines and travel books, but he nonetheless compiled and engraved the maps (with his own former apprentice Kitchin) for The Large English Atlas, published serially between 1749 and 1760. It was very far from perfect, but it incorporated material from such new surveys as there were and was undoubtedly the best county atlas produced since the days of Christopher Saxton and John Speed (fig. 475). Significantly, the project could be brought to completion only with financial help (once the hard work was done) from the big printsellers—the Bowles family and Robert Sayer, successor to the Overtons. In the end, it was a very successful publication for the printsellers, but no great profit to Bowen, who died in poverty in 1767 (Hodson 1984–97, 2:97–147). The map trade remained small, and the business of producing better maps received welcome reinforcement from the activities of Rocque, probably originally from France via Switzerland, who was living in England by 1728. His career began by making plans of the estates and gardens of royalty and nobility, then town plans, and eventually county surveys. Examples of all three

genres are a plan of Richmond Palace (1734); plans of Bristol (1743), Exeter (1744), Shrewsbury (1746) (fig. 476), York (1750), and the two great maps of London (both dated 1746 [see fig. 878], although the map of the built-up area was not published until 1747); and maps of Shropshire (1752), Middlesex (1754), Dublin (1756), Berkshire (1761), and, posthumously, Surrey (1768). It was work that was never particularly financially rewarding but was continued by some of his assistants and colleagues in the London Huguenot community—Pierre André (Peter Andrews), James Dorret, Bernard Scalé, and, in particular, Andrew (André) Dury, who himself produced fine maps of Hertfordshire (1766), Louth (1766), Kent (1769), and Wiltshire (1773), often in partnership with John Andrews. Dury also produced plans of New York, Boston, and Philadelphia (all 1776), as well as some of the surveys of Bengal by James Rennell, as British engagement with the wider world had become a key component in dictating the output of the map trade. Maps compiled from primary and secondary sources demonstrated the spread of the principles of mathematical cosmography within the trade. Henry Popple’s A Map of the British Empire in America (1733) (see fig. 212), engraved by William Henry Toms and incorporating a note of approval from the astronomer Edmond Halley himself, was a highlight of the earlier part of the century, while John Mitchell’s A Map of the British and French Dominions in North America (1755) (see fig. 282), engraved by Kitchin, would be used to guide negotiations for the 1783 Treaty of Paris and as such became the founding map of the infant United States. Kitchin, Bowen’s son-in-law, was the first of his apprentices to come to prominence, producing the first pocket atlas of Scotland, Geographia Scotiæ (1748–49), working on The Large English Atlas with Bowen, as well as a smaller version published as The Royal English Atlas in about 1764, producing his own road book, Kitchin’s Post-Chaise Companion (1767), and engraving Peter Perez Burdett’s survey of Derbyshire (1767; see fig. 903) and Andrew Armstrong’s survey of Northumberland (1769), as well as Bernard Ratzer’s elegant plans

(facing page) Fig. 475. EMANUEL BOWEN, AN ACCURATE MAP OF BUCKINGHAM SHIRE DIVIDED INTO ITS HUNDREDS: DRAWN FROM THE BEST AUTHORITIES, [1756]. The map is at two miles to an inch (1:126,720); from Bowen’s serially published The Large English Atlas (London: For J. Tinney and R. Sayer; T. Bowles; J. Bowles and Sons, 1749–60), pl. 6. The character of this map as a compilation of various sources is evident in its display of a range of cultural and antiquarian information, from the sites of horse races to the seats of the nobility; overtly practical information included

the days when each market was held and the measured mileages between the market towns. Bowen’s atlas of one-sheet county maps constituted the last traditional effort in county mapping before the widespread undertaking of detailed, largescale county surveys; the survey of Buckinghamshire sponsored by Thomas Jefferys would appear in four sheets, at one inch to the mile (1:63,360), in 1770. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps C.10.d.10).

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Fig. 476. JOHN ROCQUE, THIS PLAN OF SHREWSBURY (LONDON: J. ROCQUE, 1746). Rocque’s map of Shrewsbury, engraved by Richard Parr, with inset images of the Market House, the Free School, and the Castle. Copper engraving on paper, scale ca. 1:3,250.

Size of the original: 45 × 63 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 3988).

of New York (1769–70); Ratzer’s works exemplified how military engineers turned to the London trade to meet popular interest in important North American sites of conflict. Another new market opening up for mapmakers and engravers, especially from the midcentury onward, was furnishing maps for increasingly popular periodicals and guidebooks. The 170 maps Kitchin produced for the London Magazine alone between 1747 and 1783 offer in themselves a comprehensive summary of the preoccupations of the period (Hodson 1984–97, 2:147–59; Worms 1993; Jolly 1990–91, 1:89–143). While maps and plans of London were a staple of the map trade (Howgego 1978), plans of prosperous and fast-growing towns throughout Great Britain also appeared in increasing numbers (Kain and Oliver 2015, 78–88). Another of Bowen’s apprentices, Jefferys, produced a sequence of town plans of the industrial midlands, including Noble and Butlin’s plan of Northamp-

ton (1747), Samuel Bradford’s plans of Coventry (1750) and Birmingham (1751; see fig. 424), and Isaac Taylor of Ross’s Wolverhampton (1751). Jefferys became a major figure in the mapping of North America, publishing, inter alia, Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson’s A Map of the Most Inhabited Part of Virginia (1753), A Chart of North and South America (1753) by John Green (i.e., Bradock Mead) (see fig. 342), William Gerard De Brahm’s map of South Carolina (1757; see fig. 194), Joseph Blanchard and Samuel Langdon’s An Accurate Map of His Majesty’s Province of New-Hampshire (1761), the first published of that colony, and several others, as well as numerous charts—not least Captain James Cook’s A New Chart of the River St. Laurence (1760), the first major chart by Cook to be published (Worms 2004b, 22). Jefferys, who received the formal title by royal warrant of geographer to the king in 1760, made a major

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contribution to county mapping. He surveyed, engraved, and published maps of Bedfordshire (1767); Huntingdonshire (1768); Oxfordshire (1769); Buckinghamshire (1770); Westmoreland (1770); and Yorkshire with inset town plans of Kingston upon Hull, Leeds, Ripon, Scarborough, Sheffield, and York (1771–72). These works appeared despite his bankruptcy in 1766, almost certainly occasioned by the sheer cost of undertaking the surveys (Harley 1966). Much has been made of the decision in 1759 by the Society of Arts to offer a prize of £100 for any fresh original county survey at one inch to the mile, but how much influence this actually had in prompting new work is debatable (Harley 1965, 60–62). Certainly there was a significant increase in this kind of activity over the next forty years—some sixty or so maps of this kind were produced—but the awards were seldom and somewhat arbitrarily made, and compared with the actual costs of a survey of the requisite standard, they can only have had a marginal impact; Benjamin Donn’s map of Devon (1765), engraved by Jefferys and winner of the inaugural prize, was stated to have cost some £2,000 (Williamson and Macnair 2010, 43n36). Their importance was perhaps mainly in defining a minimum modern standard for such mapping. Both Jefferys and Dury were probably more influenced by a desire to continue the work of Rocque, who had died in 1762. Above all, the quality of surveying equipment improved sharply from the midcentury on, and the new mapmakers made better maps simply because they now could. Jefferys also explored a quite different new market in producing map-based games and puzzles—a market further developed by his apprentice John Spilsbury, who made the first commercially produced English jigsaw puzzles. As the Industrial Revolution took hold, another new demand on the map trade was the production of plans to accompany proposals and reports—plans for canals, improvements to river navigation, and new docks and harbors—a genre in which both Kitchin and Jefferys were prominent. Jefferys died in debt in 1771, and there is a momentary sense of the map trade once again stalling. Bowen, Rocque, and Jefferys were dead, while Dury was by now in difficulties of his own and not long to live. Kitchin was still working, engraving Armstrong’s map of the Lothians (1773), for example, but he was perhaps too cautious to commit to launching surveys on his own account. He had, after all, seen what had happened to Bowen and Jefferys and was now in any case in quasiretirement in St. Alban’s. Even the Bowles family was finally beginning to run out of steam as far as maps were concerned. The best part of the trade was now in the hands of one man, the printseller Robert Sayer (see fig. 459).

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Sayer, who had joined the Stationers through redemption in 1748, had acquired the stock, premises, and, just as importantly, the national and international wholesaling network of Philip Overton and was well placed to exploit a fast-growing market in topographical, sporting, humorous, and fine-art prints (Clayton 1997, 220– 21). He published Thomas Martyn’s important new map of Cornwall in 1748, shared in the publication of The Small British Atlas with Rocque in 1753, and became a partner with the Bowles family in Bowen and Kitchin’s Large English Atlas. An early interest in sea charts was evidenced by his republication of Cyprian Southack’s The New England Coasting Pilot in partnership with William Herbert in 1757 and of A Chart of the British Channel with Jefferys in 1759. He was astute enough to publish, in partnership with Carington Bowles, Joseph Ellis’s The New English Atlas (1765), more convenient in size than the comparable Bowen and Kitchin atlases and a great commercial success, running through multiple editions into the nineteenth century (Hodson 1984–97, 3:26–51). His financial strength enabled him not only to assist Jefferys at the time of his bankruptcy, sharing with Jefferys in the publication of A General Topography of North America and the West Indies (1768), but also to acquire a substantial portion of Jefferys’s stock. In partnership with John Bennett in the 1770s, he published a fine sequence of American atlases based on Jefferys’s work, including The American Atlas and The North American Pilot (both 1775). Within a few years, Sayer became the leading British chart publisher, eclipsing the now arthritic firm established long ago by Mount and Page and assuming an ascendancy over such other practitioners as the idiosyncratic John Hamilton Moore, despite losing a legal case over copyright to Moore in 1785, and David Steel (who himself lost a similar case against Moore in 1789) (Fisher 2001, 23–25). Maps remained a relatively small part of Sayer’s stock. A rough estimate of the material in the Sayer and Bennett catalog of 1775 would suggest that maps made up less than 20 percent of it, but this was still a large number of maps, including old maps by Moll, John Seller’s Kent (almost a hundred years old), Senex’s Surrey, and Bowen’s South Wales, but also much more recent material—the best part of the stock of Jefferys and Rocque, including Rocque’s maps of London and three of Jefferys’s county surveys, although it is noticeable that Sayer had only bothered to acquire the three most popular. Sayer was sage in his understanding of what would and would not sell, becoming, in marked contrast to most of the rest of the map trade, a very wealthy man. No one in the map trade could rival Sayer until the appearance on the scene of the young William Faden. Born just across the road from Sayer’s shop in 1749, Faden

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was the son of a printer and trained as an engraver. He presumably had some earlier experience working with Jefferys, and by 1772 the nominally defunct business at the corner of St. Martin’s Lane had been revived under a new name, a partnership styled “Jefferys & Faden” or “Faden & Jefferys,” between Faden and Jefferys’s teenage son, Thomas Jefferys the Younger, born in 1755 and apprenticed to his father in 1769. Both were novices, but before long the partners were making fresh maps of their own and were in correspondence with many of the leading European mapmakers to import what were the best available maps being produced abroad (Pedley 2000, 10–12). By January 1774 their A Catalogue of Modern and Correct Maps, Plans, and Charts was ready to be published. The younger Jefferys soon dropped out, but with the assistance of Jefferys’s old employees and associates— John Ainslie, apprenticed to Jefferys in 1762, Joseph Hodskinson and Thomas Donald, both of whom had carried out surveys for Jefferys, as well as Dury, a useful point of contact with the French trade—Faden was soon making a mark. In 1776, at the age of twenty-six, he became an active member of the Society of Civil Engineers (the Smeatonian Society), the circle that surrounded John Smeaton, the leading civil engineer of the day, comprising almost all the leading engineers of the Industrial Revolution, which is to say the men who were changing the face of Britain. Faden almost always engraved and printed their requisite maps and plans. The outbreak of the American Revolution gave Faden opportunity for a rapid outflow of war-related maps: plans of the latest battles and campaigns engraved, printed, and on sale within days of the dispatches arriving in London. He was importing the best and most recent maps produced overseas, and his own material was starting to travel in the opposite direction: many of his charts were bought on behalf of the French Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine and in many cases formed the primary source for the Dépôt’s official French marine charts of North America (Pedley 2005, 145–55). Faden was appointed “to the place and quality of Geographer in Ordinary to his Majesty” in 1783 (Kew, The National Archives of the U.K. [TNA], LC3/67, p. 154) and from unpromising beginnings was rapidly building up by far the best and largest stock of large-scale maps to be had in the British Isles, systematically acquiring, revising, and updating the plates of the best available county surveys. He bought back from Sayer, at some stage, Jefferys’s map of Yorkshire, as well as acquiring the best of the county surveys of Rocque, Taylor, and Dury. He added Burdett’s Cheshire (1777); William Yates’s Lancashire (1786), one of the best maps of the period, made from carefully measured baselines and properly executed triangulations; and Yates’s Staffordshire (1775)—buying the plates in 1789 for £95 (a

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small figure given what the survey must have cost to produce and one that provides its own commentary on the fraught economics of publishing this type of map) (Pedley 2005, 226)—and dozens more: the best of modern work, all from surveys made in his own lifetime and all at a one-inch scale or larger. Not only did Faden acquire existing maps, he commissioned and published numerous new maps on his own account, including Thomas Eyre’s map of Northamptonshire (1779), the first large-scale map of that county; the first large-scale map of Jersey (1783); Joseph Hodskinson’s Suffolk (1783); Thomas Milne’s Hampshire (1791), advertised in the cartouche as “executed and Published at the private expence of the Proprietor W. Faden” (and for which he was rewarded by the Society of Arts); Donald and Milne’s Norfolk (1797), yet again the first map of the county at one inch to the mile—the costs for the survey of which had already reached the sum of £2,000 in 1794 (for a map sold at the modest price of two guineas)—and many more, and this is to say nothing of his impressive array of town plans and maps of the wider world. Faden did not compromise. If there was no satisfactory map of a given area, then he did not stock one at all. And never once, in a career spanning over fifty years, did he fall back on the old standby of the county atlas. He was entirely a maker of serious maps for serious purposes. No less serious, in their different ways, were Faden’s contemporaries John Cary and Aaron Arrowsmith. Cary was trained as an engraver by William Palmer, a mapmaker and engraver who had worked with Dury, Ellis, Alexander Dalrymple, Faden, Sayer, and the globemaker John Newton, as well as training an impressive list of specialist map engravers. Cary’s delicate and distinctive engraving style gave a fresh and modern look to all his output, to the extent that some commentators have taken it to be more modern than perhaps it was. The first of his many road books, Cary’s Actual Survey of the Great Post Roads between London and Falmouth, was published in 1784, the roads in fact surveyed by Arrowsmith (Fordham 1925, 17–18; Smith 1988). Cary was subsequently officially employed by the Post Office to make measurement of the mail roads, giving his road maps a valuable stamp of authority and approval. Cary’s New and Correct English Atlas, first published in 1787–88, made ample use of recent new surveys, completely superseding all earlier compilations to become the best-selling county atlas of the period (Hodson 1984–97, 3:172–98). Unlike its predecessors, it underwent a program of ongoing revision, to the extent that wholly new printing plates were required by 1809. Cary’s New Map of England and Wales, with Part of Scotland (1794), published in atlas format to cover the whole country at a scale of five miles to the inch, was another pioneering and enduringly popular map. Cary

Fig. 477. [JOHN ADAIR], THE RIVER AND FRITH OF FORTH (EDINBURGH: RICHARD COOPER, 1730). Engraving on paper, scale statement reads “Scale of Miles, 54 in a degree.” Cooper engraved and published several of Adair’s

manuscript maps after 1725 without, as here, necessarily crediting Adair as the author. Size of the original: 30.1 × 70.7 cm. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh (EMS.s.738[4]).

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was also a successful globemaker, working in tandem with his brother William. Arrowsmith’s background is a little obscure, but his presence as a signatory of Dury’s will in 1777 strongly suggests with whom he may have learned his trade. Though he practiced as a surveyor in the 1780s, a world map in 1790 made his reputation. His A Map Exhibiting All the New Discoveries in the Interior Parts of North America (1795) was the best of the continent since the Mitchell map published forty years earlier. His maps were characterized by the rigorous exclusion of all dubious or unsupported information, the inclusion of the very latest material, and prompt revision in the light of fresh survey. They were often accompanied by memoirs detailing Arrowsmith’s sources. He soon gained an international reputation and his large maps were in much demand by official bodies (Tooley 1979). Outside London, the publication of maps remained somewhat sparse throughout the century, but in Dublin, George Grierson was publishing his own versions of the Moll atlases and other material from 1730 onward. Rocque based himself in Dublin, with Dury, for some years during the 1750s, producing some of his finest work. He gave employment to local engravers, and from then Dublin was home to reasonably continuous activity, mainly in producing local maps but some of greater ambition. Wales saw little more than the impressive maps of North Wales and Shropshire produced by Robert Baugh of Llanymynech late in the period. The unusual and enterprising surveyor Isaac Taylor of Ross (Smith 2006) on the Welsh borders produced some attractive maps including town plans of Oxford and Wolverhampton (both 1751) and large-scale county surveys of Herefordshire (1754), Hampshire (1759), Dorset (1765), Worcestershire (1772), and Gloucestershire (1777). In Oxford, the elder Benjamin Cole was producing maps even before 1700. By the late eighteenth century, most of the larger towns were producing local maps. In Liverpool, Thomas Billinge engraved some of the county surveys by Yates and Burdett. Liverpool was to go on to become an important center, with John Jones having a navigation warehouse there stocking charts by William Heather and others in about 1800. In Scotland, cartographic publishing began rather ear-

lier. John Adair was given a license (and financial aid in 1686 through a levy on Scottish shipping) to survey the entire country and its coasts and to produce maps and charts. Some of his work was engraved by James Moxon and published in Edinburgh at the time, while further charts engraved by James Clark (who had earlier worked for Seller) appeared as The Description of the Sea-Coast and Islands of Scotland, with Large and Exact Maps, for the Use of Seamen (1703), but most of Adair’s work remained in manuscript. It was the arrival of the English engraver Richard Cooper in 1725 that established a permanent school of engravers in Edinburgh, with Cooper himself finally putting much of Adair’s work into print (fig. 477) (Worms and Baynton-Williams 2011, 1–3; Moore 2000, 48). The Scottish surveyor John Laurie published A New and Correct Map of Midlothian (1763), an early published map showing spot heights. Cooper’s apprentice Andrew Bell also produced some fine maps and, interestingly, was one of the original proprietors of the Encyclopædia Britannica, first published in Edinburgh between 1768 and 1771. Edinburgh of the Scottish Enlightenment (the Edinburgh of Adam Smith and David Hume) became a center of academic publishing. The return of Ainslie to his native Scotland gave further momentum to the map trade. Trained under Jefferys, Ainslie accomplished in Scotland what Faden had in England; their maps were often copublished. He was the first to make Edinburgh a genuine force in the map trade and laid the basis for the Edinburgh publishers of the nineteenth century, such as William Johnston and Alexander Keith Johnston, and in particular George Bartholomew and his son John (trained as engravers in a direct master-apprentice line from Cooper and Bell) to become leading international cartographic publishers. Mapmakers, or at least some of them, had become more prosperous by the very end of the eighteenth century, but the old problem of financing original surveys had not gone away. When the Board of Ordnance finally began to pursue a detailed survey of the country, or at least initially those areas under threat from French invasion, Faden drew on his connections with the Board to turn the military surveyors’ work into commercial products. The cross-connections were apparent; many of those concerned were fellow Smeatonians, including the

(facing page) Fig. 478. DETAIL OF EASTERN LONDON, 1801. This detail shows the full range of engraving techniques employed to represent land use, elevation, built-up areas, and lettering styles for hierarchies of place-names in the Board of Ordnance’s map of Kent, one inch to the mile, published by William Faden. The map’s title indicates its status as the first product of the future Ordnance Survey: General Survey of England and Wales: An Entirely New & Accurate Survey of the County of Kent (Lon-

don: William Faden, 1801), in four sheets; the detail is from sheet 1. Note that the Board’s surveys of Kent would be later reduced and reengraved on smaller printing plates as the first six sheets of the countrywide map series. Size of each sheet: 90 × 62 cm; size of detail: ca. 65 × 50 cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps 8.c.38).

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instrumentmaker Jesse Ramsden and William Mudge, superintendent of the Board’s survey activities from 1798. Triangulation data from the Board of Ordnance surveys was used for the topographical map of Sussex, surveyed by William Gardner and Thomas Yeakell (see fig. 835), completed by Thomas Gream, and published in 1795 by Faden, who then reduced the new military survey of Kent to the one-inch scale, publishing it on 1 January 1801 as the first product of what would become the Ordnance Survey (fig. 478). Thereafter, the Board of Ordnance became its own publisher, and former Faden employees, the engravers Foot and Benjamin Baker, went to work at the Tower of London, where the Board was based. Baker became the overseer of printing and engraving in 1804, while Faden continued to act as the agent for retail distribution (Oliver 2014, 60, 66–75). The establishment of the Ordnance Survey has sometimes been seen as a kind of watershed, representing a more responsible and authoritative means of publishing maps, divorced from the uncoordinated and what might seem to be haphazard practices of the traditional map trade. In fact, the traditional British map trade was, through a variety of personal, business, and family connections, more cohesive and continuous than previously supposed. The life of the Ordnance engraver Benjamin Baker illustrates this, both in his training and in his family connections (Worms and Baynton-Williams 2011, 37–38). He followed John Cary as an apprentice (in 1782) to Palmer, whose own master was John Pine, one of the finest engravers of the eighteenth century, and the engraver of Rocque’s large map of central London (1746). Pine had died halfway through Palmer’s apprenticeship, leaving Palmer to serve the remainder of his time under the map engraver Richard William Seale, creating a double line of map trade tradition and training. The Seale apprenticeship line takes us directly back to Senex. Thus, Baker was steeped in the best of the map trade traditions. These were compounded by ties of family and kinship. Baker’s father and grandfather, both Edward Bakers, were instrumentmakers. His grandmother belonged to the Cole family of engravers, instrumentmakers, and globemakers. Baker’s sister, Mary, married John Newton of the globemaking family, who was for a time in partnership with Palmer. Baker’s first wife was Sophia Mary Ellis, daughter of the map engraver Joseph Ellis, granddaughter of Seale, and niece of Palmer. Joseph Ellis and Palmer of course worked together on The New English Atlas (1765). In the life of Benjamin Baker, the Ordnance Survey is perhaps better interpreted as a culmination of existing practice than as its antithesis (fig. 479). By the end of the eighteenth century, the trade in marine charts had also come into the province of publicly funded mapping. The Admiralty had long given occa-

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Fig. 479. TRADE CARD OF BENJAMIN BAKER OF ISLINGTON, CA. 1795. Engraving on paper. Baker’s trade card incorporates a map of Islington: to the right of the cartouche, a pointing finger picks out Baker’s own premises on the High Street. Size of the original: ca. 11.5 × 7.5 cm. © The Trustees of the British Museum, London (Banks, 59.7).

sional assistance in the preparation and publication of charts, as in the case of J. F. W. Des Barres and The Atlantic Neptune published by the Admiralty (though not without a lengthy dispute over money) between 1775 and 1781 (Hornsby 2011). Such intermittent and ad hoc arrangements were unsatisfactory, and the Hydrographical Office of the Admiralty was established in 1795 under Dalrymple, hydrographer for the East India Company from 1779. The Hydrographical Office was created partly to improve on existing practice but also specifically to collect and publish charts. The first Admiralty chart was published in 1800, but by 1807 still no standard set of charts for use by the navy was available. A committee of experienced officers was appointed

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to examine every obtainable existing chart, both public and private. Of the two hundred they selected for official use, half came from the private map trade (and half of those from Faden, who had frequently published the exceptional charts of Louis Stanislas d’Arcy De la Rochette). Admiralty charts were not sold to the public until 1823, and the familiar “blueback” charts (so called from their protective backing of blue sugar paper) of the private practitioners such as Robert Blachford, James Imray, Sayer’s successor Robert Laurie, William Heather, John Norie, and Charles Wilson remained a familiar sight throughout the nineteenth century (Day 1967; Fisher 2001). As it stood, at the close of the eighteenth century, the combination of public and private was close knit and in harmony, a full flowering of a well-worked tradition. Under the leadership of the triumvirate of Faden, Cary, and Arrowsmith, alongside the globemaking Adams family and the new state-funded agencies, British cartography was poised to be considered among the best in the world. L aur en c e Wo rms See also: Adair, John; Games, Cartographic; Great Britain; Jefferys, Thomas; Map Collecting: Great Britain; Marine Charting: Great Britain; Ogilby, John; Urban Mapping: Great Britain B i bliogra p hy Adams, Thomas R. 1993. “Mount and Page: Publishers of EighteenthCentury Maritime Books.” In A Potencie of Life: Books in Society, the Clark Lectures, 1986–1987, ed. Nicolas Barker, 145–77. London: British Library. Campbell, Tony. 1973. “The Drapers’ Company and Its School of Seventeenth Century Chart-Makers.” In My Head Is a Map: Essays & Memoirs in Honour of R. V. Tooley, ed. Helen Wallis and Sarah Tyacke, 81–106. London: Francis Edwards and Carta Press. Clayton, Tim. 1997. The English Print: 1688–1802. New Haven: Yale University Press. Cook, Andrew S. 1985. “More Manuscript Charts by John Thornton for the Oriental Navigation.” In Imago et mensura mundi: Atti del IX Congresso internazionale di storia della cartografia, 3 vols., ed. Carla Clivio Marzoli, 1:61–69. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. Day, Archibald. 1967. The Admiralty Hydrographic Service, 1795– 1919. London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. Fisher, Susanna. 2001. The Makers of the Blueback Charts: A History of Imray Laurie Norie & Wilson Ltd. Ithaca: Regatta Press. Fordham, Herbert George. 1925. John Cary: Engraver, Map, Chart and Print-Seller and Globe-Maker, 1754 to 1835. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harley, J. B. 1965. “The Re-Mapping of England, 1750–1800.” Imago Mundi 19:56–67. ———. 1966. “The Bankruptcy of Thomas Jefferys: An Episode in the Economic History of Eighteenth Century Map-Making.” Imago Mundi 20:27–48. Harvey, P. D. A., and Harry Thorpe. 1959. The Printed Maps of Warwickshire, 1576–1900. Warwick: Records and Museum Committee of the Warwickshire County Council in collaboration with the University of Birmingham. Hodson, Donald. 1984–97. County Atlases of the British Isles Published after 1703: A Bibliography. 3 vols. Tewin: Tewin Press. Hodson, Yolande. 2009. “Maps, Charts and Atlases in Britain, 1690–

1830.” In The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, Volume V, 1695–1830, ed. Michael F. Suarez and Michael L. Turner, 762–80. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J.  F.  W. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Howgego, James L. 1978. Printed Maps of London, circa 1553–1850. 2d ed. Folkestone: Dawson. Jolly, David C. 1990–91. Maps in British Periodicals. 2 vols. Brookline: David C. Jolly. Kain, Roger J. P., and Richard Oliver. 2015. British Town Maps: A History. London: British Library. Related online Catalog of British Town Maps. Moore, John N. 2000. “John Adair’s Contribution to the Charting of the Scottish Coasts: A Re-Assessment.” Imago Mundi 52:43–65. Morden, Robert. 1693. Geography Rectified: Or, a Description of the World, In All Its Kingdoms. 3d ed. London: Printed for Robert Morden and Thomas Cockerill. Oliver, Richard. 2014. The Ordnance Survey in the Nineteenth Century: Maps, Money and the Growth of Government. London: Charles Close Society. Pedley, Mary Sponberg, ed. 2000. The Map Trade in the Late Eighteenth Century: Letters to the London Map Sellers Jefferys and Faden. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. ———. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ravenhill, W. L. D. 1991. “Introduction: The Making of the Map of Cornwall.” In Joel Gascoyne, a Map of the County of Cornwall, 1699, ed. W. L. D. Ravenhill and O. J. Padel, 1–15. Exeter: Devon and Cornwall Record Society. Ravenhill, W. L. D., and David J. Johnson. 1995. Joel Gascoyne’s Engraved Maps of Stepney, 1702–04. London: London Topographical Society in association with Guildhall Library, Corporation of London. Reinhartz, Dennis. 1997. The Cartographer and the Literati—Herman Moll and His Intellectual Circle. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press. Smith, Brian S. 2006. “Isaac Taylor of Ross-on-Wye.” IMCoS Journal 107:21–26. Smith, David. 1988. “The Cary Family.” Map Collector 43:40–47. Smith, Thomas R. 1978. “Manuscript and Printed Sea Charts in Seventeenth-Century London: The Case of the Thames School.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 45–100. Berkeley: University of California Press. Tooley, R. V. 1979. “Aaron Arrowsmith.” Map Collector 9:19–22. Tyacke, Sarah. 1973. “Map-Sellers and the London Map Trade, c. 1650–1710.” In My Head Is a Map: Essays & Memoirs in Honour of R. V. Tooley, ed. Helen Wallis and Sarah Tyacke, 63–80. London: Francis Edwards and Carta Press. ———. 1978. London Map-Sellers, 1660–1720: A Collection of Advertisements for Maps Placed in the London Gazette, 1668–1719, with Biographical Notes on the Map-Sellers. Tring: Map Collector Publications. Van Eerde, Katherine S. 1976. John Ogilby and the Taste of His Times. Folkestone: Dawson. Wallis, Helen. 1978. “Geographie Is Better than Divinitie: Maps, Globes, and Geography in the Days of Samuel Pepys.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 1–43. Berkeley: University of California Press. Williamson, Tom, and Andrew Macnair. 2010. William Faden and Norfolk’s 18th-Century Landscape. Oxford: Windgather Press. Woodfield, Richard. 2009. “The 1721 English Treatise of Painting: A

826 Masonic Moment in the Culture of Newtonianism.” In Re-Reading Leonardo: The Treatise on Painting across Europe, 1550–1900, ed. Claire Farago, 475–93. Farnham: Ashgate. Worms, Laurence. 1993. “Thomas Kitchin’s ‘Journey of Life’: Hydrographer to George III, Mapmaker and Engraver.” Map Collector 62:2–8 and 63:14–20. ———. 2000. “Location in the London Map Trade.” IMCoS Journal 82:33–42. ———. 2002. “Maps and Atlases.” In The Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, Volume IV, 1557–1695, ed. John Barnard and D. F. McKenzie, 228–45. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2004a. “The Maturing of British Commercial Cartography: William Faden (1749–1836) and the Map Trade.” Cartographic Journal 41:5–11. ———. 2004b. “Thomas Jefferys (1719–1771): Beginning the World Afresh.” Mapforum 3:20–29. Worms, Laurence, and Ashley Baynton-Williams. 2011. British Map Engravers: A Dictionary of Engravers, Lithographers and Their Principal Employers to 1850. London: Rare Book Society.

Map Trade in British America. The history of the map trade in British America was one of persistent dependence on the importation of maps from Britain and of steady expansion in conjunction with the general book trade. The colonial American trade was distinguished from the European trades by a lack of regulation: no trade guilds, church officials, or government entities regulated or prescribed the activities of British American map vendors. The printing of maps and charts made by British Americans, whether engraved and printed locally or in Britain, was only a sporadic, if notable, segment of the colonial map trade (Wheat and Brun 1978). A variety of Americans, including merchants, artists, engravers, schoolmasters, and clergymen, made maps, although few of their efforts enjoyed financial success or achieved more than a local or regional audience (Bosse 2007, 3). These momentary mapmakers typically issued a single title and always marketed their own publication, frequently relying on sales by subscription. Often the map itself states its availability from its maker, as in the case of a 1756 chart of Delaware Bay by Philadelphia merchant Joshua Fisher, which also lists the subscribers (fig. 480). Only after 1790, and the creation of the United States of America, did publisher Mathew Carey of Philadelphia first infuse capital and stability into what had previously been a precariously funded ad hoc enterprise (Harley 1977). In 1790, Boston auctioneer and merchant Matthew Clark became the first American to publish a set of sea charts, aided by Osgood Carleton, mapmaker and philomath, and engraver John Norman. Although entirely based on English charts, Clark’s untitled atlas established Boston as a center of chart production for the ensuing decade (fig. 481). Norman and his son William later issued the American Pilot and other titles that became staples of the chart trade (Bosse 1999, 49–52). Yet

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even as American mapmakers increased production and began to publish atlases and globes, and as war taxes raised the price of British printed goods (Raven 2000, 195–96), most American retailers continued to import and sell British cartographic products. The North American colonies steadily developed into a principal market for British book and map publishers (Raven 2000), and for much of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the map trade in British America largely consisted of American colonists purchasing moreor-less contemporary British products. French, Dutch, and German maps and atlases, as well as antiquarian works of various origins, were also sold, but these accounted for a minor portion of the trade. With imported maps dominating the market, American merchants and booksellers relied on trading partners for securing cartographic products. In some cases, American retailers dealt directly with cartographic publishers, but more often they placed orders with their British counterparts. For example, during the time that he operated a printing office and bookshop in Philadelphia, Benjamin Franklin ordered atlases, maps, and globes from bookseller William Strahan in London, although these amounted to only a fraction of their trade together (Franklin 1959–, 3:21; 4:323, 353). American retailers also provided one another with cartographic products. Thus, beginning in 1771, the daybook of printer, engraver, publisher, and mapseller Robert Aitken of Philadelphia records sales of British and American maps, atlases, and globes, often to American merchants and booksellers (Bosse 2007, 6). The composition of the American map trade only superficially resembled that of Britain. In London, vendors of maps, charts, and globes were largely drawn from the ranks of the print trades, particularly print- and booksellers, engravers, stationers, and printers. Until the 1670s, the colonial economies supported few specialized booksellers and printers. In their absence, general merchants retailed both books and maps, and some occasionally carried maps and atlases. Even as specialized retailers developed in the major ports—such as the Boston bookseller Michael Perry, who served as a source of cartographic products from an early date, as evidenced by an inventory of his store taken at the time of his death (Ford 1917, 163–82)—general merchants in outer areas and other specialized merchants in the ports continued to find opportunities to sell cartographic products. A variety of tradesmen took advantage of the unrestricted nature of the trade to temporarily sell maps and atlases. Notices in newspapers show that individuals as diverse as hatmakers, apothecaries, grocers, carpenters, tavern keepers, upholsterers, and bakers occasionally sold maps in the American colonies and early republic. The close connection between applied mathematics and cartography led the makers of mathematical instruments

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Fig. 480. DETAIL FROM JOSHUA FISHER, CHART OF DELAWARE BAY FROM THE SEA-COAST TO REEDYISLAND (PHILADELPHIA, 1756). Engraved by James Turner, Fisher underwrote production of the map by raising subscriptions and further listed it as being “sold by the author in Front-Street Philadelphia.” The subscribers were all pilots and ships masters who certified the quality of the chart.

Size of the entire original: 60 × 115 cm; size of detail: ca. 60.0  ×  61.5 cm. Image courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University, Providence (Cabinet/cc756/1/ Oversize).

such as compasses and quadrants to trade frequently in maps and charts. Ship chandlers stocked all manner of maritime stores and commonly sold charts and maps. Maps were also featured in auctions organized by merchants and booksellers, whether in their own merchan-

dise or in the libraries and household goods consigned by nonspecialists (Bosse 2007, 10–14). Many of the booksellers, printers, bookbinders, engravers, and stationers who constituted the American print trades also engaged in selling cartographic prod-

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newspaper advertisements, notices of public auctions, and booksellers’ catalogs only imprecisely document the sale of certain cartographic works. Merchants’ advertisements simply note the availability of maps or charts at their shops along with goods of every conceivable type; booksellers’ catalogs might have listed cartographic titles or descriptions, but they could equally be vague, identifying only “four quarters of the globe” or “map of North America,” for example. When a work’s title and maker can be determined with some certainty, the state or edition of the map or atlas, if more than one existed, often remains in doubt. We cannot assume that a retailer would necessarily have carried the most recent edition of a work, even one as ubiquitous as The English Pilot. Most of the maps, charts, atlases, and globes sold in British America therefore remain unidentified. D avid Bosse

Fig. 481. DETAIL FROM MATTHEW CLARK, CHART OF THE COAST OF AMERICA FROM C. ELIZ[ABETH] TO MOUSE HARBOUR FROM THE LATEST SURVEYS (BOSTON, 1790). This chart appeared as number 5 in Clark’s untitled atlas of sea charts. Clark copied his charts from English ones (e.g., The Atlantic Neptune and The English Pilot, the Fourth Book), and most were signed by Osgood Carleton, who attested to their accuracy. Size of the entire original: 36 × 63 cm; size of detail: ca. 32  ×  21 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Atl 1790 Cl).

See also: British America; Evans, Lewis Bibliography Bosse, David. 1999. “The Boston Map Trade of the Eighteenth Century.” In Mapping Boston, ed. Alex Krieger and David A. Cobb, with Amy Turner, 36–55. Cambridge: MIT Press. ———. 2007. “Maps in the Marketplace: Cartographic Vendors and Their Customers in Eighteenth-Century America.” Cartographica 42:1–51. ———. 2011. “Matthew Clark and the Beginnings of Chart Publishing in the United States.” Imago Mundi 63:22–38. Ford, Worthington Chauncey. 1917. The Boston Book Market, 1679– 1700. Boston: Club of Odd Volumes. Franklin, Benjamin. 1959–. The Papers of Benjamin Franklin. Ed. Leonard Woods Labaree et al. New Haven: Yale University Press. Online edition. Harley, J. B. 1977. “Atlas Maker for Independent America.” Geographical Magazine 49:766–72. Pedley, Mary Sponberg, ed. 2000. The Map Trade in the Late Eighteenth Century: Letters to the London Map Sellers Jefferys and Faden. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. Raven, James. 2000. “The Importation of Books in the Eighteenth Century.” In The Colonial Book in the Atlantic World, ed. Hugh Amory and David D. Hall, 183–98. Vol. 1 of A History of the Book in America. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wheat, James Clements, and Christian Brun. 1978. Maps and Charts Published in America before 1800: A Bibliography. Rev. ed. London: Holland Press.

ucts, as when Franklin printed and sold the maps of Lewis Evans. But unlike Britain, where mapsellers frequently published the works that accounted for much, if not most, of their stock (Pedley 2000, 3), few American mapsellers doubled as mapmakers or cartographic publishers. One was Boston merchant William Price, who regularly advertised a stock of maps and prints and who became a publisher after acquiring the plate of John Bonner’s 1722 map of Boston (see fig. 906), which he revised and reissued until 1769. Ultimately, we can only surmise the true scope of the map supply in British America. Printed sources such as

Map Trade in the Italian States. Throughout the sixteenth century, the booksellers, engravers, and printers of Rome and Venice dominated the market for prints in Italy. This continued to be the case during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, even if these industries had to also overcome the financial and political crisis that faced Italy during the second half of the seventeenth century. The two capitals were unique in that they not only governed territories of considerable geographical extent but also had commercial and diplomatic links extending throughout Europe and beyond. Although the duchies of Parma, Piacenza, and Savoy enjoyed political independence, the size of their economies and the scale

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of practical need for cartographic and geographical information meant that their market for maps was amply served by works produced abroad, primarily in France and Holland. The geographical maps produced in Rome and Venice were the only ones that managed to find a market outside Italy during the course of both the seventeenth century (when the European market was dominated by French and Dutch atlases) and the eighteenth century (when additional competition from the German cities of Nuremberg and Augsburg asserted itself). However, one should note a clear difference here from the situation during the Renaissance, when the copperplate prints produced in Rome and Venice were linked; not only were engraved plates and prints exchanged between the two centers but printers and publishers were active in both cities. In subsequent centuries, this link was broken; the cultural dialog was no longer between Rome and Venice but between each city and its market beyond the boundaries of Italy. The relationship with French and Dutch cartography was now a direct one, and Rome and Venice no longer exchanged cartographic information. Thus, Giacomo Cantelli da Vignola in Rome and Vincenzo Coronelli in Venice might have been contemporaries, but they were far from being competitors. One might say that they ignored each other. As for other Italian cities, historical reasons account for their lack of workers with the technical skills and abilities required to produce cartographic engravings. Florence and Turin, for example, had a developed market for prints and books, but its engravers never acquired the necessary skills to produce cartographic engravings, with the notable exception of Sir Robert Dudley’s Arcano del Mare (1646–47, 1661), engraved by Antonio Francesco Lucini (Woodward 2007, 793–94). While the illustrations of architectural monuments, views, and city maps within the Theatrvm statvvm regiæ celsitvdinis Sabavdiæ dvcis (known as the Theatrum Sabaudiae) were entirely the fruit of surveys and drawings by local artists and technicians (including Giovanni Tomasso Borgonio and Giovenale Boetto), the plates themselves had been engraved and published in Amsterdam, by Joan Blaeu in 1682 (Sereno 2007, 847–53). In general, only in the last quarter of the eighteenth century were the first atlases produced by local engravers and printers in Florence and Tuscany (Valerio 1993, 185–87). Other key factors in the development of independent production of cartographic works and the establishment of new centers of printing and publishing were the reform in education and the nascent interest in geography noticeable from the second half of the eighteenth century onward. Clearly inspired by cultural attitudes rooted in the European Enlightenment and expressed in Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie, which focused on systematic thought and ra-

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tional knowledge, educational reform developed from a greater diffusion of cultural ideas and produced a lively interest in the organization of education. With the introduction of new syllabi and teaching methods, public schools increased the number of both teachers and students. One consequence of this augmentation of potential consumers was that publishers, geographers, and printers competed to conquer this expanding market. Indeed, at times the courts themselves had to rule on cases regarding infringements of privileges, plagiarism, and the issuing of illegal copies (as often happened, for example, with Remondini printers of Bassano). The success of the Encyclopédie within Italy is clear from the editions produced in Livorno and Padua; Remondini, in fact, also planned to produce a translation of the entire work into Italian, but nothing came of the project. A revised and extended version of the second French edition, the Padua Encyclopédie méthodique, included the Atlas encyclopédique (2 vols., 140 pls.) by Rigobert Bonne, with plates newly engraved by Pietro Scattaglia. In his “Discours sur la géographie” in the Encyclopédie méthodique, Nicolas Masson de Morvilliers stressed “the space of indifference we have had until now for this science in our institutions of learning” and the need to separate geography and history (1785, xiv). The Veneto in particular saw the publication of numerous atlases intended for school use; between 1777 and 1796, Giacomo Storti published various editions of a Nuovo atlante portatile (312 text pages, 24 pls.), while the publisher Antonio Zatta in the last decade of the century published four school editions of his Nuovo atlante (20 text pages, 24 pls.). Other Venetian publishers also ventured into this expanding sector of the market. Giammaria Bassaglia published the Nuovo atlante portatile ovvero metodo facile per apprendere in breve la geografia (1777, 328 text pages, 24 pls.; 2d ed. 1785); Paolo Santini published the Atlas portatif à l’usage des colleges (1788, 63 pls.), copying the French work of the same title by l’Abbé Grénet (Paris, 1779–82) and adding new maps; and even the Remondini print works entered the school textbook market with their small Atlas géographique . . . à l’usage des écoles, & de toute la jeunesse des deux sexes (1801, 60 pls.), which borrowed the frontispiece of Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni’s Atlas géographique contenant la mappemonde et les quatre parties (1762) and added new maps (from 27 to 60) while maintaining French titles and texts. Another factor contributing to the growing interest in geography and maps during the second half of the eighteenth century was the European discoveries of islands and lands in and around the Pacific Ocean, resulting from circumnavigations of the globe. The South Seas exerted a powerful fascination over the Western imagination of the day; no atlas or geographical text produced

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in Italy after James Cook’s voyages in the Pacific failed to refer to them. Sometimes the authors boasted that they were the first to offer maps showing the new frontiers of geographical knowledge, as Zatta did in the introduction to his Atlante novissimo (1775), commenting on his map of the South Seas and New Zealand, based on Cook: “I have done nothing except simply copy it out, my sole boast being that I am the first to make an interesting map available in Italy” (Zatta 1775, 49). The American Revolutionary War, the French Revolution, and the success of Napoleon’s armies in Europe all further stimulated an interest in geography. The production of individual sheet maps or atlases made it possible to follow the unfolding of history and gain some insight into future developments. In short, at the end of the eighteenth century the image of the world was changing as a result both of emerging geographical knowledge of the Americas, Africa, and Oceania and of the political and social transformations taking place in Europe and its colonial possessions. Under these circumstances, cartography became a means to give a timely and appropriate account of such changes. In Venice in 1758, the publisher Pietro Bassaglia issued an Atlante geografico of only seven plates (engraved by Francesco Griselini) entirely dedicated to the Seven Years’ War. The atlas was probably meant to accompany Bassaglia’s Storia delle operazioni militari (6 vols. 1758–63). In the same city in 1781, Vincenzo Formaleoni published the Teatro della guerra marittima e terrestre with two views and forty-one maps covering the various sites associated with the American Revolutionary War, largely based on the work of Jacques-Nicolas Bellin. Interest in the British colonies in America had already led the publisher Marco Coltellini in Livorno to issue a Gazzettiere Americano in 1763, translated from English works, which was reissued in 1777 at the height of the war by the publisher Giovanni Tommaso Masi with the all-encompassing title Atlante dell’America. In fact, from the last quarter of the eighteenth century onward, Livorno became an interesting center of editorial and cartographic activity; its vast network of maritime commerce linking the city with all of Europe was managed largely by foreign residents, who were extremely interested in political and military events that might affect the flow of trade. A similarly important commercial port was Genoa, which maintained its political independence until 1797. There, Yves Gravier, an enterprising bookdealer of French origin, sold the main works of French hydrographers. Active from the last quarter of the eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth, Gravier’s bookshop maintained its original address (“derrière la Loge de Banchi”) and reproduced maps and nautical atlases by French authors that were published with his own imprint; for

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example, Joseph Roux’s famous Recueil des principaux plans des portes et rades de la Mer Méditerranée (1764) in a Genoa edition in 1779 and 1804 (both with 123 pls.), in 1804 (163 pls.), and 1814 (179 pls.). Similarly, Gravier sold an Atlas maritime of maps by Bellin taken from Le Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise, issuing two different editions of this work: in 1798 (32 pls.) and 1802 (37 pls.). In addition to selling his own editions, his shop also handled a large number of nautical maps from all over the world, again primarily from France. A bookshop catalog of 1818 shows that in that year the business was still selling Bellin’s Le Petit atlas maritime (1764, 5 vols., 580 maps) and Jean-BaptisteNicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette’s Le Neptune orientale (2 vols., 1745–75) (Valerio 1993, 184). Thanks to the large market provided by religious pilgrims and those interested in visiting sites of classical antiquity, Rome’s copperplate printers tended to specialize in the genres of vedutismo and topography. Located at the sign “alla Pace,” the De Rossi print works first ventured into cartography during the time of Giovanni Giacomo De Rossi, who reproduced the four mural maps of the continents by Blaeu in 1666 (Woodward 2007, 777–79). In 1669, the workshop began engraving the plates for the Mercvrio geografico, a project that continued until nearly the end of the century (the first frontispiece is dated 1692), ultimately comprising 127 plates. One of the most sizeable atlases published in Italy, the Mercvrio geografico was edited by Giacomo Cantelli da Vignola, who signed most of his maps as “geographer to the duke of Modena,” a title he received from Francesco II d’Este, duke of Modena and Reggio, in 1685 (fig. 482). The production of the Mercvrio, supported and financed by De Rossi, involved the best engravers working in Rome: Antonio Barbey, the Dutchman Jan L’Huillier, Giorgio Widman, Vincenzo Mariotti (a painter of architectural scenes), and Giovanni Battista Falda, who also produced a twelve-sheet mural map of Rome. The success of the work is proven by its presence in all the major libraries of Italy and by the fact that numerous editions, produced by Domenico Freddiani De Rossi, son of Giovanni Giacomo, were published until 1738, when the Camera Apostolica acquired all the engraved plates from Filippo De Rossi to form the core collection of what became the Calcografia Camerale. The cartographic work of Giovan Battista Nicolosi promoted the universal nature of the Roman Church. Having moved to Rome from Paternò, Sicily, Nicolosi quickly gained favor with the city’s most powerful families and in 1652 was appointed to produce a geographical work for use by the Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith (or Sacra congretatio de propaganda fide). After twelve years of study and research, he published the Dell’Hercole e stvdio geografico, in two

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Fig. 482. GIACOMO CANTELLI DA VIGNOLA, BASSA LOMBARDIA E ALTRE APPENDICI, 1681. From Giovanni Giacomo De Rossi, Mercvrio geografico overo gvida geografica in tvtte le parti del mondo (Rome: Alla Pace all’Insegna di Parigi, [1685?]), no. 10. De Rossi, copperplate engraving,

ca. 1:875,000. This map was one of the 127 plates of the Mercvrio geografico. Size of the original: 42 × 59 cm. Image courtesy of the William  L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Atl 1685 Ro).

volumes with twenty-two newly devised maps. Nicolosi proposed a new projection for the construction of the world map in two hemispheres, known today as the Nicolosi projection, in which the parallels and meridians are arcs of the circle and equidistant along the equator and central meridian (fig. 483). The last work of cartography produced in Rome toward the end of the eighteenth century came from the Calcografia Camerale itself: Giovanni Maria Cassini’s Nuovo atlante geografico universale (1792–1801), one of the most prestigious of Italian atlases, in three volumes with 182 maps (see fig. 137). The author’s introduction evoked the renewed interest in geography that blossomed in Italy during the last quarter of the century: “In the midst of this ardor for geography, which within recent years has become particularly widespread in Italy, I—spurred on by a true desire to be of use to my fellow

countrymen— . . . determined to undertake a new geographical atlas” (Cassini 1792, 20–21). In Venice, the cartographic scene from around 1690 to the end of the first decade of the eighteenth century was dominated by the extraordinary polymath Coronelli, who flooded the market for cartographic and historical-geographical works with an extraordinary range of products; in part these were distributed via the Accademia Cosmografica degli Argonauti, a geographical society avant la lettre that Coronelli had set up to promote acquisition of his works. After his death there was a long period of stasis in the production of cartography within Venice, in part due to the serious stagnation of the city’s economy that ended only toward the middle of the century. The first sign of recovery in the output of cartographic works was the substantial atlas published by Giovanni Battista Albrizzi, the Atlante novissimo, che

Fig. 483. GIOVAN BATTISTA NICOLOSI, CONTINENTEM DVDVM NOTAM COMPONEBAT IOA: BAPTISTA NICOLOSIVS S.T.D., 1660. From Dell’Hercole e stvdio geografico di Gio. Battista Nicolosi (Rome: Nella Stamperia di Vitale Mascardi, 1660), no. 1. Copperplate engraving, ca. 1:50,000,000.

Size of the original: 53 × 42 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Atl 1660 Ni).

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Fig. 484. LE FRIOUL DRESSÉ SUR LA CARTE RECEMMENT RECTIFIÉE . . . PAR LES SIEURS MAJERONI ET CAPELLARIS, INGENIEURS PUBLICS, 1778. From Santini, Atlas universel dressé sur les meillures cartes modernes (Venice: Remondini, 1784), vol. 2, no. 15. Copperplate engraving, ca. 1:225,000. Santini’s atlas combined maps copied from foreign sources with other maps based on original surveys

in the Italian region, like that depicted here. This map of the Friuli was based on observations by two topographical engineers, Majeroni and Capellaris. Size of the original: 50 × 67 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Atl 1784 Sa).

contiene tutte le parti del mondo (2 vols., 1740–50). In these same years, Albrizzi also published the first Italian edition of the works of Thomas Salmon, Lo stato presente di tutti i paesi, e popoli del mondo naturale, politico, e morale (24 vols. 1738–62), which incorporated many of the maps engraved for the Atlante novissimo. The decoration of the mappamundi in this work was by Giovanni Battista Piazzetta, a far from rare case of an important Venetian artist being involved in the production of a work of cartography within the city. Albrizzi’s atlas was followed by important works by Francesco Santini and Paolo Santini, who produced an Atlas universel (maps dated between 1775 and 1780), and Zatta, whose Atlante novissimo was published in four volumes between 1779 and 1785 (having received a privilege

from the authorizing body the Riformatori dello Studio di Padova for fifteen years in June 1773). Except for the area of the Veneto, for which the Santinis reproduced locally surveyed plans (fig. 484), most of the maps in the Santini Atlas were copied from French sources (Jean Janvier, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, Didier Robert de Vaugondy, Guillaume Delisle). Zatta similarly relied on European sources, all described in detail in the introductory “Saggi preliminari”; he reworked the maps on what he called a “nuova projezione,” although this was nothing more than a stereographic projection, as he himself made clear (Zatta 1775, 45). Zatta’s Atlante also included a list of subscribers that gives some indication of the range of consumers of his work. Further stimulus to the production of maps in the last

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quarter of the eighteenth century came from the establishment of national institutions responsible for the survey, preparation, and publication of geographical and topographical maps. The bodies established for this purpose included the Turin Ufficio Topografico, the Naples Officina Geografica, and the Osservatorio Astronomico di Brera in Milan. The Naples Officina in particular generated a veritable school of cartographic engraving that trained a large number of artists in the difficult task of engraving maps. The result was that from 1780 and onward throughout the whole of the next century, the output of regional maps and geographical atlases in Naples was one of the richest and most noteworthy of any center in Italy. V la d imiro Valerio See also: Calcografia Camerale (Copperplate Printing Administration; Rome); Cassini, Giovanni Maria; Coronelli, Vincenzo; Italian States; Rizzi Zannoni, Giovanni Antonio Bibliograp hy Bellini, Giuseppe. 1938. Storia della tipografia del Seminario di Padova, 1684–1938. Padua: Gregoriana. Bonazzi, Alessandra, et al., eds. 1995. Giacomo Cantelli: Geografo del Serenissimo. Bologna: Grafis Edizioni. Cassini, Giovanni Maria. 1792. “Introduzione generale allo studio della geografia.” In Nuovo atlante geografico universale delineato sulle ultime osservazione, vol. 1, 1–35. Rome: Calcografia Camerale. Grelle Iusco, Anna, ed. 1996. Indice delle stampe intagliate in rame a bulino, e in acqua forte esistenti nella stamparia [sic] di Lorenzo Filippo De’ Rossi appresso Santa Maria della Pace in Roma, MDCCXXXV: Contributo alla storia di una stamperia romana. Rome: Artemide. Infelise, Mario. 1980. I Remondini di Bassano: Stampa e industria nel veneto del settecento. Bassano: Tassotti Editore. Masson de Morvilliers, Nicolas. 1785. “Discours sur la géographie.” In Encyclopédie méthodique: Géographie moderne, vol. 1, vii–xv. Padua. Sereno, Paola. 2007. “Cartography in the Duchy of Savoy during the Renaissance.” In HC 3:831–53. Valerio, Vladimiro. 1993. “Atlanti italiani dall’invenzione della stampa all’affermazione della litografia.” In La Cartografia Italiana, 147–201. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. ———. 1997. “Late Eighteenth- and Early Nineteenth-Century Italian Atlases.” In Images of the World: The Atlas through History, ed. John A. Wolter and Ronald E. Grim, 257–300. Washington, D.C.: Library of Congress. Woodward, David. 2007. “The Italian Map Trade, 1480–1650.” In HC 3:773–803. Zatta, Antonio. 1775. “Saggi preliminari di geografia.” In Atlante novissimo, illustrato ed accresciuto sulle osservazioni, e scoperte Fatte, vol. 1, 1–50. Venice: Presso Antonio Zatta.

Map Trade in the Netherlands. During the Renaissance, the Low Countries (present-day Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg) had become an economic world power. After the fall of Antwerp in 1585 and the founding of the Republic of the Seven United Provinces (the northernmost provinces, here understood as the Netherlands) in 1588, economic preeminence shifted to Am-

sterdam, while the arts and sciences in the Republic expanded and flourished. The Netherlands also made its mark in cartography. In the seventeenth century, Amsterdam hosted a worldwide trade in maps, atlases, and globes, owing to the myriad trade and exploratory voyages initiated from this city. In addition, so-called news maps of military actions were in great demand. The large-scale domestic geographical changes—impoldering, urban expansion, and new infrastructural projects—likewise stimulated map production. The most significant stimulus, however, was the exodus of Protestants from the Southern Netherlands resulting from the Spanish conquest of its economic centers; highly trained Protestant engravers, publishers, and printers chose Amsterdam as the new center for their trade (Van der Krogt 1994; Schilder 1989). Dutch commercial cartography made a decisive mark in Europe both qualitatively and quantitatively. In the late Renaissance, renowned publishers such as Cornelis Claesz., Jodocus Hondius and his sons Jodocus Jr. and Henricus, Willem Jansz. Blaeu and his son Joan, Claes Jansz. Visscher, and Johannes Janssonius devoted themselves to map- and printmaking (Koeman et al. 2007). In close collaboration with the best engravers, they produced a highly varied offering of maps, atlases, and globes in diverse sizes and forms. Enormous rivalry defined these seventeenth-century map publishers as competitive pressure pushed them to outdo one another, resulting in the manufacture of gigantic globes that were a few meters in diameter and of the massive nine- to twelve-volume Atlas maior by Joan Blaeu in the third quarter of the seventeenth century. This highly productive trade bequeathed a rich cartographic heritage to late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century Dutch map producers. Studying the cast of mapmakers and the transitions in their business management between 1650 and 1800 reveals how the Dutch map trade maintained a premier economic position in Europe and managed the competition with rivals from other nations. Amsterdam The second half of the seventeenth century and the first decades of the eighteenth century saw far-reaching changes in the Dutch book industry in general and the map trade in particular. From 1660 onward, as economic growth stagnated in the Republic, a long series of wars with neighboring countries hampered the import of paper as well as the foreign sales of books and cartographic products. Prominent publishing houses such as those of Blaeu and Elzevier ceased their activities, sometimes by necessity. This forced Dutch commercial cartography to adjust and reorient itself by making inroads into new markets both domestically and abroad

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Fig. 485. GERARD VALK, TERRESTRIAL AND CELESTIAL GLOBES, AMSTERDAM, 1700. Valk’s globe pair was a completely new work, incorporating the geographic findings of the French academy on the terrestrial globe and the observations of Johannes Hevelius on the celestial globe.

Diameter of the originals: 31 cm. Image courtesy of the Globenmuseum, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (inv. no. gl 038 and 039).

and by introducing other production and distribution techniques. The scarcity of paper resulting from export restrictions on French paper was overcome by the development of a domestic paper industry in North Holland (Zaan district) and Gelderland (Veluwe). A new generation of book- and mapsellers profited from this, including numerous French Protestant entrepreneurs who sought safe refuge in the Republic after the persecutions of the Huguenots by Louis XIV. The Netherlands took advantage of this available talent, as it had done a century before. This revamped cartographic stage hosted several protagonists in Amsterdam, headed by the Visscher family: Nicolaas I Visscher and Nicolaas II Visscher, the son and grandson of Claes Jansz. Their firm was one of the few rooted in the early seventeenth century, and they chiefly focused on the manufacture of atlas maps. Nicolaas II also made a name for himself as a compiler and publisher of military news maps. After the death of his widow Elizabeth Verseyl in 1726, the copperplates came into the hands of Petrus II Schenk,

who used them to reprint the Visscher maps (Koeman 1967–85, 3:150–58). Other prominent cartographic families were the Danckertses and the Allards. Justus Danckerts and his two sons Theodorus and Cornelis worked as engravers and mapsellers in Amsterdam (Koeman 1967–85, 2:88– 97). They mainly owed their fame to a few monumental wall maps and urban views. The Allard family was also established in Amsterdam. After the death of founder Hugo (Huych) Allard in 1691, the business passed to Carel Allard, who compiled a few atlases of a rather homogeneous content, including the Atlas minor (1697) with 100–260 maps and the Atlas major (1705) with more than 500 maps (Koeman 1967–85, 1:31–48). Petrus I Schenk and Gerard Valk worked together in Amsterdam from around 1680 (Koeman 1967–85, 3:107–10, 136). They initially published mostly portraits and topographical prints, venturing into cartography in 1694, when they brought out a new edition of Janssonius’s Novus atlas. Together with his son Leonard, Valk manufactured new globes in the course of the eighteenth

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century (fig. 485). Schenk, meanwhile, chiefly focused on mapmaking. After his death, he was succeeded by his son Petrus II and grandson Petrus Schenk Jr. One of the most active Amsterdam mapsellers of the second half of the seventeenth century was Frederick de Wit, who may himself have worked regularly as an engraver, wielding a burin, and who specialized in atlases, wall maps, and prints (Carhart 2016; Werner 1994, 13). Last but not least, Pieter Mortier established himself in Amsterdam in 1685, after previously learning the bookselling trade in Paris. From 1690, he published maps and atlases as well as books, a worthwhile venture that soon prospered and from which Mortier’s successors would reap the fruits in the eighteenth century (Van Egmond 2009, 59). By the turn of the century, the arena of Dutch commercial cartography still offered plenty of room for industrious publishers, who were concentrated in Amsterdam around the Dam, the economic heart of the city. Cartographic specialization was very common by reasonably independent players. Leiden was one of the few cities other than Amsterdam to host cartographic enterprises. There the large firm of Pieter van der Aa published maps and atlases in addition to a particularly active trade in the sciences and the classics (Van der Krogt and Braat 2012; Hoftijzer 1999). Cautiously active in cartographic publishing in the 1690s, Van der Aa expanded his stock during the eighteenth century by acquiring stock from the estates of Carel Allard and De Wit. Van der Aa’s most famous publication is La galerie agréable du monde (1729), a huge work of sixty-six parts in twenty volumes with around three thousand maps, prints, and portraits. While several large publishers filled the frame of the map trade at the end of the seventeenth century, the picture thinned during the eighteenth. Only a few Amsterdam publishing houses dominated Dutch commercial cartography for several decades: Covens & Mortier, Van Keulen, and to a lesser degree Ottens and later Tirion. Cornelis Mortier, along with his brother-inlaw Johannes Covens, expanded the list of publications of his father Pieter Mortier. These two chiefly concentrated on publishing maps, atlases, and prints and avidly added to their stock from the auctions of the contents of other publishing houses. Their firm stayed active until 1866. Joachim Ottens founded a publishing house that reached its peak under the management of his sons Reinier and Josua Ottens (Koeman 1967–85, 3:85–87). They produced a few hundred maps and a multivolume Atlas maior, for which they used material from other publishers. Besides Covens & Mortier and Ottens, Jan de Lat of Deventer and Hendrik de Leth of Amsterdam were among a number of smaller eighteenth-century

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booksellers who listed a few cartographic editions in their catalogs. Isaak Tirion published his Nieuwe en beknopte hand-atlas in 1744, a work he repeatedly expanded with maps compiled from a variety of sources; it was the first new Dutch world atlas since Joan Blaeu’s Atlas maior. In the specialized market for marine charts, the publishing house founded by Johannes I van Keulen dominated Dutch maritime cartography for two centuries

Fig. 486. JOHANNES VAN KEULEN, FRONTISPIECE OF DE NIEUWE GROOTE LIGHTENDE ZEE-FAKKEL, 1684, VOL. 4. Engraved by Jan Luyken. Spelling of “lichtende” varies, sometimes appearing on frontispieces as “lightende,” as seen here. Size of the original: 51 × 31 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Leiden (COLLBN Atlas 11-1).

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(De Vries 2005). Its signature publication, De nieuwe groote lichtende zee-fakkel, rolled off the presses from 1681 to 1684, becoming five folio volumes of 135 accurate sea charts, and was considered the atlas maior of Dutch marine charting (fig. 486). The Zee-fakkel was revised and expanded by Johannes’s son, Gerard van Keulen, and later by Gerard’s grandson, Gerard Hulst van Keulen. From 1743, the family was the official chartmaker for the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC), a position that affirmed its preeminence among chartmakers and gave its members access to valuable manuscript material on Asia. The firm continued to exist until 1885. By the end of the eighteenth century, no major cartographic publishers remained active with the exception of the firms of Covens & Mortier and Van Keulen. Maps, atlases, and globes continued to be manufactured mostly in Amsterdam, which remained the center of the map trade in the Netherlands, though most of the map-producing publishers now were located outside the economic heart of the city. Only in the mid-nineteenth century did the production of Dutch maps and atlases cease to be the exclusive domain of Amsterdam publishers (Van Egmond 2009, 49–50, 2001). Originals versus Copies The realignments in the Dutch map trade manifested in significant changes to the kinds of maps that were published. In the seventeenthcentury, Dutch commercial cartographers had compiled maps from knowledge first gathered in Amsterdam, the crossroads of world trade at the time and a port from which many exploratory voyages began. Map publishers such as Hondius, Blaeu, and Janssonius adapted their maps and globes very quickly to newly acquired geographic information and even undertook initiatives to create the most up-to-date maps. For instance, Joan Blaeu wrote to various municipal authorities requesting the most recent town plans be sent to him to create new town plans in a standard format for his Toonneel der steden, giving rise to many prototypes and their derivatives, widely imitated in other European countries (Koeman et al. 2007, 1335–36). But the crowded field of publishers led to intense rivalry, fierce competition, and rampant copying. As Amsterdam lost its map trade monopoly over the course of the second half of the seventeenth century, changes occurred in how cartographic copy was acquired. Publishers such as De Wit, Visscher, and Allard were much further removed from source material than the previous generation of mapmakers and were forced to reprint maps from copperplates acquired elsewhere or to engrave copies of existing maps of Dutch territories. These maps were at times completely or partially

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modified or replaced with new ones after better, usually foreign, base maps appeared. Amsterdam publishers became dependent on French cartography for the newest information about non-Dutch regions, as cartography based on astronomical observations under the aegis of the Académie des sciences began to flourish in France in the late seventeenth century. Pieter Mortier, who had learned the book trade in Paris from 1681 until about 1685, was quick to grasp the superiority of French maps. After returning to Amsterdam in 1685, Mortier began to sell copies of French maps from 1690, beginning with Sanson’s maps from the Atlas nouveau (Van Egmond 2009, 107, 190, 194). He did not fear French claims of plagiarism against him, since privilege had no legal status across national borders. Mortier even requested and received a privilege granted by the States of Holland and West Friesland for exclusive rights to copy French maps. Copying foreign works was both common and often an economic necessity, due to the stiff competition in the book industry (fig. 487). Mortier’s great success selling copied French maps led other Dutch publishers, such as Gerard Valk and Petrus I Schenk, to imitate the practice. Mortier claimed their copied maps were an infringement of his privilege, a conflict eventually resolved to their mutual satisfaction. Reprinting up-to-date foreign maps became a favorite activity of Dutch mapmakers throughout the eighteenth century. The work of French geographer Guillaume Delisle was especially popular (see fig. 459), to the point that sometimes Mortier replaced the name of the original author with that of Delisle on the copied map (Van Egmond 2009, 194–97). Besides reprinting foreign maps, Dutch publishers acquired stock by reprinting older copperplates by seventeenth-century Dutch cartographers that were obtained along with large numbers of printed maps from the estate auctions of defunct publishers. They then engraved a new imprint on the plates or added the new publisher’s name in manuscript to the printed maps acquired from the auctions, breathing new life into the maps of Blaeu and Janssonius in the eighteenth century. Other publishers reprinted De Wit’s maps, which were so popular a half century after his death that his name was added to maps he never made. The Ottens firm even offered “De Wit” maps printed from old, poorly engraved, and unreliable copperplates by Danckerts, whose name had been replaced. This remarkable commercial modus operandi was remarked upon by Covens & Mortier in one of their catalogs, where they noted that their De Wit atlas was genuine, because it was printed from De Wit’s original copperplates (Van Egmond 2009, 196, appendix IX).

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Fig. 487. ATLAS NOUVEAU, THREE VOLUMES, AND LE NEPTUNE FRANÇOIS, TWO VOLUMES, TOGETHER IN UNIFORM BINDINGS, FROM 1692/1693, PUBLISHED BY PIETER MORTIER. These cartographic works, copied after French originals, were the largest format atlases ever published in the Netherlands.

Bijzondere Collecties, Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam (HB-KZL I 3 A 14-16 and HB-KZL V 9 X 10 [1-2]). Photograph courtesy of Jan Werner.

All in all, the practice of copying and reprinting old plates was rife among eighteenth-century Dutch commercial cartographers, who produced very little original work. They did occasionally compile material from existing maps, such as Pieter Mortier’s theater of war series (from 1695), multisheet productions mostly based on French material depicting contemporary war regions of Europe (fig. 488). The theater of war map was very popular in the first half of the eighteenth century during the many wars of succession that affected the Low Countries in particular. Original work also appeared in a few regional maps, created from commissions by government officials and large landholders to publishers. Yet the results of new surveys and cartographic initia-

tives outside the borders of the Netherlands were rarely included in commercial Dutch cartography. Quality versus Quantity Not surprisingly, eighteenth-century Dutch publishers achieved tremendous production levels with their program of copying and reprinting maps. Publishers’ stocklists and sales catalogs of the period at times contained a few thousand cartographic items. From a single publishing house, a customer could often choose from multiple maps of a certain region created by different authors. The map trade concentrated on the production and sale of as many maps as possible in atlas (folio) format, which allowed customers to compile their own composite atlases.

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Fig. 488. THEATER OF WAR MAP, FLANDERS AND BRABANT, 1702, PUBLISHED BY PIETER MORTIER. Second state of the map Téâtre de la guerre, 1696, in four sheets.

Size of the original: 96 × 120 cm. Image courtesy of the Collection Niewodniczanski, Bitburg.

The Amsterdam traders also stocked maps of all the continents, various countries, regions, and cities. However, their quality left something to be desired. Originality was lacking, made worse by skimping on the precision of the map image. Van der Aa, for instance, reduced the distances between parallels in order to fit two maps on one page, ludicrously distorting the map. Authors of scientific reference books and periodicals from abroad therefore accused the Dutch cartographers of making poor copies (Van Egmond 2009, 281–82), and the French geographer Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville leveled a critique of Dutch engraving techniques (d’Anville 1738, 1091–93). Reprinting from old Dutch copperplates also led to

the diffusion of outdated geographic images. So-called corrections were often limited to merely altering the imprint or providing a new title. Nonetheless, Dutch publishers were not entirely uncritical of the topographical reliability of more local maps, leading to substantial improvement of the maps of the Dutch territory. Yet when small-scale (and usually copied) maps of the world and its continents were improved on the basis of recent geographic information, it was usually based on foreign sources from the second half of the seventeenth century. Consequently Dutch commercial cartography trailed its French and, later, English and German counterparts in terms of revealing the results of explorations and in adjusting geographical shapes and distances.

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What remained at a high level in the Netherlands was the art of engraving. Indeed, there was no shortage of good Dutch engravers in the eighteenth century, who had inherited a rich seventeenth-century tradition. Such skillful engravers as Romeyn de Hooghe, Jan Stemmers, Jan van Jagen, Johannes Condet, Leonard Schenk Jansz., and Cornelis van Baarsel beautifully engraved or etched maps whose scientific content was largely inferior to foreign editions. While there was no continuity of monumental seventeenth-century typography, the exceptional navigational works of the Van Keulen family competed globally, both for their appearance and their hydrographic contents. Tirion’s maps for his Hand-Atlas also excelled by virtue of their modern-looking style and homogeneous character. Dissemination At the height of Dutch commercial cartography in the seventeenth century, Amsterdam was the center of an enormous export market. Despite the relative stagnation of the Amsterdam staples market at the end of the seventeenth century, the map trade in the city maintained its international role as the most important distribution center, largely thanks to the efficient organization of the Dutch book business. A tight network of printed communication, from thin pamphlets to heavy atlases, developed within the Republic, maintained by numerous vendors, booksellers, printers, and publishers. By virtue of relatively high political tolerance, a favorable geographic situation, and the Dutch commercial spirit, the Republic offered a pleasant “island of tempered freedom” (Bots, Posthumus Meyjes, and Wieringa 1985, 68) within Europe from which authors could disseminate their thoughts to the world. The Republic was the central depot for international book distribution, offering low book prices, thus cutting out foreign competition. Thanks to exiled Huguenots who established themselves in the Republic after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes (1685), Dutch booksellers accessed an extensive information circuit, allowing them quickly and cheaply to reprint successful editions that had appeared in France or elsewhere. The map trade, primarily driven by booksellers, profited from this situation, which persisted until approximately 1750, allowing Dutch map material to enjoy ample international distribution through this trade network. Maps published by Pieter Mortier, for instance, were sold in London by his brother, David Mortier. In Nuremberg the Homann firm traded material from Ottens, Covens & Mortier, Schenk, Valk, and Visscher as well as maps from France and England. Homann’s maps, in turn, were attainable from Covens & Mortier. This guaranteed a foreign sales market to publishers and gave them easy access to maps of regions with which they were less familiar. The distribution of map material may also have oc-

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curred through barter, although little about this practice can be gleaned from the literature (Van Egmond 2009, 257–58). Booksellers avoided payment in cash as much as possible in their trade with fellow booksellers. Bills of exchange and bonds were used, as was the acceptance of books as payment for the supply of books, and map material may also have changed hands in this way. A barter system may help to explain the hybrid character of many eighteenth-century collectors’, or composite, atlases. In the second half of the eighteenth century, international distribution of Dutch maps stagnated, in part because of foreign protectionist measures that had repercussions on commercial cartography. While Dutch commercial maps previously had Latin or French legends, they now bore Dutch texts, sometimes supplemented by equivalent French titles. The few publishing houses that were still active in cartography only produced maps and atlases for domestic use. French domination of the Netherlands, as of 1795, enhanced this inward, national orientation, which the Dutch map trade did not overcome until the nineteenth century. Consumption and Taste The changing character of the Dutch map trade was further reflected in patterns of consumption. At the time of the Republic, most maps, atlases, and globes were purchased by well-to-do citizens who wanted to show off their interest in the sciences and geography. Hardly interested in whether an atlas was based on the latest geographic knowledge or whether a wall map was up to date, consumers focused on the superficial appearance of the map: decorative value in a library or salon mattered more than scientific content. The seventeenth century was an era of wealthy collectors who individually compiled each unique atlas major by supplementing an unbound version with hundreds of maps and topographical prints and then binding it. Such a composite, or collector’s, atlas (atlas factice) often comprised multiple volumes. Famous examples of this sort of atlas are the forty-six-volume Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem, compiled between 1660 and 1678 by the Amsterdam patrician Laurens van der Hem (Van der Krogt and De Groot 1996–2011) (fig. 489), and the four-volume Atlas Bus or Atlas Van der Hagen, compiled in 1702 or 1710 by Jan Bus or Dirk van der Hagen (De Groot 2006, 292). Part of the seventeenthand eighteenth-century elite pursued an ideal of refinement and genteel recreation through these collectors’ atlases. The Dutch map trade heartily responded to this chiefly quantitative demand by delivering title pages and tables of contents for the atlas factices of domestic and foreign collectors as well as printed geographical introductions. In general, the collectors’ atlases formed two types: the

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Fig. 489. ATLAS BLAEU–VAN DER HEM ATLAS FACTICE. Image courtesy of the Kartensammlung, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna.

atlas major, with many hundreds of maps, and the atlas contractus or atlas minor, with around one hundred maps. The latter contained a relatively homogeneous collection of maps, although the maps were produced by various publishers. A wider audience was interested in the abovementioned theater of war maps because they allowed readers to follow scenes of battles and trace various military march routes. Another popular cartographic product was the pocket atlas for travelers, which met the growing market for tourism, spurred by students, Grand Tourists, and other travelers. For these trips an atlas du voyageur, consisting of small-format maps of certain countries, served as handy and functional aids. As the map trade became increasingly oriented to the national market by the end of the eighteenth and into the nineteenth century, travel guides appeared mostly of Dutch regions. The nineteenth-century audience became even less interested in merely decorative maps and atlases, preferring functional maps first and foremost, meaning that the market for commercial cartography shrank even more. In this way the Dutch map trade from 1650 to 1800 shifted from forcefully driving the international market to merely responding to the domestic market. The international reputation of the Dutch map trade at the time

of the Hondius and Blaeu families and the astounding productivity of publishers such as De Wit, Visscher, and Covens & Mortier became a thing of the past by the nineteenth century. Dutch commercial cartography during the Enlightenment was primarily characterized by numerous transitions, which influenced the total production process. At the end of the seventeenth century, plenty of economic room still existed for major commercial cartographic enterprises in the Republic, but by around 1800 only a few publishers were actively engaged in publishing maps, atlases, and globes. The map trade remained concentrated in Amsterdam, which did not yield its position as the most prominent cartographic center in the Netherlands until the mid-nineteenth century. Amsterdam mapmakers chiefly acquired their copy by reprinting foreign maps and old Dutch copperplates; there was hardly any originality. Cartographic production achieved an all-time quantitative high in the first half of eighteenth century, but the content of the manufactured material was overshadowed by what was produced in France, and later in England and Germany. Yet the artistic quality of the maps was competitive due to the skill of Dutch engravers. Thanks to the efficient organization of the book business, Dutch map material enjoyed ample international distribution until the mid-eighteenth

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century. After about 1750, map publishers found themselves compelled more and more to orient their sales to the domestic market. Ma rc o van Egmo nd See also: Art and Design of Maps; Covens & Mortier (Netherlands); Map Collecting: Netherlands; Marine Charting: Netherlands; Netherlands, Republic of the United Bibliograp hy Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1738. “Réponse de M. d’Anville, Géographe ordinaire du Roy, à M.***.” Mercure de France, 1089–1193. Bots, H., G. H. M. Posthumus Meyjes, and F. Wieringa. 1985. Vlucht naar de vrijheid: De Hugenoten en de Nederlanden. Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw. Carhart, George. 2016. Frederick de Wit and the First Concise Reference Atlas. Leiden: Brill/HES & De Graaf. Egmond, Marco van. 2001. “Slotakkoord van een kaartenmammoet: De kartografische productie van de firma Mortier, Covens & Zoon (1794–1866).” Kartografisch Tijdschrift 27, no. 1:29–37. ———. 2009. Covens & Mortier: A Map Publishing House in Amsterdam, 1685–1866. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Groot, Erlend de. 2006. The World of a Seventeenth-Century Collector: The Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem. Vol. 7 of The Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem of the Austrian National Library, comp. Peter van der Krogt and Erlend de Groot, ed. Günter Schilder, Bernard Aikema, and Peter van der Krogt. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Hoftijzer, P. G. 1999. Pieter van der Aa (1659–1733), Leids drukker en boekverkoper. Hilversum: Verloren. Koeman, Cornelis. 1967–85. Atlantes Neerlandici: Bibliography of Terrestrial, Maritime, and Celestial Atlases and Pilot Books Published in the Netherlands Up to 1880. 6 vols. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. Koeman, Cornelis, et al. 2007. “Commercial Cartography and Map Production in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1672.” In HC 3:1296–1383. Krogt, Peter van der. 1994. “Commercial Cartography in the Netherlands with Particular Reference to Atlas Production (16th-18th Centuries).” In La cartografia dels Països Baixos, 73–140. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. Krogt, Peter van der, and Hans Braat. 2012. Koeman’s Atlantes Neerlandici, Volume IV A: The “Galérie agréable du monde” by Pieter van der Aa (1728). ’t Goy-Houten: HES. Krogt, Peter van der, and Erlend de Groot, comps. 1996–2011. The Atlas Blaeu–Van der Hem of the Austrian National Library. 8 vols. Ed. Günter Schilder, Bernard Aikema, and Peter van der Krogt. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Schilder, Günter. 1989. “Ghesneden ende ghedruckt inde Kalverstraet: De Amsterdamse kaarten- en atlassenuitgeverij tot in de negentiende eeuw, een overzicht.” In Gesneden en gedrukt in de Kalverstraat: De kaarten- en atlassendrukkerij in Amsterdam tot in de 19e eeuw, ed. Paul van den Brink and Jan Werner, 11–20. Utrecht: HES. Vries, Dirk de, et al. 2005. The Van Keulen Cartography, Amsterdam, 1680–1885. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto/Repro-Holland. Werner, Jan. 1994. Inde Witte Pascaert: Kaarten en atlassen van Frederick de Wit, uitgever te Amsterdam (ca. 1630–1706). Amsterdam: Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam; Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto.

Map Trade in Poland. The first published catalog of a

Polish bookseller was printed in Gdan´sk in 1672, but no copy has survived. The earliest extant catalogs date from 1679 and were published by Gillis Janssonius van

Waesberge (or van Waesbergen), the grandson of Amsterdam map publisher Johannes Janssonius, in Gdan´sk. In Warsaw, the first book catalog appeared in 1730, but only French and German titles were listed. Later, book catalogs started to appear in other cities of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth: in Poznan´ (1739), Kraków (1752), Vilnius (Wilno, 1760), Lviv (Lwów, 1765), and Torun´ (1791). In all, about 980 bookseller’s catalogs printed before 1800 are preserved in Polish institutions, most of them in only a single copy. The great majority, 787 catalogs, were published after 1765 and mostly issued by booksellers in Warsaw and Kraków. Typically these catalogs list from one to three hundred titles and might include atlases, maps, and other copperplate prints (Rudnicka 1975). After the occupation of Dresden by Prussian troops in September 1756, the elector of Saxony and Polish king August III moved his court to Warsaw. The influx of court officials, artists, and artisans significantly increased the production in that city of official and parliamentary prints, books, and newsletters and produced more favorable conditions for the development of printing houses and book stores. Over twenty printing houses were established in the second half of the eighteenth century in Warsaw (Korotajowa et al. 2001). Of particular interest is Michał Gröll, a printer, bookseller, and publisher who moved from Dresden to Warsaw in 1759 (Pawin´ski 1896). He very quickly published his first catalog in 1760, and the next year he began to auction books and copperplate engravings in the Royal Castle. In May 1763 he opened a bookstore and auction house at number 19 in the Marywil shopping and residential complex, and a few years later added a reading room and lending library. By 1778 he was the most important publisher in the entire Polish market. He imported publications from printing houses in many Commonwealth towns: Vilnius (Drukarnia Akademicka), Kraków (Drukarnia Greblów), Poznan´, Kalisz, Lublin, and Lviv, and from abroad, mainly France and Germany. He organized book stores in Lutsk (Łuck), Dubno, Berdychiv (Berdyczów), Łe.czna, Minsk (Min´sk), Hrodna (Grodno), Na. vahrudak (Nowogródek), Nyasvizh (Nies´wiez), Lublin, and Piotrków Trybunalski. He tried to introduce Polish books to foreign markets through book barters. He attended the Leipzig trade fair (Leipziger Messe) and established business contacts with booksellers from Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, and Wrocław (Breslau) (Staniszewski 1960–61). Gröll was the only Polish publisher in the second half of the eighteenth century to include maps and atlases in his output. One such work, which addressed children’s education and a new way to teach geography, was the Atlas dziecinny (1770 and later) by the Piarist father Dominik Szybin´ski (Gröll 1770, 5–6). The atlas featured twenty-four outline maps of different parts of the world

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Fig. 490. STUDY MAP OF POLAND. Map 17 in Dominik Szybin´ski, Atlas dziecinny czyli nowy sposob do nauczenia dzieci geografii, krotki, łatwy, y naydoskonalszy (Warsaw: Nakładem Michała Groella, 1772), between 112–13. Copper engraving. This map accompanies over one hundred pages of text in the atlas devoted to geographical descriptions of Poland by voivodeships. The text includes questions and answers that are keyed to the letters and numbers on this map. Size of the original: 9.5 × 12.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteka Uniwersytecka w Warszawie (5.13.5.51).

and a catechism-style text with questions like “What are the seas of Europe?” (fig. 490). A later catalog listed the 1772 edition of the atlas as selling for 10 złotych, 15 groszy (Gröll 1781, 8). Two copper-engraved sheet maps published by Gröll are also well known: Carte générale et nouvelle de toutte la Pologne du Grand Duché de Lithuanie et des pais limitrofes, engraved by Bartolomeo de Folino (1770), and Carte generale & itineraire de Pologne, by Charles (Herman Karol) de Perthées (1773) (Krassowski et al. 1982, 157, 162, 165–66). Gröll’s catalogs also listed maps lumped together with other engravings in a generic lot—“different copperplate engravings and geographical maps”—placed close to advertisements for Morocco snuff, playing cards, table clocks, and furniture (Gröll 1781, 48). In a 1769 catalog, Gröll made an extensive, and exceptional, announcement of atlases imported from abroad—Atlas des enfans, Atlas methodique, Atlas de la geographie, Atlas hist. de France, Atlas minor, and Atlas Britanicus (Gröll 1769, 4). The same catalog also listed several foreign geographic works including maps, such as Geographie, abregé de la, moderne & ancienne (1764) and Geographia di Claudio Tolomeo nuovam. trad. di greco in italiano, da Girolamo Ruscelli, Venetia, the latter obviously a used book, since it was last published 170 years earlier, in 1599 (Gröll 1769, 15). On 14 October 1773 the Sejm (parliament) created

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a commission on national education, Komisja Edukacji Narodowej, considered the first ministry of education. The commission and King Stanisław August Poniatowski, who supported Enlightenment ideals, stimulated the rapid development of Warsaw’s book trade. One of the commission’s supporters, Prince Adam Jerzy Czartoryski, invited Pierre (Piotr) Dufour, who was the printer and bookseller to the Sorbonne in Paris, to Poland. Dufour moved to Warsaw in 1775. After working independently, he was named in 1784 the general manager of Drukarnia Korpusu Kadetów, the printing house established in 1765 in the Szkoła Rycerska, the nobles’ academy of the corps of cadets, although he continued also to trade in his own publications. His catalogs were dominated by books in Polish, but most of these were translated works of literature and history. Dufour maintained very active sales all over the Polish state, sending peddlers to manors around the country. To improve sales he also employed traders and other booksellers from other towns throughout the Commonwealth, for example, in Hrodna, Lviv, and Kraków. In 1789, Dufour advertised Giovanni Antonio Rizzi Zannoni’s twenty-four sheet Carte de la Pologne (1772) (Dufour 1789, 2), but his catalogs normally do not mention sheet maps. Another Warsaw bookseller, Jan August Poser, who seems to have been in business from 1769 to 1796, issued a Katalog of just a few pages in 1776. Among the items advertised are “geographic plates” of Italy, Germany, France, and Poland priced at 15 groszy each, and the twenty-five-sheet Regni Poloniæ Magni Ducatus Lithvaniæ (1770) by Theodor Philipp von Pfau priced at 72 Italian florins (Poser 1776, unpaginated). The Kos´ciuszko Insurrection and war across the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in 1795 virtually stopped the distribution of books and printed maps. After 9 January 1796, Warsaw was under Prussian occupation, most local print houses and bookstores were closed, and there was a dramatic reduction in many public intellectual activities, including publishing and bookselling. Lucyna Szaniaw ska See also: Poland Bibliography Dufour, Pierre (Piotr). 1789. Katalog roznych ksiąg y komedyi. Warsaw: Drukarnia Korpusu Kadetów. Gröll, Michał. 1769. II. Supplement au Catalogue des livres nouveaux et autres qui se trouvent a Varsovie chez M. Groell. [Warsaw: Druk. Mitzlerowska]. . ———. 1770. Katalog niektorych ksiązek, ktore kosztem swoim, . częs´cią do druku podał, częs´cią tez pod prasą są. [Warsaw]: U Michała Grela. . ———. 1781. Katalog niektorych ksiązek w Polskim, Łacinskim, Niemieckim y Francuskim języku. Warsaw: Michał Gröll. Korotajowa, Krystyna, et al. 2001. Drukarze dawnej Polski od XV do XVIII wieku, vol. 3, pt. 2: Mazowsze z Podlasiem. Ed. Krystyna Korotajowa and Joanna Krauze-Karpin´ska. Warsaw: Instytut Badan´ Literackich; Stowarzyszenie “Pro Cultura Litteraria.”

844 Krassowski, Bogusław, et al. 1982. Ws´ród starych map i atlasów Biblioteki Narodowej w Warszawie = Among the Old Maps and Atlases of the National Library in Warsaw = Parmi les vieilles cartes et les vieux atlas de la Bibliothèque Nationale à Varsovie. Warsaw: Biblioteka Narodowa. Pawin´ski, Adolf. 1896. Michał Gröll: Obrazek na tle epoki stanisła. wowskiej z dodaniem spisu wydawnictw Grölla ułozonego przez Zygmunta Wolskiego. Kraków: Nakład G. Gebethnera i Spółki. Poser, Jan August. 1776. Katalog ksiąg polskich ktore znayduią się u Jana Augusta Posera. Warsaw: U Jana Augusta Posera. Rudnicka, Jadwiga. 1975. Bibliografia katalogów ksie.garskich wydanych w Polsce do kon´ca wieku XVIII. Warsaw: Biblioteka Narodowa. Staniszewski, Zdzisław. 1960–61. “Gröll, Michał (1722–1798).” In Polski słownik biograficzny, 9:35–36. Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy Imienia Ossolin´skich, Wydawnictwo Polskiej Akademii Nauk.

Map Trade in Portugal. New maps of recently explored geographic regions entered Europe from Portuguese sources during the Enlightenment. These maps circulated in manuscript form through a network of participants directly involved in the military, diplomatic, missionary, and commercial aspects of Portugal’s maritime expansion. From the sixteenth century, despite attempts to control their circulation, such maps reached French, Dutch, German, and British cities, where they were engraved, published, and ultimately sold back to Portugal and its empire. Few Portuguese maps were published for commercial trade during the eighteenth century. However, the establishment of the Academia Real de História Portugueza in 1720 helped to promote not only the acquisition of maps for historical research, but also the engraving of maps for inclusion in works sponsored by the institution. During the reign of José I (1750–77), the Crown employed the engravers at the Academia to produce detailed prints, sheet music, and maps. The Crown also encouraged the production of hydrographic charts as an important complement to nautical roteiros, which already enjoyed some dissemination. By the end of the eighteenth century, the famous editorial house Real Fábrica de Impressão de Música, employing the engraver Francisco Domingos Milcent, printed maritime guides and maps in addition to sheet music. A significant change in printed cartographic production occurred with the founding of the Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica in Lisbon in 1798 and the Casa Litteraria do Arco do Cego in 1799. The Sociedade Real defined for the first time an official policy for the printing and sale of maps within the Portuguese Empire. The new institution’s objectives included the examination, correction, and approval for sale of all published maps, both national and foreign. The Officina da Casa Litteraria do Arco do Cego employed highly skilled engravers responsible for the creation of charts and maps to be sent throughout the Portuguese Empire.

Map Trade

With the transfer of the royal Portuguese court to Rio de Janeiro in 1807, some of the specialists from these institutions were incorporated into the Impressão Régia, or royal press, which continued the work from 1809 in Portuguese America. The map trade in Portugal and its empire can be characterized by the commission, importation, and acquisition from abroad of many thousands of published maps, atlases, separate sheets from atlases, various maps inserted in books, and wall maps. The best means for evaluating the quantity and diversity of these purchases are the customs registers and information from the office of the Real Mesa Censória, the royal censor, which controlled the entry of works by prohibited authors into the Portuguese Empire. These records contain information about the arrival of books, engravings, and maps from Germany, Holland, France, and Italy, and from specific cities—Hamburg, Amsterdam, Ostend, London, Genoa, Venice, and Cádiz (fig. 491) (Marques 1983). The trade in books, engravings, and maps in Lisbon was controlled by booksellers and foreign book merchants, particularly the French, who formed a tight network of families originating from Monestier de Briançon (now Monêtier-les-Bains, Hautes-Alpes). From the second quarter of the eighteenth century, Lisbon hosted these families: Aillaud, Bertrand, Bonnardel, Borel, Carbbonnel, Collomb, and Rey, as well as Reycent, from Turin, but with roots also in Monestier. Their establishments were concentrated around the Portas de Santa Catarina in Lisbon. Trade also occurred from the houses of engravers and editors, in convents, and in the hostels where street sellers were based. Many copies of the most popular maps indicate their place of sale in the city and even the price (Domingos 2000; Curto et  al. 2006). From Lisbon, maps were distributed to clients throughout Portugal and the cities in its colonies in South America and Asia. As in other countries, much of the Portuguese book trade took place in the markets of small cities and towns (Viseu, Évora, Setúbal, Golegã). The great publishers of Geneva, Neuchâtel, and Lyon sent their products directly to Portuguese clients in Lisbon, Coimbra (especially to the libraries of the University of Coimbra), and Braga (a religious center). Booksellers in Lisbon sent maps to be sold in Goa and Macau, but the principal export cities were in Brazil: Rio de Janeiro, Bahia, Recife, São Luís do Maranhão, and Belém do Pará. The inventories of Brazilian booksellers at the end of the eighteenth century reveal that the consumption of geography books and maps was quite large, although small in comparison to that of religious works or medical and legal texts (Araujo 1999, 235; Verri 2006, 1:101). In the cities of Portuguese America there was prac-

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Fig. 491. THE RANGE OF COMMERCE OF MAPS AND ATLASES BETWEEN PORTUGAL, THE REST OF EUROPE, AND HER OVERSEAS POSSESSIONS IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

tically no specialization in the book trade. Books, engraved prints, and even maps were sold along with other goods in fabric shops, hardware stores, and general supply stores. To acquire maps it was necessary to rely on commercial agents of the Crown who could obtain authorization from royal and inquisitorial censors. Advertising for the purchase and sale of maps appeared in book catalogs and periodicals, such as the gazettes that from the beginning of the century included notices of both the infrequent Portuguese publications and books and maps imported from northern Europe. The main buyers were the royal libraries (Lisbon and Mafra) and the academies, aristocracy and elite courtiers, diplomats, scholars, public servants, military institutions, religious orders (especially the Jesuits), and booksellers themselves (Mariette 1996–2003; Almeida 1991). After the end of the War of the Spanish Succession in 1714, when the Portuguese Crown was forced to protect its threatened maritime possessions, Portuguese ambassadors built a European network of cartographic exchange by commissioning maps from foreign booksellers and buying private collections. The resulting maps reached the secretaries of state, the military academies, and the collections of aristocratic families. In the military academies, teachers who wrote, translated, and published handbooks had also organized collections of charts, plans of military forts, and topographical maps,

most of which were foreign and were acquired either through purchase or as gifts. In Brazil, India, and China, the Portuguese Jesuit colleges not only produced original maps, both public and confidential, but also maintained astronomical observatories and libraries that constantly acquired new books, atlases, maps, and scientific instruments. The inventories of college holdings attest to the significant presence of wall maps used to adorn libraries, dining rooms, and dormitories in addition to their use in teaching (Osswald 2011, 83). Often the income from the Jesuit pharmacies was invested in the importation and resale of books and printed engravings. Auctions of libraries and private collections, especially in Lisbon, offered another venue for the map trade for both manuscript maps and printed atlases. After the Napoleonic armies sacked the Portuguese archives following the peace in Europe, Portuguese maps appeared in Parisian auction catalogs, such as the Catalogue des livres rares et précieux de la Bibliothèque de Mgr Le Duc d’Abrantes (1813), describing the collection of Jean-Andoche Junot, who had commanded the occupation of Lisbon in 1807. Maps circulated through family inheritances, were sold as precious and decorative objects, or traveled the hidden routes of robbery, contraband, and espionage. During periods of war, the clandestine purchase and sale

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of manuscript maps skirted political, diplomatic, and military policies of secrecy. Particularly energetic was the pursuit of cartographic images depicting colonial territories, such as the maps of South America produced in the second half of the eighteenth century when the Portuguese Crown was systematically endeavoring to map and demarcate its empire. Í r i s K a n to r a n d J oão C a r lo s Garcia See also: Map Collecting: Portugal; Portugal Bibliograp hy Almeida, Luís Ferrand de. 1991. “D. João V e a Biblioteca Real.” Revista da Universidade de Coimbra 36:413–38. Araujo, Jorge de Souza. 1999. Perfil do leitor colonial. Ilhéus: Editora da UESC. Curto, Diogo Ramada, et al. 2006. As gentes do livro: Lisboa, século XVIII. Lisbon: Biblioteca Nacional. Domingos, Manuela D. 2000. Livreiros de setecentos. Lisbon: Biblioteca Nacional. Faria, Miguel Figueira de. 2005. “A imagem impressa: Produção, comércio e consumo de gravura no final do Antigo Regime.” PhD diss., Universidade do Porto. Mariette, Pierre-Jean. 1996–2003. Catalogues de la collection d’estampes de Jean V, roi de Portugal. 3 vols. Ed. Marie-Thérèse Mandroux-França and Maxime Préaud. Paris: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian (Centre Culturel Calouste Gulbenkian); Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France; Lisbon: Fundação da Casa de Bragança. Marques, Maria Adelaide Salvador. 1983. “Pombalismo e cultura média: Meios para um diagnóstico através da Real Mesa Censória.” In Como interpretar Pombal? No bicentenário da sua morte, 185–212. Lisbon: Edições Brotéria. Osswald, Cristina. 2011. “Ambientes jesuítas no Brasil à data da supressão.” Bulletin for Spanish and Portuguese Historical Studies 35, no. 1: 69–86. Verri, Gilda Maria Whitaker. 2006. Tinta sobre papel: Livros e leituras em Pernambuco no século XVIII, 1759–1807. 2 vols. Recife: Governo de Pernambucco, Secretaria de Educação e Cultura; Recife: Editora Universitária UFPE.

Map Trade in Russia. Similar to other cartographic practices in Russia, the map trade may be viewed in two phases: the first in the late seventeenth century, and the second during the eighteenth century. These two phases differed in the manner of cartographic production. The cartographic documents of the first period were in manuscript and therefore unique, and the items of the second were engraved and reproduced. During the first phase, the map trade was part of the book trade, which had existed in Russia since the twelfth century (Marin and Osipov 1974–80; Polivanovskiy 1974; Sikorskiy 1982). About a million manuscript books had been in circulation from the twelfth to the fifteenth century. Not only feudal lords, clergy, and rich men, but also craftspeople and peasants were among the consumers of books. Books differed in quality from parchment and paper to beresta (top layer of bark). This book trade was widespread but not well organized. From many small counters under awnings, so-called polatki, runduki, or shkapchiki, salesmen

(sidel’tsy) produced manuscript copies of books on request (Sikorskiy 1982, 268). Later in the sixteenth century, a special row of booksellers, the knizhniy ryad, was established in the market place (torg) of Moscow. The second-hand market for books and prints (lubok) was located at the entrance to the Kremlin on the Spasskiy Krestets. In addition, door-to-door salesmen engaged in the book trade. The Moscow printing house Moskovskiy pechatnyy dvor, founded in 1588, established several bookshops (knizhnyye lavki) and a book warehouse (knizhnaya kazna). Book prices were fixed by the czars based on the cost of materials and printing, and state printing employees were paid their living expenses (kormleniye). By 1654, numerous bookshops had been founded in other towns such as Novgorod, Chernihiv, even in Yeniseysk on the Siberian frontier. It is not known whether maps formed a regular part of this trade. Considering that mapping in Old Russia was the exclusive right of the state, it is safe to assume that maps were not regular articles of free trade. Johannes Keuning’s 1953 description of Isaac Massa’s attempts to obtain maps in Russia in the beginning of the seventeenth century supports this supposition. However, manuscript copies of available maps could be made on request (Sikorskiy 1982). A genuine map trade started with copperplate engraving and printing. To fulfill a growing demand for maps, several cartographic printing houses with privileges for maps were founded almost concurrently (Pekarskiy 1862; Rovinskiy 1899; Fel’ 1960). The first step was the establishment of a roller press by Jan Tessing of Amsterdam. In May 1698, Peter I granted Tessing a privilege for fifteen years for the sale of all his printed works, including maps, and further ordered that all other printed works imported into Russia be confiscated by the treasury. Tessing’s unexpected death in 1702 ended this arrangement. In October 1698, the Dutch engraver Adriaan Schoonebeek was employed under the czar’s edict to engrave and print books, charts, maps, and other sheets. By contract, Schoonebeek would receive any profit from the trade in his work. During his seven years’ residence in Moscow, Schoonebeek produced eighteen maps and several cartouches for maps by others. Under the jurisdiction of the armory board, Oruzheynaya palata, Schoonebeek’s maps were sold in the Moscow bookshops, and by himself privately. Peter Picart was invited to Russia in 1702 at the instigation of Schoonebeek and was until 1708 the engraver of the Oruzheynaya palata and then the engraving master of the Moskovskiy pechatnyy dvor, where he worked with his pupils until they were sent on to St. Petersburg in 1714. The czar’s edict of 30 May 1705 set up a civilian press, Grazhdanskaya tipografiya, in Moscow “for printing and selling various books and sheets required

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Fig. 492. S. PETROPOLIS 1703. One of the first map images compiled in the civilian press of Vasiliy Onufriyevich Kipriyanov. The image of the Petropavlovsk fortress was published in the arithmetic manual Novyy sposob arifmetiki, feoriki ili zritelnyya by Kipriyanov in 1705. Copper engraving. Size of the original: 10 × 12 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Manuscript Department, 8 PФ/P 58).

by citizens” (Borisovskaya 1992, 204). Vasiliy Onufriyevich Kipriyanov, as the chief of the press, asked that Yakov Vilimovich Bryus supervise its work. From 1706 on, typographic publishing under the aegis of the Artilleriyskiy prikaz was subordinate to Bryus. Maps had formed a significant part of the press’s production (thirteen maps in a total of twenty-nine items published) (fig. 492), and the products were sold from Kipriyanov’s polatka and from the library at the Spasskiye Vorota (one of the entrances to the Kremlin), which opened in 1714. This library functioned both as an office supervising all Moscow booksellers and as a lending library (Borodin 1936). In 1711, printing began in St. Petersburg, and several civil presses and printing houses of different authorities were established. During the eighteenth century, there were about twenty institutions with presses specialized for printing maps. Among them were the Akademiya nauk, Admiralteystv kollegiya, the Geograficheskiy departament of the Sobstvennaya ego imperatorskogo velichestva kantselariya, Moscow and St. Petersburg civil presses, St. Petersburg synodal press, Morskaya akademiya (later Morskoy shlyakhetskiy kadetskiy korpus and Morskoy kadetskiy korpus), the Gornoye uchilishche, the Voyenno-polevyye gravipoval’nyye masterskiye, the Oruzheynaya palata, Picart’s workshops, and the Komissiya ob uchrezhdenii narodnykh uchilishch. From 1714, the number of bookshops associated with these

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institutions, presses, and workshops also rose. However, in the first third of the eighteenth century the map trade was not very brisk. A moderate increase in the map trade began after the engraving board, Graviroval’naya palata, of the Akademiya nauk was established (Alekseyeva, Vinogradov, and Pyatnitskiy 1985). The Graviroval’naya palata existed from 1724 to 1805 and produced the overwhelming majority of Russian maps, prints, plates, images, portraits, tables, and graphs for scientific and artistic literature during this period. Several thousand copperplates were prepared by the Graviroval’naya palata, of which maps formed about one-third (Alekseyeva, Vinogradov, and Pyatnitskiy 1985, 36–37). The map board, or Landkartnaya palata, was established in 1730 as a special department of the Graviroval’naya palata to produce maps and atlases, and in 1759 it fell under the authority of the Geograficheskiy departament of the Akademiya nauk. In 1728, the Knizhnaya palata of the Akademiya nauk was opened with a bookshop where all the products of the Graviroval’naya palata were sold. Atlases were usually offered for sale unbound. The copperplates of the Graviroval’naya palata were stored in the academy press during the eighteenth century and in the nineteenth century were moved to the academy bookshop, where orders for imprints were taken. In the early 1740s and in the 1760s all the accumulated copperplates were inventoried and additional impressions were produced. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the cartographic copperplates were transferred to the map depot, the Ego imperatorskogo velichestva depo kart (or simply Depo kart). The products of the Graviroval’naya palata were sold until the middle of nineteenth century. The map engravers who worked for the Graviroval’naya palata included Georg Johann Unverzagt, Aleksey Fedorovich Zubov, Ottomar Elliger, Ivan Alekseyevich Sokolov, Mikhail Ivanovich Makhayev, Vasiliy Andreyevich Kudryavtsev, Andrey Seme¨ novich Medvedev, Kirill Fedorovich (Kirillovich?) Frolov, and Prokhor Rodionovich Kholodov. Their most famous works were Atlas vserossiyskoy imperii by Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov (1731–34), the Atlas Rossiyskoy (1745), and Plan imperatorskago stolichnago goroda Moskvy by Ivan Fedorovich Michurin (1741) (see fig. 925). The Moscow plan was in such high demand by customers of the academy bookshop that its copperplates were reengraved several times. The Plan stolichnago goroda Sanktpeterburga in nine sheets (1753) with its accompanying album of twelve prospective views, in constant demand both in Russia and abroad, became the work most reproduced by the Graviroval’naya palata. Information about printed works for sale in the academy Knizhnaya palata and other bookshops was

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published in trade catalogs (inventories and registers titled rospisi and reyestry). Altogether, more than two hundred such publications were issued in the eighteenth century. The listings did not always contain information about maps, but descriptions of maps for sale were inserted (Anonymous 1748, 1763, 1771). Sometimes advertisements were used instead of rospisi or reyestr. For example, a thousand copies of the special promotional booklet for the Atlas Rossiyskoy, prepared by the Akademiya nauk, were printed in 1745 and delivered to all offices of the academy bookshop, where the Atlas could be purchased unbound. The General’naya karta Rossiyskoi imperii, like the other maps of the Atlas, could be bought separately for eighty kopecks. In 1755–60, the academy bookshop sold about one hundred copies of this map. Due to popular demand, from 1749 to 1762 the bookshop made several requests to the academy press for supplemental printings of twenty-five, fifty, and one hundred copies of the Atlas. In 1747, the promotional booklet also was reprinted (Svodnyy katalog, 66 [nos. 344, 345]; Gnucheva 1946, 79; Alekseyeva, Vinogradov, and Pyatnitskiy 1985, 36–37, 175–211). The bookshop of the Knizhnaya palata had branches in Moscow and the provinces. Two Russian newspapers, Sanktpeterburgskiye Vedomosti (published by the Akademiya nauk 1728–1917) and Moskovskiya Vedomosti (1756–1917), and other Russian periodicals constantly published lists of recently printed works, noting their number of pages, both as news and as supplements to the newspapers. Because book sale proceeds brought income to the Akademiya nauk, one of the directors of the Knizhnaya palata supervised its trade on a commission basis. Book dealers of this kind working for the benefit of Akademiya nauk and for other official institutions with presses often published their own rospisi. These small traders’ catalogs looked like composition books with a home address indicated in the title (e.g., Anonymous 1784). Due to their ephemeral nature, they rarely survive to the present. Bibliographers at the beginning of nineteenth century counted more than one hundred of them. In addition, book peddlers (knigonoshi, ofeni) encouraged the retail book trade, with marketplaces located in Moscow at the Sukharevskaya Tower and Kitay-gorod and in St. Petersburg at Gostinyy dvor and Apraksin dvor (fig. 493). Until 1771, all the printing houses had been established and supported by the government and directed by official institutions. In March 1771, the first private press, that of Johann Michael Hartung, opened in St. Petersburg. By the end of the century, there were ten official presses in St. Petersburg, five in Moscow, thirtynine in the provincial centers (among them Astrakhan, Chernihiv, Yekaterinburg, Ekaterinoslavl’ [Dnipropet-

Map Trade

Fig. 493. THE PRICE OF SELLING ITEMS DEPENDED ON THE CITY. In this list, the price is shown in two versions, for Saint Petersburg and Moscow. Detail from Rospis’ Rossiyskim knigam, morskim kartam, gravirovannym prospektam i portretam, kotoryye prodayutsya pri Tipografii Morskago i Kadetskago Korpusa (St. Petersburg, 1779), 8. Size of the entire original: 20 × 14 cm; size of detail: ca. 13.5 × 14.0 cm. Image courtesy of Rossiyskaya gosudarstvennaya biblioteka, Moscow (Rare Books Department, Code No. CK XVIII 8906).

rovsk], Irkutsk, Kaluga, Kazan’, Kostroma, Kursk, Perm’, Ryazan’, Simbirsk, Tambov, Tobol’sk, Tver, Ufa, Vladimir, Voronezh). There also were more than twenty private presses. The most famous of these were owned by Vasiliy Alekseyevich Plavil’shchikov, publisher and bookseller, who in his bookshop opened a reading library and published more than three hundred books, and by Nikolay Ivanovich Novikov, a philosopher, writer, journalist, and publisher, who organized several presses, libraries, and bookshops in sixteen cities, and who published books on all the fields of knowledge. Vasiliy Stepanovich Sopikov played an important role in the development of the book trade in Russia. His outstanding achievements in bibliography (1813–21) describe more than thirteen thousand printed works published in Russia until the beginning of the nineteenth century and has served as the main reference book on the history of Russian printing. Also in the late eighteenth century, a whole series of private book trade enterprises (knizhnaya torgovlya) were established. However, a senate decree of 1796 closed all the private and free presses—the majority joined the district government enterprises—but the  book trade institutions continued their activities.

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The first private business completely specializing in map production and sales was that of Aleksey Afinogenovich Il’in. In 1859, Il’in, along with Vladimir Aleksandrovich Poltoratskiy of the General Staff, founded a private lithographic press to prepare a military-historical atlas. In 1863, Il’in became the sole owner of the business and in 1864 renamed it Kartograficheskoye zavedeniye. L i u d mila Zinch uk See also: Kipriyanov, Vasiliy Onufriyevich; Map Collecting: Russia; Russia B i bliogra p hy Alekseyeva, M. A., Yu. A. Vinogradov, and Yu. A. Pyatnitskiy. 1985. Graviroval’naya palata Akademii nauk XVIII veka: Sbornik dokumentov. Ed. B. V. Levshin. Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo “Nauka.” Anonymous. 1748. Reyestr landkartam, chertezham i planam Rossiyskoy Imperii, nakhodyashchimsya v Geograficheskom departamente pri Imp. Akademii nauk. St. Petersburg: Akademiya nauk. Anonymous. 1763. Reyestr Rossiyskim knigam, kotoryye prodayutsya v Knizhney lavke Imperatorskago Moskovskago Universiteta. Moscow. Anonymous. 1771. Rospis’ Rossiyskim knigam, portretam i landkartam, kotoryye Imperatorskago Akademii nauk napechatany i v Knizhney lavke pri odnoy Akademii bez pereplyota prodayutsya. St. Petersburg: Akademiya nauk. Anonymous. 1784. Rospis’ Rossiyskim knigam, kotoryye prodayutsya pri Imperatorskago Sukhoputnom shlyakhetskom kadetskom korpuse, u knigoprodavtsa i pereplyotchika Samoily Shelia, zhivushchego podle Manezha v derevyannom dome. St. Petersburg: Tipografiya Sukhoputnago Kadetskago Korpusa. Borisovskaya, Natal’ya A. 1992. Starinnyye gravirovannyye karty i plany XV–XVIII vekov. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Galaktika.” Borodin, A. V. 1936. “Moskovskaya grazhdanskaya tipografiya i bibliotekari Kiprianovy.” Trudy Instituta Knigi, Dokumenta, Pis’ma, 5:53–109. Fel’, S. Ye. 1960. Kartografiya Rossii XVIII veka. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo Geodezicheskoy Literatury. Gnucheva, V. F. 1946. Geograficheskiy departament Akademii nauk XVIII veka. Ed. A. I. Andreyev. Moscow-Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk SSSR. Keuning, Johannes. 1953. “Isaac Massa, 1586–1643.” Imago Mundi 10:65–79. Marin, A. P., and V. O. Osipov, eds. 1974–80. Knizhnaya torgovlya: Issledovaniya i materialy. 7 vols. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Kniga.” Pekarskiy, P. 1862. Nauka i literatura v Rossii pri Petre Velikom. St. Petersburg: Obshchestvennaya Pol’za. Polivanovskiy, S. Ye. 1974. Moscovskiye knizhniki. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Kniga.” Rovinskiy, D. A. 1899. Ukazatel’ imen i predmetov. Comp. E. N. Tevyashov. St. Petersburg: Akademiya nauk. Sikorskiy, N. M., et al. 1982. Knigovedeniye: Entsiklopedicheskiy slovar’. Moscow: Izdatel’stvo “Sovetskaya Entsiklopediya.” Sopikov, Vasiliy Stepanovich. 1813–21. Opyt Rossiyskoy bibliografii. 5 vols. St. Petersburg: Tipografiya Imperatorskago Teatra. Svodnyy katalog russkoy knigi grazhdanskoy pechati XVIII veka, 1725–1800. 1962. Vol. 1. Moscow: Izdaniye Gosudarstvennoy Biblioteki CCCR imeni V. I. Lenina.

Map Trade in Spain. Published map catalogs testify elo-

quently to the presence of an active cartographic trade in Spain. The oldest ones date from the second-half of the eighteenth century. Tomás López, the first Spanish

geographer to open an establishment specializing in the production and sale of maps in Madrid in 1760, published successive catalogs. With the exception of the French Atlas d’Espagne et de Portugal (1762), there is no evidence that he distributed imported maps, a task undertaken by booksellers. His son Juan López put his stock, imports, and works from other Spanish authors within the reach of Spanish society’s pocketbooks. Before this period, booksellers had traditionally sold cartographic products, especially atlases. Tomás López, during his student years in Paris (1752–60), and Juan de la Cruz Cano y Olmedilla, during his entire life, sold their maps through booksellers based in Madrid. Advertisements in the Gaceta de Madrid reveal their names and the cartographic works they imported. There is less information available for book merchants established in cities such as Barcelona, Valencia, Zaragoza, and Cádiz (Capel 1990). Estamperos (printsellers) and engravers also competed in this trade. They were fewer in number than the booksellers, but they performed as efficiently in selling maps produced in Madrid as publishers of maps in Catalonia, Valencia, and the Balearic Islands. Among the engravers, Pablo Minguet in Madrid stands out. He offered a map of the Iberian Peninsula, an elementary atlas—the first produced in Spain (1763) (Hernando 2005, 21)—and several sheets illustrated with maps and instructional text (fig. 494). Minguet’s catalog lists his cartographic works with prices and choices of presentation. Another source for the map trade may be found in the notices of acquisitions through inheritances, auctions, and bankruptcies of widows and heirs, especially during the seventeenth century. The increase in cartographic works edited, number of establishments, and advertisements posted during the course of the eighteenth century evoke a growing map trade. Nonetheless, it does not seem to have been a particularly lucrative mercantile endeavor. Tomás López intimates bitterly the paltry demand for his goods (López 1775–83, 1:XI). This commercial weakness was a response to more general cultural, economic, and social factors. Monies invested in culture were limited, as were the material resources and means available for the geographic education of society, which were not very attentive to developments in scientific knowledge. A dearth of competent map engravers and geographers with the prestige and economic or commercial interests to sustain such trade forced some of the market to move abroad. A desire to improve Spanish society’s geographic awareness prompted Pedro Gendrón, an editor of Portuguese origins who was established in Paris, to publish several atlases in Spanish including the Atlas ô compendio geographico del globo terestre (1756) and Atlas ô compendio geographico que comprende las provincias de España y la America (1758)—two French

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manuals of geography translated into Spanish by Juan Manuel Girón. Gendrón also published a folio atlas with maps signed in Paris and London; no complete copy exists, only loose map sheets. Given the scarcity of copies and traces of these publications, Gendrón’s initiative does not appear to have been particularly successful. As the frontispiece on the 1756 atlas indicates, they were sold at bookstores in Madrid, Cádiz, and Lisbon and later by Juan López (Hernando 2005, 14–15). Evidence indicates that the map trade intensified in the second half of the eighteenth century. Thanks to Tomás López, Spanish society had within its reach maps of different Spanish regions, the colonies, and other countries. Not until the end of the century do the first educational atlases of geography (1792) and history (1801) appear, as well as Tomás López’s most ambitious cartographic work: Atlas geográfico de España (finished in 1792). His son Juan completed the job by publishing an Atlas universal (1817) (Hernando 2005, 24). Several factors contributed to this growth in trade. First, the political realization of society’s intellectual backwardness and its economic consequences and the awareness of achievements attained in neighboring France inspired the drafting of several proposals for a carta geográfica de España. Second, with the advent of the Bourbons and the Enlightenment, secrecy surrounding cartographic work disappeared; it was recognized that this policy had hurt political administration and economic development the most. What had developed as a defensive strategy protecting Spanish interests was now understood as inefficient and harmful. Finally, progressive economic recovery and the cultural enrichment of society contributed to increasing consumption, both by newly created institutions as well as by more traditional segments, such as the nobility, bourgeoisie, scholars, clergy, and professionals. Notwithstanding these healthy stimuli, in the face of scarce documentary evidence and preserved works, the map trade does not seem to have been very buoyant. In a few cities, such as Madrid, Barcelona, and Valencia, which enjoyed higher economic well-being and availability of local cartographic works, there was an increase in the supply and second editions of some of these works. A g u s tín H ernand o See also: López de Vargas Machuca, Tomás; Map Collecting: Spain; Spain

(facing page) Fig. 494. PABLO MINGUET, MAPA MUNDI, CON LOS MERIDIANOS, Y PARALELOS IGUALES COMO LOS DEL GLOBO TERE (MADRID, 1760). Minguet, an engraver working in Madrid, offered pedagogic broadsheets such as this with instructional text to explain the map.

Bibliography Capel, Horacio. 1990. “El público y la circulación de obras de geografía en la España del siglo XVIII.” In La Ciencia y su público: Perspectivas históricas, comp. Javier Ordóñez and Alberto Elena, 225–310. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Hernando, Agustín. 2005. El Atlas geográfico de España (1804) producido por Tomás López. Madrid: Dirección General del Instituto Geográfico Nacional. ———. 2008. El geógrafo Juan López (1765–1825) y el comercio de mapas en España. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Ediciones Doce Calles. López, Tomás. 1775–83. Principios geográficos, aplicados al uso de los mapas. 2 vols. Madrid: D. Joachin Ibarra.

Map Trade in Sweden-Finland. Map publishing in Sweden-Finland was limited in the period 1650–1800. Before 1735 it was forbidden to publish maps based on data from Lantmäterikontoret (land survey office). Only some fifty maps were published until that year, half of them in books (figs. 495 and 496). The only large undertaking was the Baltic chart book General hydrographisk chart-book öfwer Östersiön, och Katte-Gatt by Werner

Fig. 495. TOTAL NUMBER OF MAPS PRINTED IN SWEDEN-FINLAND BY DECADE, 1611–1800. Almost all of the total 316 maps were printed in Sweden; fewer than 10 were printed in Finland (all in Åbo [Turku]). An analysis of type of map in each decade is shown in figure 496. Data compiled by Göran Bäärnhielm from the Libris online database; Carl Gustaf Warmholtz, Bibliotheca historica sueo-gothica: Eller Förtekning uppå så väl trykte, som handskrifne böcker, tractater och skrifter, hvilka handla om svenska historien, vol.1, Sveriges geographie (Stockholm: Trykt hos Anders Jac. Nordström, 1782), 1–38; and the Kungliga Svenska Vetenskapsakademiens Handlingar.

Size of the original: 14.5 × 17.5 cm (map); 27.5 × 18.0 cm (page). Private collection.

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Fig. 496. PROPORTION OF MAPS PRINTED IN SWEDENFINLAND BY DECADE AND CATEGORY, 1611–1800. The categories are Lantmäteriet (land survey) maps, sea charts, separately published maps, maps in published (not composite) atlases, maps in academic dissertations, maps in the Kung-

liga Svenska Vetenskapsakademiens Handlingar (1739–), and maps in books. See figure 495 for data sources. Note the varying quantity of maps counted in each decade; total numbers are not reflected in this figure.

von Rosenfeldt and Petter Gedda printed in Amsterdam 1696 in Swedish, Dutch, and English editions. The new demands of the Enlightenment for economic and scientific progress encouraged the lifting of map secrecy. Lantmäteriet applied to the king for the right to publish, and from 1739 until 1793 it printed some twenty-five maps. Map publishing increased threefold during this time but remained a costly and risky business. There is scant evidence for how these maps reached their consumers. In 1697, Stockholm printer-bookbinder Henrik Keyser had in stock twenty copies of Rosenfeldt’s navigation handbook (Navigationen eller styrmans-konsten, 1693) with the first entirely Swedish chart, a precursor to the Baltic chart book, assessed at twenty-four öre (Schück 1923, 1:242). Such a sales price would be equivalent to the price of one kilo of bacon or four kilos of herring, or half the wage for one day of heavy work in the mines (Lagerqvist and Åberg 1994, 63). The first book auctions that included Swedish maps were held in 1730 and 1732; Lantmäteriet maps appeared at auctions in 1742, but not until 1766 and

1775 were these maps included in booksellers’ catalogs. Anders Åkerman’s globes of 1759 and later were sold through the Vetenskapsakademien and specific shops and were also exported. The map trade was itself part of the book trade, which had begun about 1520 and was managed by traveling booksellers, usually from Germany, or by local printers and bookbinders competing for the right to sell bound books. According to the bookbinders’ guild statutes of 1630, the import of books by foreign booksellers was restricted; only books illustrated with maps and prints were allowed. As an exception, the Amsterdam publisher Johannes Janssonius was engaged as the state printer from 1647 until 1656, although he never lived in Sweden, running his business through agents. His Stockholm bookshop issued extensive sales catalogs, including several atlases and maps published by himself and by Gerardus Mercator, Joan Blaeu, Pieter Goos, and Nicolas Sanson. By about 1700, there were fourteen printer-publishers in Sweden. Finland had only three and no real publishing

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trade. In 1750 there were ten booksellers in Stockholm, twenty in 1775 and seventeen in 1800 (statistics compiled from Bonnier and Hånell 1935). The leading booksellers between 1750 and 1770—Gottfried Kiesewetter, Lars Salvius, and Carl Christoffer Gjörwell—issued catalogs that occasionally mentioned a few maps. Later, the big enterprises of Johan Christoffer Holmberg (from 1766 to 1803) and Anton Fyrberg (from 1776 to 1813) issued stock lists of thirty to sixty maps, mainly Swedish, German, and French but also some English, Spanish, and Russian. Outside Stockholm, Horrn in Västerås and Hjelm in Norrköping were well-stocked in maps. In Finland, a bookstore was founded in the university town of Turku (Åbo) in 1723. Beside market sales, maps and charts such as those from Olof Rudbeck’s Atlantica (Atlands) were auctioned. An auctioneer set up in Helsinki in 1759. Printers and bookbinders, clergymen, school directors, and cathedral chapter clerks were agents for Swedish book suppliers in Turku, Porvoo, Helsinki, Loviisa, and Vaasa, and later in Kuopio and Hämeenlinna (Tavastehus). Although efficient, the postal services to Finland sometimes had difficulties such as bad weather that made the route via Åland impassable. Good communications favored Germany, as Leipzig had foreign book agents in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. These agents also worked in Tallinn, through which maps came to Finland. One means of advertising was the first newspaper, Tidningar utgifne af et sällskap i Åbo, founded in 1771, with over 370 book advertisements dealing with geography and travel from the late eighteenth century on. Turku had about ten bookstores in the late eighteenth century.

There was brisk trading in Finland by colporteurs (men going from village to village selling books and maps) (Laine 2006). In addition, preserved records attest to fifty-five auctions with ninety-two lots in the period 1747–1806 with a peak in the war year 1789: thirty-three auctions took place in Helsinki, and three to seven auctions in the towns of Oulu, Porvoo, Tornio, and Turku, resulting in sales of 112 single maps, 26 volumes containing 624  maps, and 20  volumes with unspecified content, accounting for around 800–900 maps, 50  sellers, and 59  buyers. Among these were seafarers who auctioned nautical charts. (Figures compiled from the Henrik online database of books and their owners in Finland to 1809.) In Sweden, maps were also sold by other merchants, e.g., Joseph Schürer Sr. from Bohemia, seller of glass and fancy goods at his Storkyrkobrinken shop in Stockholm. He marketed Åkerman’s globes (Björkbom 1936, 207) and is listed, together with one “Mr. Allardi” at Lantmäteriet, as Homann’s agent in Stockholm from 1742 to 1759 (Bäärnhielm 2003). Schürer’s son Joseph Jr. continued selling Åkerman globes, also for export in 1772 (Lagerquist 1981, 187), maps, atlases, and geographical instruments. In addition to map publishing and the map trade, book auctions were also part of the picture. In SwedenFinland they are documented in printed catalogs from 1664 held in Kungliga biblioteket and in the Stockholm Bokauktionskammaren records (since 1781 in Stadsarkivet). As in bookshops, maps were only a tiny sector of the trade. Between 1692 and 1800, over two thousand lots of maps were auctioned (fig. 497), usually one or two at each auction; only ten auctions included more

Fig. 497. NUMBER OF LOTS OF MAPS SOLD ANNUALLY AT SWEDISH BOOK AUCTIONS, 1692–1805. The implications of the data are rather uncertain, as the number of maps within a lot was not always specified. One of the largest single auctions for maps was Johan Norn’s auction in May 1737, in which twenty-five numbered lots included 319 maps, exclud-

ing globes, or 12–13 maps per lot. Lots also included atlases as well as individual maps. Data compiled by Göran Bäärnhielm from printed auction catalogs in Kungliga biblioteket, Stockholm, and from manuscript auction records (1781–) in Stockholm Stadsarkivet.

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Fig. 498. VALUE OF MAPS SOLD AT SWEDISH BOOK AUCTIONS, 1759 AND 1781–1805. This graph shows the number of maps sold (black), together with their total value (red), for each price realized at auction. All prices are in the riksdaler, of forty-eight skilling, introduced in 1776. Prices in

the two auctions in 1759 were recorded in “daler copper coin” and have been converted to the later currency at a rate of nine dalers to one riksdaler. Data compiled by Göran Bäärnhielm for auctions for which realized prices were recorded in the same sources as figure 497.

than fifty maps. In Stockholm 1780–1800, some fifteen thousand books were auctioned yearly. Maps were only 0.4 percent of that number, never more than 1 percent in any single auction. In the same period, 1780–1800, just over four hundred names of buyers and sellers of maps can be found in the catalogs and archival listings. Frequent buyers were booksellers supplementing their stock, sea captains buying sea charts, school directors, military officers, and officials at the Kommerskollegium, all with a professional interest in maps; some of them were also collectors. Prices were generally modest, a little above that of ordinary books (fig. 498). The median value of auction prices was 22 skilling (0.46 riksdaler, equivalent to the price of a shirt or 1½ liters of brandy). The highest prices, from 7 to 19 riksdaler (equivalent to the price of one or two horses) were paid for the modern French atlases by the Robert de Vaugondy family, Rigobert Bonne, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville, and for Åkerman globes. Homann atlases dominated greatly in number, but not in value, being priced up to 7 riksdaler, while early atlases (e.g., editions of Claudius Ptolemy and Abraham Ortelius) were less common but were sold in the same price range up to 7 riksdaler, sometimes much less. Generally demand was for current reference rather than for the antiquarian, a preponderance that was to change at the very end of this period.

See also: Map Collecting: Sweden-Finland; Sweden-Finland Bibliography Bäärnhielm, Göran. 2003. “En karthandlare i Storkyrkobrinken.” Biblis 23:33–38. Björkbom, Carl. 1936. “Den Åkerman-Akrellska globverkstaden.” Ymer 56:202–21. Bonnier, Isidor Adolf, and August Hånell. 1935. Anteckningar om svenska bokhandlare. Stockholm: Bonnier. Hakapää, Jyrki. 2008. Kirjan tie lukijalle: Kirjakauppojen vakiintuminen Suomessa, 1740–1860. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Lagerquist, Marshall. 1981. Den yrkesmässiga möbelhandeln i Sverige intill år 1780. Stockholm: Nordiska Museet. Lagerqvist, Lars O., and Nils Åberg. 1994. Mat och dryck i forntid och medeltid. Stockholm: Vincent; Statens Historiska Museum. Laine, Tuija. 2006. Kolportöörejä ja kirjakauppiaita: Kirjojen hankinta ja levitys Suomessa vuoteen 1800. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Schück, Henrik. 1923. Den svenska förlagsbokhandelns historia. 2 vols. Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt & Söner.

G ör a n B ä ä r n h ielm and A n n a -Ma i ja Pietilä-Ventelä

Map Trade in Switzerland. There was no map trade as

such in Switzerland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, in that no one specialized in selling maps and geographical works; the few maps sold in Switzerland during the era were published and distributed through the book trade. Thus, there has been little research into the subject. For example, in the imprint running across the bottom margin of the 1710 edition of his large map of Switzerland, Helvetia Rhætia, Valesia, Heinrich Ludwig Muoss listed the various “book printers and sellers” who sold the products of “the Muoss

Map Trade

Print Shop”: Johann Caspar Morff in Zurich, Daniel Tschiffeli in Bern, Heinrich Renward Wissing in Lucerne, Johann Georg König in Basel, Johann Rudolf Frey in Schaffhausen, and, of course, Muoss himself in Zug. In the second half of the eighteenth century, advertisements offering new domestic and foreign maps were placed by booksellers in journals and periodicals. That maps could be bought and sold in great numbers is evident in the case of Bernese statesman Johann Friedrich von Ryhiner, who accumulated a very large map collection. Fascinated by geography and maps, in about 1800 Ryhiner prepared a two-volume geography and explanation of map collecting (“Geographische Nachrichten”), a twenty-three-volume catalog of his own collection, and a twenty-five-volume cartobibliography, all of which remain in manuscript (Klöti 1994, 351–64, 368–69). In the second volume of his “Geographische Nachrichten,” he wrote about his experiences working with a poorly developed map trade. To build a large map collection, Ryhiner observed that the collector must gain knowledge of every map that has appeared, which requires the review of every book that lists maps, and acquire every catalog issued by map publishing houses, as well as those of art sellers and booksellers who offer maps. Correspondence with geographically knowledgeable friends and scholars across Europe provided information about particular maps and suppliers in their respective countries (Klöti 1994, 292). These catalogs and Ryhiner’s correspondence have not survived, but he mentioned many catalogs in his cartobibliography, and he recorded prices of maps in the catalog of his own collection. Ryhiner described multiple problems caused by buying maps from distant booksellers, giving insight into some of the conditions of the eighteenth-century map trade (Klöti 1994, 292–94). Sellers had to organize the shipping of purchased maps either directly to the buyer or via a bookseller in the map collector’s own town. However, shipping could be inordinately expensive, as maps could not be shipped with other goods and had to be separately handled, which often deterred map lovers from buying from remote dealers. Nonetheless, the transportation costs would be more reasonable, and no higher than for other merchandise, if a large number of maps were to be shipped together. A major problem in the acquisition of older maps, Ryhiner argued, was that most map consumers focused on the relevance of the content of the map, which meant that there was less demand for older maps. Old maps were discarded as new and better maps entered the market, so they grew ever scarcer until they became quite rare and would soon only be found in libraries, from which they could not be acquired. The determined collector

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could find an owner of a desired old map only with great effort and then still had to pay more than the map was worth. However, acquisition of new maps was relatively trouble free as they could be purchased from publishers and booksellers at customary prices. A persistent problem was that book- and mapsellers often provided inadequate information. Advertisements in periodicals and catalog descriptions could be inaccurate or lead to misunderstandings, and Ryhiner seemed to think that they were made deliberately vague. The cost of the ensuing mistakes could be considerable. Finally, purchases from the map trade were augmented by a trade among individuals and by auctions; here, too, there were problems, at least for those who collected on the same scale as Ryhiner, because a significant portion of a large collection sold en masse would likely comprise a number of duplicates, effectively inflating the price of the rest. Ryhiner recognized that these problems were significantly fewer for those who lived in major markets where the sharing or bartering of information and products could ease the acquisition process and reduce shipping costs (Klöti 1994, 294–95). Larger towns offered a greater chance to sell off unneeded maps. Also, great collectors such as kings and princes were aided in acquiring materials for their libraries by subordinates and especially by envoys to other courts. One example of such diplomatic trade in maps occurred when, in 1747, Swiss mathematician Leonhard Euler sent a series of letters from Berlin to Johann Kaspar Wettstein, who worked in London as a chaplain for the British royal family. Among other items of mutual scientific interest, Euler asked Wettstein to purchase maps produced in England on behalf of Count Hermann Karl von Keyserling, who was then the Russian envoy to the Prussian court in Berlin (Euler Archive, correspondence, 4  March, 20 May, 27 June, and 5 December 1747). The informal map trade was dependent on these networks of scholars and diplomats. But the poorly developed map trade in Switzerland’s small cities offered few, if any, of the advantages that large cities, ports, and political capitals could offer, and the Swiss collector had to pay much more than his lowland confrere. T h o m as Klöti See also: Map Collecting: Switzerland; Switzerland Bibliography Euler, Leonhard. “Euler’s Correspondence with Johann Kaspar Wettstein.” In The Euler Archive website hosted by the Mathematical Association of America. Klöti, Thomas. 1994. Johann Friedrich von Ryhiner, 1732–1803: Berner Staatsmann, Geograph, Kartenbibliograph und Verkehrspolitiker. Bern: Geographische Gesellschaft Bern.

Marine Atlas. See Atlas: Marine Atlas

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Marine Chart. By the eighteenth century, the English language had already clearly distinguished the word “chart” (sometimes “nautical chart” or “marine chart,” even “maritime chart” or “sea chart,” although “chart” sufficed on its own without qualification), which specifically concerned the depiction of water, from “map,” which visualized land. This distinction was equally apparent in Spanish (carta for sea, mapa for land) or Portuguese (carta marítima versus mapa), but it was not as apparent in French, where the word carte (the Latin root charta—paper—is identical to that of “chart”) did not distinguish between the sea or land, at least not until the middle of the century. Other languages required a prefix or another word to determine the meaning: e.g., German (Seekarte, Landkarte), Italian (carta hydrografica, carta nautica, carta geografica), and Dutch (Zeekaart, Landkaart). During the Enlightenment the design of the marine chart changed, gradually losing its ornamentation and becoming less speculative as it gained positional accuracy. Yet the chart’s marine contents did not immediately improve with better nautical information. The chart did not actually achieve its current modern shape and contents until the beginning of the nineteenth century, when soundings began to dominate the maritime section, and decoration faded away entirely, confirming the dominant principle of bathymetric data selection, if not comprehensiveness. A remarkable graphic synthesis of symbols, the nautical chart remained the instrument privileged by those rather knowledgeable practitioners who understood a more advanced theory of navigation (Chapuis 1999, 139–46). In the eighteenth century, the chart was far from being a universal tool for all types of navigation because a large number of sailors still did not have access to it; many relied solely on the guidance of pilot books. This was certainly true of open sea navigation (grand cabotage), while inshore coastal navigation (petit cabotage) used few if any nautical guides, relying instead on the sailor’s visual memory of a familiar layout and oral transmission from pilot to pilot (Chapuis 1999, 148–50). So the chart as a tool for navigation was not sought or known by all sailors, in spite of its visual language, which tended toward the universality of signs. However, the chart did not always have an intuitive connection with language and could be regarded as inferior to a verbal sea language, specific to sailors in their own “nautical garden,” which somehow connected with their senses. On the contrary, the visual language of the chart aspired to be a place of reason, of rational scientific thought. Training was required to master the chart’s code in order to make the multiple and specific interpretations that depended on the needs of the moment; the

Marine Chart

marine chart was multifunctional, serving naval officers, captains of deep-sea voyages, and inshore sailors equally well. The skills required for reading the marine chart’s complex navigational aspects made it indecipherable to novices. The chart was built from a language all its own, reserved for the art of navigation. This special technical language for marine cartography supported the adage: “A good chart is worth more than a discourse” (Chapuis 1999, 212–13). Visual Characteristics and Scale In the eighteenth century, the white or empty spaces of the nautical chart depicted deep stretches of the sea. This underwater expanse, hidden from view, remained both unverifiable and feared. A historical paradox of the marine chart lay in that it was first designed to depict the land and its shallower surroundings. For the sailor, these coastal zones were places of hope (landing) and danger (the site of the majority of sea’s misfortunes). The life-saving nature of the nautical chart was not the least of its characteristics, as expressed by Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu: “Deficient geographic charts can be published without jeopardizing the lives of men. But publishing flawed marine charts is like laying traps on a highway” ([Fleurieu] 1785, 38). Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder was aware of the gulf between terrestrial maps, created by engineers within a geometric framework of good angle measurements, and marine charts, built on directions and distances estimated with a compass on water. In A Treatise of Maritim Surveying, Mackenzie recommended that one should take advice from local practices for approaching the coastline and its hazards instead of relying on general charts (Mackenzie 1774, ix–xvi, xxi–xxii, 4–10; Chapuis 1999, 114–17). The first theoretician of hydrography, the Scotsman was also the first to offer constructive criticism of marine charts during the Enlightenment, presciently pointing out the limits of contemporary marine mapping (Mackenzie 1750, 3). In light of Mackenzie’s views, the requirements for the marine chart both in the eighteenth century and today comes down to two essential functions: location (point) and course—the static and the dynamic, position and movement. Yet mapmaking and navigational principles rarely coincided before the nineteenth century. First, the chart had to allow for plotting position at sea, which was determined largely by astronomical observations (latitude and longitude from the middle of the century onward, and the latter only by the most advanced navigators) or by dead reckoning (directions and distances) and by the bearings related to the land in the context of coastal sailing or landings. However, navigators’ calculations of these bearings using the compass with other instruments and methods were prone to miscalculation and sometimes based simply on sight, following the

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winds along rhumb lines, which were still included on a number of charts, even at large scale. The three-point fix method of resections and intersection survey by horizontal angular observations with a reflecting instrument was not used, even by the better hydrographers, until the last quarter of the century. Few navigators practiced coastal navigation by marine triangulation from landmarks, a method used extensively only from the midnineteenth century, when better sextants followed by better bearing compasses allowed adequate precision. The chart had to provide water depths as well as the characteristics of the sea bottom as it corresponded to position. This information, graphically presented with numerals (for soundings, usually in fathoms) and signs and/or text (for different types of bottom), was far from precise in the eighteenth century. It was exceptional to find contour lines joining the sounding data; with contour lines or a cluster of soundings navigators did not need to make their own soundings. Yet by making their own soundings, navigators could compare them to those on the chart and use them as a positioning aid. Of all navigators, the hydrographer who made charts was the most demanding of accuracy in terms of positioning. Hydrographers did not use positioning to locate themselves on the chart, but to construct the chart by placing all its elements at their precise positions according to absolute latitude and longitude, often marked along the sides of the chart, or at relative positions by marine triangulation or the three-point fix method. The importance of soundings was even greater at sea, since they provided the only means to view underwater relief, in contrast to the land topographer, who could control data by sight. The chart also had to indicate legibly all the hazards a ship needed to avoid, not only for areas that were too shallow, but also those that were not adequately explored for safe navigation. Hazards were represented by specific signs or graphic patterns (e.g., stipple, dots, crosses). Since the chart also provided sometimes valuable data for tides and currents, information that was usually provided in the written instructions accompanying the chart, it had to ensure the plotting of a reliable route to the destination port, while taking dead reckoning into consideration (Chapuis 1999, 212–13). All the nautical information integrated on the marine chart was dedicated to the two objectives of position and course and responded to three basic questions: Where am I? How do I proceed? Which way is the best or least dangerous route? The plotting of the coast, islands and rocks, and their graphic representation provided some of the crucial answers. This representation aimed to evoke as accurately as possible the nature of the coastal terrain as seen from the sea (especially its relief and particular coastal elevations that allowed for positioning and distance calculations). Only terrain vis-

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ible from the deck of a ship was included on the plan of the chart. If navigators came upon an unfamiliar coastline, they had to be able to identify clearly from the chart what the landscape offered visually; charts had to provide this information at different scales, from the view of the high coastal peaks at the time of the landing to the smallest boulder noted upon arriving at the anchorage. The representation of man-made landmarks by various signs (sometimes with their heights and altitudes for distance calculations and often enlarged in relationship to scale), beacons or buoys (still very rare), alignments, magnetic declination, and toponymy served as essential additions to the chart. Only information useful for navigating was included; other information less appropriate for quick reading and not crucial to safety was omitted (Chapuis 1999, 212–13). The long eighteenth century saw the marine chart continually optimized, from the work undertaken by Dutch cartographers from the end of the sixteenth century to the publication in 1693 of both Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot in London and Le Neptune françois in Paris. The most spectacular visual change in this development was the gradual disappearance of rhumb lines from coastal charts in the latter half of the eighteenth century in England and Spain in particular (fig. 499); in France rhumbs were only partially removed by the turn of the nineteenth century. From the end of the seventeenth century and throughout the eighteenth century, marine charts were classified according to their scale (or point, as the abstract concept of map scale did not appear until the beginning of the nineteenth century), yet not so tightly defined until around 1825 in France. Essentially, a distinction was made between general charts (oceanic charts or track charts) at a very small scale and general coastal charts at a small scale (or petit point), particular charts (coastal charts at a large scale or grand point), and harbor charts (very large scale, very detailed). The general charts of the eighteenth century were at a scale less than or equal to 1:1,000,000 for oceanic routes and less than or equal to 1:100,000 for general coastal charts. These charts met the needs of a range of seagoing coastal sailing activity and navigation along the coasts, at a sufficient distance to avoid major hazards. Detailed coastal charts, most often at a scale between 1:60,000 and 1:40,000, responded to the practice of inshore coastal sailing, even if, in reality, it was the seagoing navigators who might use them for landing instead of a pilot (Chapuis 1999, 718–19). Most importantly, in the eighteenth century, the scale of these last charts did not presume a level of detail sufficient for either the representation of the hazards and soundings or accurate positioning. Therein lay a major problem for marine charts intended for use in navigating along the coasts, negotiating

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tricky channels, and entering into bays and river mouths for anchoring or accessing ports. To access information on these land-based seaways, French sailors could use harbor plans drawn at either ca. 1:15,000—six lignes (ca. ½ inch or 12 mm) for 100 toises (that is, a cable’s length or about 195 m, which was the measurement used by the French navy), or sometimes at ca. 1:7,500 or one pouce (ca. 2 cm) for 100 toises (Chapuis 1999, 718–19). Except for these harbor plans, which were plane charts drawn at the same scale at which they were surveyed, charts in the eighteenth century were increasingly drawn on a Mercator projection, and their scales varied with latitude. This succession of scales, from the smallest to the largest, from the least detailed chart to the most detailed, is the equivalent of a progressive zoom movement in a camera and represents the movement from open sea to a landing to take shelter (Chapuis 2009, 18). The question of scale uniformity was considered regularly in European marine cartography in the eighteenth century, and it was one of the inspirations for the Nouveau neptune françois project in 1775 (Chapuis 1999, 257–62). Similarly, The Atlantic Neptune, which covered the east coast of North America, employed standardized scales, which were listed on the page with the conventional signs at the beginning of each volume: the general coastal navigation charts (coasting charts) were drawn at ca. 1:115,000, detailed charts for pilotage at ca. 1:29,400, and intermediary charts at ca. 1:51,400 (Des Barres 1780; Chapuis 1999, 122).

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Oceanic Chart Hydrography was not as imbued with ideology as other forms of cartography. The choice of a projection illustrated the neutrality of a fundamentally pragmatic representation of the world. Even though it substantially distorted the surfaces of the temperate and polar zones and endorsed enlarged representations of Europe, Asia, and America in relation to the rest of the planet, the Mercator projection fulfilled its essential purpose: convenience for navigation, which it accomplished by consistently preserving angles (to the detriment of distances because of the increasing latitudes) and by offering navigators the opportunity to plot their distances and bearings with the compass in a straight line.

From the very early seventeenth century, thanks to new mathematical tools, including logarithms and integral calculus, the Mercator chart was used on oceanic voyages by Europeans but not widely until the eighteenth century (History of Cartography, vol. 3, passim), as it was only introduced in France by Le Neptune françois (1693). Plane charts still continued to be used after the middle of the eighteenth century, indicating the inertia of conventions in the maritime world and the level of navigational tolerance still acceptable (Chapuis 1999, 51–52, 151–52). On plane charts, the minutes of latitude and longitude were all given the same value even though that value was accurate only at the equator, the only place where the earth has the characteristics of a perfect sphere. Apart from the center of the area depicted, the flat map or plane chart did not conserve angles or distances, and so it functioned well only for the representation of very limited areas of the earth’s curvature, in other words for coastal plans, for which it endured until the nineteenth century. Paradoxically, it was the sailor of long sea voyages who mainly used the chart for landings and for plotting position at sea, as well as he could with observed latitude and estimated longitude. In fact, apart from a handful of knowledgeable naval officers who after 1760 sought to master the system of lunar distances or who benefited from the early adoption of marine chronometers and watches, measured longitude was not really accessible to merchant sailors until after the third quarter of the eighteenth century, with the wider distribution of the sextant and with The Nautical Almanac and the Connoissance des temps, both publications that recorded the distance from the center of the moon to the center of the sun and to the brightest stars (Chapuis 1999, 70). Finally, at the end of the century, the simplified reduction of lunar distances further led to accurate longitude observations (Chapuis 1999, 67–82, 653–55). The first test voyages with marine chronometers at the end of the 1760s solved the longitude problem and allowed the correction of positions on charts compiled from the results. These voyages allowed the accurate location or suppression of various danger spots (vigies) or observed hazards (Chapuis 1999, 174, 178–79). The

(facing page) Fig. 499. VICENTE TOFIÑO DE SAN MIGUEL, CARTA ESFÉRICA DE LAS ISLAS DE IUIZA Y FORMENTERA, [MADRID], 1786. Scale, 1:90,340 (determined along the mean latitude of the chart, 38°48ʹN). Composed on a Mercator projection (carta esférica), this plate from the Atlas marítimo de España (1786, chart no. 8) is one of the best European marine charts of the end of the eighteenth century. Geographic north is at the top, magnetic declination is not mentioned (and was noted on only one chart in the atlas). The frame is gradu-

ated with a scale of longitudes established from the meridians of Paris, Tenerife, Cádiz, and Cartagena, and a detailed plan of the harbor of Ibiza fills an inset, without a reference frame but including a scale in “Varas Castellanas.” Soundings, though far from systematic in the atlas, are present as is the nature of the coastline (sandy or rocky). Astronomical and geodetic data were used by the French to correct the maps after 1800. Size of the original: 80 × 56 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, Lisbon (C.A. 10 R).

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Atlantic expedition of the Flore (1771–72) provided a long list of errors on the charts of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Verdun de la Crenne, Borda, and Pingré 1778), information of use in updating charts (fig. 500). The Atlantic expedition undertaken by Fleurieu in 1768 and 1769 was the most emblematic (Chapuis 1999, 78–79), given that the work he published afterward (Fleurieu 1773) became the authority on the subject of determining position at sea. Highly critical of Jacques-Nicolas Bellin, Fleurieu was not satisfied simply with emphasizing the importance of mastering longitude for the correction of marine charts (Chapuis 1999, 179–83). He illustrated his account with the Nouvelle carte réduite de l’océan Atlantique ou Occidental (1772), in which he corrected the North Atlantic’s eastwest dimension by reducing it by an amount equivalent in 1750 to three days of good sailing (Chapuis 1999, 186–87, 26) (see fig. 240). This chart effectively represented the oceanic routes in an era when the application of astronomical techniques at sea was begun by a small elite of knowledgeable European officers. Fleurieu also classified the errors of latitude made by land-based (and office-based) chart compilers, even though latitude had long been understood and measured, and in particular he noted the compilers’ usually inaccurate construction of the increasingly spaced latitudes on Mercator charts. The new generation of knowledgeable European officers wanted to follow a principle of transparency concerning the selection of sources for chart compilation, which still relied essentially on logbooks, for which much better standardization was needed (Chapuis 1999, 182–83). Two experienced mariners and navigators understood this perfectly: Alexander Dalrymple in Great Britain and Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette in France, who both accompanied their charts with justificatory memoirs (Chapuis 1999, 184–85). In addition to voyages dedicated to the testing of the chronometers and marine watches, essentially carried out by Great Britain and France in the Atlantic Ocean, it was the major exploratory voyages, notably those of James Cook, Jean-François de Lapérouse, and JosephAntoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux with CharlesFrançois Beautemps-Beaupré, that contributed most to

the development of the marine chart. Their work may be measured by the evolution of the number of fixed points determined by astronomical observations of latitude and longitude, which attested to the acceleration of the geography of position at the end of the Enlightenment. Although the Connoissance des temps, the source of the following data, did not contain all of the astronomically determined points at sea, as its audience included astronomers as well as sailors, who could find additional positions in other specialized documents (charts or nautical instructions), this compendium of French and foreign observations from the four corners of the earth offers a good indication of the development of global knowledge of the period. The 1699 edition provided approximately 90 positions, mostly in France and Europe. In the first quarter of the century, there were almost 130 positions with twenty or so from the Atlantic (Cape Verde, Canary Islands, Azores), America (Brazil, Valparaiso), and Asia (India, China, Siam). Of the 220 positions in 1753, fewer than 30 were found outside of Europe. Twenty years later, in 1773, the total number had increased marginally to 250 positions, of which 60 concerned coasts of the entire world, but fewer than 10 corresponded to actual useful navigational landmarks. While new positions or recalculations of the eclipses of 1764 and 1769 were added, the position of Tahiti was not included nor were other points from Cook’s first voyage. The birth of the astronomically based charting of the world occurred around 1777. The Connoissance des temps published in 1777 contained 390 positions, almost double the number of the preceding year. The additions resulted from the voyages for testing instruments in the Atlantic Ocean, and the major scientific expeditions around the world and in the Pacific Ocean: 140 positions related to France, 120 to the rest of Europe (Russia included), 30 to continental Asia and Indonesia, 25 to continental America, 20 to islands in the Atlantic, 15 to Africa, and 15 to islands in the Americas. Many of the positions in India and Africa came from d’Après de Mannevillette. Their longitudes were not the result of astronomical observations but of dead reckoning and should therefore not be taken into account. For the islands in the Atlantic and the Americas, the majority

(facing page) Fig. 500. JEAN-RENÉ-ANTOINE DE VERDUN DE LA CRENNE, JEAN-CHARLES BORDA, AND ALEXANDREGUI PINGRÉ, CARTE RÉDUITE D’UNE PARTIE DE L’OCEAN ATLANTIQUE OU OCCIDENTAL [PARIS], 1775. Scale ca. 1:8,875,000 (at mean latitude, 31°00ʹN). This map corrects the dimensions and astronomically determined places in the North Atlantic, typical of maps made following the voyages to test marine chronometers undertaken primarily

by the British and, as here, the French navy. Produced initially by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine in 1775, the map was integrated into the published volume describing voyages of 1768–69 and 1771–72 (Verdun de la Crenne, Borda, and Pingré 1778). Size of the original: 62 × 91 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 pf 117 P 15/1).

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of the positions come from Fleurieu, Jean-René-Antoine de Verdun de la Crenne, Jean-Charles Borda, and Alexandre-Gui Pingré. Finally, and certainly the result of Cook’s first two trips, were the almost 25 positions in the Pacific Ocean from Cape Horn to the American Northwest coast to the China Sea (Asia including Indonesia by the Indian Ocean). The positions from these two expeditions are not incorporated into the Connoissance des temps before the 1777 edition. The vast majority of longitudes were based on the measurement of lunar distances. Eight years later, the Connoissance des temps contained about 870 positions, or twice the number of 1777. In the 1785 edition, the Pacific Ocean was marked out in squares by 270 astronomical points, or more than 11 times as many as in the 1777 edition and largely as many as in Europe without France (240 positions including all of Russia). The paradox of this crucial period was the knowledge gap that was widening between the scientific and maritime elite and the mass of seafarers: only seven landmarks were determined astronomically along the French coastline. While the far-off and vast Pacific Ocean, still frequented almost exclusively by the most prestigious expeditions, benefited from the talent, methods, and latest instruments (120 positions alone were attributed to Cook’s third voyage), certain distant islands were found to be better located on the general and detailed charts published in the atlases of these voyages than were the much-frequented sea banks of Europe. A huge amount of work remained to be accomplished that included the well-known waters of the old continent. However, these were regions that were familiar to the local sailors who navigated without, or with minimal, nautical guides and who instead relied on a strong oral culture that began with the veterans of inshore coastal sailing who rarely strayed from the coast and from its hazards (Chapuis 1999, 26–27, 123–25). Coastal and Harbor Charts Coastal charts had to display land in order to guide ships to a destination. First of all, they were supposed to aid the transfer of dead reckoning—or the point carried out by the bearings to land—and the plotting of the course (Chapuis 2009, 5–43). Thus, for the determined position, the coastal chart had to indicate the depth of the water and the nature of the seafloor as they related to position and offer hazard-free routes for a ship to find shelter. The terrestrial part of the chart had only to represent the landmarks (natural or artificial) that were observable from the sea. This refined depiction of lands visible from sea was one of the older features of the coastal chart. However, the difference between topographic maps of coastal areas and detailed marine charts was neither obvious nor distinct in France until the 1750s (Chapuis

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1999, 38–40). After 1800, there were gradually fewer hybrid charts of the coast, topographical and hydrographical. (They were revived at the end of the twentieth century, for integrated purposes, such as amphibious military operations and littoral development in the civilian sector; Chapuis 2007, 11.) Not until the end of the eighteenth century was topography defined as something precise on marine charts, including the contours of the coast (or coastline) and islands, permanently emerged rocks, and littoral terrain visible from the sea, particularly its relief. This characteristic was depicted by Dalrymple and others in England during the same period (1789) (Chapuis 1999, 38–39). Coastal charts on a scale larger than 1:100,000 did not appear in significant numbers until 1625, but increased after 1650. The work in France by Louis-Nicolas de Clerville marked the first attempt after 1662 to represent the French littoral at a sufficiently large scale using detailed surveys carried out in the field, even if they were rough and incomplete and resulted in very inaccurate mapping (Chapuis 2007, 71–79). In 1671, JeanBaptiste Colbert ordered Clerville’s work to be resumed by the ingénieur des fortifications La Favolière and the ingénieur de la Marine Denis La Voye, who were the most qualified for preparing detailed charts (Chapuis 1999, 101; 2007, 107–15) (see fig. 511). The manuscript charts by La Voye and La Favolière were kept secret for almost twenty years for strategic reasons and were assembled with those by other authors, including Clerville, in a collection of the coasts of France bearing Colbert’s coat of arms. They were used to provide a baseline for the French coast along the Atlantic and northern Brittany for the realization of Le Neptune françois in 1693 (fig. 501) (Chapuis 2007, 107–14, 130–35). Employing a principle of overlapping sheets, the specialized maps in Le Neptune françois were drawn at a scale of ca. 1:100,000 for the French coastline, quite detailed for the period (Chapuis 1999, 104; 2007, 134–35), and they adopted the still innovative practice of uniform scale established by the Dutch over the previous century. A concern for standardization and the replacement of disparate manuscript maps, such as those of the Thames School or Drapers’ Company in seventeenth-century London or those of the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC; Dutch East India Company), with printed atlases at the end of the same century became standard practice for countries with more advanced hydrography. Users, however, were slow to adopt the large inconvenient atlases. They preferred cheaper one-sheet charts, even in manuscript, for particular seas and coasts, well into the eighteenth century, because they could be updated and above all they were easier to use on board ship. In England, the publication of Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot by Greenvile Collins (1693) and its nu-

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Fig. 501. DETAIL FROM [DENIS LA VOYE], 7ME CARTE PARTICULIERE DES COSTES DE BRETAGNE DEPUIS L’ISLE DE GROA JUSQU’AU CROISIC [PARIS, 1693]. Scale ca. 1:100,000. This map from the first edition of Le Neptune françois (1693), like all the others constructed from La Voye’s surveys, remained the best work for the coasts of Brittany at the end of the seventeenth century and remained so

until the beginning of the nineteenth century. It offered a detailed legend, the presence of landmarks visible only from the sea, and rhumb lines but no framework of graduated latitude and longitude. Size of the entire original: 60 × 80 cm; size of detail: ca. 20.5 × 38.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [1122 B]).

merous subsequent editions over the course of the eighteenth century was a state initiative comparable to Le Neptune françois (Chapuis 1999, 111–12). Like Colbert, Samuel Pepys, chief secretary to the Admiralty, played an important role in recognizing the shortcomings of British and Dutch cartography in the face of increasing needs of the British Isles and overseas. A century later, Dalrymple, hydrographer of the East India Company, insisted on the need for uniform scales for both general and specialized marine charts in order to simplify their use by encouraging sailors to become accustomed to the different sizes ([Dalrymple] [1790?], 49). While topographical and geodetic mapping concentrated on fixing terrestrial positions in Europe and the Americas during the Enlightenment, French marine cartography concentrated on the solution to the longitude problem in the open sea rather than along the coastline, where it lagged substantially behind land-based mapping efforts (Chapuis 1999, 104–10; 2007). By comparison to the coastal project by Jean Picard and Philippe de La Hire, astronomers from the Académie des sciences, from 1679 to 1682 (Débarbat and Dumont 2002, 241), the Académie’s triangulation took much longer and sailors

had to wait for its results to appear on marine charts. Although first to develop a major geodetic framework on land, France missed its opportunity to implement a similar approach to hydrography. The central government only envisioned terrestrial applications of this advanced technique. While Le Neptune françois continued as the major reference in France until 1800 and beyond (long afterward for some charts) for lack of a better alternative, no coastal marine chart appeared that relied on France’s geodetic network in the eighteenth century, with rare exceptions. The private initiatives of Michel Magin in the estuaries of the Loire and the Gironde (1757) and those of Jean-Baptiste Degaulle in the Seine estuary (1788) were not part of any larger scientific initiative, despite their claims of geodesy, accuracy, and reliability without a pilot (Chapuis 1999, 134, 149, 318). However, the geodetic network was incorporated into the Nouveau neptune françois, the first modern hydrographic project in the eighteenth century on the French coastline (Chapuis 1999, 257–62), but it was limited to efforts in Picardy and Normandy between 1776 and 1778. The charts surveyed by Louis-Bon-Jean de la Couldre de La

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Bretonnière and Pierre-François-André Méchain only appeared during the Revolution. French hydrography was held back by Le Neptune françois (Chapuis 1999, 101–10), a cherished but outdated model. Its 5e carte particulière des costes de Bretagne remained the officially accepted image for Brittany until 1822 (Chapuis 1999, 614; 2007, 130–35) (see fig. 596). While Cassini’s ingénieurs and the army’s ingénieurs géographes were very active along the coast, they never ventured beyond the foreshore, with very rare exceptions (Chapuis 1999, 127–28; 2007, 173–84). Other states agreed to the charting of their coastline with a focus more in keeping with the economic necessities and technical requirements of navigation of the eighteenth century. From the end of the seventeenth century, coastal survey methods at sea in Great Britain still relied primarily on the compass, even if the actual bearings of the landmarks (relative to true north) were carried out increasingly with angle-measuring instruments, particularly under the aegis of the Royal Society (Robinson 1962, 49, 55–57). While scientific activity in Great Britain sought more practical and commercial applications than in France (Rodger 2003, 12–13), some began applying the major principles of terrestrial triangulation to coastal hydrography following Mackenzie, who was the first to implement this practice in the Orkney Islands in 1747 for the benefit of kelp producers (Chapuis 1999, 112–13; Ritchie 1991, 16–17). Mackenzie was also the first to explain the practice while emphasizing its limits and shortcomings (Mackenzie 1750, 3). The results he obtained on the northwestern coast of Scotland, in Ireland, and on the west coast of England were not comparable to his theoretical method. Mackenzie’s charts, published in 1776, were oriented toward magnetic north (while those of the Orkneys, surveyed almost thirty years prior, were oriented toward true north). Although useful at the time as it liberated navigators from having to calculate magnetic declinations, this practice, still common in the eighteenth century, quickly rendered many charts obsolete (Chapuis 1999, 114–15). With the exception of extensive projects carried out in Sweden and Denmark, those of Cook and Samuel Holland on the northeast coast of North America (fig. 502), and of Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel y Vandewalle along the Spanish Mediterranean coast (see figs. 499 and 593) (Chapuis 1999, 121–23, 233), regular coastal surveying was still rare in the eighteenth century. Even though they made good use of surveying, the Russian expeditions along their Pacific coast nonetheless remained singular and unrepeated events. Their methods were more akin to the surveying under sail practiced by the major discovery expeditions, which were an exercise on their own, even if Beautemps-Beaupré gave them a significant

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qualitative boost when he introduced a survey paired with a summary triangulation ashore for the first time in May 1792 in Tasmania, foreshadowing what he would do in wartime along the coasts of the Napoleonic Empire (Chapuis 1999, 325–88, 421–39, 511–23). Alejandro Malaspina’s hydrographic surveying in the Spanish colonies between 1789 and 1794 can be recognized for its use of astronomy, but not geodesy. A qualitative and quantitative analysis of French hydrographic production validates this scarcity of coastal charts. Technically, a modern coastal map could have been produced; however, in spite of several isolated attempts, including those mentioned above, none appeared. Almost 75 percent of the charts edited by the official French hydrographic service until 1772 were general charts, not detailed large-scale coastal charts (Chapuis 1999, 309–10). This situation improved after Bellin’s death: with

Fig. 502. DETAIL FROM A CHART OF THE HARBOUR OF RHODE ISLAND AND NARRAGANSET BAY [LONDON] CA. 1780; FIRST PUBLISHED 1776. Scale, ca. 1:51,400 (41°40ʹN). Originally surveyed by Charles Blaskowitz, Thomas Wheeler, and others, working for Samuel Holland, this is one of the charts in J. F. W. Des Barres’s monumental four-volume Atlantic Neptune (1780) and shows an impressive density of soundings, not only in the bays and estuaries but also along the banks. Yet the station points in the sea are not positioned according to trigonometric determinations on land, as might be expected from Holland, who was a military geographical engineer and whose marine cartography focused particularly on the coastline visible from the sea. The ships are those of the French and British forces at the moment of Admiral Charles-Henri d’Estaing’s arrival in the estuary 29 July 1778. Size of the entire original: 106.5 × 74.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 12.5 × 16.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge BB 203, vol. 3, no. 14).

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mastery of the longitude, while general charts continued to be made, half of the sixty-four plates published at the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine between 1773 and 1791 were detailed larger-scale maps (Chapuis 1999, 310). This magnification of scale resulted in large part from the translation, from the English, of British coastal charts. While the charts copied from British sources account for 45 percent of all French charts published during this period, they account for 62 percent of the detailed charts. During these eighteen years, more than half of the charts published by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine that offered sufficient definition for true coastal navigation came from British surveys. A small number of these charts resulted from terrestrial triangulation methods, and France did well to republish them, for its own publications were devoid of such triangulation data (Chapuis 1999, 310). Of the 193 significant plates stored by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine in December 1791 (Chapuis 1999, 314), fewer than thirty were reliable, detailed maps, and were essentially of British origin. As for harbor charts drawn at a very large scale (more than 1:10,000, often more than 1:5,000), they were rarely published in France because they did not depend on hydrography but on coastal planning by the state, mainly for maritime engineering (public works). These plans were surveyed in the eighteenth century by military engineers (ingénieurs du Génie or ingénieurs de la Marine) and by civil engineers (ingénieurs des Ponts et Chaussées), as well as by a few ingénieurs de la Marine (navy engineers) who were also hydrographers, such as La Voye, Magin, and Degaulle (Chapuis 2007, passim). Just a decade before the end of the century, less than 15 percent of the charts published by the French hydrographic service presented positions comparable to what could be obtained given the capabilities of terrestrial surveying. This proportion was not much different elsewhere, including in Great Britain, Spain, and even Denmark, where a general triangulation had begun in 1761. In other countries the proportion was even less, showing that they were even further behind. As the state was the only institution capable of investment in ambitious and expensive surveys regarding coastal charts, private publishers carried sizeable stocks of old and outdated charts. Thus, in the 1780s, France was unquestionably poised to strengthen its maritime cartographic production by regulating private hydrography (Chapuis 1999, 311). In England, the major collection of publications by Dalrymple, the most prolific British hydrographer of the period, further exemplified this situation of heterogeneous quality. In Nautical Memoirs and Journals, he gathered many charts and maps relating to the ports on

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route to India and China. They seemed to be of very inconsistent quality: some maps represented cities in an enlarged perspective compared to the scale; others gave exceptional details of recent triangulation activities; some charts offered only a simple contour line for the coast without any other characteristics and few soundings; yet others furnished the details expected by a knowledgeable navigator. This variety is explained by Dalrymple’s overall purpose to accumulate all the cartographic resources for the region without necessarily qualifying them (e.g., old Dutch or Spanish manuscripts as well as recent British surveys). Publication of Charts In France the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine engraved an average of 3.29 plates per year between 1737 (the year of the first publication by the Dépôt) and 1772 (death of Bellin), and an average of 3.67 plates per year from 1773 to 1791. By comparison, Dalrymple published 454 plates (charts and especially maps) on his own before 1 June 1789, and 5 charts and 22 maps the following year (until 1 June 1790): an average of more than 18 plates per year between 1765 and 1790, a figure probably unmatched by any other region in Europe or the rest of the world, whether by private publishing houses or state-supported enterprises. While it is true that Dalrymple mainly published charts produced from compilation, nonetheless, British hydrographers—private, or semi-official, achieving better quality—produced many more charts than the French official hydrographical department at the end of the century. Even the semi-private French venture supporting the Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique produced almost four times as many plates as the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine from 1786 through 1790 (Chapuis 1999, 316). Yet quantity did not mean quality, and on both sides of the Channel only a scarce few coastal charts that were geometrically surveyed stand out from this massive production. At the end of the eighteenth century, European marine cartography had not yet issued its major hydrographic works, which incorporated the considerable progress made in geodesy from the end of the seventeenth century. Aside from charts of the foreshore, any exceptional marine charts for this period were few in number and far from the quality of the topographic surveying at the time. At the very moment when France enjoyed the Cassinis’ private initiative on the one hand and the major work of the ingénieurs géographes militaires on the other, the solution to the longitude problem at sea, which involved observation and measurement on open waters, was the major marine challenge of the eighteenth century. With their prestigious expeditions to the Pacific Ocean, though fluctuating between competition and sci-

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entific cooperation, Great Britain and France were at the forefront in establishing longitude from an astronomical viewpoint so that the secondary geodetic points could then relate to the primary points of the oceanic charts, a process initiated in 1791 with the d’Entrecasteaux expedition, which employed Beautemps-Beaupré’s methods (Chapuis 1999, 237–49, 325–88, 511–23). By guaranteeing trigonometric precision, the chart would finally be able to gain better resolution. This would be the role of the major surveying campaigns along the European and colonial coastlines in the nineteenth century. O liv ier Ch apuis See also: Atlas: Marine Atlas; Connoissance des temps; Longitude and Latitude; Marine Charting; Navigation and Cartography; Projections: Marine Charts; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation Bibliograp hy Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. ———. 2007. Cartes des côtes de France: Histoire de la cartographie marine et terrestre du littoral. Douarnenez: Chasse-Marée. ———. 2009. Du bon usage de la carte marine et du GPS. Paris: Voiles et Voiliers. [Dalrymple, Alexander]. [1790?]. “Practical Navigation.” Printer’s proof found in the author’s collected works, bound under the title Nautical Memoirs and Journals, Published by ADalrymple, before 1st June 1789, in the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh, and the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris. Débarbat, Suzanne, and Simone Dumont. 2002. “Le rôle des astronomes français dans la cartographie des côtes aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles.” In Défense des côtes et cartographie historique, ed. JeanPierre Bois, 233–54. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Des Barres, J. F. W. 1780. The Atlantic Neptune. London: Joseph Frederick Wallet Des Barres. Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de. 1773. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1768 et 1769, à différentes parties du monde, pour éprouver en mer les horloges marines inventées par M. Ferdinand Berthoud. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. [———]. 1785. Examen fait par ordre de M. le maréchal de Castries, ministre & secrétaire d’État de la Marine de deux cartes de la mer Baltique présentées par M. Le Clerc. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Mackenzie, Murdoch. 1750. Orcades: Or a Geographic and Hydrographic Survey of the Orkney and Lewis Islands in Eight Maps. London: Murdoch Mackenzie. ———. 1774. A Treatise of Maritim Surveying, in Two Parts: With a Prefatory Essay on Draughts and Surveys. London: For Edward and Charles Dilly. Ritchie, G. S. 1991. “The History of Hydrography: An Enlightened European Era, 1660–1800.” International Hydrographic Review 68, no. 1:7–20. Robinson, A. H. W. 1962. Marine Cartography in Britain: A History of the Sea Chart to 1855. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Rodger, N. A. M. 2003. “Navies and the Enlightenment.” In Science and the French and British Navies, 1700–1850, ed. Pieter van der Merwe, 5–23. Greenwich: National Maritime Museum. Verdun de la Crenne, Jean-René-Antoine de, Jean-Charles Borda, and Alexandre-Gui Pingré. 1778. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1771 et 1772, en diverses parties de l’Europe, de l’Afrique et de l’Amérique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie Royale.

Marine Charting. Enligh tenment D enmark and No rway France German S tates Great Britain Neth erland s O tto man Empire Po rtugal Rus s ia S pain S wed en-Finland

Marine Charting in the Enlightenment. In contrast to

most other modes of cartography considered in this volume, marine charting covers the widest range of scales from very small-scale ocean charts to large-scale coastal charts and harbor charts. Many technical challenges faced the observer in gathering data necessary for marine charting at most scales: the problem of measuring distances and determining location, often accomplished by dead reckoning (that is, the conversion of observed distance and direction to obtain position), aided by observations of latitude, but not of longitude (with few exceptions before 1775). The observation, measurement, and representation of depths, ocean bottom, and currents also added to the technological and graphic hurdles. The advances, both instrumental and mathematical, made late in the century were slow to be incorporated, except by the best officers of state navies. Trigonometrical techniques of surveying, increasingly common on land, were difficult to apply on water; hydrographical engineers were much scarcer than topographical engineers, and very few naval officers were trained in those techniques. Most of the states of Europe undertook the systematic hydrographic surveying of their shorelines and overseas possessions only in the latter part of the century. They began these surveys only when it became clear that private chartmaking firms could not invest enough money in work with such a low profit margin to fill the knowledge gap with reliable and accurate charts on scales demanded by governments and the public. Thus, these states still published charts mainly at too small a scale, as became apparent right at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Unlike the other modes of cartography, with the possible exception of celestial mapping, marine charting concerned itself little with questions of possession and sovereignty (property and geographical mapping), except in the overseas colonial context, or with planning and political aggrandizement (urban mapping), or with state administration (administrative and military cartography). While marine charts were

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important for both war and trade, previous national policies of secrecy and subterfuge had run their course and proved to be counterproductive in the systematic gathering of information. In 1650, European marine cartography was still largely dominated by the Netherlands, where the older Portuguese and Spanish chart designs had been incorporated into the institutions of a strictly capitalist economy and especially the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC; the Dutch East India Company). The VOC was so powerful that it quickly became a state within the state. It supported an official chartmaker who was responsible for supplying all of the company’s ships, reviewing and maintaining logbooks, and enriching the charts and sailing directions produced under his supervision. This work was partly commercial in that the supervisor could carry on and profit from his own editorial activity and was able to employ outside craftsmen to carry out company work. The company maintained its own hydrographic service in Batavia (now Jakarta) with its own cartographers. It was the first hydrographic service established in Asia, even though at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Japanese had already started producing marine charts, modeled after Portuguese portolans (Unno 1994, 347). Although Chinese and Korean marine mapping practices were very old, their marine charts were not yet comparable to those from Europe, even though they included sailing directions and produced detailed coastal charts from an early date, as had mapmakers from the Gujarat region in India (Schwartzberg 1992, 494–503; Sheikh 2009). While Arabs produced marine charts under state supervision well before the Europeans entered the Indian Ocean, and the Ottoman Turks enjoyed a high point with the works of Pı¯rı¯ Reʾı¯s (Tibbetts 1992, 256–62; Soucek 1992, 263–92), by the eighteenth century, hydrographic production in the Middle East did not offer particular innovations. State Intervention By the 1690s, the Dutch were losing ground in terms of the quality of their marine charting, which was dominated by a commercial sector that relied on multiple sources, including the works of other nations, for its charts. In the same period, several nations initiated state-sponsored hydrographic surveys. Petter Gedda’s hydrographic survey of Sweden’s Baltic coastline began in 1680, and the results first appeared in 1696 and then were privately published in Amsterdam in 1697. In Denmark, the private work of the navigator Jens Sørensen was rewarded with his appointment by the king as director of marine charting in 1695, although his charts were not widely distributed, being regarded as state secrets. France implemented the first official hydrographic service, initiated by Jean-Baptiste Colbert, minister of Louis XIV, who in 1676 ordered the collection

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of all nautical charts with their accompanying journals and in 1681 requested the submission of logbooks by pilots to establish a geographic database. In 1693 the publication of Le Neptune françois began, the first statesponsored maritime atlas, including the first charts of the French coastline by fortification engineers who had begun their survey work in 1662 (Chapuis 1999, 159; 2007, 69–105). Although a hydrographic office similar to the Spanish Casa de Contratación had been unsuccessfully proposed in England in the mid-sixteenth century, by the seventeenth, the single-minded purpose of the Crown and a minister like Colbert was lacking, as civil war and monarchic change disrupted the country. In 1720 France established the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, with a primary goal of protecting manuscript documents from falling into foreign hands. The Dépôt copied manuscript and printed charts (French or foreign) and maintained and updated from logbooks the existing printed charts (primarily Dutch), under the supervision for thirty-one years of Jacques-Nicolas Bellin, who became the first ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine in 1741 (Chapuis 1999, 160–61). Reliance on foreign charts for war motivated the Dépôt to prepare French charts, assuring national independence (fig. 503). With this aim, Bellin increased the compilation of charts for successive versions of Le Neptune françois and later for the atlas factice, the Hydrographie françoise (from 1756), which included the first chart printed by the Dépôt in 1737 (see fig. 206). From that period onward, the collection of French marine charts continued to expand into the twentieth century (Chapuis 1999, 151–52, 170–71, 833–34). In France, the Compagnie des Indes, founded in 1719, eventually established its own hydrographic service (1762), which it maintained until the company’s bankruptcy in January 1770. It was directed by JeanBaptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette, author of Le Neptune oriental (1745), and run by active officers. As maritime trade developed beginning in the mideighteenth century, the demand for nautical documents for commerce increased, and the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine responded, countering private production. In 1773, France became the first country to institute legislation to regulate the editions and circulation of marine charts. Complete control of hydrographic production was the sole responsibility of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, and every private publication was required to have prior authorization from the Dépôt. Transparency of sources was also required (and continues to be demanded today). In 1775, the Dépôt received an exclusive privilege for engraving and printing charts with authorization to seize counterfeit plates and copies. It established a commercial structure with

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nationwide control of chart pricing and sales. This approach recognized that the staggering costs of hydrographic missions in the field and of map conservation, production, and distribution could be maintained only by an institution not driven by profits. Thus, the concept of a publicly subsidized hydrographic service appeared for the first time, confirmed by a decision of the Conseil du Roi in 1786 that outlined sanctions against authors and editors of unreliable marine charts that misled clients (Chapuis 1999, 190–95, 202–11).

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State and Private Enterprise Joined Other governments aimed to strengthen a central role for the state as they confronted similar difficulties in gathering and disseminating marine data. “Europe and the principal maritime nations have created establishments similar to those in France for the creation of marine charts, so that the fate of navigators was no longer left up to greedy geographers lacking knowledge and sufficient resources,” wrote Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, in a manuscript report to the ministre de la Marine on 5 July 1788 (quoted in Chapuis 1999, 198). After Jean Picard’s trigonometrical survey of the Sound in 1671–72, as part of his determination of the location of Tycho Brahe’s observatory at Uraniborg, on Hven, similar work in the Baltic from the end of the seventeenth century benefited marine charting, even if initially it was not based on terrestrial triangulations. In 1756, Sweden undertook the geometric survey of its coasts, with the triangulation of a portion of the coastline completed in 1768. Maritime missions were considered part of the general triangulation of the Kingdom of Denmark begun in 1761, when the Danes began geodetic land operations along both Danish and Norwegian coastlines (fig. 504) ([Fleurieu] 1794, IX–XIII, XV–XVI). While he was working on the French Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique, Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu praised the abundant, available, and reliable data in Sweden and Denmark: “There was no part of the world that can offer such a large number [of fixed positions] in such a tight space” ([Fleurieu] 1794, XIV). Despite this careful work along coastlines, the Baltic was also the subject of charts that claimed to be drawn up from new methods of triangulation, but this was not always the case, for example in the translations pub-

lished in England in the 1780s (Chapuis 1999, 196). While the Swedish Admiralty made Rear Admiral Johan Nordenankar director of charts in 1772, Denmark sent its officers for training with naval allies in the early 1770s to educate them on new navigation methods. A brilliant product of this effort was Poul de Løwenørn, who directed numerous expeditions and initiated surveys of the Danish and Norwegian coasts after spending time in Paris during the American Revolutionary War, where he had been inspired by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine. Løwenørn created the Danish national hydrographic service, Søkort-Arkiv, in 1784. In Sweden, the Crown and the Kungliga Vetenskapsakademien pressed the Admiralty for improvement of charts; chartmaking services were unified, if briefly, under the direction of Nordenankar as head of the Sea Chart Authority, which published an atlas of the Baltic and Gulf of Bothnia from 1782–97. In 1797, however, the state discontinued its publication program, and commercial enterprise once again took over. In Finland, marine cartography tasks were assumed by Rekognoseringkontoret (reconnaissance office) from 1785 until its dissolution in 1805. Yet state control did not always guarantee the best results. When British ships sailed into the Baltic at the turn of the nineteenth century they found room for improvement on the local charts they encountered (Davey 2011). In Russia, hydrographic work was vitally necessary for Peter I’s geographic and political expansion, which attracted many cartographers and European scientists to Russia, notably from France and Germany. The czar established the School of Mathematics and Navigation (Shkola matematicheskikh i navigatskikh nauk) in Moscow in 1701 to train the first cadets of the new Imperial Navy (Imperatorskiy flot), as well as a number of hydrographers and explorers. The Naval Academy (Morskaya akademiya) in St. Petersburg took over training in 1715, with its charting activities supervised by the College of Admirals from 1724. A hydrographic office was set up in the 1760s and was fully functioning by 1777. Under Catherine II, ever mindful of the European Enlightenment, Russia applied developments made in astronomy, notably during its large expeditions in the northern Pacific Ocean where Russian geographic activity was the most intense during the eighteenth cen-

(facing page) Fig. 503. JACQUES-NICOLAS BELLIN, CARTE DES ISLES DE RÉ ET D’OLLERON [PARIS: 1757]. Engraved map printed in black and white, ca. 1:161,050 (determined along the mean latitude of the chart, 46°02ʹ). This exact plan of the coast was a rarity by Bellin; the rich topography was doubtless influenced by Claude Masse, and the soundings come from the

work of La Favolière. It was edited in the year the English attacked the Ile d’Aix (1757) and inserted in the Hydrographie françoise of 1765 (Chapuis 2007, 200–201, 204). Size of the original: 87.5 × 56.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [1325 B]).

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Fig. 504. CHARLES-PIERRE CLARET DE FLEURIEU, PLAN DU PASSAGE DU SUND, FONDÉ SUR LES OPÉRATIONS TRIGONOMÉTRIQUES FAITES À URANIBOURG EN 1671 PAR L’ABBÉ PICARD ([PARIS], 1786). Engraved map printed in black and white, ca. 1:160,000. This map acknowledges the importance of the geodetic work of Jean Picard, both in the title and by the inclusion of the island of Hven, to the right, where Picard had made observations from the ruins of

Tycho Brahe’s Uraniborg observatory. The contents of the map are credited to charts published in 1771 and 1776 (see fig. 510) by Christian Carl Lous, the Danish marine officer who surveyed the Sound and instituted a system of fire towers to guide ships through the tricky passage of the Sound. Size of the original: 60.0 × 85.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 pf 8 div 2 P 16).

tury (Wagner 1937, 1:156–57). The first Russian hydrographic manual to integrate chartmaking practices appeared only in 1804. Further south and west, in 1797, Spain founded its national hydrographic service, the Dirección de Trabajos Hidrográficos, based on the French model. But its older institutions were also involved in the new approaches to navigation, such as the Academia de Guardiamarinas de Cádiz. One of the Academia’s directors, Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel y Vandewalle, was Spain’s most acclaimed hydrographer, to whom the Spanish government had entrusted the astronomical surveying of the coastline in 1783. Tofiño de San Miguel’s work often surpassed the French models on which it was based (Chapuis 1999, 233). After the peace of 1783, Spain had the political will to undertake the modernization of its hydrography and to move away from a policy of secrecy, which had

long surrounded the route of the Manila galleons. Spain escaped this autarkic trap thanks to a few scientifically trained and dynamic officers, such as Antonio de Ulloa and Jorge Juan, who were in contact with the French scientific community and involved in significant scientific voyages in Spain’s imperial regions. Responding to British charting efforts, Spanish exploratory voyages began anew with considerable cartographic results during the years 1770–80, particularly those of Alejandro Malaspina between 1789 and 1794 (Chapuis 1999, 247–48). Private Enterprise Dominant The Netherlands exemplified the domination of private enterprise in marine charting through the seventeenth century. The German states, which relied on Dutch charts for much of their nautical information, also developed a scattered commercial response to thin nautical demand. As an

Marine Charting

ever-expanding maritime power, Great Britain might have been expected to develop a state interest in marine charting, yet it continued with a private commercial model, periodically subsidized by the government. The contrast with France symbolized the way the two cultures envisioned political intervention: France driven by centralized royal authority and Great Britain by a Parliament wary of incurring debt. At the end of the seventeenth century Britain, like France, was driven to improve its coastal cartography, entrusting the task to Captain Greenvile Collins from 1681 to 1688. Commissioned by the king and published in London in 1693, Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot was reedited regularly during the eighteenth century, like Le Neptune françois, which appeared the same year. At the same time, of all the large commercial companies founded by the Europeans in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, only one had a cartographic office as powerful as that of the Dutch VOC. Although established in 1600, the British East India Company created its hydrographic service much later. Meanwhile, it relied on the manuscript charts produced by the chartmakers along the Thames, at least from the time of John Thornton, who styled himself the hydrographer to the East India Company. Nonetheless, the Company took the quality of chart production seriously, culminating in the work of Alexander Dalrymple late in the eighteenth century. The same is true of the Royal Navy, which extended its power and its charting activities through the work of particular naval officers, especially in the Far East and in the Pacific, with the individual support of admirals rather than as an institutionalized activity. Not all marine research activity was commercial, however. In 1714, England formed a Board of Longitude, well before other nations, including France, whose Bureau des longitudes in Paris was not created until 1795. On 19 February 1779, the East India Company formalized its charting activity by appointing Dalrymple as hydrographer. Having begun his career in the company, he became Britain’s most prolific chart compiler of the time. He was also the first theorist on hydrography: his Essay on the Most Commodious Methods of Marine Surveying (1771) was published three years before the more thorough manual, A Treatise of Maritim Surveying (1774), by his compatriot Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder, who had also authored the Orcades (1750), based on the best hydrographical survey of the midcentury. In Great Britain, state control over maps and books was generally limited to Parliament’s regulation of copyright (a system parallel to the privilege du roi in France). The engraved notification, “Publish’d according to Act of Parliament,” appeared at the bottom of each printed map, along with the date of publication. This notice was not a guarantee of quality; it merely guaranteed publica-

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tion rights of British commercial publishers who undertook the risk of expensive engraving and printing based on the assumption that sales would subsidize the costs of production, even though the prices remained too high. The private sector removed the financial burden of publication from the state, although in some cases the chartmaker or publisher turned to the state for financial support and reimbursement, as with J. F. W. Des Barres for The Atlantic Neptune and Lewis Morris for his survey of the coast of Wales (Robinson 1962). The question of quality control remained. Commercial publishers tended to limit frequent map corrections, which incurred the unwanted expense of additional engraving, a reluctance that limited the reliability of printed charts (Chapuis 1999, 198–201). Much of the East India Company’s chart production was affected by this routine, and Dalrymple expressed annoyance with the directors whom he deemed to be interested only in the Far East (Chapuis 1999, 253–54). Most of the Company’s charts remained in manuscript until the last quarter of the eighteenth century, when Dalrymple published many, making the results of exploratory voyages available to navigators; some of the charts were of high quality, especially along politically or commercially sensitive coastal areas (fig. 505). More and more naval officers such as James Cook spoke out against the scandal of inaccurate charts produced by commercial publishers. Even though publication of official works required Admiralty approval (“Under the directions of the right honourable the Lords commissioners of the Admiralty”), and though they were created by officers and military engineers on commissioned missions, they were nevertheless published by commercial publishers without further review or correction. There was growing recognition in Great Britain, as the leading world maritime power, that marine charting and publication were essential for commercial needs as well as military demands. Certain professors of hydrography and leading naval figures had called for an official hydrographic organization since 1750 and even earlier. Yet there was a lack of political will and even of confidence. The Royal Navy’s chief of staff was concerned that Dutch officers were more familiar with the Thames Estuary than the Navy’s own English officers, even as late as 1771, when Murdoch Mackenzie the Younger and Graeme Spence rushed to Margate to survey the Kentish coast. Based on their results, the Southern Channel through the estuary was abandoned for the much deeper Queen’s Channel, and Trinity House marked it out in 1775 (Ritchie 1967, 26, 92). Fine, reliable charts were available from military engineers and land-based surveyors like Cook on the northeast coast of North America and in the Pacific, or like George Vancouver

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along the northwest coast of the continent, from 1791 to 1795; the latter’s surveys were exceptional with regard to contours, coastal information (including significant mountain summits for locating the ships’ position off shore), and ocean depths (soundings) (Chapuis 1999, 248). But these efforts formed only a small part of the total printed chart production, whose mediocre quality may be accounted for by the state’s inability (or lack of desire) to exercise real control over commercial chart production (Chapuis 1999, 200–201; Fisher 2001). In the decade 1770 to 1780, the British state contributed men, equipment, and the gathering of data to the production of marine charts, with exceptional subsidies, while publication and distribution were assumed almost exclusively by the private market. London map publishers requested new surveys since they could neither afford nor staff such undertakings, especially on the high seas; thus, a profitable synergy emerged between the Admiralty and the map publishers (Blewitt 1957, 24–25, 163; Ritchie 1967, 22). Into the nineteenth century, some commercial enterprises, like Norie, Laurie & Whittle, and notably Imray, maintained strong traditions of good-quality chart publication (Fisher 2001). The commercial approach, however, tended to follow the market in an ad hoc way; it did not lead on the scientific front. Such an approach could not continue indefinitely, and the war with France accelerated change. The Hydrographical Office of the Admiralty was created in August 1795 in London with Dalrymple, who understood the need for quality control, appointed hydrographer. The war focused his work: the first printed Admiralty chart was of Quiberon Bay in Brittany (1800), a symbolic evocation of the loss of the HMS Resolution at Quiberon in 1759 (see fig. 383). While Great Britain was late in creating its own hydrographic service, its former colony, the young United States of America, newly independent, created its Survey of the Coast under the aegis of the Treasury Department. Long familiar with private hydrographic chart production, President Thomas Jefferson and Congress created this organization in 1807, later renamed the U.S. Coast Survey, and appointed the Swiss-born Ferdinand Rudolph Hassler as its first superintendent (Guthorn 1984). It was the first governmental scientific organiza-

(facing page) Fig. 505. ALEXANDER DALRYMPLE, A CHART OF THE CHINA SEA ([LONDON], 1771). Engraved map printed in black and white, ca. 1:4,350,650 (at mean latitude, 13° 00’). The continued title of this map (“Inscribed to Mons.r d’Aprés de Mannevillette the ingenious Author of the Neptune Oriental: As a Tribute due to his Labours for the benefit of Navigation and in acknowledgement of his many signal Favours to A. Dalrymple”) underscores the international exchange

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tion in the United States, confirming the importance of hydrography for the new nation’s existence. Cooperation, Competition, and the Demise of Secrecy From the beginning of the eighteenth century, England and France, the two great maritime and scientific powers, dominated hydrographic production in very different ways. The Enlightenment spirit of inquiry and scientific exchange was maintained through personal correspondence between scientists, such as Fleurieu and Dalrymple or Dalrymple and d’Après de Mannevillette, that even wartime rarely interrupted. More formal relations continued between scientific societies including the Académie des sciences in France, the Royal Society in England, and the societies of other regions. In addition, occasional astronomical data exchanges between the observatories of Paris and Greenwich, as well as the exchange of hydrographic data or nautical documents, resulted in many translations from one language to another. This hydrographic cooperation, which developed during the peaceful intervals of the eighteenth century and accelerated toward the end of it, was at the same time influenced by competition, espionage, and misinformation, both in peace and at war. The desire for military secrecy meant that sensitive information had to be handled carefully. France discovered The Atlantic Neptune just after the American Revolutionary War, yet the Dépôt de la Marine made use of its plates earlier and had consistently purchased English charts during the 1770s for their fleet and for the publication of their own Neptune Americo-septentrional (1778) (Pedley 2005, 146), mainly from The North American Pilot (1775) by James Cook and Michael Lane (Chapuis 1999, 834). It was not until more lasting peace returned in the nineteenth century that more consistent exchanges developed between the hydrographic services. The great powers had an interest in more transparency: they were the first to profit, as they had already done at the end of the seventeenth century from Le Neptune françois, Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot, and the English Pilot for oriental navigation, works that broke the Dutch monopoly. The English and, to a lesser degree, the French preferred to publish their works, realizing that in return for their

among cartographers: Dalrymple, hydrographer of the East India Company from 1779, and d’Après de Mannevillette, hydrographer of the Compagnie des Indes until its bankruptcy in 1770. Size of the original: 64.5 × 49.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [7108]).

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“generosity” in sharing knowledge, they would profit from the knowledge of others (Chapuis 1999, 248–49). The more ships crisscrossed the seas of the earth, the more the world opened up and the less a strategy of national secrecy could be considered sensible in the long term. For some, national secrecy lasted far too long. In Demark and Norway, it inhibited the publication and distribution of the best charts until the beginning of the nineteenth century, and Sweden did not want to disclose the bathymetry of the entrance straits to the Baltic, essential to navigating that sea and vital for the northern European economy. Jealously protecting its knowledge, Dutch hydrography gradually slowed down; finally the operations of the VOC closed at the end of the century. Certainly Dutch nautical atlases and charts continued to be used by all European ships in most of the oceans, but less regularly at the end of than during first half of the eighteenth century. From its leading world position in the middle of the seventeenth century, the Netherlands was overtaken by France and England in the 1690s and surpassed by Spain and Denmark, at least for quality, by the 1780s. Although the Van Keulen family firm became the chart suppliers to the VOC in 1743, new marine charts created in Amsterdam and Batavia steadily declined and finally ceased in 1799 (Ritchie 1991, 15). The Dutch published old material or the charts of others, like Mackenzie or Tofiño de San Miguel, before beginning coastal surveys in 1796 that remained in manuscript. The French ingénieur hydrographe CharlesFrançois Beautemps-Beaupré surveyed the first marine charts of the Netherlands using the new hydrographic standards of the nineteenth century, for which his exceptionally detailed and precise map of the Escaut (Scheldt) (1799–1800) stands as an example (Chapuis 1999, 422, 430–31) (fig. 506). The Dutch production of charts declined also because of the fossilized secrecy policy in the Far East; the Portuguese production of charts declined for the same reason in the second half of the sixteenth century as a result of Dutch espionage (Chapuis 1999, 233, 247). Yet Portuguese military engineers performed triangulation along their estuaries and promoted interesting initiatives in their colonies, mainly Brazil. At the end of the eighteenth century, the Chinese seem to have played an important role in the traffic of nautical documents involving the Far East: a Dutch map in particular was sent to England by this route (Chapuis 1999, 247). While d’Après de Mannevillette included a Portuguese manuscript among his sources for his chart of the China Sea—as did Dalrymple, using the abbreviation “P.C.” (see fig. 505)—the Portuguese increasingly used new charts produced by the major European producers from eighteenth-century cartography.

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Although the historiography is far from complete, and much manuscript material remains to be studied, it appears that those regions that had been at the forefront of nautical science and engineering in the Renaissance, such as the Ottoman Empire, Portugal, and the Netherlands, were now absent from the cutting-edge research in chronometry and hydrography in the eighteenth century. They were also late in establishing institutions that oversaw marine charting or integrated the data produced by other countries into their own charting efforts. The Netherlands established a scientific commission in 1787, consisting of two professors of mathematics and the publisher Gerard Hulst van Keulen, to oversee chart production. Portugal set up a comparable scientific society with similar objectives in 1798, eight years after beginning the triangulation of the country. European competition in exploring the Pacific Ocean spurred charting activity, even though the resulting marine charts contained little information and were rather poor in soundings. Nonetheless, Pacific exploration produced some of the major developments of the century, first with the work of Cook, then of BeautempsBeaupré. The outlines of various bodies of land and their coasts benefited from new methods of marine surveying (Chapuis 1999, 511–23) and new instruments, such as the reflecting circle of Jean-Charles Borda, used by Beautemps-Beaupré (Chapuis 1999, 266–71). The numerous, precise, and simultaneous astronomical observations for latitude and longitude and the taking of the angles between the sun and remarkable points of the coastline were all employed for the first time in a systematic, reliable way during the large scientific expedition of Joseph-Antoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux in 1791–93 (Chapuis 1999, 325–88). These graphic constructions were realized in real time and allowed trigonometry to verify astronomy, and vice-versa, because the relative and absolute position of each location were determined independently of each other. When, ten years later, Beautemps-Beaupré surveyed the Flemish coast, he positioned the very dense soundings by marine triangulation with Borda’s reflecting circle (see fig. 86) (Chapuis 1999, 552–54). Thus, at the turn into the nineteenth century, a synthesis flowed between three-point fix angle resectioning (les arcs capables) and astronomical bearings. Lack of Systematic Surveying along European Coasts While the principles of modern state hydrography were established in France, and were defined by transparency of sources, legislation to ensure reliability, and emphasis on public service, such institutional standards did not easily translate into operational procedures. Financing an office post was always less costly than funding an operation in the field. Aside from the

Fig. 506. CHARLES-FRANÇOIS BEAUTEMPS-BEAUPRÉ, RECONNOISSANCE DU COURS DU HONT OU WESTER SCHELDE (ESCAUT OCCIDENTAL) [PARIS, 1800]. Engraved map printed in black and white, 1:41,200, in three sheets. The first map surveyed on European soil by BeautempsBeaupré covers the course of the Scheldt from Antwerp to its mouth, indicating with great precision soundings of the numerous banks scattered about the river bed, which posed problems for French warships. One of the very few charts the

Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine published during the Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (for strategic reasons they usually were kept secret), this map was copied in England by the commercial London publisher Steel (19 January 1804) for use of the Royal Navy officers (Chapuis 1999, 430–31). Size of the original: 90 × 61 cm each sheet. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge ARCH 3067 [A, B, C]).

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Fig. 507. SAMUEL HOLLAND’S CHART OF THE HARBOR OF BOSTON ([LONDON], 1781). Engraved map printed in black and white, ca. 1:24,500. This map, from J. F. W. Des Barres’s monumental Atlantic Neptune, bears witness to the particular attention given by military engineers to the coastline visible from the sea, notably the coastal relief. The

maritime portion was based on the surveys of the Royal Navy master George Callendar, performed in 1769. Size of the original: 82 × 122 cm. Map reproduction courtesy of the Norman B. Leventhal Map Center at the Boston Public Library.

abortive attempt involved in the Nouveau neptune françois (Chapuis 1999, 257–62) and some very rare missions, such as those of Tofiño de San Miguel in Spain, the European coastline was not the locus for an ambitious hydrographic campaign using trigonometric surveying, even though military geographical engineers were employing it everywhere on land. Generally speaking, states were reluctant to invest specifically in nautical cartography, other than those multidisciplinary missions (both military and scientific) led by naval officers. Yet beyond solving the problem of longitude, what did these missions offer that was innovative for marine charting? What did they contribute to the accuracy required of the latest advancements in science and nautical technology? Although critical for geographical positioning, the problem of longitude was hardly the sole factor in marine charting’s slow development. More than a century

separated the integration of triangulation in terrestrial maps from its use for hydrographic charts (Chapuis 1999, 307). Curiously neglected by professors of navigation, mathematicians, sailors, and marine cartographers, no manual including the techniques of terrestrial and marine triangulation in hydrography was available until Dalrymple’s Essay (1771). Mackenzie followed in 1774 with his Treatise in which he warned: “No Branch of practical Geometry has been so little considered by Men of Science as Maritim Surveying. This Subject has never been particularly treated of by any Author, nor taught by a Master; nor have Surveyors given any Account of their Operations and Procedure in such Surveys” (Mackenzie 1774, ix). While Mackenzie’s work had a number of flaws, he was the first hydrographer to clearly advocate trigonometrical surveying at sea (Chapuis 1999, 115–17).

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To participate in marine charting, it was best to be a sailor. But motivation was not enough; one also needed to be a hydrographic engineer. The Navy had difficulty grasping the specifics of the complex art of marine cartography, and it was always quick to ignore that which did not originate with itself and even quicker to reject “nourishment of the land.” Very few naval officers had studied works by terrestrial surveyors; for every James Cook, trained in terrestrial triangulation by a military surveyor (Samuel Holland), many officers were ignorant of its potential. This deficiency was even more alarming in that the terrestrial cartography of France was far in advance of what had developed in the rest of the world. The situation in Great Britain was somewhat better, even if Dalrymple’s and Mackenzie’s theories did not produce concrete results. There was no comprehensive work in France comparable to the charts of Cook and Des Barres (fig. 507). Although both countries used their terrestrial military engineers overseas, only England employed, and then only occasionally and only in North America, its military engineers (many foreign-born) for maritime work, which aided them during the American Revolutionary War. Once again, diversity leaned more toward the pragmatic than the scientific, which required competence and technology. On the nautical side of cartography, notwithstanding its great advantages, France was content to keep up appearances only. Fleurieu’s observation on the abundant and reliable data on the Baltic Sea (quoted above) tended to confirm the internationally poor track record of hydrography for not embracing astronomy and geodesy. While the century of Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert’s Encyclopédie was one of specialization, led by France with other states gradually joining in the pursuit of education in science and technology, hydrography universally fell outside this general movement. This was not the least of all paradoxes of a practice in need of science and technology.

Crone, G. R. 1978. Maps and Their Makers: An Introduction to the History of Cartography. 5th ed. Folkestone: Dawson; Hamden: Archon. Davey, James. 2011. “The Advancement of Nautical Knowledge: The Hydrographical Office, the Royal Navy and the Charting of the Baltic Sea, 1795–1815.” Journal for Maritime Research 13:81–103. Fisher, Susanna. 2001. The Makers of the Blueback Charts: A History of Imray Laurie Norie & Wilson Ltd. Ithaca: Regatta Press. [Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de]. 1794. Fondemens des cartes du Cattégat et de la Baltique. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, Exécutive du Louvre. Fry, Howard T. 1970. Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808) and the Expansion of British Trade. Toronto: For the Royal Commonwealth Society by University of Toronto Press. Guthorn, Peter J. 1984. United States Coastal Charts, 1783–1861. Exton: Schiffer. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J. F. W. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Mackenzie, Murdoch. 1774. A Treatise of Maritim Surveying, in Two Parts: With a Prefatory Essay on Draughts and Surveys. London: For Edward and Charles Dilly. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ritchie, G. S. 1967. The Admiralty Chart: British Naval Hydrography in the Nineteenth Century. London: Hollis & Carter. ———. 1991. “The History of Hydrography: An Enlightened European Era, 1660–1800.” International Hydrographic Review 68, no. 1:7–20. Robinson, A. H. W. 1962. Marine Cartography in Britain: A History of the Sea Chart to 1855. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Schwartzberg, Joseph E. 1992. “Nautical Maps.” In HC 2.1:494–503. Sheikh, Samira. 2009. “A Gujarati Map and Pilot Book of the Indian Ocean, c. 1750.” Imago Mundi 61:67–83. Soucek, Svat. 1992. “Islamic Charting in the Mediterranean.” In HC 2.1:263–92. Tibbetts, Gerald R. 1992. “The Role of Charts in Islamic Navigation in the Indian Ocean.” In HC 2.1:256–62. Unno, Kazutaka. 1994. “Cartography in Japan.” In HC 2.2:346–477. Wagner, Henry Raup. 1937. The Cartography of the Northwest Coast of America to the Year 1800. 2 vols. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Oliv ier Ch apuis

mid-seventeenth century, the combined monarchy of Denmark-Norway was a considerable seafaring nation  with possessions in Central America, Africa, and India. Greenland, Iceland, and the Faroe Islands were also part of the kingdom. Denmark comprised approximately 500 islands with a coastline of almost 7,000 kilometers and Norway’s coastline, with islands, was over 80,000 kilometers. Centered at the entrance to the Baltic and the trade situated there, the Danish straits were some of the most trafficked in the world. Considering this location, as well as the widespread fishing industry that always existed there, and that trade relied on the oceanic transport, it is amazing that practically no charts of internal Danish-Norwegian waters or of the waters surrounding its possessions around the globe were produced in the kingdom at this time. There are

See also: Atlantic Neptune, The; Atlas: Marine Atlas; Fleurieu, CharlesPierre Claret de; Heights and Depths, Mapping of: (1) Isobath, (2) Bathymetric Map; Instruments for Angle Measuring: (1) Back Staff, (2) Marine Compass, (3) Octant and Sextant; Marine Chart; Measures, Linear: Marine Measures; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Navigation and Cartography; Pilot Book; Projections: Marine Charts; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation; Traverse: Marine Traverse B i bliogra p hy Blewitt, Mary. 1957. Surveys of the Seas: A Brief History of British Hydrography. [London]: Macgibbon & Kee. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. ———. 2007. Cartes des côtes de France: Histoire de la cartographie marine et terrestre du littoral. Douarnenez: Chasse-Marée.

Marine Charting by Denmark and Norway. In the

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Fig. 508. BAGGE WANDEL, RIGTIG AFRITZ AF FÆRÖE, 1650. Oriented with north at the right, this manuscript map of the Faroe Islands is the oldest preserved chart in Denmark-Norway.

Size of the original: 34 × 45 cm. Rigsarkivet, Copenhagen (Søkort-Arkivet, Map A18/004). Image courtesy of the Geodatastyrelsen, Nørresundby.

only two known Danish charts from that period: one dating from 1650 of the Faroe Islands (fig. 508) and one from 1653 of the southern part of the Danish Sound. These are the oldest surviving charts made in DenmarkNorway and were drawn by Bagge Wandel, who was the director of the Navigationsskolen in Copenhagen (Ravn 1928, 3–4). At that time, the navigational charts most commonly used in Danish-Norwegian waters were Dutch. Numerous establishments in the Low Countries, including those of Lucas Jansz. Waghenaer and Johannes van Keulen, published charts covering all the waters of the world. Centrally positioned in Europe, Holland was the largest and most powerful seafaring nation and was located at the crossroads for traffic through the Atlantic to the

new world of the Americas. However, the specifics of the Dutch charts were poor and insufficient (Bramsen 1965, 79–88, 101–12). The charts were often embellished with fine decorations of sea monsters and mermaids regularly placed where content was missing. Crucial information about depth, ground, rocks, and reefs—all of which could be disastrous for ships—was often lacking. The rendered coastline was primitive and often incorrect. In most cases, cartographers drew the charts based on observations, drawings, and verbal descriptions of traders who had sailed the Baltic. At the end of the 1600s, however, the Danish businessman Jens Sørensen effected a revolution in DenmarkNorway with regard to the production of reliable charts. Throughout his youth, Sørensen had worked with his fa-

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ther, who, as a ship owner and businessman in the town of Sølvesborg, Sweden, carried on trade throughout the entire Baltic region. As a shipmaster of innumerable commercial ventures, the younger Sørensen had acquired a detailed knowledge of the coastline and waters of the Danish Kingdom and surrounding countries. Predisposed to chart drawing and possessing a well-developed ability to apply his observations on paper, he produced more than one hundred charts in various scales over a period of thirty years. Though Sørensen’s charts were not graduated with longitude and latitude, nor produced based on the scientific principles of the time, we now know that his maps were very precise indeed. With their annotations of depth measurements and the addition of rock outcroppings and reefs (see fig. 758), they are outstanding compared to other contemporary maps. In addition, they were simple and aesthetically beautiful (fig. 509). In 1689, Sørensen was appointed director of marine charting (søkortdirektør) by King Christian V and held this post for the following twenty years. Unfortunately, the king and his admiralty regarded the charts produced by Sørensen as state secrets. Because of the fear that the charts would fall into the country’s enemy’s hands, Sørensen’s works were never reproduced nor used by the people they were intended to help (Bové 1998; Ravn 1928).

At Sørensen’s death in 1723, the Danish Kingdom was in dire economic straits after its participation in the Great Northern War (1700–1721), and the production of marine charts came to a standstill. Not until the late 1700s were charts of important internal waters, such as Kattegat and the Sound, once again produced, especially after King Christian VII made Carl Christian Lous head of the Navigationsskolen in 1763. Commercially, Lous had the privilege to survey, produce, distribute, and sell charts of these areas (fig. 510) (Bjerg 1984, 52, 58). The influence of the Enlightenment led to the establishment of the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab in 1742. The society instituted a plan to carry out regular survey and mapping of Denmark-Norway based on international scientific principles. From 1761 to 1843 this task was completed, resulting in twentyfour geographical and trigonometrically surveyed charts that provided a precise depiction of the Danish coastline. Hence, an exact maritime survey was established. The French entered the American Revolutionary War (1775–83), joining the Americans against the English. Danish and Norwegian naval officers also participated on each side to acquire needed war experience, since the Danish-Norwegian navy had not seen action for many years. Thus, the Danish lieutenant commander Poul de Løwenørn, later a rear admiral, came to Paris aboard a

Fig. 509. JENS SØRENSEN’S MANUSCRIPT MAP OF DENMARK WITH THE BALTIC SEA, 1700. Sørensen’s chart is considered innovative, especially due to the accuracy of its coastline.

Size of the original: 56 × 106 cm. Rigsarkivet, Copenhagen (Søkort-Arkivet, Map A14/005). Image courtesy of the Geodatastyrelsen, Nørresundby.

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French warship to profit from France’s contributions to the maritime sciences. In Paris, Løwenørn became acquainted with the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, established in 1720, and its collections. Fascinated and impressed by what he had experienced in Paris, Løwenørn was inspired and determined to establish a similar institution in Denmark-Norway, which would help shipping and could prevent navigational disasters and loss of life. In 1784, he persuaded the king and admiralty that such an institution was in the nation’s best interest. On 22 April the same year, the Kongelige Danske Søkort-Arkiv (1784–1973), the royal hydrographic office, was established in Copenhagen with Løwenørn as its director (Bjerg 1984, 50). One of the first projects of the Søkort-Arkiv was to collect, register, and file all the charts, harbor plans, sailing directions, ocean descriptions, and related materials of Danish-Norwegian as well as foreign waterways. Numerous copies of these charts were made for use by the king’s ships, but the original charts could under no circumstances leave the office. In addition, Løwenørn was ordered to plan, organize, and survey the most trafficked Norwegian and Danish waterways as the foundation for producing more reliable and explicit charts and to expand the safety of navigation. The Søkort-Arkiv now took back the previously awarded privileges to chart Kattegat and the Sound and received the exclusive rights to reproduce charts in Denmark-Norway. Several of the internal waterways were speedily surveyed, resulting in new charts. Surveys were undertaken along the coasts of Norway, the Faroe Islands, and Iceland. At first these surveys did not result in marine charts but provided valuable information for Løwenørn’s pilots. Much secrecy surrounded the charts, as the surveys were intended for use by warships, not by commercial fleets or the general public. With Løwenørn a new era had begun, as he ultimately became the father of the modern systematic survey, charting and expanding the knowledge of Danish-Norwegian waters. Through an energetic pioneering effort, he organized a lighthouse authority, a buoy service, a piloting authority, and the improvement of Danish harbors. Løwenørn’s work was continued by his successor, Vice Admiral C. C. Zahrtmann. In time, the Merchant Marine needed more and more reliable charts of domestic waters and succeeded in eliminating the military’s

raphy in France between 1650 and 1800 requires clarification of vocabulary. The term hydrographie appeared in the French language in the mid-sixteenth century, and from the outset it meant marine mapping in both its textual and graphic forms. More specifically it incorporated “the description and situation of maritime places, their longitudes, latitudes, distances, itineraries, and differentiations of climates and winds,” as defined by Oronce Fine in 1551, in contrast to geography’s “description of earthly places” (Dainville 1964, 97, 133–34). Yet in French from the 1630s to the 1650s, hydrographie also began to refer more and more frequently to the art of navigating or piloting, a definition that prevailed until around 1800 (Chapuis 1999, 38). Nonetheless, hydrographie also still referred to marine mapping from the sixteenth century through the beginning of the eighteenth century, when Nicolas Aubin’s influential marine dictionary included the entry on cartes hydrographiques to describe marine charts (Aubin 1702, 499). That said, the development of hydrography’s current definition as a form of cartography dates from the 1750s, concurrent with the significant breakthroughs in navigation. Jean Le Rond d’Alembert defined hydrography in the Encyclopédie first as the act of “constructing marine charts” (d’Alembert 1765, 8:373), and the most significant example was the 1756 publication of the first

(facing page) Fig. 510. CARL CHRISTIAN LOUS, ET NŸT PAS KAART OVER KATTEGATTET, 1776. Copperplate print. In the years before the foundation of the Danish hydrographic office in 1784, the publication of charts was in private hands. Lous had the privilege to publish charts of the Danish waters, such

as this one of Kattegat, which influenced foreign charting of the same area (see fig. 504). Size of the original: 85 × 54 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Kortsamlingen, Copenhagen (KBK 7153, 2-1-1776/1).

penchant for secretiveness (Ravn 1928). In 1830, Zahrtmann was officially allowed to publish a number of new charts of the Danish-Norwegian coast (Bramsen 1965, 153). The publication of his Den Danske Lods in 1843 began the consistent, continuous marine charting that continues into the twenty-first century. J es per As ger Pedersen See also: Denmark and Norway; Sørensen, Jens Bibliography Bjerg, Hans Christian. 1984. Poul Løwenørn, 1751–1826. Copenhagen: Farvandsdirektoratet. Bové, Margrethe. 1998. Jens Sørensen: Spion og søkorttegner for Christian V = Spy and Hydrographer to the Royal Danish Navy. Trans. Tønnes Bekker-Nielsen. Århus: N.p. Bramsen, Bo. 1965. Gamle Danmarkskort: En historisk oversigt med bibliografiske noter for perioden 1570–1770. Copenhagen: Grønholt Pedersens Forlag. Ravn, H. O. 1928. Danmarks Søopmaaling. Stockholm: A. Börtzells Tryckeri A.-B.

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edition of the Hydrographie françoise, Jacques-Nicolas Bellin’s collection of marine charts. Bellin himself held the title of ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine from 1 August 1741. In his significant treatise on navigation of 1753, Pierre Bouguer insisted particularly “on the development of marine or hydrographic charts, and on all that relates to their usage” (Bouguer 1753, 55). His emphasis was understandable as hydrography was certainly connected for sailors to the art of navigation, a point of view that the elite adopted over the course of the next half century. In the marine volumes of the Encyclopédie méthodique (1786), the article dedicated to cartography was titled “Carte,” but the one titled “Hydrographie” held true to its modern definition, even if it still resonated with the common naval meaning: It is the knowledge of seas, waters, coastlines, islands, ports, harbors, streams, rivers, etc. that are spread out over our globe and that have been designated on hydrographic charts for sailors to recognize, because hydrography also instructs ways to position ships on charts, to navigate courses, and to make astronomical observations, the calculations it requires; in a word, everything that involves marine science in relation to navigating. ([Blondeau and Vial du Clairbois] 1783– 87, 2:549)

In the same volume, a hydrographer was defined as “an individual who was trained in the art of navigation and who taught piloting and all its related areas to sailors expected to understand hydrography in order to steer ships all over the world” ([Blondeau and Vial du Clairbois] 1783–87, 2:548–49). In 1792, L. de Lassale considered hydrography as the science of navigation, which he taught, but he also devoted chapter four of his course to “hydrographic or marine charts” (Lassale 1792, 126). Five years later, the fourth edition of the marine vocabulary of Daniel Lescallier (1797, 2:625–26), defined hydrographer (hydrographe) as a professor of navigation, insisting that this designation should be reserved for experts who knew all the coastlines well enough to prepare charts of them. Finally, in July 1791, the nomination of CharlesFrançois Beautemps-Beaupré as ingénieur géographe of the d’Entrecasteaux expedition was a sign of the influential position of geography, also known as topography. For the most part, his traveling companions considered him the geographer of the expedition, yet fifteen years later he was regarded as the l’ingénieur hydrographe of this same voyage, evidence of a substantial and definitive evolution. By the early nineteenth century, those responsible for surveying for marine charts on land and then drawing them were systematically referred to as ingénieurs hydrographes or hydrographers, now well

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rooted in the definition of hydrography that continues in use even today (Chapuis 1999, 40). State Control of Coastal Mapping Determinism does not necessarily operate in geography: a large and beautiful coastline does not establish a maritime nation. In the eighteenth century, France was what it had always been: a landed nation with more plowing and pasturing than navigating the coasts and knowing the tides; a country that, for the most part, viewed the sea as a one-dimensional site or an unfathomable universe. Yet the minority who constituted the brotherhood of seafarers with a common language and lifestyle felt closer to their fellow mariners of other European nations, even to their “hereditary” enemies, than to their fellow citizens. The maritime tradition was indeed stronger in France’s neighbors such as Great Britain and the Netherlands. One has to differentiate between the seafarers and the denizens of coastal communities who never ventured beyond the low-tide watermark, not even visiting the foreshore, at least not until modern times. The situation was not simple; though fundamentally land-based, France was also maritime (Chapuis 2007, 9–10). Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the powerful minister of state serving in the wake of Armand Jean du Plessis Cardinal Richelieu and Jules Cardinal Mazarin, strengthened state control over cartography in the 1660s (Konvitz 1987, 1–2). The desire to know and master the national space became a fundamental characteristic of eighteenthcentury France (Gillispie 1980, 3–32). As intendant des Finances (1661) and then contrôleur général des Finances (1665), Colbert controlled the administration of France, unofficially directing the Marine even before assuming the official charge of it at the end of 1665. In 1669 he became secrétaire d’État à la Marine, a position from which he legislated in support of hydrography schools responsible for teaching navigation (Chapuis 1999, 136). In 1664, the minister created a commission to procure winter storage and dry docks for the naval fleet, a project that involved a new cartographic effort to map the coastline (Chapuis 2007, 70–71). Louis-Nicolas de Clerville, a member of this commission, was not always personally involved in the field surveys, which he entrusted to the topographers who worked under him. They were recruited from the ingénieurs du roi, as established under Henri IV, and prepared the maps, which were done extremely quickly and concisely, focusing only on major ports. Clerville’s commission marked the first attempt to represent the French coastline at an adequately large scale (in addition to his detailed plans, usually much larger than 1:100,000), reduced from detailed surveys carried out in the field, even from incomplete and rough drafts. The scale of Clerville’s works was the sole satisfactory

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result of this cartographic effort, which otherwise lacked accuracy and was essentially limited to areas around major military ports, such as Brest and Rochefort. His missions were more akin to those of a coastal planner than those of a surveyor with sailors in mind. Though Colbert thought both planning and surveying could be accomplished, the weak results confirmed that even a powerful state extremely conscious of sea matters could underestimate the nautical demands and the specificity required for nautical charts (Chapuis 2007, 71–79). Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, criticized Clerville’s work at every opportunity and succeeded him as commissaire général des fortifications in 1678, the year after Clerville’s death. In fact, the changing of the guard had taken place well before Clerville’s death, while he was still serving Colbert in the Marine, and Vauban took charge of fortifications almost everywhere in France, especially along the coasts. Vauban became very interested in the French coastline in 1679, studying coastal barriers as well as naval ports and even lighthouses, for which he launched the first construction program in France. Vauban’s engineers, though not concerned directly with marine cartography, did take note of high and low tide lines, which did not appear regularly on maps until the seventeenth century, when they became the basis of early, if not the first, contour lines (Chapuis 2007, 88). Vauban and Clerville were not the only ones traveling the coasts. At the request of the Académie des sciences, member astronomers Jean Picard and Philippe de La Hire made observations along the coast from 1679 to 1682 (Débarbat and Dumont 2002, 241), particularly in Brest, to determine latitude and longitude. These positions, together with those provided by Jean-Dominique Cassini (I), constituted part of the basic framework for the maps of Le Neptune françois.

le neptune françois The inaccuracy of Clerville’s work forced Colbert to review it, with the triple goals of reducing the number of shipwrecks, facilitating defense, and developing the coastline. The ingénieur des fortifications La Favolière worked along the coasts of Poitou, Aunis, and Saintonge between 1670 and 1677 (fig. 511). The ingénieur de la Marine Denis La Voye worked north of the Loire along the coasts of Brittany around 1670 with excellent results, even surpassing those of La Favolière in spite of the ongoing geomorphological change, which was more pronounced south of Noirmoutier than along the rocky coasts of Brittany (Chapuis 1999, 101). Although surveyed by landlubbers, the maps by Colbert’s engineers were nevertheless fundamentally maritime, unlike those produced under Vauban and Clerville, emphasizing how the definitions of hydrography and topography were still muddled in the third quarter of

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the seventeenth century, though change would be very rapid in the coming decades. Before the 1750s, this disassociation was far from evident and consistent, and it was not until 1800 that hybrid maps, incorporating the land and sea of the French coastline, would no longer be produced (Chapuis 1999, 38; 2007, 107–9). La Voye’s and La Favolière’s coastal maps were kept secret for almost twenty years for strategic reasons (Chapuis 1999, 101). Nonetheless, along with the work of other authors such as Clerville, they served as the basis for the graphic representation of the French Atlantic coastline, including north Brittany, of Le Neptune françois published in Paris in 1693 (Chapuis 1999, 101–4; 2007, 107–14, 130–35). This was the first maritime work to benefit from astronomical observations of the Académie des sciences, which was also then preparing to begin the triangulation of France. These astronomically determined positions were integrated after the fact, having been completed at the beginning of the 1680s, while the maps by La Voye and La Favolière had been prepared in the 1670s. However, despite these improvements, Le Neptune françois was not based upon any specific geodetic framework (Chapuis 1999, 102). Yet its design included mapping layout techniques such as overlapping content at the edges of the charts, a useful principle that still exists today, and its scale of approximately 1:100,000 for maps of the French coastline was relatively detailed for the period (Chapuis 1999, 104; 2007, 134–35). In 1693, the cartographic dimensions of the Mediterranean, like those of Brittany, were shrinking from the effect of the astronomical observations taken along its shores, mostly done by Jean-Mathieu de Chazelles (Pelletier 2007, 572). In 1675, Chazelles was assistant to Cassini I, one of the instigators of Le Neptune françois. Chazelles was later responsible for training future officers of the forty galleys based in Marseille in 1690 in navigation and the use of charts. While resident on the Provençal coast, Chazelles took bearings and made notes in order to correct the cartography of the Mediterranean (Kellman 2002, 266–68). He also collaborated on Le Neptune françois as a cartographer, working in the English Channel, and as an editor, under the direction of Charles Pène, working mainly on the second volume of Le Neptune françois. Focused on the Mediterranean, the second volume was proposed to the Académie des sciences in 1701 but never published in spite of the determination and later efforts by Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, between 1753 and 1778 (Chapuis 1999, 165). With Chazelles’s work, the east-west extent of the Mediterranean was reduced by measurement by almost one hundred kilometers. Only in 1737 did Bellin produce a printed chart of the Mediterranean, the first official chart of Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine,

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Fig. 511. LA FAVOLIÈRE, “CÔTES DEPUIS LES SABLES D’OLONNE JUSQU’À CARIGNAN EN MÉDOC AVEC LES SONDES,” 1674. Manuscript, scale ca. 1:70,000. This map was surveyed from 1670 and completed in 1674, though the seal of verification and certification is dated 1677. The very dense soundings in both fathoms and feet allowed the largest

war ships to negotiate entrance to the Charente River in order to reach the new port city of Rochefort. The various red seals marked certification of soundings by local pilots. Size of the original: 115.5 × 276.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18E pf 53 pièce 12).

and the first to incorporate the work of Chazelles and others (see fig. 206). Their work had been synthesized in 1735 by Philippe Buache in manuscript on a Mercator projection (just like the 1737 chart), a format that navigators accepted with great reluctance (Pelletier 2007, 573–75; Chapuis 1999, 151–52, 170–71). Because Le Neptune françois continued as the major

reference until 1800 and beyond for lack of a better alternative, very few naval coastal maps made in the eighteenth century were based on France’s geodetic network. The private initiatives of Michel Magin in the Loire and Gironde estuaries (1757), along with those of JeanBaptiste Degaulle in the Seine estuary (1788), did not use the triangulation network, despite their claims that

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with their charts navigators could forgo hiring a pilot to enter these rivers (Chapuis 1999, 134, 149, 318). However, the Nouveau neptune françois did incorporate the geodetic network, though it was limited to Picardy and Normandy between 1776 and 1778, and some maps surveyed by Louis-Bon-Jean de la Couldre de La Bretonnière and Pierre-François-André Méchain, which did not

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surface until the Revolution, demonstrated the best hydrographic surveying on French coasts in the eighteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 257–62) (fig. 512). Saddled with this sacred but obsolete model, French hydrography was bogged down by Le Neptune françois (Chapuis 1999, 101–10). Its 5e carte particuliere des costes de Bretagne remained the official image of the tip of Brittany until

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the early nineteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 614). At the same time, César-François Cassini (III) de Thury’s ingénieurs and the ingénieurs géographes militaires became increasingly active on the coastline, but without venturing beyond the foreshore, except in rare instances (Chapuis 1999, 127–28; 2007, 173–84).

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A New Hydrography Some navigators nevertheless consulted the geodetic works carried out on land by Cassini III and Giovanni Domenico Maraldi (resulting in the Nouvelle carte qui comprend les principaux triangles qui servent de fondement à la description géométrique de la France, 1744; see fig. 19), and other hydrographic officers in the Marine used this new geodetic data to rectify principal positions and the coastal outline, which still were essentially small-scale compilations. The solution to the longitude problem allowed positions to be corrected on compiled maps drawn after the initial trial voyages of marine chronometers in the late 1760s. These voyages had also enabled the correct positioning or removal of numerous mistaken danger spots (vigies) on the charts, those hazards that sometimes proved to be either imaginary or simply a whale or a reflection on the water (Chapuis 1999, 174, 178–79). French marine expeditions such as that of the Flore across the Atlantic (1771–72) compiled long lists of such errors on the charts of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine (Verdun de la Crenne, Borda, and Pingré 1778). The expedition led by Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu in the Atlantic from 1768 to 1769 was the most emblematic in its contribution to marine cartography (Chapuis 1999, 78–79). The instructional work published afterward became the authority on the subject of the position at sea (Fleurieu 1773). Highly critical of Bellin, ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine from 1741 to 1772, Fleurieu did not just emphasize the importance of mastering longitude in order to correct marine charts (Chapuis 1999, 179–83), he illustrated it with the Nouvelle carte réduite de l’océan Atlantique ou Occidental (1772) (see fig. 240). This chart corrected the eastwest dimension of the North Atlantic (Chapuis 1999, 186–87), a reduction in breadth that corresponded to about three days of good sailing in 1750 (Chapuis 1999, 25–26). This chart suitably represented the first oceanic routes in the era of longitude, opened by a small elite

of learned European officers. Fleurieu also classified the errors made by the Dépôt’s charts that involved latitude. Though easily measured and defined, as on the increasing latitudes of a Mercator projection, they were not always correctly reproduced by some cartographers. The deeper problem concerned the regulation of transparency of production and the selection of the best sources for cartographic compilation, especially logbooks that were in great need of improved standardization, a task that a new generation of educated officers wanted to undertake. Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette put this approach into practice by including justificatory memoirs with his charts (Chapuis 1999, 182–85). A qualitative and quantitative analysis of French hydrographic production confirms the scarcity of the hydrography of the French coasts. Technically, a more observed and measured coastal cartography was possible, but despite several isolated attempts such as those mentioned above, nothing happened. Navigation along the coast was far from the main concern of the scientific and maritime elite of the Enlightenment. They were completely preoccupied with hydrographic positioning out of sight of land, which was understandable within the context of the longitude problem (Chapuis 1999, 42–86). The new editions of Le Neptune françois (1753 and 1773) contained a single chart on a tiny scale (less than or equal to 1:1,500,000), but nine on very small scale (less than or equal to 1:800,000) and nine on a small scale (less than or equal to 1:300,000), eleven on a medium scale (less than or equal to 1:100,000), and none on a larger scale. Those of the Hydrographie françoise published until Bellin’s death in 1772 included four plans, two large-scale charts and sixteen mediumscale, twenty-two small-scale charts, forty-nine very small scale, and seven very tiny scale. Thus of the 130 engraved plates of the two so-called masterpieces of French hydrography distributed by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine between 1737 and 1772, ninetyseven charts were small scale. In other words, almost 75 percent of the charts published by the official French hydrographic service through 1772 were general charts (Chapuis 1999, 309–10). While France had been one of the most scientific states in the eighteenth century (Gillispie 1980, 3–32), it

(facing page) Fig. 512. LOUIS-BON-JEAN DE LA COULDRE DE LA BRETONNIÈRE AND PIERRE-FRANÇOIS-ANDRÉ MÉCHAIN, CÔTES DE FRANCE: DÉPARTEMENT DU PAS DE CALAIS DEPUIS LA PTE. D’OYE JUSQU’À AMBLETEUSE (PARIS: DÉPÔT DES CARTES ET PLANS DE LA MARINE, 1797). Scale ca. 1:110,000 (determined along the mean latitude of the chart, 51°02ʹ). This map is one of eight

sheets surveyed and engraved as part of the abortive project of the Nouveau neptune françois. Although it linked up nicely with the land triangulation, it was clearly not sufficient for sailing beyond the intertidal zone. Size of the original: 68.5 × 50.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18E pf 34 div 1 pièce 25/D)

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revived its involvement with sciences at the beginning of Louis XVI’s reign with his minister Anne Robert Jacques Turgot. Hydrography’s position improved after Bellin’s death and after the mastering of longitude, which produced yet more general charts. Half of the sixty-four plates published by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine between 1773 and 1791 were detailed charts (Chapuis 1999, 310). Beyond the foreshore, exceptional marine charts for this period were few in number and far from comparable to the terrestrial topography being undertaken on the Cassini family’s private initiative on the one hand and the major work of the ingénieurs géographes militaires on the other. The maritime concern in the eighteenth century was the solution to longitude, a matter for open water. The dimension of longitude required astronomical observations to allow the primary points of oceanic charts to connect to the secondary geodetic points. JosephAntoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux’s expedition in 1791 carried this out using Beautemps-Beaupré’s method (Chapuis 1999, 325–88, 511–23), which led to a major development in the following century: guaranteed trigonometric precision that would allow the marine chart to achieve higher resolution. This was the goal of the major surveying campaigns along the European coastlines of the Napoleonic empire and of nineteenthcentury France. A chart of the Flemish coast, Reconnaissance hydrographique [et carte] de la côte nord de France, surveyed in 1801–2 and published in 1804 by Beautemps-Beaupré (see fig. 86), articulates this precision. The very dense soundings were all positioned by the triangulation using Jean-Charles Borda’s repeating (i.e., reflecting) circle. A bathymetric classification was also introduced using an innovative color system. This chart marked the transition from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century for the representation of soundings, for their reduction using the closest possible observations of tidal graduated scales, and for extending triangulation to the ocean (Chapuis 1999, 552–54). Hydrography as a Public Service In terms of a state hydrographic organization, France began early to create a model of modern public service that would be copied by the majority of the large European maritime countries, beginning with the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, created 19 November 1720. The Dépôt’s goal was chiefly to prevent the bulk of manuscript documents from falling into foreign hands. The Dépôt also copied all manuscript and printed charts, French or foreign, for naval purposes, and updated the existing printed cartography, primarily Dutch, with the help of logbooks (Chapuis 1999, 160–61). Following the tradition of the first half of the eighteenth century, Bellin’s work as ingénieur hydrographe

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de la Marine involved compiling notes collected from sailors and travelers. The resulting maps were usually drawn at a small scale with little detail. The reliance on foreign charts in wartime became an incentive for the Dépôt to prepare French charts, assuring its national independence in this arena, since maps confirmed possession and remained instruments of national prestige. Bellin increased the number of chart compilations for successive versions of the Hydrographie françoise, and from 1756, the collection of state-produced French marine charts continued to expand until the twentieth century (Chapuis 1999, 833–34). The Compagnie des Indes (founded 1719) did not establish its own hydrographic service until 1762, which it maintained for eight years, until its bankruptcy in January 1770. Directed by d’Après de Mannevillette, author of Le Neptune oriental (1745), it was run by very active officers. By the mid-eighteenth century, maritime trade was developing substantially, and the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine needed both to respond to a growing trade in nautical documents and to counter privately produced charts, whose rigor was unsatisfactory. By regulating the editions and circulation of marine charts, France became the first country to institute legislation in this area. The decision of 5 October 1773 established complete control of hydrographic production under the sole responsibility of the Dépôt, which at times clashed with the Académie de marine (Chapuis 1999, 154–58). Defined as one of the tasks of the current Service hydrographique et océanographique de la Marine, this ruling remained in effect in the early twenty-first century: every private marine publication must have prior authorization from the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine. Transparency of sources continued to be required, as confirmed by the recommendations of the International Hydrographic Organization, formed in 1921. Moreover, on 18 August 1775, exclusive privilege was granted to the Dépôt for the engraving and printing of charts, along with the authorization to seize illicit plates and counterfeit copies. Finally, the order of 28 October 1775 set up a commercial structure for a primary establishment with commissioned agents to control the sale of charts and to guarantee distribution at the same fair price throughout the entire country. This apparatus was reinforced by a new judgment of the king’s council on 10 June 1786, together with sanctions against authors and editors of unreliable marine charts that misguided clients. From its inception on 30 September 1776, the administration of the Entrepôt général (general warehouse) for the sale of charts and works was entrusted to Jean-Nicolas Buache, who passed control, along with his geographic collection, to Jean-Claude Dezauche in 1780—a transfer that took a year to become effective (Chapuis 1999, 190–95, 202–11).

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The staggering costs of hydrographic missions in the field and of the conservation, production, and distribution of maps (to the Marine on one hand and to the trade on the other) could be maintained only by a state that was not driven by profitability. Thus, the concept of a hydrographic service as a public good was born. Oliv ier Ch apuis See also: Beautemps-Beaupré, Charles-François; Bellin, JacquesNicolas; Buache, Philippe; Chabert, Joseph-Bernard, marquis de; Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de; France; Longitude and Latitude; Military Cartography: France; Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique; Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise; Neptune oriental, Le; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation B i bliogra p hy Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. 1765. “Hydrographie.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 8:373. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Aubin, Nicolas. 1702. Dictionnaire de marine contenant les termes de la navigation et de l’architecture navale, avec les règles & proportions qui doivent y être observées. Amsterdam: Pierre Brunel. [Blondeau, Étienne-Nicolas, and Honoré-Sébastien Vial du Clairbois]. 1783–87. Encyclopédie méthodique: Marine. 3 vols. Paris: Panckoucke. Bouguer, Pierre. 1753. Nouveau traité de navigation, contenant la théorie et la pratique du pilotage. Paris: Guérin & Delatour. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. ———. 2007. Cartes des côtes de France: Histoire de la cartographie marine et terrestre du littoral. Douarnenez: Chasse-Marée. Dainville, François de. 1964. Le langage des géographes: Termes, signes, couleurs des cartes anciennes, 1500–1800. Paris: A. et J. Picard. Débarbat, Suzanne, and Simone Dumont. 2002. “Le rôle des astronomes français dans la cartographie des côtes aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles.” In Défense des côtes et cartographie historique, ed. JeanPierre Bois, 233–54. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de. 1773. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1768 et 1769, à différentes parties du monde, pour éprouver en mer les horloges marines inventées par M. Ferdinand Berthoud. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Gillispie, Charles Coulston. 1980. Science and Polity in France at the End of the Old Regime. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kellman, Jordan. 2002. “Jean-Matthieu de Chazelles et la naissance d’une science d’observation maritime.” In Défense des côtes et cartographie historique, ed. Jean-Pierre Bois, 265–75. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Konvitz, Josef. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lassale, L. de. 1792. Hydrographie démontrée et appliquée a toutes les parties du pilotage. Paris: Belin. Lescallier, Daniel. 1797. Vocabulaire des termes de marine anglais et français, en deux parties. 4th ed. 3 vols. Paris: Fimin Didot. Pelletier, Monique. 2007. “Buache et le Dépôt des cartes, plans et journaux de la Marine: Les débuts d’une institution, le départ d’une carrière, 1721–1737.” In Mappæ Antiquæ: Liber Amicorum Günter Schilder, ed. Paula van Gestel-van het Schip and Peter van der Krogt, 563–78. ’t Goy-Houten: HES & De Graaf. Verdun de la Crenne, Jean-René-Antoine de, Jean-Charles Borda, and Alexandre-Gui Pingré. 1778. Voyage fait par ordre du roi en 1771 et 1772, en diverses parties de l’Europe, de l’Afrique et de l’Amérique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie Royale.

Marine Charting by the German States. Marine charting

by German states and cities bordering the coastlines of the North and Baltic Seas was relatively limited in the eighteenth century. The reasons were manifold. From a nautical point of view the hydrographic chart, Seekarte, did not then play its modern role as one of the most important aids to navigation. The majority of mariners in the sea areas in question relied on tradition: the collected experience of generations, grown over centuries. All the information needed was gathered in personal manuscripts or printed books of sailing directions, which did not change much from the sixteenth to the end of the eighteenth century. Whatever demand there was for marine cartography in the German language or of German waters was largely met by the flourishing Dutch trade in charts and atlases. It was Lucas Jansz. Waghenaer’s famous Spieghel der zeevaerdt (German edition 1589) that first presented German readers with some large-scale charts of German seas. For the Baltic Sea, Sweden, the ambitious sea power focused on developing a Dominium Maris Baltici, played a similarly dominating role, exemplified by Petter Gedda’s 1695 atlas of the Baltic (Ehrensvärd 1977). The few German charting initiatives of the eighteenth century were private or semiofficial and depicted only coastal areas or estuaries in the German Bight leading to such important ports as Emden, Bremen, and Hamburg. These efforts began with the first printed chart (1642) of the River Ems with titles in Dutch, French, and Latin by Martin Faber. Faber was an important figure in Emden who also served as the commissioner of fortifications and municipal engineer; the chart was commissioned by the burgomaster and municipal council. Copied and adapted by Dutch publishers such as the Coloms and Van Keulens, Faber’s chart continued to be influential well into the eighteenth century (Lang 1952; 1960; 1969–85, no. 19). The next German chart, created some three-quarters of a century later, was commissioned by the city council of Hamburg because new channels had formed in the Elbe estuary. The Typus orarum maritimarum ab insula Helgelandia of 1721 shows the mouths of the Elbe and Weser Rivers and the German Bight as far out as Helgoland. The authors were Samuel Gottlob Zimmermann, who signed himself “inspector of mills and milling” and is elsewhere referred to as a master-builder and “hydraulicus” (hydrographic engineer), and Johann Otto Hasenbanck, a captain of artillery also engaged in dike construction. The chart stands out for its careful depiction of sandbars and channels and numerous soundings. It was regarded as the finest German chart of its time and retained this standing to the end of the eighteenth century (Lang 1968, 51; 1969–85, no. 27). From the 1760s through the 1780s, a number of charts

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Fig. 513. DETAIL FROM JOHANN THEODOR REINKE AND J. A. LANG, KARTE VON EINEM THEILE DER NORDSEE, DES ELBE-STROMS, DER MÜNDUNG DER WESER (HAMBURG, 1787). Copper engraving; ca. 1:945,000. Soundings are given in fathoms at low water. Note

the buoys, keyed by letters to the accompanying sailing directions, and the lightship at upper left. Size of the entire original: 65 × 95 cm; size of detail: ca. 13  ×  19 cm. Image courtesy of the Deutsches Schiffahrtsmuseum, Bremerhaven (I 1 I 023).

were published by the Altona ship captain Johann Diedrich Trock and the Hamburg captains Cornelius Martin Wohlers and his son Christian Peter Wohlers, but Arend W. Lang (1968, 52–53) characterizes the charts as “the low point of German hydrography in the 18th century.” They were also criticized by contemporaries. In fact, the Hamburg Commerz-Deputation (chamber of commerce) requested that the Wohlers cease dedicating their charts to it, but this did not stop publishers like the Van Keulens from blindly copying them. All of these maps continued in the tradition of the Dutch scheetskaart (sketch map), drawn from on board with the help of the compass and distance estimations. It was only when topographical surveys of the shorelines began to be available in the second half of the eighteenth century (in Denmark 1762–77, in the Duchy of Oldenburg 1782–85), that scheetskarten began to be replaced by charts informed by scientific triangulation on shore.

Among the first German charts to benefit from being tied to these surveys were two by the Hamburg border inspector Johann Theodor Reinke and J. A. Lang, an inspector of pilots. Both were sponsored by the Commerz-Deputation and published in Hamburg in 1787. The Karte von einem Theile der Nordsee (fig. 513) was accompanied by separate letterpress sailing directions in five languages (Dutch, English, French, German, and Spanish), while the Dutch-titled Zee Kaart van’t Helgoland included engraved sailing directions in Dutch, English, and French (Lang 1969–85, nos. 37 and 38). Reinke and Lang published a significantly updated version of their map in 1798. They revised it using a triangulation survey by Hinrich Carsten Behrens of the Jade estuary, part of a topographical survey of Oldenburg in 1789–90. Behrens’s work then informed the 1793 “Karte von den Mündungen der Weser und der Jade,” which would in turn be published by Aaron Arrowsmith

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in London in 1799 as A Chart of the Iade, and Mouth of the Weser, from an Actual Survey (Harms 1961, 15; Lang 1969–85, no. 42). Charting of the Baltic coast of Germany was, as indicated earlier, almost completely dominated by Sweden, although many of these charts found their way into Dutch marine atlases. Swedish mapping activities in the southern Baltic were frequently performed by Germans such as the Greifswald professor of mathematics and astronomy Andreas Mayer, who made a chart of part of the Pommeranian coast in 1741 (Ehrensvärd, Kokkonen, and Nurminen 1995, 233). His triangulations of the coast from 1757 onward—commissioned by the Swedish Kungliga Vetenskapsakademien—set the groundwork for later detailed charting of the southern Baltic coast. What has been called the first Prussian sea atlas, Isaak Bruckner’s Nouvel atlas de Marine, was published in 1749. Although Bruckner was Swiss and the title is in French, the work carries a dedication to the Prussian field marshal (and notable cartographer) Samuel von Schmettau, who provided many of the sources, and bears the approval of the Königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin, where it was engraved by Nicolaus Friedrich Sauerbrey. But again, it was not primarily directed to practical seamen but reflected the global economic strategies of the Prussian state. The Nouvel atlas is, in fact, a single world map on twelve sheets, and if it found any interest among a maritime clientele it would have been due only to its use of the Mercator projection (Loeck 1992). The development of a true German charting tradition had to wait until the establishment of the Prussian Hydrographisches Bureau in 1861. A lb r ec h t S auer See also: German States B i bliogra p hy Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 1977. “Peter Gedda’s Maritime Atlas of the Baltic, 1695.” Imago Mundi 29:75–77. Ehrensvärd, Ulla, Pellervo Kokkonen, and Juha Nurminen. 1995. Mare Balticum: The Baltic—Two Thousand Years. Trans. Philip Binhan. Helsinki: Otava. Harms, Otto. 1961. “Die amtliche Topographie in Oldenburg und ihre kartographischen Ergebnisse: Teil I, Die Landesvermessung von 1781.” Oldenburger Jahrbuch 60:1–38. Lang, Arend W. 1952. “Helgoland auf alten Karten.” In Helgoland Ruft: Im Auftrage des Helgolandausschusses, ed. James Packroß and Peter Rickmers, 47–59. Hamburg: Ludwig Schultheis. ———. 1960. “Martin Fabers Seekarte der Emsmündung von 1642: Erläuterungen zur Lichtdruckausgabe.” Nordseeküste: Volkstümliche Vorträge und Abhandlungen des Küstenmuseums Juist, no. 3. ———. 1968. Seekarten der südlichen Nord- und Ostsee: Ihre Entwicklung von den Anfängen bis zum Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts. Hamburg: Deutsches Hydrographisches Institut. ———. 1969–85. Historisches Seekartenwerk der Deutschen Bucht. Neumünster: Wachholtz. Loeck, Gottfried. 1992. “Preussen’s See-Atlas: Der späte Beginn preußischer Seekartographie.” Deutsches Schiffahrtsarchiv 15:289–314.

Recke, Michael. 2008. Seekarten der Nord- und Ostsee. Zetel: Komregis Verlag.

Marine Charting by Great Britain. Many factors converged after 1660 to transform Britain from a country with an emerging but disparate charting tradition into an important European marine charting center, which joined the French to rival the dominance of the Dutch in chartmaking. The demands of soaring trade interests combined with imperial acquisitions and aspirations required British merchants, ministers, and mariners to abandon their initial dependence on foreign sources and to come to terms with both an expanded known world and an ultimately bounded world during the Enlightenment. Internally, mapping the coastline of the British Isles also challenged the talents of local mariners and harbor pilots, who habitually relied on oral tradition and verbal directions to find safe harbor. Cartographic information about the world’s new locales and their potential was of paramount importance to British overseas developments, whether commercial or imperial, exemplified by Sir John Narbrough’s chart of the Strait of Magellan published in 1694. Yet the development and growth of marine charting also featured a persistent hesitancy to embrace new techniques and a shortsightedness with respect to establishing a centralized authority until the end of the eighteenth century. British marine charting acquired structure, systemization, and capital investment only with the efforts of Alexander Dalrymple and his successors at the British Admiralty Hydrographical Office after 1795. The British maritime community initially built on the master-apprenticeship tradition established in the century after 1550 to produce manuscript charts. With time, charts were increasingly viewed less as a mariner’s personal property and more as means to service the intersecting needs of the royal navy and mercantile marine. In terms of the artifact, marine charting evolved from the often single-sheet, portolan-style manuscript on vellum to printed collections of charts or sea atlases that had been vetted for accuracy. Manuscript and printed charts were used alongside one another until the transition to print was effectively complete by the end of the eighteenth century. Charts became steadily more domestic in their sources and compilation, progressively more concerned with large-scale pilotage than with small-scale oceanic charting, and finally began to reflect collections of institutionalized knowledge rather than the customized private collections of charts held by individuals. Thus, the transitions to print, domestic production, more rigorous precision, and institutionalization broadly describe the major changes in British marine charting during the Enlightenment. By 1650, commercial and colonial exploits across the

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globe had helped to establish an English cartographic tradition based in London. The restoration of Charles II (1660) brought renewed interest from the Crown in establishing institutions that would support native skills in navigation and improve chartmaking, such as the Royal Mathematical School at Christ’s Hospital (1673), specifically to offer training in the application of mathematics to marine matters (Taylor 1954, 114–20), and the Royal Observatory (1675), tasked with creating the astronomical knowledge necessary for observing longitude at sea. The Royal Society (1662) also sought to remedy inadequacies in British charting; its members especially championed innovations pertaining to navigation, such as the invention and refinement of the octant and sextant, the analysis of magnetic variation, knowledge of currents and winds, and more exacting surveying techniques. Notable members Robert Hooke and Edmond Halley investigated the various problems of navigation through the early eighteenth century (Robinson 1962, 49–60). Most domestic maritime chartmaking of this early period was produced by the Thames School, so named by Jeanette Black (1975, 15–22), which until 1670 primarily produced oceanic charts embracing the portolan style of marine charting. The Thames School has been defined by the location of most of the chartmakers, their affiliation with the Drapers’ Company, and the general stylistic similarities of the men concerned (Campbell 1973; Smith 1978). Located along the Thames River in east London from 1590 until circa 1740, the chartmakers were largely, though not exclusively, copyists of Dutch and other foreign charts. Thirty-seven chartmakers are recorded as masters and apprentices in the ledgers of the Drapers’ Company, relationships through which the style was transferred from the first exponent John Daniel to the last Drapers’ Company chartmakers John Friend and Robert Friend (Smith 1978, 97). As the Thames School matured, so did its style and focus. At first the charts were drawn on the plane projection in colored inks on vellum with networks of interlocking rhumb lines and compass roses in the portolan style. In addition, the early Thames School charts were often mounted on hinged panels of wood for easy storage and use. After 1670 and the deaths of John Burston and Nicholas Comberford, the two dominant members of the early Thames School, the school’s charts underwent some stylistic changes as seen most noticeably in the works of William Hack and John Thornton (fig. 514) (Smith 1978). The school gradually shifted to the production of hundreds of pilotage charts for smaller coastal areas, began to use paper as well as vellum, and started to abandon the traditional portolan style (Maeer 2006). Thornton began printing charts in The English Pilot (1671) and the Atlas Maritimus (1675) (Verner 1978, 149–50).

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Thomas R. Smith (1978, 98–99) identified 556 extant works of this school, and more continue to be identified. Of Smith’s corpus, 494 (89 percent) were produced during the later phase of the Thames School; Hack is credited with 331 works, an output that distorts any simple statistical analysis. The surviving charts can nonetheless be seen to mirror the geographical interests of their clients. For example, England’s American mapping interests started in earnest after the establishment of colonies and viable trading. There are 6 surviving Thames School oceanic charts of the Americas dated before 1670; afterward, there are 98 charts of North America and the Caribbean, many of which are pilotage charts. A similar increase in charts relating to the East can be identified: 7  oceanic charts and Gabriel Tatton’s atlas of 17 pilotage charts survive depicting the East prior to 1670, while well over 350 pilotage charts were created between 1670 and 1715. Specifically, many of Thornton’s works were for the Hudson’s Bay Company and East Indian trade; his publication of The English Pilot: The Third Book (1703) was dedicated to the court of managers of the East India Company (Cook 1985). The bulk of Hack’s output comprised his three manuscript atlases of the East Asian navigation, each consisting of over 90 pilotage charts (Smith 1978, 100). Overall, the distribution of chart production by era and subject demonstrates that the English trade in marine charts was propelled by the dramatic expansion of the English shipping industry and a growing imperialism during the seventeenth century. The significance of the Thames School becomes increasingly obvious as late seventeenth-century English ministers, merchants, and mariners used charts and maps as a means to understand their ever-expanding world. Not only did mariners and merchants use charts as navigational instruments, but members of the governing class, like Samuel Pepys of the Admiralty Board and William Blathwayt of the Lords of Trade, utilized them to inform imperial and commercial policies (Smith 1978, 92–94; Black, 1975, 20–21). Pepys sought out the work of Burston and Joel Gascoyne, both Thames School chartmakers (Pepys 1904–5, 4:343; 1926, 42, 237). Although the ministers and officials responsible for the creation and oversight of government policy for the colonies and England’s overseas trade personally collected charts and maps, there was no sustained attempt to house, compile, or oversee cartographic knowledge for the benefit of the government until the late eighteenth century. Moreover, the piecemeal approach of manuscript production at the Thames School could not fulfill escalating English cartographic needs. The chartmakers could not disseminate charts quickly enough, and foreign, mainly Dutch, printed charts were continually sought to help meet the increasing demands

Fig. 514. JOHN THORNTON, EAST COAST OF ENGLAND FROM SPURN HEAD TO SOUTH FORELAND, 1667. Manuscript chart, scale ca. 1:400,000. Thames School charts remained in use until the early eighteenth century, despite their anachronistic portolan style.

Size of the original: 69 × 54 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (G218:11/6). The Image Works.

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of the English maritime community, although not for navigation in the East Indies. Pepys noted these faults and voiced his desires for improvements in English hydrography; he attempted to ameliorate these shortcomings by praising accuracy, deploring misleading work, and supporting the publication of English printed sea atlases (Wallis 1978, 18–19). In the latter half of the seventeenth century, the English attempted to print sea atlases, or waggoners, as a means to offset their reliance upon Dutch sea atlases. In 1657, Joseph Moxon published six unrevised copies of Dutch charts in his A Book of Sea Plats and hoped to produce a purely English sea atlas for Charles II as his hydrographer in 1670. Although Moxon’s endeavors failed, John Seller, a notable marine instrumentmaker and supplier, became the first to publish an English sea atlas of lasting influence, The English Pilot, the first book of which appeared in 1671. Although he promised a purely English sea atlas and was awarded a thirty-year royal privilege forbidding the importation of Dutch waggoners, Seller nonetheless had to incorporate Dutch plates and turn to other English chartsellers in order to complete his sea atlas. Eventually, The English Pilot comprised five parts in six books, each addressing a particular regional trading route. It was revised, maintained, and sporadically updated throughout the eighteenth century, ultimately by the firm of Mount and Page, which continued to incorporate outdated foreign charts, usually scrap Dutch or French copperplates that had been reworked into English translations (Verner 1978, 156). The English Pilot may have removed some of the British mariners’ reliance on foreign sea atlases, but increased competition both at home and abroad reduced its attraction, and the production of manuscript charts for specific journeys continued until midcentury. Criticism of Seller’s English Pilot and the sorry state of British coastal surveys prompted Admiralty support for the production of Greenvile Collins’ Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot (1693) and Scottish parliamentary support for John Adair’s The Description of the SeaCoast and Islands of Scotland (1703). Commissioned by Charles II and granted Trinity House’s assistance, Collins plotted Britain’s coastline and headlands so as to provide more precise latitudes (fig. 515). Collins’s work was lambasted from the outset because of his inferior surveying technique (Taylor 1954, 121). Despite its serious flaws, the Coasting-Pilot was printed at least twenty-four times with only minor corrections until 1792 (Adams and Waters 1995, 32–33). In it Collins called for Trinity House’s role to be expanded to include the regular updating of charts, but his argument did not take hold. Adair, a notable Scottish surveyor and hydrographer, was able to publish his Description, covering the east coast of Scotland, even though plagued by

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limited financial support from the Scottish Parliament coupled with an apparent disinterest in timely publication (Robinson 1962, 162); his work was surpassed only by that of Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder in the 1770s. Adair’s atlas was only published once, and all of the difficulties surrounding its completion embodied the inherent problems facing marine charting and publication: limited funds, inferior surveying techniques, antiquated methodologies, and a lack of organizational structure that deterred accurate surveying, standardization, and adequate coverage of the British shoreline. British hydrography in the colonies similarly suffered from the lack of rigorous application of any geometrical principles until marine charting started to become institutionalized in the later eighteenth century. Cyprian Southack, a Boston-based mariner and chartmaker of the early eighteenth century, first published The New England Coasting Pilot by subscription probably between 1729 and 1734. Its eight sheets, which could be joined to form a single regional chart, recorded hundreds of Southack’s personal observations drawn from a lifetime of sailing along New England’s shores. While Southack’s annotations and navigational details were useful, he was a mariner first and marine surveyor second. Contemporary critics noted as much when they lamented the results of his antiquated surveying methods (LeGear 1954, 139, 141). By the second quarter of the eighteenth century,  the works of Thames School chartmakers were being eclipsed, at least locally, by the efforts of amateur hydrographers who applied the principles of land surveying to the coastline and who sought to publish their work to find a larger distribution. Such an approach is exemplified by the work of surveyor John Eyes and shipbuilder Samuel Fearon, who together surveyed the Lancashire coast in 1736–37. The resulting charts of the coast and Liverpool Bay were engraved by Emanuel Bowen in London and published in Liverpool in 1738 as A Description of the Sea Coast of England and Wales (Robinson 1962, 71–72). Lewis Morris, a Welsh surveyor and customs officer, surveyed the west coast of Wales from Whitehaven to Milford Haven from 1737 to 1739, and then resumed the survey from 1742–44 with Admiralty support. Using a perambulator, a theodolite equipped with a telescope, and a double sextant he produced eleven manuscript charts that formed the basis of a small atlas comprising twenty-five small plans (Plans and Harbours of the Coast of Wales, 1748), published by subscription, and A Chart of the Coast of Wales in Saint George’s Channel (1748), all engraved by Bowen (Robinson 1962, 76–84). Military engineers also worked along the British coast, from the time of Charles  II onward, producing large-scale manuscript surveys chiefly focused on harbors and soundings (Rob-

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Fig. 515. GREENVILE COLLINS, SEA CHART OF PART OF THE EAST COAST OF ENGLAND, FROM DOVER IN KENT TO SPURN HEAD AT THE MOUTH OF THE RIVER HUMBER, WITH AN INSET OF THE RIVER THAMES FROM ITS MOUTH TO LONDON (LONDON, 1693). Printed chart, scale 1:350,000. From book two of Collins’s Great Britain’s Coasting-Pilot (1693). The chart, which cov-

ers much of the same coastline as the earlier Thornton chart in figure 514, epitomizes the sometimes-haphazard construction and oversight of navigational knowledge that characterized marine charting in Great Britain until the late eighteenth century. Size of the original: 67 × 96 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (G218:11/1 [1]). The Image Works.

inson 1962, 175–77, provides a comprehensive list of harbor plans and charts by military engineers). During the latter half of the eighteenth century, several surveyors undertook inshore surveys along the Atlantic coastline of North America. George Gauld charted the coasts of East and West Florida, the Florida Keys, Jamaica, and the north coast of the Gulf of Mexico for the British Admiralty from 1764 to 1781. Trained in mathematics at the University of Aberdeen, Gauld served as an on-board mathematics schoolmaster from 1757 to 1760 in the Royal Navy before he moved to Florida and participated in the West Florida Commons House of Assembly. Only one of his charts was published during his lifetime, a plan of Pensacola in The Atlantic Neptune, though he did send copies of his work to the American Philosophical Society. Many of his charts were eventually published after his death by Bernard Romans, William Faden, and Thomas Hutchins (Ware 1982, 236–41).

The application of local shore surveys and astronomical fixes was also accomplished by the several surveyors and hydrographers who mapped the North American coastline, notably Samuel Holland; their work was compiled by J. F. W. Des Barres into The Atlantic Neptune (1774–82). The Atlantic Neptune’s four large volumes of charts and coastal views presented a hydrographic survey of the east coast of North America from the St. Lawrence River to the Gulf of Mexico. Despite initial flaws caused when the onset of the American Revolution led Des Barres to publish the charts, he continued to update and amend the work. The Atlantic Neptune remained the standard sea atlas for North American seamen for over fifty years. The entrance of engravers and publishers from the London map trade into the chart trade began with the financial support and ultimate publication of all editions of The English Pilot by William Fisher, followed

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Fig. 516. MURDOCH MACKENZIE THE ELDER, THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF IRELAND, FROM THE STAGGS OF CASTLE-HAVEN TO DURSEY I. (LONDON, 1775). Printed chart, scale ca. 1:75,000. The chart accompanies Mackenzie’s Nautical Descriptions of the Coasts of Ireland (London: Printed for the author, 1776).

Size of the original: 76 × 117 cm. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (DUC220:11/24). The Image Works.

by Richard Mount and Thomas Page and their heirs. Engravers and map publishers such as Bowen, Thomas Jefferys (who published James Cook’s charts of Newfoundland, 1769–70), and Thomas Kitchin all included charts in their roster of printed maps. By the last quarter of the eighteenth century, the firm of Robert Sayer and John Bennett had grown to dominate the printed chart trade by commissioning new works from seaman such as Captain Joseph Huddart (for St. George’s and North Channels) and by publishing works such as A Complete Channel Pilot (1781). Their competition was William Faden, Jefferys’s partner and successor, who also commissioned surveys from naval officers at the end of the century (Fisher 2005). Faden’s work was in turn continued by his apprentice, Aaron Arrowsmith, and by William Heather, whose output was based on the work of naval officers, masters of Trinity House, and private mariners. This method of commissioning new surveys (though rare), compiling existing material, encouraging the contributions of naval and East India Company offi-

cers, and consolidating information from older material was the modus operandi of the chart trade. By the end of the century, the firm of Heather had passed to John William Norie and that of Sayer and Bennett to Robert Laurie and James Whittle, consolidating the private chart trade into fewer and fewer hands (Fisher 2001, 4–10; Robinson 1962, 114–26). The efforts of three men lay the foundations for the primary innovations in British marine charting in the eighteenth century: Mackenzie (the elder), Cook, and Dalrymple. As a commander in the Royal Navy, Mackenzie was chosen to survey the Orkney Islands by Colin Maclaurin, professor of mathematics at the University of Edinburgh, at the behest of the James Douglas, earl of Morton. Maclaurin dictated that Mackenzie employ a triangulation so as to create the most accurate charts possible (Robinson 1962, 60–70). Accurate triangulation had long been known to produce superior surveys; however, it was considered to be too costly and the process of marine triangulation was mathematically

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onerous. Mackenzie began his survey in 1745 by establishing beacons on the islands and using a theodolite and an octant to measure the horizontal angles between them. He then took horizontal measurements from his vessel to the same beacons to fix the locations of soundings and navigational hazards by resection; this was the first use of marine triangulation. The resulting atlas was Orcades: Or a Geographic and Hydrographic Survey of the Orkney and Lewis Islands in Eight Maps (1750); the eight charts were engraved by Bowen. Stylistically, Mackenzie integrated coastal views as well as a comprehensive key and directions for coloring numerous distinctive geographic and hydrographic features (see figs. 80 and 759). The atlas was reprinted three times (1767, 1776, and 1791), and it was so well received that the Admiralty commissioned Mackenzie to survey the entire west coast of Britain. After Mackenzie’s work from 1751 to 1769, his Nautical Descriptions were published in two volumes (1776) (fig. 516). He retired from surveying in 1771 and in 1774 was elected a fellow of the Royal Society, the same year that he published A Treatise of Maritim Surveying, in which he systematically described the most accurate methods for marine surveying, including the use of the station pointer, a three-armed instrument that allowed the user to fix a vessel’s location from three or more onshore stations by resection (fig. 517) (Mackenzie 1774, 24; Robinson 1962, 64–67; Fisher 1991). His nephew, Lieutenant Murdoch Mackenzie the Younger took over from the elder in 1771 and accomplished much with his cousin, Graeme Spence, who succeeded him in 1788. Having learned survey techniques from Holland in North America, Cook surveyed the coasts of Newfoundland and the Saint Lawrence River between 1758 and 1768, and Jefferys published these maps in 1769–70. Cook was then selected to observe the 1769 transit of Venus and to explore the South Pacific. By the time Cook sailed east in 1769, he was experienced in navigation and surveying and thus prepared to supervise charting in the distant Pacific. Cook’s second (1772–75) and third (1776–79) voyages allowed him to survey a major part of the Pacific as far as 71°S, including New Zealand, the east coast of Australia, and numerous islands such as the Hawaiian archipelago. Cook’s employment of John Harrison’s chronometer, The Nautical Almanac for lunar distances, and data from onshore observations taken with a theodolite meant that his charts achieved a new and long-lasting standard of accuracy in terms of longitude and latitude. The work of Mackenzie and Cook answered the growing demand for accuracy that was increasingly encouraged and rewarded by the government. Yet despite persistent calls from Samuel Pepys in the late-seventeenth century to Admiral Richard, Lord Howe, in 1765, no storehouse or institution for charts was established. This

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Fig. 517. JOSEPH HUDDART’S STATION POINTER, 1804. Accompanying Huddart’s “Description and Use of the Station Pointer; an Instrument for Readily Ascertaining the Situation of the Observer after Having Determined the Angular Position of Three Known Objects,” Journal of Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, and the Arts (by William Nicholson) 7 (1804): 1–5, pl. I (facing 80). Huddert’s article provides a full description of the instrument’s use as well as a diagram of how to fix location using the resection technique, essential for marine triangulation. Size of the original: 20 × 10 cm. Image courtesy of the Harlan Hatcher Graduate Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Q 1 J86).

failing would eventually be corrected by Dalrymple, who instituted repositories of hydrographic information, first for the East India Company (1779) and then for the British Admiralty (1795). His duties as the first hydrographer to the Admiralty rapidly evolved from

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organizing and officiating over the reliability of Admiralty charts to supplying limited runs of acceptable published charts to the Royal Navy under the auspices of in-house engravers and a rolling press, thus establishing a discrete Hydrographical Office for the British Admiralty. Dalrymple’s attention to detail and his insistence on accuracy, classification, and organization, coupled with in-house publishing, epitomizes the culmination of British marine charting in the eighteenth century. All the components so long recognized but not achieved that had prevented the creation of a superior British charting organization and production were now in place. In many respects, these last developments align with the ideas of the Enlightenment—the proclivity to categorize, organize, and scrutinize knowledge for rational ends—which were combined at the end of the century with state funding and organization under the Admiralty to produce and maintain high-quality chart production. Not until the nineteenth century was the process complete, with the dominant military/state mapping industries meeting national interests, leaving private mapping concerns confined to specialist products. A lis ta ir S . Maeer See also: Adair, John; Atlantic Neptune, The; Cook, James; Dalrymple, Alexander; English Pilot, The; Great Britain; Longitude and Latitude; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation Bibliograp hy Adams, Thomas R., and David W. Waters, comps. 1995. English Maritime Books Printed Before 1801: Relating to Ships, Their Construction and Their Operation at Sea. Providence: John Carter Brown Library; Greenwich: Greenwich National Maritime Museum. Black, Jeannette Dora. 1975. Commentary. Volume 2 of The Blathwayt Atlas, by William Blathwayt, 2 vols., ed. Jeannette Dora Black. Providence: Brown University Press. Campbell, Tony. 1973. “The Drapers’ Company and Its School of Seventeenth Century Chart-Makers.” In My Head Is a Map: Essays & Memoirs in Honour of R. V. Tooley, ed. Helen Wallis and Sarah Tyacke, 81–106. London: Francis Edwards and Carta Press. Cook, Andrew S. 1985. “More Manuscript Charts by John Thornton for the Oriental Navigation.” In Imago et mensura mundi: Atti del IX Congresso internazionale di storia della cartografia, 3 vols., ed. Carla Clivio Marzoli, 1:61–69. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. ———. 1992. “Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808), Hydrographer to the East India Company and to the Admiralty, as Publisher: A Catalogue of Books and Charts.” 3 vols. PhD diss., University of St. Andrews. Fisher, Susanna. 1991. “The Origins of the Station Pointer.” International Hydrographic Review 68, no. 2:119–26. ———. 2001. The Makers of the Blueback Charts: A History of Imray Laurie Norie & Wilson Ltd. Ithaca: Regatta Press. ———. 2005. “From Private to Official Hydrography: The Charts and Sailing Directions of Joseph Dessiou (1743–1822) and His Son, Joseph Foss Dessiou (1769–1853).” Mariner’s Mirror 91:389–409. LeGear, Clara Egli. 1954. “The New England Coasting Pilot of Cyprian Southack.” Imago Mundi 11:137–44. Mackenzie, Murdoch. 1774. A Treatise of Maritim Surveying, in Two Parts: With a Prefatory Essay on Draughts and Surveys. London: For Edward and Charles Dilly.

Maeer, Alistair S. 2006. “The Cartography of Commerce: The Thames School of Nautical Cartography and England’s Seventeenth Century Overseas Expansion.” PhD diss., University of Texas–Arlington. Moore, John N. 2000. “John Adair’s Contribution to the Charting of the Scottish Coasts: A Re-Assessment.” Imago Mundi 52:43–65. Pepys, Samuel. 1904–5. The Diary of Samuel Pepys. Ed. with additions Henry B. Wheatley. 8 vols. London: George Bell and Sons. ———. 1926. Samuel Pepys’s Naval Minutes. Ed. J. R. Tanner. [London]: Printed for the Naval Records Society. Robinson, A. H. W. 1962. Marine Cartography in Britain: A History of the Sea Chart to 1855. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Smith, Thomas R. 1978. “Manuscript and Printed Sea Charts in Seventeenth-Century London: The Case of the Thames School.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 45–100. Berkeley: University of California Press. Taylor, E. G. R. 1954. The Mathematical Practitioners of Tudor & Stuart England. Cambridge: For the Institute of Navigation at the University Press. Tyacke, Sarah. 2001. Before Empire: The English World Picture in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries. London: Hakluyt Society. Verner, Coolie. 1978. “John Seller and the Chart Trade in SeventeenthCentury England.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 127–57. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wallis, Helen. 1978. “Geographie Is Better than Divinitie: Maps, Globes, and Geography in the Days of Samuel Pepys.” In The Compleat Plattmaker: Essays on Chart, Map, and Globe Making in England in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Norman J. W. Thrower, 1–43. Berkeley: University of California Press. Ware, John D. 1982. George Gauld: Surveyor and Cartographer of the Gulf Coast. Revised and completed by Robert R. Rea. Gainesville: University Presses of Florida.

Marine Charting by the Netherlands. In the seventeenth century, Dutch publishers were known all over the world for their production of pilot guides and sea atlases. Amsterdam, the flourishing harbor town, was the hub of this activity, and its publishers supplied sea atlases, pilot guides, and loose charts in large quantities and in several languages (Koeman 1970; Schilder and Van Egmond 2007, 1398–1402). Dutch publishers retained their near-monopoly on chart production until after the Second Anglo-Dutch War (1665–67), when the English realized how dependent they were on the Dutch for the hydrography of their waters, and English publishers began to take up the task. John Seller produced the first English sea atlas, The English Pilot, in 1671 (comprised in part by reprinted Dutch charts), and Greenvile Collins published an atlas with charts based on his own surveys in 1693. The French also developed their own maritime cartography. Le Neptune françois, published in 1693 under the aegis of the Académie des sciences, was followed by the establishment of an official hydrographical service, the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, established in 1720. Around 1680, besides the Van Keulen firm, there were

Marine Charting

four principal maritime publishers in Amsterdam. Most influential in the second half of the seventeenth century was Hendrik Doncker. In 1693 Doncker’s business came to an end when Johannes I van Keulen bought his stock (De Vries et al. 2005, 14–15). Second was Jacob Robijn, who had a short association with Johannes I van Keulen in 1679, but beginning in 1680 published his own sea atlas and pilot guide, for which he bought the plates and rights of the Zeespiegel and Zee-atlas from the widow of Pieter Goos. Robijn must have died before 1717, when his Zeespiegel was being sold by Johannes Loots (Koeman 1970, 436–37). The third Van Keulen competitor was Casparus Lootsman, who had worked with his brother Jacob. Their Zee-spiegel was published in many editions in Dutch, English, and French, the last known edition appearing around 1717 under the imprint of a Lootsman nephew, Jacob Conijnenbergh (Koeman 1970, 231–47). The fourth competitor, Johannes Loots, began as an apprentice to Doncker, and after going into business for himself, he published in 1697 a pirated edition of the atlas of the Baltic by Petter Gedda (Koeman 1970, 411; Ehrensvärd 1977). From 1698, Loots participated in a project with two others to publish an atlas with two hundred charts on the Mercator projection. This project failed and in 1707 the partnership was dissolved. But the business was healthy, and after his death Loots’s widow and her brother continued the shop, which remained in existence until 1795; the last owner was Hendrik Mooij, a cross-staff maker and bookseller (Koeman 1970, 410; Gernez 1954). Apart from the maritime publishers mentioned, Pieter Mortier, son of a French immigrant and one of the richest booksellers in Amsterdam, published a pirated edition of Le Neptune françois in 1693, attributing it to Alexis-Hubert Jaillot (Koeman 1970, 423–31). Mortier had the French charts reengraved and added a supplement with charts of English origin, all lavishly illustrated by the artist Romeyn de Hooghe. The work was the most expensive atlas ever produced in the Netherlands at the time, but Mortier was primarily a publisher of terrestrial maps and therefore his influence on the development of maritime cartography was limited (Koeman 1970, 243–31; De Vries et al. 2005, 49–50). Domestically, no publishers could compete with the Van Keulen firm, which flourished for nearly two hundred years. In the first half of the eighteenth century, the firm produced manuscript charts, navigation books, and instruments as well as atlases and pilot guides. The founder, Johannes I van Keulen, was a relative newcomer in the world of maritime publishers, booksellers, and instrumentmakers. His father, Gerrit (or Gerard) van Keulen, was a native of Deventer, a small town in the east of the Netherlands. A bookbinder and bookseller by profession, he moved with his wife and chil-

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dren to Amsterdam between 1656 and 1657. In 1678 Johannes I became a member of the guild of booksellers, and around the same year he started his firm. He established himself as bookseller and graadboogmaker (protractor maker) in the neighborhood of the Damrak and called his shop “In de Gecroonde Lootsman” (at the sign of the crowned pilot). In 1704, Gerard van Keulen, the oldest son of Johannes I, took charge of the firm. He was trained at the firm, and his name is mentioned on charts beginning in 1698. The firm prospered under his leadership, and after his death in 1726 his widow, Ludowina Konst, continued the business with their son Johannes II van Keulen. From 1743, Johannes II and other members of the family became the official chartmakers of the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (East India Company, or VOC) (Schilder and Kok 2010, 153–69). Johannes II was not only involved in publishing, but through a bequest from his wife’s uncle, he came into the possession of an anchor foundry and some ship shares. After the death of Johannes II in 1755 his two eldest sons, Gerard and Cornelis, became owners of the firm. Gerard took the name of his mother’s uncle and is known as Gerard Hulst van Keulen. His brother took his mother’s name and is known as Cornelis Buijs van Keulen. After Cornelis died, his widow became the sole owner of the anchor foundry, and Gerard Hulst concentrated on the publishing house until his death in 1801. His widow in turn continued the firm as the weduwe G. Hulst van Keulen (widow of G. Hulst van Keulen) and it operated, under different names, until 1885 when the firm was dissolved and its inventory was auctioned. De groote nieuwe vermeerderde zee-atlas (with charts only) and, especially, De nieuwe groote lichtende zeefakkel (charts and text) made the reputation of the Van Keulen firm. The latter, an atlas and pilot guide, was published by Johannes I between 1681 and 1684 with elaborate frontispieces (see fig. 486). Volumes 1 and 2 were published in 1681, volume 3 in 1682, volume 4 in 1684, and volume 5 in 1683. These five volumes covered all the areas of interest to European sailors, with the exception of Asia. Charts of Asia belonged to the monopoly of the VOC, which supplied manuscript charts to its ships and prohibited the printing of detailed charts of the region. Only in 1753 were Dutch charts of Asia published, in the sixth volume of the Zee-fakkel, exactly fifty years after Englishman John Thornton had published his The English Pilot, the Third Book, Describing . . . the Oriental Navigation, the first pilot guide to the Asian waters. The Zee-fakkel was republished throughout the eighteenth century. In composing the Zee-fakkel, Johannes I worked closely with Claes Jansz. Vooght, a mathematician, surveyor, and teacher of navigation who should un-

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doubtedly be considered the main author. In preparing the second volume, Vooght was supported by Jan van Loon. Van Loon and his brother Gilles had produced their own sea atlas in 1661 (Klaer lichtende noort-ster ofte zee atlas) and had collaborated with the engraving of the charts of Johannes Janssonius and Robijn. The title pages of volumes 1–5 of the Zee-fakkel were engraved by the well-known artist Jan Luyken, who was also responsible for the cartouches. The Zee-fakkel was also published for the foreign market, with editions in French, Spanish (vols. 2–5), and in Italian (vol. 3 only). Gerard Hulst van Keulen greatly expanded the Zeefakkel. For the first time, he included charts based on

the Mercator projection, his grandfather Gerard having in 1707 bought one hundred charts drawn on that projection from Loots. They were to have been included in an atlas that was never published. The second major product of the Van Keulen firm, the Zee-atlas, actually predated the first volume of the Zee-fakkel, appearing under the imprint of Johannes I in Dutch and English editions in 1680. It was translated into English as The Great and Newly Enlarged Sea Atlas, with the frontispiece by Luyken. As with the publication of the volumes of the Zee-fakkel, the Zee-atlas also grew in size from 40 charts in 1680, to 116 in 1683, and 160 in 1695. Gerard reorganized the Zee-atlas, and, like the

Fig. 518. GERARD HULST VAN KEULEN, NIEUWE PASKAART VAN HET ZUIDELYKSTE GEDEELTE DER NOORD ZEE, 1786. This chart, ca. 1:450,000, exemplifies the style of Van Keulen charts with rhumb lines, sand banks, and soundings. It clearly shows signs of wear along the fold lines. That this particular chart was used aboard ship is indi-

cated by the course dates penciled in, for example, just above the central compass rose. Size of the original: 80 × 102 cm. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (SM-1786-4).

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Fig. 519. GERARD VAN KEULEN, “DE STRAET VAN MAGALLANUS AEN ZUIYD AMERICA,” AMSTERDAM, BETWEEN 1704 AND 1720. This chart, ca. 1:540,000, is bound into a copy of volume 5 of De nieuwe groote ligtende zeefakkel (1738, map 41) and is a hybrid manuscript and printed

reproduction. The rhumb lines, latitude scales, and compass roses are printed from a copperplate, while the coastlines, place-names, and soundings are all in manuscript. Size of the original: 52 × 129 cm. Image courtesy of the collection Maritiem Museum, Rotterdam (Atlas37-V_G).

Zee-fakkel, published it in five volumes. The Van Keulen firm made use of the seafaring community to gather facts concerning the seaways, and a constant stream of practical knowledge and data reached them in this way (fig. 518). They also adapted charts by foreign mapmakers, such as the Englishman Collins and the Swede Gedda, and in 1753 Johannes II bought the right to publish the charts of the Scot Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder. A special category of charts supplied by the firm were hand-drawn charts with a preprinted compass rose, rhumb lines, and border (fig. 519). A part of the publisher’s archive is still extant, with most being held at the Leiden University library. Some of these charts are noted as originele in contrast to the numerous examples that are inscribed kopie. Why the Van Keulens sometimes opted to sell manuscript charts and not printed ones is not known, but there probably is a connection between cost and demand (Koeman 1970, 304). When the demand for charts of a certain region was low, it was not profitable to produce a printed chart of the area; the less expensive alternative was to produce a manuscript chart. During the eighteenth century, manuscript charts were also sought by collectors. For example, around 1715 the cardinal and booklover Domenico Salvio Passionei acquired eighty-five manuscript charts by Gerard van Keulen, a collection now in the Biblioteca Angelica, Rome (Guiso and Muratore 1992). Manuscript charts were also purchased by owners of printed Van Keulen atlases who wished to bind both products together.

The products of the Van Keulen firm were largely derivative. Their charts were compiled from earlier seventeenth-century examples and new isolated findings of sailors. This practice contrasted with charting in France, England, and Spain, where more sophisticated mathematical techniques began to be applied in the second half of the eighteenth century. Maritime surveying expeditions, both for regional discovery and to ascertain certain coordinates, were undertaken at public expense. In the Netherlands, relatively late, a scientific commission for fixing distance and improving charts, the Commissie tot de zaaken het bepaalen der lengte op zee, en de verbeetering der zeekaarten betreffende, was set up in 1787; its members comprised the professor of mathematics and physics Jan Hendrik van Swinden, mathematician Pieter Nieuwland, and Gerard Hulst van Keulen. The commission tackled the longitude problem and published from 1787 the Almanach ten dienste der zeelieden, following the lead of the English The Nautical Almanac. Another task of the committee was to select the best charts and to correct them on the basis of travel journals and other publications. Charts of particular foreign mapmakers were especially desirable, for example those of the Spanish hydrographer Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel, whose charts of Spanish waters were published by Gerard Hulst van Keulen (Mörzer Bruyns 2001, 65–73; Kok 1980a, 1980b; De Vries et al. 2005, 64–65). Very late in the century the Dutch admiralty started a systematic survey of Dutch waters. Between 1796 and

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1798 the naval officer Arnold Adriaan Buyskes worked on surveys of the Dutch coast, but his charts were never published and are known only in manuscript. It was the French who produced the first modern charts of the Dutch coast. The naval officer Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré surveyed the Western Scheldt in 1799 using a modern triangulation method (Chapuis 1999, 754). The Dutch naval officer Julius Constantijn Rijk started a survey of the coast in 1812 and published a chart (of the Texel and Den Helder Channels) in 1816, based on the modern triangulation methods and with isobaths, as introduced by Beautemps-Beaupré, marking the beginning of a new episode in maritime charting in the Netherlands (De Meer 2012; Bruijn, Den Heijer, and Stapelkamp 1991, 19, 22–23). S jo er d d e Meer See also: Netherlands, Republic of the United Bibliograp hy Bruijn, J. R., H. J. den Heijer, and H. Stapelkamp. 1991. Julius Constantijn Rijk: Zeeman en minister, 1787–1854. Amsterdam: De Bataafsche Leeuw. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 1977. “Peter Gedda’s Maritime Atlas of the Baltic.” Imago Mundi 29:75–77. Gernez, D. 1954. “Le libraire néerlandias Joannes Loots et sa maison d’éditions maritimes.” Mededelingen Academie van Marine van Belgïe = Communications Académie de Marine de Belgique 8:23–69. Guiso, Maria Antonietta, and Nicoletta Muratore, eds. 1992. Ad usum navigatium: Carte nautiche manoscritte di Gerard van Keulen, 1709–1713. Rome: Libreria dello Stato, Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca Stato. Koeman, Cornelis. 1970. Celestial and Maritime Atlases and Pilot Books. Vol. 4 of Atlantes Neerlandici: Bibliography of Terrestrial, Maritime, and Celestial Atlases and Pilot Books Published in the Netherlands Up to 1880. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. Kok, Marjanne. 1980a. “Nederlandse maritieme kartografie in de periode 1730–1815: Een pas op de plaats.” Kartografisch Tijdschrift 6, no. 4:11–17. ———. 1980b. “Ontwikkelingen in de Nederlandse maritieme kartografie in de achttiende eeuw (1730–1815).” PhD diss., Universiteit Utrecht. Meer, Sjoerd de. 2012. “De kaarten van J. C. Rijk: De maritieme cartografie van de Nederlandse zeegaten in de eerste helft van de negentiende eeuw.” In Noordzee: Nederlandse kustcultuur in woord en beeld, ed. Joost Schokkenbroek and Ron Brand, 101–3. Zutphen: Walburg Pers. Mörzer Bruyns, W. F. J. 2001. Konst der stuurlieden: Stuurmanskunst en maritieme cartografie in acht portretten, 1540–2000. Zutphen: Walburg Pers. Schilder, Günter, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Maritime Cartography in the Low Countries during the Renaissance.” In HC 3:1384–1432. Schilder, Günter, and Hans Kok. 2010. Sailing for the East: History & Catalogue of Manuscript Charts on Vellum of the Dutch East India Company (VOC), 1602–1799. Houten: HES & De Graaf. Vries, Dirk de, et al. 2005. The Van Keulen Cartography, Amsterdam, 1680–1885. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto/Repro-Holland.

Marine Charting by the Ottoman Empire. A complete inventory of marine charts, whether navigational, operational, or commemorative, does not yet exist, and research is still required to reveal more maps in the archives and libraries of Turkey, of other states under former Ottoman sovereignty, and in archives of other foreign countries. Only when the full body of evidence is available will we fully understand the development and change in marine charting and sailing techniques of the long eighteenth century. What follows here is a summary of cartographic evidence supporting Ottoman awareness of the need for maps, small-scale marine map production and distribution in Ottoman society, and the use of maps to commemorate naval military encounters. In the mid-seventeenth century, the Ottoman Empire’s naval expedition to Crete (1645–69), a significant sea war, brought about a new era in which marine charts and geographical texts gained much importance. The reign of Meh.med IV especially may be regarded as the turning point when sea charts were included in the geography curriculum under the marked influence of Pı¯rı¯ Reʾı¯s. According to the reports by the eminent traveler Evliya¯ Çelebi, there were about fifteen artisans in eight workshops involved in mapping in Galata in the midseventeenth century (Evliya¯ Çelebi 1896–1938, 1:548). In the same period, the “Kita¯b-ı bah.riyye” (Book of maritime matters) by Pı¯rı¯ Reʾı¯s was reproduced and enriched by new additions to the content of the book in a series of new copies. Furthermore, the maps in the “Kita¯b-ı bah.riyye” copied in the seventeenth century displayed typical features of the period such as drawings of castles and cities and various types of ships. . (The best examples of such drawings are available in I stanbul . Üniversitesi Kütüphanesi [IÜK], Türkçe Yazmalar 6605; Istanbul, Deniz Müzesi Ars¸ivi, 988, and 989; and Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi [TSMK], R. 1633; Goodrich 2004, 6.99–6.101). Moreover, the drawings of galleons in these copies belong to the second half of the century and the following decades, when the Ottoman navy used such galleons in naval warfare. The “Kita¯b-ı bah.riyye” of Pı¯rı¯ Reʾı¯s was used as a model for a book titled “Kita¯bu bah.ri’l-esved ve’l-ebya¯z” (attributed to a fictitious Seyyid Nuh) that delineated the ports and fortresses along the Black Sea and the Mediterranean shores in 204 portolan charts (Soucek 1992, 276–77, 291–92). Sea maps and geographical works written in that period included maps of the Black Sea, the Aegean Sea, and the Mediterranean Sea. With an enormous enthusiasm for geography, Mus.t.afa¯ ibn ʿAbdulla¯h Ka¯tib Çelebi wrote the “Ciha¯nnüma¯,” aiming to fill gaps left by Muslim geographers and to display current geographical knowledge of Western geographers. The “Ciha¯nnüma¯” demonstrates the progress

Marine Charting

of Ottoman geographical mapping of water. The first of the two chapters concentrate exclusively on seas, rivers, and islands. Written in 1648, the book was revised in 1655. Ka¯tib Çelebi used the Mercator-Hondius Atlas . minor (1611), translated by Meh.med Ihla¯sı¯, and other ˘ Western and Eastern works, as he attempted to transfer European geographical and mapping knowledge to an Ottoman audience. As he elaborated in “Tuh.fetü’lkiba¯r fı¯ esfa¯ri’l-bih.a¯r,” a narrative of previous naval wars during the military expedition to Crete, it was crucial to understand geographical knowledge and the significance of cartography because non-Muslims had already reached Indian ports; the Venetians had hindered the Ottoman navy by blocking the Dardanelles enabled by their skills in geography and marine charting. For these reasons, Ottomans began again to compose new sea charts. In the introduction of “Tuh.fetü’l-kiba¯r,” Ka¯tib Çelebi emphasized the importance of sea charts as guides for seamen and included three maps in his work. One of them illustrated a Mediterranean world that encompassed the Black Sea in the east and England in the west. The other two included the Aegean Sea islands and the Mediterranean coastal regions (TSMK R. 1192; similar maps in Istanbul, Süleymaniye . Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Mihris ¸ ah Sultan 304, Lala I smail 310, and Res¸id Efendi . 642; IÜK, Türkçe Yazmalar 6118; TSMK R. 1195 and Y. 67) (Ka¯tib Çelebi 2008). By the late seventeenth century, new maps were produced by translating European geographical works and world maps, although none of these works incorporated large-scale navigational charts. Ebu¯bekir ibn Behra¯m ed-Dımas¸k.ı¯, an Ottoman geographer, translated Willem Jansz. and Joan Blaeu’s eleven-volume Atlas maior, which had been submitted to Meh.med IV by the Dutch ambassador. Justinus Colyer in Edirne with the title “Nus.retü’l-Isla¯m ve’s-süru¯r fı¯ tah.rı¯ri At.las mayur.” In preparing this work, ed-Dımas¸k.ı¯ was inspired by Eastern sources for the maps, which included Anatolian and Arabian lands, as well as Ottoman seas. He completed the work between 1675 and 1685 in nine volumes and presented it to the sultan (TSMK B. 325 and B. 333 [see fig. 615]; Atlas maior, 1662, TSMK H. 2723; see . Istanbul 1994, 148–51). An abridged version of ed. Dımas¸k.ı¯’s work, “Ihtis.a¯r-ı tercüme-i At.las mayur,” con˘ (TSMK R. 1634). Other contemtains sixty-two maps porary geographical works that featured information on chartmaking did not include maps: Esı¯rı¯ H . asan ibn H (Süley. üseyin’s “Mi’yârü’d-düvel ve Misbârü’l-milel” . maniye, Hekimog˘lu Ali Pas¸a 803) and Ibra¯hı¯m Hamdi’s “At.las” (Süleymaniye, Esad Efendi 2044). Foreign sources vouch for local map and chart production in the late seventeenth century. French traveler Jean-Baptiste Tavernier related that during his stay in

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Istanbul (1631, 1668) he saw celestial and terrestrial globes in the treasury of the Topkapı Palace, and that Turkish mariners presented sea charts produced from personal observation to the sultan (Loupis 2000, 396– 97). Antoine Galland, an official in the French embassy, stated that during his posting in Istanbul he met a Turkish chartmaker who had been invited by Charles-HenriFrançois Olier, marquis de Nointel, the French ambassador to the Sublime Porte (1670–79), to draw a map showing the Black Sea, the Bosporus, and the Marmara Sea. Galland also asserted that the map expert Meh.med Çelebi showed him many maps, among which were those of Istanbul and the Bosporus that he himself had drawn. In addition he claimed that Kapudan pas¸a (grand admiral of the navy) had sent two copies of these maps to the sultan and that he possessed similar Italian maps (Galland 1949–73, 1:151, 219; 2:38). These sources demonstrated that Ottoman sea charts functioned both practically, by providing information, and ceremonially. Small-scale geographical mapping of large bodies of water was encouraged by the establishment of the . state-sponsored printing house of Ibra¯hı¯m Müteferrik.a in 1727. Müteferrik.a’s earliest print productions were maps: that of the Sea of Marmara (1132/1719–20) and of the Black Sea (1137/1724–25). The Sea of Marmara was printed from a woodblock and displayed an Ottoman emblem (top left) and a script that. says a larger map could be drawn if the grand vizier Ibra¯hı¯m Pas¸a so desired (bottom right) (Gencer 2010, 158–59). The map of the Black Sea, printed from copperplate with added color, originally titled Bah.riyye-i Bah.r-i Siyaˉh, includes the Sea of Marmara as well as the coasts of the Crimea and Sea of Azov; the entire Black Sea coast is shown in detail, including names of the residential places (see fig. 35). Müteferrik.a remarked in his work that this map aimed to enable the seamen to navigate better in these waters, and he pointed out that the map was drawn using calculations of latitude and longitude. In keeping with Renaissance traditions of illustrating different types of ships, the Black Sea map displayed galleons and galleys. In the publication of Ka¯tib Çelebi’s Tuh.fetü’l-kibaˉr in 1141/1729, Müteferrik.a included a world map, maps of the Black Sea and Mediterranean Sea, the Aegean Sea and the Aegean Islands, and the Adriatic Sea (Kut and Türe 1996, 22–25, 38–39). About fifty-two figures and maps found in Kitaˉb-i Cihaˉnnümaˉ (published in 1145/1732) are Müteferrik.a’s own additions and rearrangements, half of them illustrating territories with coastal areas, rivers, and lakes. Some untitled maps belonged to Müteferrik.a while others . were prepared by Ah.med el-K.ırı¯mı¯ and Mıġırdıc Galat.avı¯ (Beydilli 1997, 36–38). Educational institutions established in the eighteenth

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century incorporated the production and use of marine charts. In 1189/1775 the naval engineering school, Hendeseha¯ne (École de Théorie), was established and ˘ map training was begun, requiring Ottoman sea charts to be published for educational purposes. Printing capability was expanded in 1211/1797 when tools from Müteferrik.a’s printing house, including a copperplate press, were transferred to the imperial army engineering school, Mühendisha¯ne-i Berrı¯-i hüma¯yu¯n, where ˘ Efendi, the head of the new Müderris ʿAbdurrah.ma¯n Mühendisha¯ne printing house, had a press built (Kaçar 1995–98, ˘2:82; Beydilli 1995, 100). In 1801 portolan maps of the Black Sea, the Mediterranean Sea, and the Sea of Marmara were engraved on copperplates and printed in Mühendisha¯ne printing house (Beydilli 1995, 121–24, 153, 299).˘ Copying foreign works persisted while technical skills improved. Resmı¯ Mus.t.afa¯ Ag˘a translated the General Atlas of English geographer William Faden in fifteen months, titling his work Cedıˉd at.las tercümesi, on which eight artists and a calligrapher worked. The atlas includes twenty-four colored maps, of which three are sea charts. The artistic and aesthetically high quality of Cedıˉd at.las tercümesi, printed in Üsküdar printing house (built in 1218/1803), set European standards for Ottoman printing (Beydilli 1995, 168–73), although the marine content is small. Maps commemorating sea battles and sieges marked several Ottoman naval endeavors and form a distinct category related in form and kind to military mapping. Among these are maps concerning the Ottoman naval battles with Russia in the Black Sea, conflicts with the Austrian Empire along the Danube, the Spanish siege of Algiers (1783), and the restoration of Korfu (1798) . and Iskenderiye (Alexandria) (1799) from the French in the Mediterranean. The first map in this group concerns the Russian assault on the Crimea and siege of Azov during the 1736–39 Ottoman-Russian War. The Ottoman fleet, under the command of Kapudan pas¸a Canım Hoca Meh.med Pas¸a, conducted two naval landings on the Black Sea, in 1736 and 1737, resulting in successful operations against the Russians. A commemorative map shows the Lori Burnu Muharebesi (1737) (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi [TSMA], E. 9401 for the complete plan), depicting the Ottoman navy present in this operation and the siege, illustrated in color . by el-H . a¯cc Feyzulla¯h for his “Keyfiyyet-i Ru¯siyye der sa¯l-i 1122” (TSMK H. 1627). Another map shows the naval operations of the Ottoman navy, which arrived in the Black Sea to defend Ochakiv (Özi) and regain the Kılburun Castle from Russia in 1202/1788 (TSMA E. 9403/1 [see fig. 568]; yet another map pictures the Russian fleet in Kherson with castles along the coasts, TSMK H. 1850). In 1151/1738, when the Habsburgs occupied the Ot-

Marine Charting

toman island of Adakale (Orshova) on the Danube, the Ottoman navy sailed up. the Danube via the Black Sea and . the chief commander ʿIvaz Meh.med Pas¸a’s units began a joint sea operation. A commemorative plan of this naval operation was drawn in watercolor and presented by the grand vizier to Sultan Mah.mu¯d I. While its emphasis was more military than naval, it showed the deployment and course of the Ottoman fleet (TSMA E. 9439; Karamustafa 1992, 213–14, fig. 11.6). Another hand-colored map of the same period (Istanbul, Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi [BOA], Haritalar Tasnifi 44), shows castles on the Danube and the Danube delta, probably produced for military purposes, as were other maps displaying military features concentrated on the Dnieper (Özi) River and the castles around it (BOA, Haritalar Tasnifi 91 and 92). The Spanish naval siege of Algiers under the command of Antonio Barceló elicited cartographic plans that described the maneuvers and locations of specific vessels. One such plan was prepared by Müh.endis Ah.med Ra¯sim and presented to Abdülh.amı¯d I (TSMK H. 1851). A watercolor map frames the allied naval operation of the Ottoman fleet and the Russians against the French, who had occupied Corfu in 1799 (fig. 520). It shows the old and new plans of the castle and also the occupied Vido Island. The plan illustrates the positions the navies took during the siege, giving information on each ship and its captains, with a description of the engagement written on the left and bottom margins of the map in Ottoman Turkish and Russian. Throughout the century, foreign engineering and military talent contributed to commemorative naval mapping. Of particular note is the work of the French engineer François Kauffer, who was in the service of the sultan. Following the defeat of the French under ViceAdmiral François-Paul Brueys d’Aigalliers in Egypt by British Rear-Admiral Horatio Nelson at Abu¯ Qı¯r (Ebu¯ Hu¯r), Kauffer depicted the battle of 1 August 1798 and included a narrative of it (TSMK H. 1849). As the French occupation of Egypt continued, the Ottoman fleet landed with a small English fleet at the port of Abu¯ Qı¯r in 1799, an operation recorded on another map prepared by Kauffer, which shows the locations of the ships and the deployment of soldiers (TSMK H. 1847). In 1801 Kauffer recorded the Ottoman naval operation in cooperation with the British against the French occupation in Alexandria with a series of four handcolored maps. One large plan illustrates the siege of the port of Alexandria by Ottoman and British forces, showing the allied ships and the operation against Rosetta (fig. 521). Other plans in this group indicate operations conducted on the Nile River up to Cairo (TSMA E. 6200/22, 6200/29, and 6200/30). In the English copy of the plans figures of soldiers with the flags of the allied

Fig. 520. ANONYMOUS COMMEMORATIVE MAP SHOWING THE OTTOMAN-RUSSIAN ALLIED NAVY IN  THE SIEGE OF CORFU, 1799. The island of Vido is at the left, and the town and fortress of Corfu is at the right.

This manuscript map contains a description of the engagement written in both Turkish and Russian. Size of the original: 24 × 35 cm. Image courtesy of Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi, Istanbul (E. 4004/5).

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countries and a coat of arms signify the alliance between the Kapudan pas¸a Küçük H . üseyin Pas¸a and General John Hely-Hutchinson (fig. 522). Other charts of the period show the ports of Alexandria and Abu¯ Qı¯r with brief explanations of the figures (BOA Haritalar Tasnifi 657). Evidence clearly exists for small-scale geographical maps of seas, rivers, and islands and for the use of maps to record naval endeavors. Further research is required to elucidate and understand the process of chartmaking for navigational purposes: the training and tools and the survey, measurement, and compilation techniques exer-

cised by Ottoman navigators and naval administrators in the long eighteenth century. . id ris Bostan

Fig. 521. THE OTTOMAN-ENGLISH .JOINT FLEET ALONG THE COASTS OF ALEXANDRIA (ISKENDERIYE), ABU¯ QI¯R (EBU¯ HU¯R), AND ROSETTA (RES¸ID), 1801. Hand-drawn manuscript plan by François. Kauffer and Ottoman engineers, “Bizim donanmamız ve Ingiltere donanması

mahlu¯tan Ebu¯ Kır’da demirleyüp, bu iki takım donanmadan iki . günde bir iki takım olarak yelken üzerinde volta ederek Iskenderiyye ile ceng eylediklerinin aynı su¯retidir.” Image courtesy of Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi, Istanbul (E. 6200/32).

See also: Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the Bibliography Beydilli, Kemal. 1995. Türk bilim ve matbaacılık tarihinde Mühendishâne, Mühendishâne Matbaası ve Kütüphânesi (1776–1826). Istanbul: Eren. ———. 1997. Mühendishâne ve Üsküdar Matbaalarında basılan kitapların listesi ve bir katalog. Istanbul: Eren. Evliya¯ Çelebi. 1896–1938. Seyahatnâme. 10 vols. Istanbul: Iqda¯m. . Galland, Antoine. 1949–73. Istanbul’a ait günlük hâtıralar [anılar]

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Fig. 522. [FRANÇOIS KAUFFER], “PLAN OF THE OPERATIONS OF THE OTTOMAN & BRITISH TROOPS IN EGYPT,” 1801. An English copy of the siege map of Abu¯ Qı¯r (fig. 521) showing the Ottoman-British Allied Navy against the French occupation in Egypt. Manuscript.

Size of the original: 49 × 75 cm. Image courtesy of Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi, Istanbul (E. 6200/27).

(1672–1673). 2 vols.: vol. 1, 1672; vol. 2, 1673. Trans. Nahid Sırrı Örik. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi. Gencer, Yasemin. 2010. “Ibrahim Müteferrika and the Age of the Printed Manuscript.” In The Islamic Manuscript Tradition: Ten Centuries of Book Arts in Indiana University Collections, ed. Christiane Gruber, 154–93. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Goodrich, Thomas D. 2004. “The 5658 Maps of the Kitab-i Bahriye of Piri Reis.” In Uluslararası Piri Reis Sempozyumu teblig˘ler kitabı, 27–29 Eylül 2004 = Proceedings of the International Piri Reis Symposium, 27–29 September 2004, 6-92 through 6-113. Istanbul: . Deniz Kuvvetleri Komutanlıg˘ı. Istanbul Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi ve Venedik Correr Müzesi koleksiyonlarından: XIV–XVIII yüzyıl portolan ve deniz haritaları = Portolani e carte nautiche XIV–XVIII secolo: Dalle collezioni del Museo . Correr Venezia Museo del Topkapi-I stanbul. 1994. Istanbul: . . Istanbul Italyan Kültür Merkezi. Kaçar, Mustafa. 1995–98. “Osmanlı imparatorlug˘u’nda askerî teknik eg˘itimde modernles¸me çalıs¸maları ve mühendishanelerin kurulus¸u (1808’e kadar).” In Osmanlı bilimi .aras¸tırmaları, ed. Feza Günergun, 2 vols., 2:69–137. Istanbul: Istanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi.

Ka¯tib Çelebi. 2008. The Gift to the Great Ones on Naval Campaigns. . Ed. Idris Bostan. Ankara: Prime Ministry Undersecretariat for Maritime Affairs. Kut, Turgut, and Fatma Türe. 1996. Yazmadan basmaya: Müteferrika, Mühendishane, Üsküdar. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Kültür Merkezi. Loupis, Dimitris. 2000. “Ottoman Nautical Charting and Miniature Painting: Technology and Aesthetics.” In M. Ug˘ur Derman Armag˘anı: Altmıs¸bes¸inci Yas¸ı Münasebetiyle Sunulmus¸ Teblig˘ler, ed. Irvin Cemil Schick, 369–97. Istanbul: Sabancı Üniversitesi. Soucek, Svat. 1992. “Islamic Charting in the Mediterranean.” In HC 2.1:263–92.

Marine Charting by Portugal. Unlike the charts and maps from the Renaissance, Portuguese marine cartography of the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries has not yet been thoroughly studied (Alegria et al. 2007, 977–1002; Alegria and Garcia 1995, 31). This lack of scholarly attention results in part from the seemingly small number of surviving general nautical charts and

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printed charts from this period (Teixeira da Mota 1976, 56). However, as catalogs of archival material in military and other archives emerge in Portugal, more charts may surface, as will maps in formats that might be construed as land surveys but contain nautical information. Certain nautical appointments continued from earlier periods such as the cosmógrafo-mor, whose role could overlap with the engenheiro-mor, or terrestrial surveyor, as in the case of Luís Serrão Pimentel. The job of the cosmógrafo-mor was to examine and verify charts and instruments, instruct and train naval officers, and examine the skills of pilots; it was not to train cartographers. Some cartographic teaching was undertaken in the Aula da Esfera, a course on nautical mathematics and science taught at the Jesuit Colégio de Santo Antão, but this institution was not responsible for state-sponsored marine charting or mapmaking. As the office of the cosmógrafo-mor was hereditary and chartmaking was an empirically driven profession maintained within families, it is difficult to discern the training and background of producers of nautical materials. Certain developments may be traced, however, to the publication of Manoel de Azevedo Fortes’s O engenheiro portuguez (1728–29), a training manual for surveyors, albeit land-based. Equally influential for marine charts was the work of the socalled padres matemáticos (mathematical fathers), the Jesuits Domenico Capassi and Diogo Soares in Brazil, whose rigorous measurements of longitude and surveys along both the coast and river networks provided much new data for marine chartmakers. Similarly, the work of military engineers along the rivers of Portugal exemplifies a high level of cartographic expertise and regard for surveying for navigation and defense (Dias 2010). Some nautical texts dating from the later seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries mention Portuguese pilots using two types of maritime chart: Portuguese plane charts (cartes plates or carta plana), with degrees equally spaced, and foreign charts, with expanding degrees of latitude (i.e., Mercator charts) (Canas 2010). Locally produced cartography thus coexisted with imported knowledge. The oldest Portuguese map created using the Mercator projection was made by José da Costa Miranda in 1698 (Canas 2010, 371). During the first years of the eighteenth century, more maps were created using this projection, even though this innovative technique was introduced in Portugal in the sixteenth century, around the same time as it was in the rest of Europe. Although the “new” chart met with certain resistance among sailors, the textbooks of the cosmógrafo-mor and nautical manuals of the period included instructions for both plane charts and Mercator charts (e.g., Castelo Branco 1720; Pimentel 1969 [1699]). Costa Miranda’s other work demonstrates the range of geographical spaces and scales used by Portuguese hydrographers: a

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planisphere (1706) and a chart of the Atlantic (1688). His atlas of 1688 contained several charts representing small portions of the oceans, like the Mozambique Channel, as well as diagrams of ports that appeared on small-scale charts, such as the chart of the Indian Ocean (1681) (Cortesão and Teixeira da Mota 1960–62, 5:51– 55). All of the seas where the Portuguese sailed were represented on Portuguese maps at a variety of scales necessary for safe navigation throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries—a situation substantiated by recent exhibitions and accompanying catalogs (A Nova Lusitânia [2001], Cartografia e diplomacia no Brasil do século XVIII [1997], Lugares e regiões em mapas antigos [1997]). The Portuguese focused on the maritime regions where they most often sailed, although their cartographic renderings were not always original. Jacinto José Paganino, though not a naval officer, translated three roteiros (rutters) from foreign sources, published in 1783 and 1784, concerning routes to China, to the South Atlantic along the African coast, and to Brazil, which included detailed nautical charts. His Roteiro do Neptuno oriental was derived from Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette’s Le Neptune oriental and included charts by the British hydrographer Alexander Dalrymple. Curiously, Dalrymple notes “Portuguese Ms. [manuscript] chart” with “P. C.” as a source for some features on his Chart of the China Sea (ca. 1780; see fig. 505), demonstrating his confidence in Lusitanian efforts. South American possessions attracted special attention from the Portuguese, especially when territorial disputes with Spain led to numerous cartographic projects. The Prata region, especially the area around the Colonia do Sacramento, a focal point in SpanishPortuguese negotiations over access to the Río de la Plata, saw many charts develop such as the Planta do Rio da Pratta (1748, ca. 1:2,000,000) prepared by an army officer who served in the Colonia and printed by Silvestre Ferreira da Silva, and the Plano do Rio da Prata tirado geometricamente, created by Paganino and engraved by Francisco Domingos Milcent (1782), which included soundings and relied on the information provided by pilots who navigated the river. Such maps were distributed either in books, as in the case of the first map, or through commercial venues, as with the second. In addition to copying routes and texts produced by foreigners, Paganino and others also collected information from pilots who navigated the waters of various ports. Paganino included the Plano do Rio Grande de S. Pedro cituado em 32° de late. sul by José Correia Lisboa, the pilot of a corvette, in his Roteiro occidental para a navegaçaõ da costa, e portos do Brasil (1784). The slave trade also had a significant impact on marine mapping. Portuguese colonies in the Americas

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developed thanks to the labor of enslaved Africans transported by sea; several printed charts by Paganino described the African coasts, the region of the Gulf of Guinea and coasts further south, all areas significant in the slave trade (fig. 523). The Carta reduzida da parte meridional do Oceano Atlantico ou Occidental des do equador athe 3°8 20 [i.e., 38°20ʹ] de latitude by José Fernandes Portugal (1802) represents the South Atlan-

Fig. 523. JACINTO JOSÉ PAGANINO, CARTA REDUZIDA DO CANAL DE MASAMBIQUE ENTRE A COSTA DE AFRICA E A ILHA DE S. LOURENÇO A THE A EQUINOCIAL [S.l., 1784]. Engraved by Francisco Domingos Milcent, ca. 1:5,400,000, this map exemplifies the work of Paganino, a prolific chartmaker. It shows the channel between Mozambique and Madagascar with three inset plans of the ports of Mozambique and Sofala and the “Ilha da Area” (Tromelin Island). Size of the original: 63.5 × 45.6 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, Lisbon (C.C. 58 A).

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tic between Africa and Brazil, with descriptions of slave trade ports, including Luanda, Benguela, and São Luís do Maranhão. The number of Portuguese nautical maps in manuscript has led previous scholars to conclude that few nautical maps were printed. Yet it must be understood that production of nautical charting in the eighteenth century was, like other cartographic printing, dependent on foreign models and technical know-how (Garcia 2001). For example, Pedro Gendrón published charts in 1754 and 1755 in Paris dedicated to Portuguese nobility that reproduced maps by German cartographer Johann Matthias Hase, and in 1757 in Paris Gendrón published a chart of the port of Lisbon and surrounding coasts. At the end of the century, the engraver Gregório Francisco de Queirós reproduced charts by the Spanish hydrographer Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel of the region of Cádiz, evidence of Portuguese interest in navigating through the Levant but also of their reliance on foreign sources. From 1765 to 1784 some of the charts accompanying the roteiros published by Paganino were engraved by the Frenchman Milcent, who first established himself in Lisbon as an engraver of sheet music and used these skills to engrave and print maps and charts. The creation of the Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica in 1798 allowed Portugal to improve its nautical charting, both at home and abroad. One of the society’s goals was to review charts and roteiros to provide safer navigation, understanding that Portugal was not providing sufficiently accurate charts for its national interests; the sale of maps not approved by the society was prohibited. The society also sought to promote projects to further develop a national cartography of both land and sea. However, its brief existence, ending with the first French invasion in 1807, stymied the fulfillment of its objectives. Nonetheless, its members performed various studies and projects that contributed to the development of cartography. In 1790, Francisco António Ciera, the son of an Italian mathematician, Miguel António Ciera, who had come to Portugal to teach mathematics and astronomy, began a general triangulation of the kingdom that continued until 1803 (see fig. 271) and was taken up again decades later by Filipe Folque. Although the project remained incomplete, it served as the basis for marine projects, including the Carta geral que comprehende os planos das principaes barras da costa de Portugal (1811) by Marino Miguel Franzini, which presents diagrams of the principal ports of Portugal. This chart is the earliest Portuguese nautical chart based on geodetic principles and was intended to facilitate the mapping of the Portuguese coast. Antó nio Co sta Canas See also: Portugal

910 Bibliograp hy Alegria, Maria Fernanda, and João Carlos Garcia. 1995. “Aspectos da evolução da cartografia portuguesa (séculos XV a XIX).” In Os mapas em Portugal: Da tradição aos novos rumos da cartografia, ed. Maria Helena Dias, 27–84. Lisbon: Edições Cosmos. Alegria, Maria Fernanda, et al. 2007. “Portuguese Cartography in the Renaissance.” In HC 3:975–1068. Canas, António Costa. 2010. “A introdução da projecção de Mercator na cartografia náutica portuguesa.” In Mapas de metade do mundo: A cartografia e a construção territorial dos espaços americanos, séculos XVI a XIX = Mapas de la mitad del mundo: La cartografía y la construcción territorial de los espacios americanos, siglos XVI al XIX, ed. Francisco Roque de Oliveira and Héctor Mendoza Vargas, 359–86. Lisbon: Centro de Estudos Geográficos, Universidade de Lisboa; Mexico City: Instituto de Geografía, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Castelo Branco, Pedro de Sousa. 1720. “Dieta nautica e militar no exercissio de mar para se manobrar hum navio de guerra em toda a operação de o reger como marinheiro, piloto, artelheiro e soldado e politica militar.” Lisbon, Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal, Códice PBA.118. Cortesão, Armando, and A. Teixeira da Mota. 1960–62. Portugaliae monumenta cartographica. 6 vols. Lisbon. Reprinted with an introduction and supplement by Alfredo Pinheiro Marques. 1987. Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional–Casa de Moeda. Dias, Maria Helena. 2010. Cursos e percursos para o Mar Oceano: Intervenções nos rios portugueses e representações da cartografia militar. Lisbon: Instituto Geográfico do Exército. Garcia, João Carlos. 2001. “O Brasil impresso na cartografia portuguesa, 1748–1821.” In A Nova Lusitânia: Imagens cartográficas do Brasil nas colecções da Biblioteca Nacional (1700–1822), Catálogo, ed. João Carlos Garcia, 107–30. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações do Descobrimentos Portugueses. Guerreiro, Inácio. 1985. A Sociedade Real Marítima e o exame das cartas hidrográficas: Censura da carta de Cabo Verde, de Francisco António Cabral (1790). Coimbra: Instituto de Investigação Científica Tropical. Mota, A. Teixeira da. 1972. Acerca de recente devolução a Portugal, pelo Brasil, de manuscritos da Sociedade Real Marítima, Militar e Geográfica (1793–1807). Lisbon: Junta de Investigações do Ultramar. ———. 1976. “Some Notes on the Organization of Hydrographical Services in Portugal before the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 28:51–60. Pimentel, Manuel. 1969. Arte de navegar de Manuel Pimentel. Ed. Armando Cortesão, Fernanda Aleixo, and Luís de Albuquerque. Lisbon: Junta de Investigações do Ultramar.

Marine Charting by Russia. Hydrographical descrip-

tions of Russia date at least to the early modern period, when Russian sailors and fishermen (pomory) wrote down details about the rivers and sea coasts they traveled. The earliest known chart dates to 1594, when a Dutch seaman acquired a chart of the White Sea from a pomor near Kolguyev Island (Postnikov 2000, 79). The reforms of Peter I in the early 1700s provided the main impetus for scientific marine charting in Russia as his Westernization of Russia brought European cartographic training across the Urals (Cracraft 2004, 40– 96). At first, British cartographic ideas predominated in Russian hydrographic training, with Scotsman Henry

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Farquharson and Stephen Gwyn and Richard Grice, young graduates of the Royal Mathematical School of Christ’s Hospital, London, as the main instructors at the Moscow mathematics and navigation school, Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola, founded 1701. The curriculum at the Moscow school, modeled closely on that of the Royal Mathematical School, included a variety of mathematics, practical astronomy, practical navigation, technical drawing, elementary mapmaking, and methods for keeping a ship’s log; students also were instructed in the techniques of hydrographical surveying (Cracraft 2004, 81–82; Postnikov 2000, 80). In this early instruction the textbooks were often published in Europe and read in the original languages as well as in Russian translation (for example, Jean Bouguer, Traité complet de la navigation, 1706, augmented by Seme¨ n Yemel’yanovich Gur’yev, Navigatsionnyye ili morekhodnyye issledovaniya bezu, 1790) (Postnikov 2000, 80, 91n8). In 1715, the staff and curriculum of the Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola were transferred to St. Petersburg with the founding of the naval academy, Morskaya akademiya, and in 1752 it became the naval cadet corps, Morskoy shlyakhetskiy kadetskiy korpus. Moskovskaya matematiko-navigatskaya shkola graduate and hydrographer Fe¨ dor Ivanovich Soymonov expanded the academy’s teaching by founding navigation schools in Siberia (Okhotsk and Nerchinsk, 1754) and a school of geodesy in Tobol’sk (1758). Morskaya akademiya graduate Aleksey Ivanovich Nagayev taught navigation and mapping to the cadets. To centralize the administration of all aspects of navy activities, Peter I created the Admiralteystv kollegiya, which in addition to all other matters (construction of ships and ports, regulation of navy officers’ duties, and so on) supervised all cartographic activities at the Morskaya akademiya beginning in 1724. On 2 November 1777 (old calendar) the Admiralteystv’s drawing office, which had come into existence in the 1760s, acquired a permanent staff responsible for compiling, engraving, and publishing charts and other navigational material (Komaritsyn 1997). The concentration of all these efforts in St. Petersburg allowed for careful oversight and control. Peter I’s promotion of hydrographic training allowed him to secure greater control over an ever-expanding Russian Empire, paying special attention to rivers and inland seas, particularly those with outlets. One of the first cartographic projects under him was the 1699 survey of the River Don by Cornelis Cruys. That survey, on which Peter I himself assisted, resulted in the Nauw-keurige Afbeelding vande Rivier Don, of Tanais, de Azofsche Zee / Prilezhnoye opisaniye reki Donu ili Tanaisa Azovskovo morya, printed in 1703 by Hendrik

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Doncker in Amsterdam and annotated in Russian and Dutch. Later efforts focused on other river routes between the Baltic, St. Petersburg, and the Caspian and Black Seas. Hydrographers trained at the Morskaya akademiya were called upon to survey and chart these inland communication routes. Peter I and his successors paid the most attention to the Baltic Sea, which adjoined the new capital, St. Petersburg. Tellingly, twenty-one of the twenty-nine Russian navigational atlases published in the eighteenth century were devoted to the Baltic. Soymonov added new Russian charts to Johannes I van Keulen’s De nieuwe groote lichtende zee-fakkel and to the atlas of Werner von Rosenfeldt and Petter Gedda, published in 1696 in Swedish and later also in Dutch and English editions; Soymonov republished it as Kniga razmernaya gradusnykh kart Ost-Zee ili Varyazhskogo morya in 1714. Soymonov also compiled a new atlas of the Baltic Sea, Svetil’nik morya (1738), also called Svetil’nik morskoy or Atlas Baltiskago morya, comprising eight Swedish charts, six new Russian charts, and four charts from earlier Russian surveys of the Gulf of Finland (see fig. 763) and the Gulf of Riga (Kokkonen 1997, 54; Postnikov 2000, 81–82). Russian hydrographer Nagayev led the most important stage in the charting of the Baltic. After his training in charting the inshore waters of the Gulf of Finland under Johann Ludwig von Pott Luberas in the 1730s, Nagayev carried out intensive surveys of the Baltic from 1748 to 1751. His work resulted in the General’nyye i raznyye spetsial’nyye karty vsego Baltiyskogo morya (1750). This atlas updated the Swedish atlas of Nils Strömcrona with Nagayev’s own survey data. Nagayev improved on this work with his Atlas vsego Baltiyskogo morya (1757), which added twenty-seven entirely new maps to the fifteen plates reused from the atlas of 1750 and two from the Soymonov atlas of 1714. The charts in the Atlas vsego Baltiyskogo morya comprised both special large-scale harbor charts for Baltic ports and island maps as well as smaller-scale navigational charts for the Gulf of Finland. They lack coordinates but show great attention to coastline detail and information on depths, rocks, and shoals. Though kept a state secret by naval authorities, the 1757 atlas was republished many times before the end of the century (Kokkonen 1997, 56–62). The precise charting of the Caspian also served the Petrine program of Russian control over outlets to the sea at all compass points. Peter I ordered Aleksandr Bekovich-Cherkasskiy and Aleksandr Ivanovich Kozhin to chart the waters in 1715–18, followed by Soymonov and Karl von Verden in 1719–20. With assistance of Vasiliy Alekseyevich Urusov, Soymonov and von Verden compiled their chart in Astrakhan, printed in St. Peters-

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burg as Kartina ploskaya morya Kaspiyskogo (1720), which enjoyed considerable recognition in Western Europe, especially after Peter I sent a copy in 1721 to the Académie des sciences in Paris. Guillaume Delisle based his Carte marine de la mer Caspiene on Soymonov and von Verden’s work; their map was also republished by Johann Baptist Homann in Nuremberg as the Geographica nova ex Oriente gratiosissima duabus tabulis specialissimis contenta quaram una Mare Caspium (Postnikov 2000, 81, 92). Soymonov continued his surveys and studies of the Caspian during the Russo-Persian War of 1722–23 and during his seven years as Astrakhan’s hydrographer. His publication of an untitled navigational atlas and sailing directions for the Caspian (1731) marked the beginning of specialized hydrographical publications in Russia (fig. 524). His subsequent work in the Baltic for the Admiralteystv kollegiya resulted in the 1738 Svetil’nik morya mentioned above—a revised translation from the Dutch of a Swedish atlas and sailing directions that included Russian surveys carried out in 1714–32. This atlas and his naval textbook ensured Soymonov’s role as a key founder of Russian scientific hydrography. The Russian charts on the Caspian and Baltic relied on European principles, and from them it is virtually impossible to identify links with earlier Russian cartographic traditions. However, Russian explorers in the Far East and Northern Pacific relied to a large extent on local information supplied by indigenous Siberians and drew upon earlier cartographic work such as that of Seme¨ n Ul’yanovich Remezov (Postnikov 2000, 83). The idea of a “Great Land” lying across the ocean, spoken of by the inhabitants of Chukchi, provided further impetus for scientific expedition, carried out in the First (1725–30) and Second (1732–42) Kamchatka Expeditions, led by Vitus Bering and Aleksey Il’ich Chirikov, and the voyages to the Bering Straits and northern Alaska by Mikhail Spiridonovich Gvozdev and Ivan Fe¨ dorov (1732). The Second Kamchatka Expedition discovered an abundant supply of furs in the Pacific Islands. Word spread, and over the next four decades hunter-traders (promyshlenniki) scoured the region and produced homespun nautical charts without geographical coordinates or a fixed scale or projection. Over time, expedition charts began to incorporate features in the Western European cartographic tradition, after the leaders of the expeditions had been trained formally in Siberian schools of navigation, the first of which opened in Okhotsk on Bering’s order. Catherine II was the first to dispatch scientific expeditions charged with locating and describing the islands already visited by the fur traders. In 1768–69, an expedition led by Pe¨ tr Kuz’mich Krenitsyn and Mikhail Dmitriyevich Levashov to the is-

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Fig. 524. FËDOR IVANOVICH SOYMONOV, GENERAL CHART OF THE CASPIAN SEA. From Soymonov’s 1731 untitled atlas of the Caspian Sea. Note that the map is oriented with north to the left.

Image courtesy of the Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy arkhiv voyenno-morskogo flota, St. Petersburg (at the back of F 1331/4/687).

lands of Unalaska and Umnak and the southern shores of Alaska resulted in the first hydrographic works conducted by educated Europeans in that part of the Bering Sea (fig. 525). On the expedition, the Admiralteystv kollegiya showed intense interest in the descriptions and charts compiled by the fur traders, sixteen of whom came along as guides. The accuracy of the indigenous information, when combined with geodetic measurements, was confirmed in charts drawn up by Nagayev, Timofey Ivanovich Shmalev, and Vasily Dmitriyevich Krasil’nikov, information that remained secret and unavailable even to Russian cartographers for many years. A 1781 chart drawn by Peter Simon Pallas (Carte der Entdekvngen zwischen Sibirien und America) finally showed the precedence of the Russian fur traders and explorers in the northern Pacific (see fig. 623) (Postnikov 1996, 63, 68–69, 71, 73). Expeditions carried out in 1763–86 by Grigoriy Ivanovich Shelikhov, who founded Russian colonies in North America, and another led by Joseph Billings and Gavriil A. Sarychev in 1785–95 further proclaimed Russian rights to the northern Pacific. The undertone of propaganda is particularly obvious in Shelikhov’s chart and subsequent publications by the Rossiysko-amerikanskaya kompaniya, founded in 1799. The results of the Billings-Sarychev expedition were illustrated in a 1794 chart of the northern Pacific drawn by Sarychev, whose

seven years in the area helped him compile and publish his book on the rules of marine surveying, Pravila, prinadlezhashchie do morskoy geodezii (1804), the first Russian manual on hydrographic surveying and charting. Republished with supplements throughout the nineteenth century, this work mandated that local toponyms be recorded, thus helping to preserve indigenous knowledge. The interest in exploration did not distract monarchs like Catherine II from using hydrography toward the more traditional ends of military protection. The First Archipelago (Aegean) Expedition (1769–74), the first major strategic naval campaign conducted away from Russian shores, helped Russia emerge victorious in the Russo-Turkish War of 1768–74, which ended with the Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca. For the next three years (1775–77) the Russian fleet hovered in the area of the northern Aegean, the Dardanelles, and the Bosporus, surreptitiously making survey measurements. Their work was compiled and published as the Atlas arkhipelaga (1788), comprising a small-scale general chart of the entire Aegean, six medium-scale regional charts, and fifty-one detailed, large-scale charts of potential anchorages such as gulfs, harbors, and channels. Russian officers combined their own survey data with information from printed French, English, Dutch, and Turkish charts. Greek recruits to the Russian navy assisted

Fig. 525. YAKOV IVANOVICH SHABANOV, MANUSCRIPT PLAN OF ST.  PAUL HARBOR (TODAY THE HEAD OF CAPTAIN’S BAY) ON THE ISLAND OF UNALASKA IN THE ALEUTIANS, 1769.

Size of the original: 59.5 × 40.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Rossiyskiy gosudarstvennyy voyenno-istoricheskiy arkhiv, Moscow (f. 846 VUA, op. 16, d. 23438).

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Fig. 526. PRESENTATION MANUSCRIPT COPY OF YEVTAFIY STEPANOVICH ODINTSOV’S CHART OF THE SEA OF MARMORA, WITH A VIEW OF CONSTANTINOPLE, 1788.

Size of the original: 50 × 140 cm. © State Historical Museum, Moscow (GO-1882/86).

with Greek geographical names (Bulatov and Zaytsev 1997). Although unexceptional technically, these maps were made under intense time constraints, and much of the work had to be done by stealthy reconnaissance (fig. 526) (Bulatov 2000; Postnikov 2000, 84–89). The work reflects the abilities and training of Russian naval officers to operate with scientific rigor under severe constraints.

Postnikov, Alexey V. 1996. Russia in Maps: A History of the Geographical Study and Cartography of the Country. Moscow: Nash Dom–L’Age d’Homme. ———. 2000. “The Russian Navy as Chartmaker in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 52:79–95.

A l e x ey V . Po s tnikov See also: Nagayev, Aleksey Ivanovich; Russia; Sarychev, Gavriil Andreyevich; Soymonov, Fëdor Ivanovich Bibliograp hy Bulatov, V. E. 2000. “Eighteenth-Century Russian Charts of the Straits (Bosporus and Dardanelles).” Imago Mundi 52:96–111. Bulatov, V. E., and A. K. Zaytsev. 1997. “Pervaya arkhipelagskaya ekspeditsiya russkogo flota 1769–1774 gg.” and “The First Archipelago Expedition of the Russian Navy in 1769–1774.” In Atlas arkhipelaga i rukopisnyye karty Pervoy Arkhipelagskoy ekspeditsii russkogo flota 1769–1774 gg. = Atlas of the Archipelago and Manuscript Charts of the First Archipelago Expedition of the Russian Navy in 1769–1774, by V. E. Bulatov et al., 9–15 and 37–43. Moscow: Indrik. Cracraft, James. 2004. The Petrine Revolution in Russian Culture. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Golikov, I. I. 1789. Deyaniya Petra Velikogo. Part 8. Moscow: Universiteskoy Tipografii. Istoriya gidrograficheskoy sluzhby Rossiyskogo Flota (k 300-letiyu sozdaniya Voyenno-Morskogo Flota). 1994–97. 4 vols. St. Petersburg: Glavnoye Upravleniye Navigatsii i Okeanografii Ministerstva Oborony Rossiyskoy Federatsii. Kokkonen, Pellervo. 1997. “Practice of Marine Cartography and the Russian Representation of the Baltic Sea in the Eighteenth Century.” Fennia 175:1–96. Komaritsyn, Anatoliy A. 1997. “Gidrografiya Rossii na sluzhbe rodine i flotu.” Zapiski po Gidrografii 242.

Marine Charting by Spain. At the beginning of the eigh-

teenth century, charts were still constructed using technical resources unchanged from the seventeenth century. Highly decorated charts, made by ship pilots drawn with the rhumb-line system, persisted. They were kept in manuscript as a general policy of secrecy limited their diffusion. Information was situated in latitude but not in longitude, which could not be securely established until the widespread adoption of nautical chronometers after 1774. The Mercator projection was not widely popular for Spanish charts until well into the eighteenth century; however, constant oceanic navigation to America and the Philippines encouraged permanent improvements to navigation and cartography. Following the War of the Spanish Succession (1701– 14), during the reign of Felipe V, institutions were created such as the Academia de Guardiamarinas de Cádiz (1717), the Seminario de Nobles de Madrid (1725), and the Academia de Artillería de Barcelona (1736). The first Ordenanzas de la Marina were published by royal order in 1717. Naval officers and scientists Jorge Juan and Antonio de Ulloa, who participated in the expedition of CharlesMarie de La Condamine to measure the degree of the meridian at the equator (1735–43), accumulated scientific knowledge that allowed Spain to expedite research

Marine Charting

in several scientific fields and warranted the creation of institutions to promote the study of nautical sciences in the navy. For example, the Real Observatorio de Cádiz (1753) institutionalized the practice and teaching of nautical astronomy for a select group of officers of the Armada who would then play a central role within numerous expeditions organized by the Crown. Also the Academia de Ingenieros de Marina was created in 1772 to instruct technical staff in the construction of ports and arsenals. Yet real scientific and technical progress was not made until well into the second half of the eighteenth century, when the enlightened governments of the Bourbon dynasty grew conscious of the importance of science and technology as indispensable tools for strengthening the state and for the advancement of its elite class. In this context, the Armada became an instrument of the enlightened state, introducing the latest advances of navigation and nautical cartography into Spain. In 1783, the Spanish government carried out the astronomical mapping of the coasts of Spain, charging the tasks to Vicente Tofiño de San Miguel, director of the Academia de Guardiamarinas de Cádiz, and resulting in the valuable Atlas marítimo de España, 1789. With this scientific precedent, and spurred on by geopolitical problems, the Spanish government organized numerous expeditions. Some were to protect the possessions in America and the Philippines vis-à-vis other countries and to vindicate discoveries made by Spaniards, particularly in the Pacific. Others pursued a strictly scientific goal. Yet all of these expeditions generated, to a greater or lesser extent, noteworthy cartography. Between 1785 and 1789 two expeditions under the command of Antonio de Córdova went to the Strait of Magellan to make precise charts and test new instruments and methods of astronomical observation. These expeditions laid the organizational foundations for subsequent naval expeditions. While their methods coincided with those of other European countries, they differed in their goals, since the Spanish pursued a geopolitical goal of territorial affirmation over its colonies. Alejandro Malaspina followed with an effort (1789–94) that epitomized the national enterprises organized by an enlightened monarchy. Its mission was hydrographic reconnaissance along with reform and control of the colonies, an element missing in other European enterprises. The cartographic results were important because they made available charts on the Mercator projection of the Atlantic coast of South America from Montevideo around the entire Pacific coast of the South and North American continents, the Philippines, and other large islands in the Pacific Ocean (fig. 527). Another hydrographic expedition, known as “la ex-

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pedición hidrográfica del Atlas de la América septentrional,” left Cádiz in 1792 to chart territories in the Gulf of Mexico and the Antilles, areas of conflict for the Spanish monarchy (Martín-Merás 2008). The first division of bergantines (two-masted sailing ships) (1792–95) commanded by Cosme Damián de Churruca, made charts of the Lesser Antilles, Puerto Rico, and Trinidad. The second division (1795–1809), commanded by Joaquín Francisco Fidalgo, reconnoitered the southern coast of the Gulf of Mexico to Cartagena. To process the mapping generated by these expeditions, to promote additional mapping, and to publish nautical charts, the Dirección de Hidrografía (1797– 1908) was created as part of the navy; it became the official agency to receive and publish the charts generated by expeditions, as well as the work on port facilities by military engineers. Thus, following France’s example, the Dirección was established in Madrid as the first cartographic center in Spain. It undertook engraving and updating marine charts and preparing and publishing those needed for navigation and commerce. In the process of scientific renewal, the government reached out to the highly qualified military echelon, rather than strengthening civilian institutions as other European countries had done—a phenomenon termed the “militarization of science.” This epoch of renovation and scientific advancement did not last as long as Spain could have required. Historical events, such as the Battle of Trafalgar, the invasion by Napoleonic troops, and the loss of most of its American possessions, drew Spain into a deep institutional crisis during the first half of the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, the Dirección de Hidrografía in Madrid and the Real Observatorio de Cádiz survived into the twentieth century—two scientific institutions, created by the short-lived Enlightenment movement. Luisa Martín-M erás Verdejo See also: Spain; Tofiño de San Miguel y Vandewalle, Vicente Bibliography Espinosa y Tello, José. 1809. Memorias sobre las observaciones astronómicas, hechas por los navegantes españoles en distintos lugares del globo. 2 vols. Madrid: Imprenta Real. Malaspina, Alejandro. 2001–4. The Malaspina Expedition, 1789– 1794: Journal of the Voyage by Alejandro Malaspina. 3 vols. Ed. Andrew David et al. London: Hakluyt Society, London, in association with the Museo Naval, Madrid. Martín-Merás (Verdejo), Luisa. 1992. “The Evolution of Spanish Cartography on the Northwest Coast of America.” In Spain and the North Pacific Coast: Essays in Recognition of the Bicentennial of the Malaspina Expedition, 1791–1792, ed. Robin Inglis, 18–28. Vancouver: Vancouver Maritime Museum. ———. 1993. Cartografía marítima hispana: La imagen de América. Madrid: Lunwerg. ———, ed. 2003. La Dirección de Trabajos Hidrográficos (1797– 1908). 2 vols. Vol. 1, Historia de la cartografia náutica en la España

Fig. 527. CARTA ESFERICA DE LAS COSTAS DE LA AMERICA MERIDIONAL ([MADRID], 1798). This printed map was compiled from the surveys along the South American coast made by the royal corvettes, Descubierta and Atrevida,

part of the expedition of Alejandro Malaspina, which greatly advanced the possibilities of navigation in this region. Size of the original: ca. 98 × 62 cm. Image courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps, La Jolla.

Marine Charting del siglo XIX, by Francisco José González and Luisa Martín-Merás (Verdejo). Vol. 2, Catálogo de las cartas náuticas publicadas, by José María Cano Trigo. Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa. ———. 2008. “La expedición hidrográfica del Atlas de la América septentrional, 1792–1805.” Journal of Latin American Geography 7, no. 1:203–18. ———. 2010. “Las expediciones cartográficas de la Marina (siglo XVIII).” In Cartografía Hispánica: Imagen de un mundo en crecimiento, 1503–1810, ed. Mariano Cuesta Domingo and Alfredo Surroca Carrascosa, 391–413. Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa.

Marine Charting by Sweden-Finland. The Swedish hydrographical survey (Sjöfartsverket) originated in 1680, when Commodore Werner von Rosenfeldt was ordered to draw a “good chart of the whole Baltic Sea” (quoted in Dahlgren and Richter 1944, 34). The previous autumn he had already prepared for the navy’s relocation to what would become the town of Karlskrona and the center of Swedish marine charting by conducting soundings and setting buoys. To be able to fulfil his task, von Rosenfeldt needed to become acquainted with land survey maps, and for this reason Petter Gedda was taken on as an assistant. In the summer of 1694 the preparatory work for an atlas was completed, and von Rosenfeldt and Gedda traveled to Amsterdam with the material to have it engraved and printed. As the Swedish Amiralitetet would not underwrite the project, and Gedda himself lacked resources, it was von Rosenfeldt who financed the publication. By 1696 the atlas, double folio in size, with ten charts, and with Gedda’s name as author, appeared in a Swedish edition with the title General hydrographisk chartbook öfwer Östersiön, och Katte-Gatt. At the same time Dutch and English editions were published and printed by Jacob Robijn. In 1697 a pirated edition of the atlas was published in Amsterdam by Johannes Loots. In April 1698 von Rosenfeldt traveled to Holland and instituted legal proceedings against Loots. Back in Stockholm with the copperplates, von Rosenveldt started to print a new edition with twelve charts. One copy of this edition was acquired by Peter I of Russia, who had it copied, and it was published in 1714 under von Rosenfeldt’s name with a Russian title. The chief pilot in Karlskrona, Nils Strömcrona, was aware of the weaknesses of the “chart-book” and in 1739 published an atlas of ten sheets (General och åtskillige speciale pass-chartor öfwer hela Öster-sjön med Sinu Finnico och Bothnico samt Skager-rack, Cattigat och Belt). Strömcrona’s sea atlas included some notable improvements, the most significant of which appeared in his detail charts of the gulfs of Finland and Bothnia and the Fårö Sound. In July 1756 Amiralitetet received orders from the

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government to make reliable charts, marked in degrees, with all possible speed, and with the demand that the geographic grid be authorized by a professor of mathematics. Mårten Strömer was chosen for this task, and in 1760 Johan Gustaf Zegolström from the naval cadet school, Amiralitetets kadettskola, was appointed his assistant. For the next twenty-one years Zegolström would represent the continuity of the work of nautical surveying in Sweden (fig. 528). By 1768 the trigonometrical survey of the coastline from the Stockholm archipelago southward and then to the Norwegian border, as well as of the Pomeranian coast, had been completed. A similar charting of the Gulf of Bothnia was not finished until the 1820s. The physicist Johan Carl Wilcke calculated the magnetic declination and inclination (dip) in the Baltic Sea, and in 1768 published Försök til en magnetisk inclinations charta, a world map showing magnetic inclination (see fig. 420). In 1770, he investigated the harbor at Landskrona in Skåne (Scania) for the purpose of expanding its citadel. He prepared a large map with isobaths (see fig. 362) and a 265-page report in which he propounded the idea that Skåne and Danish Zealand had once been connected (Ehrensvärd 1991). Amiralitetet was released from the responsibility for all hydrographical work in 1772 when Rear Admiral Johan Nordenankar was commissioned director of charts. The work was done under the supervision of Zegolström and, after 1783, of naval major Eric af Klint. In 1790 the archive of nautical charts was destroyed by fire; many irreplaceable documents were lost, but the copperplates for the charts were rescued. Between 1785 and 1790 twelve charts were reprinted under Nordenankar’s name. Until then the prevailing idea had been that nautical charts existed chiefly for military use. Under Nordenankar’s leadership, the improvement of sea charts became a high priority and his tenure marks the transition in Sweden to charts founded on geodetics and the liberation of hydrography from its heavy dependence on maps derived from land surveys. In Finland, a pilot service (Lots- och fyrväsendet i Finland) was organized with several officers attached to the army fleet with its base at Sveaborg (Suomenlinna). This office did a good deal of military hydrographic and cartographic surveying of the South Finland archipelago. In 1785, its cartographic task was assumed by Rekognoseringkontoret (the reconnaissance office) under the leadership of Carl Nathanael af Klercker. In 1805 it was dissolved, and a series of charts of the coast from the Russian border to Porkkala was handed over to Sweden (now in Krigsarkivet, Stockholm). After 1797 the Crown decided for economic reasons

Fig. 528. JOHAN GUSTAF ZEGOLSTRÖM, “GOTHLANDS BELÄGENHET FÖRESTÄLD, GENOM RÖDA TEKNINGEN . . . ,” 1767. The cartouche states: “The situation of Gotland drawn in red as it is shown on Strömcrona’s seachart. But in green is shown how the land should be altered

with regard to its latitudes and extent, in accordance with the astronomical observations that were made there in the year 1767.” Manuscript map, watercolor. Size of the original: 58.0 × 46.5 cm. Image courtesy of Krigsarkivet, Stockholm (SE/KrA/0515/B/17/005).

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to discontinue the publication of nautical charts and cut down on all topographical and hydrographic activities. In this critical situation Eric af Klint’s son Gustaf af Klint assumed responsibility for the map-issuing office. In 1798 he obtained the exclusive right to publish charts for a period of twenty years. This privilege was kept by the Klint family until 1848. U l l a Eh r ensvärd See also: Sweden-Finland B i bliogra p hy Dahlgren, Per, and Herman Richter. 1944. Sveriges sjökarta. Stockholm: Sjöhistoriska Museet. Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 1991. “Ett batymetriskt pionjärarbete i Landskrona hamn år 1770.” Ymer (Oceanerna) 111:106–13. ———. 1997. “Das schwedische Projekt zur Verbesserung der Seekarten im 18. Jahrhundert.” In Mapy południowego Bałtyku: Materiały XVII Ogólnopolskiej Konferencji Historyków Kartografii która odbyła sie. w Szczecinie 6–7 IX 1996 r., ed. Mieczysław Stelmach, 53–66. Szczecin: Uniwersytet. Ehrensvärd, Ulla, and Hugo Frithz. 1993. Sveriges sjökarteväsende, 1643–1993. Norrköping: Sjöfartsverket. Ehrensvärd, Ulla, and Kurt Zilliacus. 1997. Farlederna berättar: Gamla sjökartor över Finlands skärgårdar. Helsinki: Konstsamfundet–Söderströms. Gedda, Petter, and Werner von Rosenfeldt. 1696. General hydrographisk chart-book öfwer Östersiön, och Katte-Gatt. Amsterdam: Jacob Robeyn. Facsimile ed. (colored), introduction in Swedish, German, and English by Ulla Ehrensvärd (Uppsala: GullersBild 1995). Facsimile ed. (black and white), introduction (Swedish with English summary) by Ulla Ehrensvärd (Stockholm: Rediviva, 1975). Harju, Erkki-Sakari, and Heikki Tiilikainen. 2009. Kuninkaallinen merikartasto, 1791–1796: C. N. af Klerckerin johtama kartoitustyö Suomenlahdella. Helsinki: AtlasArt.

Marinoni, Johann Jakob. Johann Jakob (Gian/ Giovanni Giacomo) Marinoni was born in Udine, Italy, in 1676. After attending secondary school and studying mathematics in Udine, Marinoni moved to Vienna in 1696 and enrolled at the Faculty of Arts, University of Vienna. He worked as a mathematician at the city’s imperial court and as a geometer in Lower Austria. In 1717, with Leander Anguissola, he founded the Militär-Ingenieurakademie in Vienna, where he taught and served as rector. Because of his emphasis on the theoretical basis of surveying as well as on practical techniques, Marinoni contributed substantially to the international standing of Austrian military cartography. Among other activities, he taught the future Empress Maria Theresa in mathematics. His most important cartographic works include the surveying and mapping of Vienna and its suburbs, the Duchy of Milan, and various imperial, aristocratic, and monastery properties. Marinoni was a member of the academies of London, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Bologna, Naples, Rovereto, and Olmütz (Olomouc). He died in Vienna in 1755 (Slezak 1976).

Marinoni’s activities carried the science of surveying in the Habsburg Empire to new levels. Anguissola and Marinoni’s map of Vienna, Accuratissima Viennæ Austriæ ichnographica delineatio (1706), was commissioned by Emperor Joseph I to show the newly constructed Linienwall, Vienna’s outer fortification line. This map provided the first-ever accurate geometric representation of Vienna’s suburbs, which had begun to grow massively after the destruction wrought during the second Turkish siege (1683). In addition to showing all buildings, gardens, and terrain relief lines, the map also depicted fields by hatching, meadows by dotting, and vineyards with a particular vine symbol (Slezak 1976, 197–98; Dörflinger 2004, 102–3). In 1718, Emperor Charles VI appointed a commission (the Giunta di Nuovo Censimento Milanese) to design a land-tax system for the Duchy of Milan, which had been added to the Empire in 1714. As one of the invited experts, Marinoni proposed a cadastral survey of the duchy that would rely on his own improved plane table rather than on the squadro, or surveyor’s cross, favored by Italian land surveyors. Marinoni’s plane table featured a board (larger than previously used) set on a circular spindle within a square frame: the spindle permitted the board to be rotated around its vertical axis for better orientation, the frame made it possible to shift the board in both horizontal directions to improve its centering. Field tests proved that Marinoni’s plane table allowed surveyors to work almost twice as fast while producing more accurate results, especially in mountainous and difficult terrain (Lego [1968], 2,7,10). Marinoni eventually published an extensive monograph on surveying, De re ichnographica (1751), in which he described the construction and use of his plane table (see fig. 399). Thanks to his excellent reputation, Marinoni was increasingly invited by influential persons to survey aristocratic estates, hunting grounds, and monastery holdings. The accurate survey data produced by the use of his plane table insured the high quality of these maps. In particular, his “Neuer Atlas des kayserl.en Wildban in Östereich unter der Ens” (1726–29) showing the imperial hunting grounds (fig. 529) is an important work of Austrian large-scale cartography and baroque design, evidenced by its ornate title cartouche and various depictions of hunting placed around the maps (Dörflinger 2004, 85; 1977, pl. 52). Petra Svatek See also: Instruments for Angle Measuring: Plane Table; MilitärIngenieurakademie (Academy for Military Engineers; Austrian Monarchy); Military Cartography: Austrian Monarchy, with Topographical Surveying; Property Mapping: (1) Austrian Monarchy, (2) Italian States; Urban Mapping: Austrian Monarchy

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Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando

Fig. 529. DETAIL FROM JOHANN JAKOB MARINONI’S “MAPPA UBER DIE ZUM KAYSERL.EN WILDBAN GEHÖRIGE IN EBERSDORFER FORST-MAISTER AMT . . . LIGENDE AUEN” (VIENNA, 1726). Manuscript map on one sheet; 1:21,600. This map is a part of the “Neuer Atlas des

kayserl.en Wildban in Österreich unter der Ens,” the hunting atlas of Charles VI, which comprises thirty maps representing the imperial hunting preserves near Vienna. Image courtesy of the Bildarchiv, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (K I 98.480, Bd. 1, Tf. 2 Kar).

Bibliograp hy Dörflinger, Johannes. 1977. “Das 18. Jahrhundert.” In Descriptio Austriae: Österreich und seine Nachbarn im Kartenbild von der Spätantike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert, by Johannes Dörflinger, Robert Wagner, and Franz Wawrik, 28–35 and pls. 46–70. Vienna: Edition Tusch. ———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Lego, Karl. [1968]. Geschichte des österreichischen Grundkatasters. Vienna: Bundesamt für Eich- und Vermessungswesen. Slezak, Friedrich. 1976. “Johann Jakob Marinoni (1676–1755).” Der Donauraum 21:195–207.

Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando. Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli (Marsili) was born and died in Bologna (20 July 1658–1 November 1730), one of the richest cities in Italy, where his maternal relatives were linked to the patrician families of Italy. His family thus enjoyed the wealth and connections necessary to provide for a good education, travel, and military service to the court of Vienna. His diverse scientific knowledge grew from private education with renowned professors at the universities of Bologna, Rome, and Padua, and early membership in the private intellectual academies of Bologna: the Accademia del Davida, Accademia dell’ Archiginnasio, and Accademia degli Inquieti. Alert to recent developments

Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando

in astronomy and natural history, Marsigli developed an appetite for mathematics and science in all forms. His year with the Venetian embassy in Constantinople (1679–80) introduced him to the Ottoman Empire and the natural phenomena of the Bosporus, two fascinations that resulted in his passion for collecting (books, manuscripts, and maps) and cartography. His map of the currents of the Bosporus illustrated his Osservazioni intorno al Bosforo Tracio overo Canale di Constantinopoli (1681), and maps and other illustrations enhance his Stato militare dell’Imperio Ottomanno, incremento e decremento del medesimo (1732), based on this visit. In 1682 he crossed the Alps for Vienna, making notes, sketch maps, and drawings of defensive systems of castles along the way. Thanks to influential supporters close to the Austrian emperor, Leopold I, he was able to embark on a military career in the Austrian army during the Turkish War (1683–99), rising to the rank of general, a position in which he deployed his cartographic skills. In his first year of service at the Siege of Vienna (1683) he was captured by the Turks, sold as a slave, and finally ransomed in the spring of 1684, when he again reported for duty (Stoye 1994, 20–21). (In servitude he had prepared and served coffee to the Turkish troops, on the basis of which he wrote Bevanda Asiatica [1685].) As inspector general of fortifications for the Habsburgs, his survey work reflected the growing dominance of the Austrian monarchy in the Balkans and the region of the lower Danube and its tributaries as the Ottoman Turks retreated. His special mission of 1689–91 to survey and report on the regions of Syrmia and Bosnia, as well as his later boundary surveys, provided him with the military, historical, and scientific material for his magnum opus, Danubius Pannonico-Mysicus (6 vols., 1726). While preparing this work he collaborated with Johann Christoph Müller from Nuremberg, whom he invited to Hungary in 1696 to aid with mapping. The scientific work of these two men became inseparably intertwined (fig. 530). From 1699 to 1701, Marsigli oversaw the mapping of the 850-kilometer-long Austro-Turkish border following the terms of the Treaty of Karlowitz. He was required to map the area within a two-hour walk of either side of the border, as well as precisely record the border cartographically. Nearly four hundred manuscript maps and site plans, now divided between Bologna and Vienna, resulted from his efforts and include the well-known border map, “Mappa geographico-limitanea in qva imperiorum cæserei et ottomannici confinia in almæ pacis Carlovitzensis congressu decreta” (see fig. 101), and the set of thirty-nine large-scale sectional maps in forty-one sheets. His colleague Johann Christoph Müller used the many working drafts for later maps of the Danube and the Carpathian Basin.

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During the War of the Spanish Succession, Marsigli, as second in command, was forced to surrender Breisach Castle on the Rhine to the French. Stripped of his rank and expelled from the Austrian army in 1704, he moved to Montpellier in France, where he studied marine life. His observations, published as Histoire physique de la mer (1725), included his Carte du Golfe de Lion, which used an isobath to show varying depths in the sea (see fig. 361). In 1708 Pope Clement XI recalled him to Italy to serve in the papal forces; by 1709 he was back in his native city of Bologna, where he concentrated on his vast private collections, the foundation for a library and museum. His valuable manuscripts—including several hundred maps and site plans he had collected, made, or commissioned—are preserved in 146 volumes at the Biblioteca Universitaria of Bologna. In 1712, he founded the Accademia della Scienze dell’Istituto di Bologna, modeled on the academies of London, Paris, and Montpellier, of which he was a member. Bologna’s observatory was built thanks to his initiative. Marsigli revised the cartography of the Carpathian Basin by using the most modern methods and technical instruments available. In correspondence with JeanDominique Cassini (I) and Georg Christoph Eimmart, Nuremberg astronomer, engraver, and instrumentmaker, he learned to use astronomical observations to determine location. Müller helped in this practical application by using a quadrant, a telescope, a precise clock, and astronomical charts acquired by Marsigli for observation. They both used a compass to record the bends in the rivers, a barometer to determine the height of mountains, and a type of quadrant for measuring the speed of the river currents. The observations of water currents (for the Dardanelles, Bosporus, and Danube) recorded on maps and site plans offered new visualizations of complex sea passages. He conscientiously and methodically used maps for different thematic purposes. In addition to those mentioned above, he created maps for hydrography (Mappa potamographica, 1726), archaeology (Theatrum antiqvitatum romanarum, 1726), mining (Mappa mineralographica fodinas in Hungariâ, 1726 [see fig. 777]), botany (“Theatrum regionum, in quibus fungos, etc.,” 1701), commerce (“Mappa geographica, facta in usum commerciorum,” 1699), and communications (“Mappa geograph: facta in usum officialium,” 1700). Because of his steady creation of maps for specific purposes, Marsigli is rightly considered a pioneer in thematic cartography. Antal And rás Deák See also: Academies of Science: Italian States; Boundary Surveying: Austrian Monarchy; Cassini Family: Cassini (I), Jean-Dominique; Heights and Depths, Mapping of: (1) Isobath, (2) Bathymetric Map; Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699); Müller, Johann Christoph; Thematic Map: Geological Map

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Mason-Dixon Line

Fig. 530. JOHANN CHRISTOPH MÜLLER, MAPPA GENERALIS IN QUA DANUBII FL., FROM DANUBIUS PANNONICO-MYSICUS (1726). Under Marsigli’s supervision, Müller mapped the Danube between Kahlenberg (Austria) and the Yantra River (Bulgaria). This general map marks the eighteen sections discussed in the book. Astronomical observations were used to rectify the traditionally poor representation of the Carpathian Basin. The compass rose indicates magnetic

declination as observed in Hungary. Copperplate engraving in Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, Danubius Pannonico-Mysicus, observationibus geographicis, astronomicis, hydrographicis, historicis, physicis perlustratus, 6 vols. (The Hague: P. Gosse, R. Chr. Alberts, P. de Hondt, 1726), vol. 1, pl. 1 (foldout). Courtesy of Special Collections, Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas Libraries, Lawrence.

Bibliograp hy Deák, Antal András. 2004. A Duna fölfedezése = The Discovery of the Danube. Budapest: Vízügyi Múzeum, Levéltár és Könyvgyu˝jtemény. ———. 2006. Maps from under the Shadow of the Crescent Moon = Térképek a félhold árnyékából = Carte geografiche dal’ombra della mezzaluna = Landkarten aus dem Schatten des Halbmondes. Also available on DVD and containing most of the manuscript maps of Marsigli-Müller. Esztergom: Duna Múzeum. Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando. 1725. Histoire physique de la mer. Amsterdam. Reprint, ed. Giorgio Dragoni, intro. and trans. Anita McConnell. Bologna: Museo de Fisica dell’Università di Bologna, 1999. ———. 1986. Relazioni dei confini della Croazia e della Transilvania

a sua Maestà Cesarea (1699–1701). 2 vols. Ed. Raffaella Gherardi. Modena: Mucchi Editore. Stoye, John. 1994. Marsigli’s Europe, 1680–1730: The Life and Times of Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli, Soldier and Virtuoso. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Mason-Dixon Line. The geodetic work of Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon, defining and establishing the borders between Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware, marks the beginning of Britain’s geodetic endeavors during the Enlightenment. In establishing the bound-

Mason-Dixon Line

aries under the direction of colonial commissioners, Mason and Dixon were implementing the ruling of the Court of Chancery in 1750 that settled the long-running dispute between the Penns and the Baltimores over the position and definition of their mutual borders. John Bird of London constructed the optical instruments. These included a six-foot zenith sector for measuring latitude, a thirty-inch transit and equal altitude instrument for alignments and azimuths, and an eighteen-inch Hadley quadrant. Isaac Jackson of Philadelphia constructed the astronomical regulator needed for precise timekeeping. Mason and Dixon arrived in Philadelphia on 15 November 1763. Work began with the determination of the latitude of the official origin, the southernmost point of the city of Philadelphia at the north wall of a house on Cedar Street (now South Street) (Danson 2016, 85–86). The latitude of this point was replicated thirty miles west at John Harlan’s farm (Stargazers Farm, Embreeville). The following year, Mason and Dixon ran the legally required fifteen-mile distance due south to a field in Mill Creek Hundred. Here they set up the “post mark’d West” marking the beginning of the West Line (Mason-Dixon Line) (Danson 2016, 107, fig. 19). They next established the Tangent Line running from the Delaware Middle Point marker on the transpeninsula line to where it grazed the twelve-mile radius circular border centered on New Castle. Mason’s astronomical expertise combined with Dixon’s land survey skills resulted in a perfectly straight line. In 1765, Mason and Dixon ran the West Line as far as the Susquehanna River. This was achieved in a series of great circle chords, which, when adjusted with offsets, produced a line of constant latitude. The North Line of the Delaware boundary was then completed from the Tangent Point to the West Line before resuming the West Line until winter forced a halt. In 1766, the West Line was run as far as the Allegheny Divide; to go further west required consent of the Iroquois Six Nations under the strictures of the Royal Proclamation of 1763. General Sir William Johnson, British Agent for Indian Affairs, secured permission, and work resumed in June 1767, when representatives of the Six Nations of the Iroquois (Haudenosaunee), accompanied by Captain Hugh Crawford, joined the team. On 9 October 1767, the survey party reached the Catawba warpath near Dunkard Creek, which the Iroquois representatives refused to cross (see fig. 112). This marked the end of Mason and Dixon’s survey; they were just thirty miles short of the Ohio border. On returning to Philadelphia, they produced a map of the lines, which was engraved by James Smither and Henry Dawkins, and two hundred copies were printed by Robert Kennedy. The Mason-Dixon Line is marked at one-mile in-

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Fig. 531. A MAP OF THAT PART OF AMERICA WHERE A DEGREE OF LATITUDE WAS MEASURED FOR THE ROYAL SOCIETY BY CHA: MASON & JERE: DIXON, 1768. In addition to determining the long east-west boundary between Pennsylvania and Maryland, Mason and Dixon also determined the short north-south boundary through the Delmarva Peninsula. They first laid out a series of lines, from N to A on the map, and defined their limits by astronomical observations. They then resurveyed the lines, measuring their length directly using sturdy wooden frames (20 ft. long by 4 ft. high), lifted into horizontal positions, that were regularly checked against a brass yard standard; the unwieldy instrument allowed the surveyors to measure across felled trees and other uneven ground. Finally, they reduced the measured lengths to the true meridian through A. From Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon, “Observations for Determining the Length of a Degree of Latitude in the Provinces of Maryland and Pennsylvania, in North America,” Philosophical Transactions 58 (1768): 274–328, pl. 14 (facing 325). Size of the original: 17.3 × 10.2 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

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Masse Family

tervals by stone blocks quarried in Portland, England, and carved with the Penn and Baltimore arms. Mason and Dixon were Britain’s first geodetic surveyors, and their boundaries in America were the first established and dependent upon precise geodetic principles. The distance from Harlan’s Farm to the Middle Point marker, undertaken for the Royal Society, became the first meridian arc measured by British observers (fig. 531). The technical and mathematical principles established by Mason and Dixon laid the foundation for American and British geodetic surveying throughout the Enlightenment. Edwin D ans o n See also: Boundary Surveying: British America; Geodetic Surveying: Great Britain Bibliograp hy Danson, Edwin. 2006. Weighing the World: The Quest to Measure the Earth. New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 2016. Drawing the Line: How Mason and Dixon Surveyed the Most Famous Border in America. Rev. ed. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons. Mason, Charles, and Jeremiah Dixon. 1969. The Journal of Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon. Intro. A. Hughlett Mason. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Mason & Dixon Line Preservation Partnership Website. To promote the true and factual history of the line; contains extensive library, history, photos, and stone inventory.

Masse Family. Claude Masse (1651–1737) was born in Combloux in the Savoy region. His father, a shopkeeper, gave him a good education, and he entered the service of one of Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s engineers, François de Ferry, as a draftsman. Masse followed Ferry to La Rochelle in 1679, where the latter had been named director general of the town’s fortifications. Alongside Ferry, Masse carried out works and projects of recognized quality. The fear of an English invasion pushed Colbert to undertake the mapping of the Atlantic coast from south of the Loire to the Arcachon basin. In 1688, Masse, at age thirty-six, received the commission for this enormous project, which would occupy him until he was seventy-three. He married Marie Papin in 1698, and two of their five children became engineers: François Félix (1706–1757) and Claude Félix (1712–1786). Claude Masse was a model of uprightness. Never overly concerned about his career, he did not obtain his brevet d’ingénieur ordinaire until 1702. This cartographer did not write about cartography, but passed on its rules by example. His “Mémoire ou traitte de fortification en abrégé,” a manuscript for the instruction of the young, was begun in 1687 during his free time and expanded for his sons until 1726. The work displays a pedagogy in which images play a key role. Masse innovated and anticipated the idea of regular cartographic cover-

age of France (foreshadowing the Carte de France) by dividing territory into identical “squares,” oriented north, on sheets that could be assembled into a larger map. On each side of the square were two spaces for the scale (1:3,600 or 1:7,200), the title, and, if necessary, for detailed inset plans. These “squares,” surveyed at 1:14,400 and then enlarged to accommodate the reduction of scale to 1:28,800, provided a veritable portrait of the landscape, showing the outlines of buildings, enclosures, all linear boundaries, and shaded relief (see figs. 814 and 820). His general maps at 1:97,800 functioned both as index maps and as a synthesis of the smaller-scale maps by maintaining the proportion of objects with cartographic generalization (see fig. 815). The memoir accompanying each map is a model of geographical analysis (physical, human, ethnographical, historical). Masse finished work on the coastal project in 1724. He was immediately sent to Lille to survey France’s northern border. François Félix worked by his father’s side, as he had from age fifteen, and obtained his brevet d’ingénieur ordinaire in 1726. Claude Félix, from the age of twelve, did the same and obtained his brevet in 1731. They surveyed and mapped Flanders and Hainault under the guidance of their father, who died in 1737 at the age of eighty-six. François Félix then entered into active duty in the Corps du Génie (lieutenant in 1739), but from 1746 to 1749 he resumed the survey of the Dutch border as ingénieur en chef. Given the rank of captain in 1747, he completely abandoned cartography; he drowned during the campaign in Germany in 1757. His brother Claude Félix surveyed the Luxemburg border until 1744, then entered into active duty in the Corps du Génie. Distinguished in combat, he attained the rank of captain in 1747, when he was severely wounded, which earned him the honor of Knight of the Order of Saint Louis in 1748. From 1749–50, he taught topography at the École du Génie de Mézières. In 1753 he returned to the region where he was born as ingénieur en chef of Oléron. Pensioned in 1777, he retired in La Rochelle, where he died in 1786. The precision of the maps of the Masse sons is not equal to those of their father; they suffer from a lack of rigor in their method. Witnesses to a changing society, the sons abandoned the austere and unrewarding job of engineer in favor of the army, where social advancement was guaranteed. Cath erine Bo us q uet- Bressolier See also: Military Cartography: France Bibliography Blanchard, Anne. 1981. Dictionnaire des ingénieurs militaires, 1691– 1791. Montpellier: Centre d’Histoire Militaire et d’Études de Défense Nationale. Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine. 2003. “Claude Masse et la cartogra-

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phie des côtes du Ponant (1688 à 1724).” Cahiers Nantais, no. 59: 57–73. ———. 2008. “Claude Masse (1651–1737) sur les côtes de l’Océan: Trente-cinq ans d’une expérience transmise.” In Les usages des cartes (XVIIe–XIXe siècle): Pour une approche pragmatique des productions cartographiques, ed. Isabelle Laboulais, 101–20. Strasbourg: Presses Universitaires de Strasbourg. Faille, René, and Nelly Lacrocq. 1979. Les ingénieurs géographes: Claude, François et Claude-Félix Masse. La Rochelle: Rupella.

Mayer, Tobias. Tobias Mayer’s career exemplifies the social mobility that could be achieved by those who devoted themselves to the nexus of astronomy, mathematics, and mapmaking that was mathematical cosmography. Born on 17 February 1723 in Marbach am Neckar, the son of a wheelwright, Mayer was professor of mathematics in Göttingen when he died on 23 February 1762 (Roth 1985). Mayer grew up in Esslingen am Neckar; orphaned before he was fourteen, he received little formal education. The town council’s charity did finally send the brilliant teenager to the Latin school, but he was completely self-taught in art, architecture, and mathematics. Indeed, he supported himself by teaching geometry and surveying, especially as applied to gunnery. His passion for the artillery and fortifications led him in 1739 to draw the first plan of Esslingen, independently published by Gabriel Bodenehr in Augsburg in 1741 (Forbes 1980, 26, pl. 4). In 1741, still only eighteen, he published his first book on geometry, which he specifically intended to be an introductory text geared to the needs of other autodidacts. Mayer prepared a number of graphics to illustrate mathematical concepts, which he published as his Mathematischer Atlas (1745). Its sixty plates—again intended to help the autodidact—explained concepts in both pure and applied mathematics, including geometry, trigonometry, astronomy, geography, fortifications, and gunnery. Within the section on geography, Mayer provided an introduction to map projections and map drawing, explaining the process of constructing the graticule of meridians and parallels within which places could be sited according to their coordinates. His further instructions referred to the different steps in map construction and to the symbolization of data (Roth 2000, 25). In 1746, almost certainly as a result of his Mathematischer Atlas, Mayer was hired by Homann Heirs in Nuremberg to improve the mathematical exactness of the publishing house’s maps. During his five years with the Homann Heirs, Mayer drew some thirty regional maps (listed and described by Hüttermann in Mayer 2009). For each, he collected, reexamined, and recalculated the latitudes and longitudes of the key locations on which geographical features were based. In particular, he constructed a new geographical frame

fig. 532. DETAIL FROM TOBIAS MAYER’S GERMANIAE ATQVE IN EA LOCORVM PRINCIPALIORVM MAPPA CRITICA (NUREMBERG: HOMANN HEIRS, 1750). Mayer contrasted the locations of key places (e.g., Cassel, Nuremberg, Frankfurt) and boundaries according to existing maps of Germany by the Homann Heirs (red) and Guillaume Delisle (yellow) with recently determined latitudes and longitudes (green). Size of the entire original: 44 × 52 cm; size of detail: ca. 10 × 13 cm. Image courtesy of the Universität Bern, Zentralbibliothek, Sammlung Ryhiner (Ryh 4302 60).

for the Homann Heirs’ maps of Germany and its parts that compared the positions of places and boundaries with his own corrected data (fig. 532). The map thus indicated the problems faced in geographical editing, clearly demonstrating the inexactness of contemporary maps and that the major problem lay with the determination of longitude rather than latitude. Mayer believed that the solution to determining longitude lay in the observation of the moon. To this end, he began a long series of lunar observations. In addition to several treatises, Mayer prepared a map of the moon during the August 1748 lunar eclipse, complete with regularized nomenclature and coordinate system, copies of which were bound in Johann Gabriel Doppelmayr’s posthumous edition of Atlas coelestis in 1752 (Forbes 1980, 43), and also a large manuscript lunar map from many detailed observations undertaken in 1748–50. This last was eventually published in Georg Christoph Lichtenberg’s edition of Mayer’s Opera inedita (1775; see fig. 158). It was this astronomical work and his mathematical talents that led to Mayer’s 1751 appointment as professor and director of the new observatory at Göttingen (founded 1748). He recorded the itinerary of his route to Göttingen, which would be the first of a proposed series of road maps published by the Homann Heirs, but only one other ever appeared in print (Hüttermann

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2002). In Göttingen, Mayer concentrated on the longitude problem. In particular, he developed highly accurate tables of the moon’s motion that could serve as the basis of the method of calculating longitude from lunar distances. This work was acknowledged when, in 1765, he was posthumously awarded part of the prize of the British Board of Longitude. Other projects, notably his lunar globe, were less successful. He first worked on this globe in Nuremberg, in parallel with his moon maps, thinking it to be more exact and useful as a replica of the moon. This work was interrupted by his move to Göttingen, but he was able to return to it around 1760. Yet by the time of his death he had completed only eight of the twelve gores and only six had been engraved. A r min H üttermann See also: Celestial Mapping: Enlightenment; Geographical Mapping: (1) Enlightenment, (2) German States; Globe: Lunar Globe; Homann Family; Longitude and Latitude Bibliograp hy Forbes, Eric G. 1980. Tobias Mayer (1723–62): Pioneer of Enlightened Science in Germany. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Hüttermann, Armin. 1990. “Tobias Mayer als Geograph und Kartograph.” In Tobias Mayer und die Zeit der Aufklärung, ed. Erhard Anthes, Werner Quehl, and Erwin Roth, 73–90. Marbach am Neckar: Tobias-Mayer-Museum. ———. 2002. “Tobias Mayer und seine Reisekarte von 1751.” Cartographica Helvetica 26:13–22. Mayer, Tobias. 2009. Mathematischer Atlas, Land- und Mondkarten, Fortifikationsbuch. Intro. and ed. Armin Hüttermann. Hildesheim: Olms. Roth, Erwin. 1985. Tobias Mayer, 1723–1762: Vermesser des Meeres, der Erde und des Himmels. Esslingen: Stadtarchiv Esslingen. ———. 2000. Tobias Mayer und seine Landkarten. Marbach am Neckar: Tobias-Mayer-Museum.

Measures, Linear. L i n e ar Me asu r e s i n t h e E n l i gh ten ment I t i n e rary a n d G e o g r a p h i c a l M eas u res M arin e Me as u r e s S u rve yi n g Me asu r e s Re f orm of L i n e a r Me as u r e s

Linear Measures in the Enlightenment. Linear measures

developed within discrete arenas of human endeavor. Those based on the human body, notably cubits, feet or pieds, inches or pouces, and smaller measures such as the ligne, all related to building and making things. Yards, ells, and aunes were measures for cloth manufacture based on the width of the loom and the body; perches, furlongs, and arpents for arable agriculture; paces, miles, and leagues for travel (Kula 1986). Each measure varied from district to district, although within each district some were fixed by physical standards, such as the wooden yardsticks and toises used respectively in

England and France; for these measures, the same word referred both to the standard and to the abstract unit. Furthermore, starting in the thirteenth century, monarchs created and distributed standards made from brass or iron, which were divided and multiplied to define and regularize other linear measures. The use of these particular formulations was enshrined in decrees and statutes. Within a functional group of measures, these statute divisions and multiples tended to be regular, as when the toise was defined as six pieds (feet), the pied as twelve pouces (inches), and the pouce as twelve lignes (lines). By comparison, relating measures from different functional groups produced the haphazard relationships that are characteristic of premetric units (e.g., 5½ yards to a rod, 40 rods to a furlong, 8 furlongs to a mile). However, medieval and early modern polities proved ineffective in imposing the use of their standards, and local usages proliferated. Eighteenth-century commentators generally grouped these variants into three categories: large or great, common, and small or short. The following entries examine the variety of measures used in the three main areas of cartographic work—land surveying, itinerary and geographical work, and marine charting—together with their reform. The extensive work by economic historians and geodesists in establishing modern equivalents for the many early units of measure is manifested in a variety of online resources, especially the official site of the Bureau international des poids et mesures (BIPM), to which reference should be made for precise details of all the different variants within each national context. Customary measures were so ingrained in daily life that it required substantial political and economic upheaval to even begin to overturn them. Despite the multiple proposals made after 1650 for rational systems of weights and measures, it was not until the French Revolution that the metric system was conceived and imposed as a means to reform France’s entire economy (Zupko 1990). Even so, there was sufficient resistance that the new system would be largely suspended in 1812 (Alder 1995; Heilbron 1990). The metric system was not widely adopted across Europe until the 1840s, when increasing industrialization and state-run education fundamentally reconfigured European societies. Consideration of the full implications for cartography of metric measures, and of the reactionary imperial system adopted by Great Britain, therefore awaits volume 5 of The History of Cartography. Matth ew H. Edney See also: Modes of Cartographic Practice Bibliography Alder, Ken. 1995. “A Revolution to Measure: The Political Economy of the Metric System in France.” In The Values of Precision, ed. M. Norton Wise, 39–71. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Measures, Linear Heilbron, J. L. 1990. “The Measure of Enlightenment.” In The Quantifying Spirit in the 18th Century, ed. Tore Frängsmyr, J. L. Heilbron, and Robin E. Rider, 207–42. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kula, Witold. 1986. Measures and Men. Trans. R. Szreter. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Zupko, Ronald Edward. 1990. Revolution in Measurement: Western European Weights and Measures since the Age of Science. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society.

Itinerary and Geographical Measures. Itinerary mea-

sures—the units used to express road distances—were variously called miles or leagues in early modern Europe. The wide variety of particular measures stemmed from the manner in which inherited Roman measures were complicated by both local customary practices and attempts at standardization. Roman measures had been based on the pace (passus), the length covered by a soldier in two marching steps (5 Roman feet or 1.48 m). The longer Roman itinerary units were the stade (stadium) of 125 paces (185 m), which would be equated to the furlong; the mile (mille passus) of 8 stades or 1,000 paces (5,000 feet or 1,480 m), used to define mile markers on Roman roads; the league (leuga) of 1,500 paces (2,220 m), or the distance walked in an hour; and, sometimes, the schoenus of 4,000 paces (5,920 m) (Zupko 1977, 6–7). In northern Europe, the usual itinerary measure was the mile, which was subject to substantial variation. In England, a 1593 act defined the statute mile as 8 furlongs or 1,760 yards (1,609 m), distinct from the older, customary mile of 1,500 paces (about 1.3 statute miles); a shorter mile could also be used of 1,000 paces (1,524 m). Elsewhere in the British Isles, the length of the mile varied according to the local yard or furlong: 1,814 meters in Scotland; 2,048 meters in Ireland. Some English itineraries used the league of 3 miles (5,280 statute yards; 4,827 m), although again there was variation based on which miles were used (from 2,290 to 4,570 m) (Zupko 1985, 248–51). On the continent, the Meile was much longer than the several British miles and inevitably varied across the German states. Among the shorter German Landmeile was the Danish mile of 24,000 Prussian feet (7,532 m), which would be adopted as the Prussian standard in 1816; at the longer end was the Sachsen Meile of 32,000 feet (9,062 m). Through the eighteenth century, Germans also used the Wegstunde, or one hour’s travel, taken to be about half a Meile (or about 3,700 m). In the Netherlands, the mijl was again idealized as one hour’s walk and again varied between the provinces but approximated 5,000 meters. In France and southern Europe, a variety of paces, miles, and leagues were used for itineraries. In France, the crown identified three distinct paces: the pas mili-

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taire of 2 pieds (0.65 m); the pas commun of 2½ pieds (0.812  m); and the pas géométrique of 5 pieds (1.624 m). The mille (or mile) generally used during the Enlightenment was the Parisian standard of 5,000 pieds (1,624 m). However, the commonly used itinerary measure of the lieue (league) varied widely from 2,216 to 4,411 meters, with an odd assortment of submultiples (Zupko 1978, 95–96). There were no common standards in the Italian states until unification and metrication in the later nineteenth century, but several units were extensively used for road applications across the hundreds of communes and republics: the braccio commonly varied from 0.4 to 0.8 meters; the passo (pace), from 0.7 to 2.0 meters; the trabucco, from 2.6 to 3.25 meters. The miglio (mile) was generally the same as the Roman (i.e., 1,000 paces or 5,000 feet [1,481 m]), but it varied regionally, with numerous internal submultiples, up to 2,519 meters; and the lega (league) varied as well from 3,900 to 5,600 meters (Zupko 1981). The multiplicity of units continued in the Iberian peninsula, where the Portuguese milha (mile) was 1.28 English miles (2,060  m), the legoa (league) was generally 3.84 miles (6,170 m), and the Spanish legua was either 3.46 miles (5,570 m) or 4.21 miles (6,780 m). Such variability in measures required geographers to provide conversion factors, which they generally copied from one another. They reduced other units to those of their own tradition, or referred them all to the universal standard provided by the size of the earth, or both. Nicolas de Fer (1706, 52–54), for example, listed a variety of itinerary measures in terms of the Parisian pas géométrique, which he also related, based on the recent calculations by members of the Académie des sciences, to the length of one degree of a great circle. Geographers also made such comparisons explicit on their maps (fig.  533), and Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville made a particular study of itinerary measures throughout the world as known to him (d’Anville 1769). There was, however, still some variation in these attempts to standardize measures. In particular, while many geographers in Britain adopted the figure of 62.5 statute English miles to a degree, some continued to use the older Renaissance formula of 60 (common) English miles. As long as the geodesists debated the size and shape of the earth, reductions to the universal standard remained conventional. Ro nald E dward Zupko See also: Geographical Mapping; Transportation and Cartography: (1) Road Map, (2) Route Map; Traverse: Itinerary Traverse Bibliography Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’. 1769. Traité des mesures itinéraires, anciennes et modernes. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Fer, Nicolas de. 1706. Methode abregée et facile pour apprendre la geographie. The Hague: Pierre Husson.

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Measures, Linear Zupko, Ronald Edward. 1977. British Weights & Measures: A History from Antiquity to the Seventeenth Century. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. ———. 1978. French Weights and Measures before the Revolution: A Dictionary of Provincial and Local Units. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. ———. 1981. Italian Weights and Measures from the Middle Ages to the Nineteenth Century. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. ———. 1985. A Dictionary of Weights and Measures for the British Isles: The Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society.

Fig. 533. MULTIPLE SCALE BARS. Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville indicated the multiple measures that had informed his four-sheet L’Italie (Paris, 1749) with a series of scales in an unusual arrangement. Rather than the usual format of a series of scales of different lengths, each indicating a whole number of the respective measure, d’Anville made all the scales the same length, that of a degree of the great circle, defined at the top in toises, each of 1.2 pas géométrique. D’Anville further expressed each local measure as so many toises. Image courtesy of the Osher Map Library and Smith Center for Cartographic Education at the University of Southern Maine, Portland (SM-1753-5).

Marine Measures. Marine measures were related to navigation as a science of positions and routes primarily concern angles, distance, speed, and depth. In the eighteenth century, angles were observed in circular measures of degrees (360°), minutes (1° = 60ʹ), and seconds (1ʹ = 60ʺ), even though usually the division on charts remained essentially that of thirty-two rhumbs, each of 11°15ʹ. For a long time, the most widespread unit of distance was the marine league, which equaled one-twentieth of a degree (sometimes called the marine league of France and England). Since antiquity the league, whether maritime or terrestrial (in France alone, at least three variations of it were used for land measurements), had approximated the distance that a ship or a man could traverse in one hour. A posteriori, the marine league of one-twentieth of a degree would equal three nautical miles or 5,556 meters. The measurements of both angles and distances were affected by the rival theories related to the figure of the earth. Christiaan Huygens and Isaac Newton considered the earth a flattened spheroid. Measurements by the Cassini family along a meridian in France between 1684 and 1718 suggested that the earth was an elongated spheroid. The activities and expeditions sponsored by the Académie des sciences during the eighteenth century confirmed the hypothesis of the flattened spheroid by showing that the length of a degree of latitude increased toward the poles (Chapuis 1999, 90–91). As yet, the overwhelming majority of seamen were unaware of the question of the figure of the earth during a period when the contentious issue of the division of the log line spawned innumerable fantasies (Chapuis 1999, 48–49). However, elite navigators had an essential piece of information at their disposal, the increase of the value of a degree from the equator to the poles. France, at the forefront of geodesy in the mid-eighteenth century and located midway between the equator and the pole, was well-placed to make its mean latitude of 45° the standard reference for the value of a degree of latitude (Chapuis 1999, 91–92). Nevertheless, the expression mille marin (nautical mile), equal to a minute of latitude, rarely appeared on contemporary charts or in works

Measures, Linear

of navigation, which continued to employ the marine league of one-twentieth of a degree (nautical mile: Seemeile [German], nautische mijl [Dutch], sømil [Danish], milla marina [Spanish], miglio nautico [Italian], milha marítima [Portuguese]). In France, after the adoption of the metric system during the Revolution, the term mille marin became widespread. It assumed its definitive significance thanks to Charles-Pierre Claret de Fleurieu, who clearly articulated its definition in his 1799–1800 treatise applying the metric system to hydrography. The nautical mile corresponded to one minute of arc of a great circle on a sphere coaxial with the earth, or to one minute of latitude: 1,852 meters at 45° latitude. Since it was now accepted that the planet is flattened at the poles, it was henceforth acknowledged that a minute of latitude had a value between 1,842.78 meters at the equator and 1,861.55 meters at 85°. However, it was the median value of 1,852 meters (6,076.12 feet) at 45° latitude that became the official unit of distance at sea in France, and it would be established as the international nautical mile at the International Hydrographic Conference of 1929 (Chapuis 1999, 726). The definition of the nautical mile considered it a constant anywhere on the surface of the earth. Yet, of course the representation of a minute of latitude varied on charts and maps on the Mercator projection as a function of latitude. Great Britain lies at a mean latitude slightly further north than that of France and therefore adopted a nautical mile that equaled 1,853 meters (6,080 feet)—though it was expressed in meters only much later. Great Britain would not definitively abandon imperial units until 1968, when charts were converted to the metric system (Chapuis 1999, 726). For estimating short distances by sight, sailors were hesitant to adopt the metric unit that was ill-adapted to navigation, even in France (Chapuis 1999, 741–42). For a long time, they preferred to use the cable to estimate such short distances (a cable equaled, in round terms, 100 toises or 195 m; in England, 1 cable was 100 fathoms). The measurement associated with speed was the knot, which was estimated with the log deployed from the stern of a ship and was equivalent to one nautical mile traversed in an hour. At the end of the eighteenth century, Fleurieu provided a very clear definition of it (Fleurieu 1797–1800, 4:107–8). Depth was measured in terms of the brasse marine (fathom) originally defined as the span of two outstretched arms, equal to five royal feet in France or to a modern 1.624 meters (Fleurieu 1797–1800, 4:111). In the French language of the eighteenth century, the depth of water was commonly designated by the term

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brassiage. The English fathom equaled 5 pieds and 7 pouces in France or 6 English feet, that is 1.8288 meters (Chapuis 1999, 713). O li vi er Chapuis See also: Marine Charting; Navigation and Cartography; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation; Traverse: Marine Traverse Bibliography Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Connor, R. D. 1987. The Weights and Measures of England. London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de. 1797–1800. Voyage autour du monde, pendant les années 1790, 1791, et 1792 par Étienne Marchand. Edition in 4o. 4 vols. Paris: Imprimerie de la République. ———. 1799–1800. Observations sur la division hydrographique du globe, et changemens proposé dans la nomenclature générale et particulière de l’hydrographie. 2d ed. Paris: Imprimerie de la République.

Surveying Measures. The basic measure for property throughout Western Europe was derived, in size and name, from the wooden rods used to measure land. In the Romance languages, its name was derived from the Latin pertica, for a pole or long staff; comprised of ten Roman feet (2.96 m) the pertica was also known as a decempeda. Thus in French, the measure was known as the perche, in English as the perch, and in Italian as the pertica or pertiche. Among the Germanic languages it was variously known as a rod (English), roede (Dutch), Ruthe (German), or rode (in Scandinavia). Other local names can be found: in England the perch could also be called a gad, goad, lug, or pole; in Italy, the pertica was used interchangeably with the canna, cavezzo, ghebbo, passo, and trabucco, all of which had different submultiples. In the British Isles the statute rod contained 16½ feet or 5½ yards (5.029 m), but a wide variety of customary and locally regulated measures were used, ranging from 9 to 28 feet (2.743 to 8.534 m). The smaller rods were generally used for agricultural land measures; those larger than 16½ feet were used by woodsmen and town craftsmen for clearing, deforesting, draining, fencing, hedging, and walling operations. The Irish standard rod was 7 yards or 21 feet (6.401 m); there was local variation as well. The Scottish fall contained 6 ells or 6.2 English yards (5.669 m); originally it was that amount of land that fell under a fallen rod, hence a linear fall. In France, seventeenth-century reforms had established three standard perches—the perche de Paris of 3 toises or 18 pieds (5.847 m); the perche de l’arpent commun of 20 pieds (6.497 m); and the perche de l’arpent d’ordonnance, or perche royale, of 32⁄3 toises or 22 pieds (7.146 m)—but even so there persisted hundreds of lo-

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cal variants ranging from 2.569 to 8.121 meters with a motley assortment of submultiples. In northern Europe, the ruthe/rode/roede again varied widely from 2.86 meters to as much as 10.0 meters. The Spanish vara, or short rod, was standardized in 1801 as 0.836  meters but only after a variety of local varas had been adopted throughout Spanish America. Italians used hundreds of different lengths for the pertica, ranging from 1.565 to 6.165 meters. They also used the canna for textiles, agricultural land divisions, surveying, architectural determinations, construction, and forestry, with hundreds of variations ranging from 0.624 to 7.851 meters; the cavezzo used in northern and north-central Italy usually consisted of 6 piedi (feet) and varied from 2.057 to 3.863 meters; the Venetian ghebbo was a small pertica of 4½ piedi (1.565 m); the passo was used throughout Italy and varied from 0.670 to 2.021 meters; and the trabucco of Sardinia and northern Italy was usually 6 piedi, varying from 2.611 to 3.243 meters. Longer measures were also used, reflecting traditional agricultural practices. The British furlong was generically the length of a plowed strip of land within an open field. When regularized, the English furlong comprised 40 statute rods, or one-eighth of a mile (201.170 m); the Scottish furlong was 40 falls, or 240 ells, and equaled 744 English feet (226.771 m), while the Irish furlong was 840 feet (256.032 m), or 280 yards, or 40 perches of 21 feet each, equal to one-eighth of an Irish mile of 6,720 feet. Similarly, in France, the arpent was a measure of both length and area; the linear arpent comprised ten perches and so varied by district. Finally, in Britain, the widespread adoption of Edmund Gunter’s measuring chain promoted the use of a new measure, the chain of 100 links, totaling four rods, which in turn promoted the acceptance of statute measures. The principle of the measuring chain was that ten square chains equaled one acre, making calculations for area very straightforward if the surveyor knew decimal arithmetic. In England, the chain was therefore four statute rods or 66 feet (20.12 m) in length, but the measure varied in other parts of Britain in accordance with different statute measures; in Scotland, the chain was 22.677 meters, in Ireland 25.6 meters. R on a ld Edward Zupko See also: Heights and Distances, Geometric Determination of; Instruments for Distance Measuring; Property Mapping; Topographical Surveying Bibliograp hy Zupko, Ronald Edward. 1977. British Weights & Measures: A History from Antiquity to the Seventeenth Century. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. ———. 1978. French Weights and Measures before the Revolution: A Dictionary of Provincial and Local Units. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. ———. 1981. Italian Weights and Measures from the Middle Ages

to the Nineteenth Century. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. ———. 1985. A Dictionary of Weights and Measures for the British Isles: The Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. ———. 1990. Revolution in Measurement: Western European Weights and Measures since the Age of Science. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society.

Reform of Linear Measures. The regulation of weights and measures—which entails both the provision of physical standards and the enforcement of their use— was less central to the formation of the early modern European state than might be supposed. While such regulation appears to have been a key mechanism for sustaining the centralization of authority starting as early as the thirteenth century, states were in practice unable to combat the proliferation of local customary units (Zupko 1990, 1–24, summarizes the social and economic forces at play). By the mid-seventeenth century, literally hundreds of thousands of different units were in use in Western Europe alone. Coupled with ineffective metrological policing and defective physical standards, this sheer diversity meant that all segments of society suffered. Merchants, scientists, and manufacturers close to the central authorities, as well as the bureaucracies themselves, were especially confounded, and diversity became a problem that they had to resolve (Ashworth 2004). The result was the Enlightenment’s massive restructuring of weights and measures. Most attempts at reform occurred in the competing and increasingly centralized states of Great Britain and France but through different processes. Metrological reform in Great Britain was a process of refinement. The Stuart monarchs concentrated the production of physical standards in the Exchequer, where significant reforms were introduced. In particular, the standard yard made in 1671 for the London Clockmakers’ Company introduced a crucial innovation that thereafter became standard: to protect against the wear of the standard’s ends, the brass rod was made longer than the measure, which was now defined by the separation of two fine pins (Zupko 1990, 44–45). The acceptance of statute measures was, however, carried on within the public sphere as scientists and manufacturers promoted new techniques and new instruments that were made in London by reference to the new physical standards. Thus, the increasing use after 1650 of perambulators, matched by the increase in turnpikes and road improvements, led to familiarity with the statute mile; the ubiquity of the Gunter’s chain in land surveying led to the acceptance of the statute rod. It was the semiofficial Royal Society that in 1742 commissioned two new standard yards in an effort to reconcile British and French measures; both were also inscribed with a

Medals, Maps on

half-toise of 3 pieds du roi, and one was retained by the Académie des sciences. Eventually, a scathing report by a 1758 parliamentary committee led not to wholesale reform but to the creation of a new standard yard. Based on the Royal Society’s 1742 standard, the new standard was also defined in terms of the length of a seconds pendulum beating in a vacuum at the latitude of London; this independent measure permitted the standard to be re-created should it ever be lost (as it would be in the Great Fire that ravaged Westminster Palace in 1834). In all of this reform, the goal was to refine, perpetuate, and promote the use of long-established statute measures (Zupko 1990, 70–73). Metrological reform in France had a similar concern with refining standards but with more radical solutions proposed. French reformers turned to nature to define measures that were free of the personal authority of the monarchs and ministers who had decreed them and that did not promote the interest of a particular province or state (Crosland 1972). The immediate stimulus for reform was the revelation that, in addition to the existence of hundreds of local variations of the toise, the standard Parisian toise was itself of uncertain length. Set into the steps of the Grand Châtelet (and so generally called the toise du Châtelet), the rudimentary medieval iron standard was damaged in 1667 when a pillar shifted; although the restored standard was found to be five lignes shorter than its original length—which had been preserved in a copy standard, the toise de l’Écritoire (1.959 m)—Jean-Baptiste Colbert in 1668 decreed that the toise de Châtelet indeed remained the official standard (1.949 m) (Zupko 1990, 114–15). Gabriel Mouton (before 1670) and Jean Picard (in 1671) accordingly advocated the independent determination of the length of the toise du Châtelet by comparing it against both the newly developed seconds pendulum and also against the size of the earth (to this end Picard would undertake his own survey of part of the Paris meridian). They also proposed the use of these determinations as the basis of entirely new decimal systems of measures. Mouton’s depended on the length of a minute of arc of a great circle, based on the work of Giovanni Battista Riccioli (1 milliare = 1,855.3 m), Picard’s on the length (rayon astronomique, or astronomical radius) of an as yet undefined pendulum. Other geodesists subsequently proposed similar standards to be universal and invariable. In 1720 Jacques Cassini (II) advanced a pied géométrique equal to 1⁄6000 of a minute of arc of a great circle, and in 1747 Charles-Marie de La Condamine proposed the length of a seconds pendulum at the equator (Zupko 1990, 123–35). But none of these reforms was taken up. The increasingly decrepit toise du Châtelet was finally replaced as the official standard in 1766 by the toise de Pérou, a copy of the toise du

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Châtelet that had been made in 1735 for the geodetic expedition to the equator. The debate between reformed measures based on the seconds pendulum, which while practical was nonetheless dogged by the political issue of just where to situate the pendulum, and those based on the size of the earth, which while universal was less practical, was eventually won by the promulgation after the French Revolution of the metric system. Whereas Charles-Marie de Talleyrand-Périgord began in 1790 to promote new measures based on the length of a seconds pendulum at 45° latitude, a measure also advocated by Thomas Jefferson in the United States, Sir John Riggs Miller argued for a seconds pendulum at the latitude of London. The philosophes generally rejected such a unit because it required the further, and arbitrary, definition of a second of time (Zupko 1990, 71–105). In the decree of 1 August 1793 that established a preliminary metric system, the mètre would be one ten-millionth of a quadrant of a meridian; based on already completed geodetic work, it was provisionally defined as 3 pieds, 11.442 lignes of the toise de Pérou, on which standard the new unit was necessarily based. The subsequent law of 7 April 1795 set up the framework for new geodetic surveys to establish the definitive mètre, finally determined to be 3  pieds, 11.296 lignes. Three new standard mètres were constructed from platinum, secondary standards of iron were distributed to each département, and all older measures were officially abolished on 10 December 1799 (Zupko 1990, 135–69). Yet, despite the effort and cost, such revolutionary reform could not readily supplant customary measures, which persisted in widespread use until 1840. Ro nald E dward Zupko See also: Commission topographique of 1802; Meter, Survey for the; Science and Cartography Bibliography Ashworth, William J. 2004. “Metrology and the State: Science, Revenue, and Commerce.” Science 306:1314–17. Crosland, Maurice. 1972. “‘Nature’ and Measurement in EighteenthCentury France.” Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century 87:277–309. Hocquet, Jean-Claude. 1995. La métrologie historique. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Moreau, Henri. 1975. Le système métrique. Paris: Chiron. Zupko, Ronald Edward. 1990. Revolution in Measurement: Western European Weights and Measures since the Age of Science. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society.

Medals, Maps on. In the years between 1650 and 1800, medals enjoyed great prestige and importance as a medium of information in educated European society. Gold, silver, and bronze examples were highly prized, extensively studied, and collected. Coins and medals in

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white metal and other cheap metals circulated widely in all strata of society. Opinion makers were thought to be influenced by them. A medal’s durability and the combination of succinct text and striking design made them a major commemorative and propaganda medium sideby-side with printed pamphlets. French medals were almost exclusively officially commissioned, and private individuals continued occasionally to commission their own medals, particularly in Italy. Elsewhere, medals were the work of commercial producers, who advertised their wares through published catalogs and who sometimes held positions as medalists to minor German rulers. They moved in the same world as continental map publishers and like them attended the Frankfurt and Leipzig fairs. A leading German commercial medalist, Christian Wermuth, was a close friend of the Germanborn Dutch map publisher Petrus II Schenk. Although globes had appeared on Roman coins and maps and bird’s-eye views on European coins and medals from the mid-sixteenth century, the growing familiarity of geographical shapes to all literate members of society made them valued elements in the coin and medal designers’ repertory, particularly in the Dutch- and German-speaking world and Russia. The role of maps on coins and medals was primarily emotive and symbolic rather than informative. The maps were usually simple and derivative (their manuscript and printed sources can sometimes be identified) and the geographical reality was sometimes distorted to enhance the propaganda potential. Occasionally, however, medalists created miniature relief maps of superb quality, such as Johann Höhn the Younger’s silver medal commemorating the recapture of Haupt on the Vistula by Prince Jerzy Lubomirski in 1659 (fig. 534) or Lewis Pingo’s depiction of the Bay of Gibraltar on the medal commemorating the British victory in the French and Spanish siege in 1783. Maps on medals served commemorative and propaganda purposes. Whether depicting individual towns, like Lille, Strasbourg, or Dunkirk, or regions like Flanders, Alsace, Hungary, Italy, Poland, Ukraine, or Crimea, they enabled the viewer to locate the site of battles and sieges, newly built town defenses, newly acquired territories, harbor works, or the locations of peace conferences. More dynamically, they dramatized and hinted at the significance of important events, be they the accession of George I to the British throne in 1714, with Georg Wilhelm Vestner’s depiction of the Saxon horse jumping over a map of northern Europe from Germany to Britain, or the outbreak of European war following the death of Emperor Charles VI without a male heir in 1740, in a cheap and anonymous Dutch medal showing European rulers gathered around a table looking greedily at a map of the Austrian dominions (fig. 535). Globes found a wide variety of uses on coins and med-

Medals, Maps on

Fig. 534. SILVER COMMEMORATIVE MEDAL, 1659, BY JOHANN HÖHN THE YOUNGER. The well-executed struck medal, probably based on a draft by a military engineer, indicates orientation, physical relief, river currents, and siegeworks; everything except Lubomirski’s camp is shown in plan. The medal was more durable as a memorial for eternity than a printed map, which would hardly have shown more. Diameter of the original: 7.3 cm. © The Trustees of the British Museum, London (M.1853).

als. They were regularly depicted as symbols of learning and equally as often as symbols of power. The appearance of a globe on Neapolitan silver coins of 1684 and, as dual hemispheres, on eight-real (pieces of eight) coins struck in Mexico City and Potosi, Bolivia, between 1732 and 1779 reminded the viewer of the global claims of the Spanish monarchy. Similarly, the symbol of Louis XIV of France from the early 1660s was the sun dominating the earth, which represented Louis’s fellow rulers. By contrast a single country alone could be shown on the globe. Between 1720 and 1760 the exiled Stuarts demonstrated their continuing claim to and yearning for the British throne through medals depicting allegorical figures looking at or in close vicinity to a globe containing only a depiction of Great Britain. Such was the popularity and influence of medals that a cartographic design could provoke a medallic propaganda war with successive medals using the same cartographic image to make opposing points. The war provoked by Louis XIV’s symbol continued for nearly fifty years and found expression in a series of medals with globes (some of them up-to-date despite their size) ending only with a commercial German medal by Martin

Memoirs, Cartographic

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Fig. 535. ANONYMOUS MEDAL SATIRIZING AUSTRIA’S OPPONENTS IN THE WAR OF THE AUSTRIAN SUCCESSION. Amsterdam?, undated (ca. 1741). Diameter of the original: 4.5 cm. Image courtesy of Peter Barber.

Brunner, issued at the moment when the Allies invaded France in 1710, showing the globe of the earth eclipsing the sun. It was only after 1815 that medals predominantly became collectors’ items. Peter Barber See also: Decoration, Maps as; Globe: Cultural and Social Significance of Globes; Household Artifacts, Maps on B i bliogra p hy Barber, Peter. 1999. “Beyond Geography: Globes on Medals, 1440– 1998.” Der Globusfreund 47–48:53–88. Hawkins, Edward. 1885. Medallic Illustrations of the History of Great Britain and Ireland to the Death of George II. 2 vols. Ed. Augustus W. Franks and Herbert A. Grueber. London: British Museum. Iversen, J. (Yulian Bogdanovich). 1872. Medaillen auf die Thaten Peter des Grossen. St. Petersburg: Wilhelm Pratz. Loon, Gerard van. 1732–37. Histoire métallique des XVII provinces des Pays-Bas depuis l’abdication de Charles-Quint jusqu’à la paix de Bade en MDCCXVI. 5 vols. The Hague: P. Gosse [et al.].

Memoirs, Cartographic. A great variety of documents fall under the heading of cartographic memoirs. These written documents may be called memoir (mémoire), report (rapport, compte-rendu, Bericht), essay (dissertation, dissertazione, essai, Aufsatz, Versuch), analysis (analyse, Erforschung), explanation (éclaircissements, Auf/Erklärung), or account (relation, Aufzeichnung). Though each of these terms introduces nuances

in the form and content of the memoir, they share the common purpose of synthetic writings: they enlighten the reader by providing an organized description, supporting a proposal, or backing up a hypothesis. All such written documents—manuscript or printed, a few pages or hundreds—clarify, complement, and organize the information on the graphic map. They may also contain critical analyses of sources. Memoirs require the same consideration for reading and interpretation as maps: their authors wrote with a specific goal and a preconceived audience. To understand and interpret the content of a memoir, it is therefore necessary to appreciate the social position and the status (lay, military, ecclesiastic) of the people involved: those who ordered it, those who wrote it, and those who received it. One must also consider the aim of the memoir: to provide complementary information (whether military or historical), to serve as a memory aid, to establish a basis for taxation, to provide a vade mecum for particular terrain, or simply to give an account of the work done. Reading and interpreting a cartographic memoir must take all these elements into account. While it is easy to locate printed memoirs, gaining access to manuscript memoirs poses difficult problems. From a practical point of view, finding the memoir related to a manuscript map may be a nearly impossible task. Political and administrative vicissitudes, the breakup of states, and territorial partition have led to the disbanding of archives and a dramatic dispersal of their contents among different conservation sites. In such circumstances, a deep knowledge of the history of depositories in different countries is required, and sometimes it is impossible to compare side by side two documents intended initially to complement one another. The first memoirs accompanied by drawn maps date back to the fifteenth century. These are juridical documents intended to settle private territorial disputes; the map was attached to the memoir to support its claim. However, between 1570 and 1580 in England, estate maps laid out strictly by surveyors supplanted traditional written descriptions (Kain 2007). The map increased in importance and memoirs were freed from their juridical objective. By the middle of the seventeenth century, the word “memoir” already possessed the meaning it has today in several languages. Given this background, one may distinguish between authors of memoirs who worked au cabinet and those who worked in the field. The cabinet geographers constructed maps using data they assembled, compared, and compiled without going in the field. In France, such geographers were often members of the Académie des sciences, whose institutional publication supported the validity of the cartographic work of its members and whose memoirs were published in the Recueil de

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l’Académie. The papers, memoirs, and correspondence from some workshops have survived, such as those of the Delisles, which provide a clear picture of the working methods of the géographes de cabinet. Claude Delisle and his son Guillaume meticulously read written travel accounts and studied astronomical observations, then translated their findings into sketches that acted as scratch pads on which they worked out distances, landscapes, and information about foreign peoples. The Delisles benefited from their network of correspondents, firmly anchored in the personal bonds they enjoyed with authorities in key posts and with scholars. This network provided foreign documents, including copies of manuscript or printed maps whose outlines were carefully studied and critiqued in their memoirs (Lagarde 1995; Dawson 2000; Pelletier 2002). The Delisles even accompanied their correspondence with memoirs to defend and promote the cartographic corrections they desired (Dawson 2000, 141). To a lesser degree, Great Britain witnessed the use of the memoir in the work of Scotsman John Cowley, whose An Explanation of the Map of North Britain with an Apology of the Same (1734), discussed differences in coastal renderings among six maps of North Britain (Withers 2002, 50–52). Similarly, the published work of John Green (Bradock Mead) analyzed sources for his maps. But the unanimous model memoir for the cabinet geographers remained the work of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville (Archier 1986). He based his historical and geographic memoirs on his correspondence with a network of eminent and well-placed informants. His many published memoirs supported the validity of his maps, increasing his reputation as one of the best and most reliable geographers of his period. Though rarely translated, his memoirs were diffused throughout French-speaking Enlightenment Europe. They demonstrate the care he took in establishing and correcting toponyms, as well as the detailed seriousness of his compilations and his critical method of incorporating the most recent geodetic measurements. His historical memoirs, especially those concerning ancient metrology, remain a milestone in classical geography. In southern Germany, d’Anville’s contemporary, the Lutheran theologian Eberhard David Hauber, merits particular mention for his 1724 historical essay on cartography and the criticism of maps (Hauber 1988). This early work on the history of cartography outlines a project of five parts: a history of maps, construction and survey of maps in different countries, marine and river maps, a survey of historical and biblical maps, and a survey of thematic maps. He also provided a chronological and critical cartobibliography of Swabia and Württemberg. Apart from the example of Hauber, the production

Memoirs, Cartographic

of erudite, analytical, precise memoirs by cabinet geographers seems to have been principally a French phenomenon. They addressed themselves to a public of connoisseurs and the curious. Academies of science throughout Europe, including those in Berlin, St. Petersburg, Uppsala, Stockholm, Madrid, and Turin, aided in their diffusion. The memoirs of the first modern hydrographers may be placed alongside those of the cabinet geographers. The work of the Scotsmen Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder (A Treatise of Maritim Surveying, 1774) and Alexander Dalrymple (Essay on the Most Commodious Methods of Marine Surveying, written 1765, published 1771) largely surpass in importance the memoirs of the first ingénieur hydrographe de la Marine, Jacques-Nicolas Bellin (Chapuis 1999, 111–28) by virtue of their impact on the methodology of hydrographic plotting. In addition to the memoirs of the cabinet, there are the written reports of the on-site cartographers, the land surveyors or military engineer-geographers who surveyed the terrain and prepared detailed maps at large or medium scale, covering a limited portion of territory. The purposes of their missions varied, but they also used the memoir as a supporting document. Sweden had instituted cadastral maps early (1628) following the example of the English estate maps. In Holland, geometers made them for the administration of dikes (waterschappen) (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1254–55, 1263–68). Dike associations of the lower Ems River and of Esens ordered maps divided by parcel, accompanied by registers of possessions, completed respectively by Jean de Honart in 1669–73 and Jean-Baptiste Regemont in 1670–79. However, EricPhilippe de Ploennies surveyed the first true cadastral maps of the Lahn (1:7,200) between 1711 and 1722 on behalf of Count Frederick William Adolf of Nassau-Siegen. The maps were accompanied by topographic memoirs (Markbeschreibungen) in addition to registers of possessions. This practice spread rapidly across Europe: Pomerania (1692), Denmark, the states of the German Empire, Italy (Stein 2007), and France. In 1740, Gian Tomaso Monte drew up the “Regole da tenersi dalli Misuratori e Geometri nelle Misure Generali,” which accompanied an ideal map (Topografico ideale di parte del territorio), an accomplished example of what the new cadastre of Savoy, decreed by Carlo Emanuele III in 1739, aspired to be (Palmucci 2002, 53–54). In the last third of the eighteenth century, the multiplication of rules, instructions, and memoirs shows how difficult it was to harmonize all the methods in use for such large projects. There also exist numerous examples of memoirs written by soldiers that developed general or specific points not appearing on the map, thus aiding their use: “A

Memoirs, Cartographic

map and its accompanying memoir mutually enlighten each other,” wrote Dupain de Montesson (1774, 190). Their content differed little from country to country, for they all described what was necessary for the conduct of an army or the protection of territory. Publication codified their composition. Dupain de Montesson (1774, 187–90) instructed that such a memoir should provide information (1) “on the general makeup of the country”—whether flat or mountainous, easy or difficult to traverse, dry or arid; (2) “on the direction and nature of roads”—their grade, condition, surface condition; (3) “on the rivers, streams, canals, the nature of their bottoms and banks”—whether easy or difficult to cross; (4) “on the cities, their setting, their type”; and (5) “on the land where one could camp, and in the case of a maritime country, places accessible to the coast where one could disembark.” As an example, Dupain de Montesson cites a memoir compiled during the Seven Years’ War fulfilling a directive to military geographical engineers in 1761 (1774, 190–205); it included a table summarizing the resources of the country. The facsimile publication of the Kriegskarte by Anton von Zach and the accompanying memoirs prepared by Austrian, French, and Italian engineers at the end of the eighteenth century (Rossi 2005, 2007) allows one to assess the content of an individual memoir and its relationship to the map. In peacetime, military engineers often undertook civil tasks, including surveys for large-scale maps, and wrote accompanying memoirs with well-developed historical and geographical components. The education of a gentleman in the seventeenth century had already incorporated this exercise, which relied upon observation and analysis, qualities their teachers had sought to cultivate. In Jesuit colleges all over Europe and in a number of Gymnasia in northern countries, this exercise helped test the comprehension and capacity of students while sharpening their analytical sense of terrain, a valuable trait for future officers. In France, Claude Masse, trained in the field, wrote for his large-scale maps (1:28,800) memoirs that were models of geographic analysis, as valuable for their historical and anthropological content as for their economic and strategic interest. The tradition of such memoirs lasted throughout the eighteenth century in Europe. The twelve volumes of “Mémoires historiques, chronologiques et œconomiques” by Joseph Jean François de Ferraris refer to each of the 275 sheets of the manuscript carte de cabinet of the Austrian Low Countries. They vibrantly depict the history, economy, and activities of inhabitants of the region and admirably exemplify the memoir tradition (Bruwier 1978). In commercial and Protestant northern Europe, it was often individuals, following the example of military engineers, who mapped countries or states (at medium

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or large scale) on behalf of princes and left explanatory memoirs. The pastor Johann Majer, for example, prepared memoirs for the duke of Wittenberg in 1679 and 1691 in order to demonstrate his mastery of mathematical methods and instruments (Oehme 1961, 44–45). Protestant scholarly circles played an important role. Andreas Böhm, a methodically minded professor of mathematics at Gießen who was a former student of the philosopher-mathematician Christian Wolff, published a comprehensive volume on methods of land surveying and their applications: Gründliche Anleitung zur Meßkunst auf dem Felde: Samt zweyen Anhängen vom Wasserwägen und von der unterirdischen Meß- oder Marktscheidekunst (1759). Intended for the practical training of engineers and surveyors, such instruction manuals appeared everywhere after 1750 in order to make up for gaps in official training. They sharpened students’ critical skills and inculcated working methods. Other instructions in manuscript form, for the personal use of the engineer, laid out the process for the elaboration of maps and made the conditions and methods for surveys clear. Cath erine Bo us q uet- Bressolier See also: Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’; Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands; Geographical Mapping; Green, John; Public Sphere, Cartography and the Bibliography Archier, Edwige. 1986. “Anville, Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 1:18–21. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. Bruwier, Marinette. 1978. “Les ‘Mémoires historiques, chronologiques et œconomiques’ de Ferraris.” In La cartographie au XVIIIe siècle et l’œuvre du Comte de Ferraris (1726–1814) = De cartografie in de 18de eeuw en het werk van graaf de Ferraris (1726–1814), 60–75. [Brussels]: Crédit Communal de Belgique. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Dawson, Nelson-Martin. 2000. L’atelier Delisle: L’Amérique du Nord sur la table à dessin. Sillerey: Septentrion. Dupain de Montesson, Louis Charles. 1774. Les connoissances géométriques à l’usage des officiers employés dans les détails des marches campements & subsistances des armées. Paris: CharlesAntoine Jombert, père. Hauber, Eberhard David. 1988. Versuch einer umständlichen Historie der Land-Charten. Facsimile of the 1724 edition. Karlsruhe: Fachhochschule Karlsruhe. Kain, Roger J. P. 2007. “Maps and Rural Land Management in Early Modern Europe.” In HC 3:705–18. Koeman, Cornelis, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Surveying and Official Mapping in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1670.” In HC 3:1246–95. Lagarde, Lucie. 1995. “Un cartographe face à ses sources: Guillaume Delisle (1675–1726) et l’Amérique du Nord.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 129–45. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques.

936 Oehme, Ruthardt. 1961. Die Geschichte der Kartographie des deutschen Südwestens. Constance: Jan Thorbecke. Palmucci, Laura. 2002. “La formazione del cartografo nello stato assoluto: I cartografi-agrimensori.” In Rappresentare uno stato: Carte e cartografi degli stati sabaudi dal XVI al XVIII secolo, 2 vols., ed. Rinaldo Comba and Paola Sereno, 1:49–60. Turin: Allemandi. Pelletier, Monique. 2002. “The Working-Method of the New Cartographers: The Gulf of Mexico and Spanish Sources, 1696–1718.” Terrae Incognitae 34:60–72. Rossi, Massimo, ed. 2005. Kriegskarte, 1798–1805: Il Ducato di Venezia nella carta di Anton von Zach. 3 vols. Treviso: Fondazione Benetton Studi Ricerche; Pieve di Soligo: Grafiche V. Bernardini. ———. 2007. L’officina della Kriegskarte: Anton von Zach e le cartografie degli stati veneti, 1796–1805. Treviso: Fondazione Benetton Studi Ricerche; Pieve di Soligo: Grafiche V. Bernardini. Stein, Wolfgang Hans. 2007. “L’État de finance et les ‘familles’ de cadastre en Allemagne à l’époque moderne.” In De l’estime au cadastre en Europe: L’époque moderne, ed. Mireille Touzery, 81–116. Paris: Comité pour l’Histoire Économique et Financière de la France. Withers, Charles W. J. 2002. “The Social Nature of Map Making in the Scottish Enlightenment, c. 1682–c. 1832.” Imago Mundi 54:46–66.

Meridians, Local and Prime. Despite the importance of lines of longitude to cartographic practice, meridians have received only limited historical consideration (but see Withers 2017). The lack of attention is especially pronounced in terms of how meridians were understood and represented during the Enlightenment. Early accounts (e.g., Mayer 1878) stressed the Renaissance proliferation of prime meridians, the further proliferation of new meridians in the nineteenth century, and thus the need for a single, universal meridian. With the 1884 adoption of the Greenwich meridian as the universal standard for time, historians simply added two new elements to the established narrative: first, celebration of this belated triumph of cartographic rationality and, second, complaint that this rationality was promptly undermined when some countries declined to adopt Greenwich as the universal meridian (e.g., Haag 1913; Perrin 1927; Brown 1949, 282–83, 295–99; Washburn 1984; Stams 1986; Forstner 2005, 21–32). Moreover, historians have routinely confused prime meridians with different kinds of local meridian (Waff 2001). This entry therefore considers, in turn, the local meridians of astronomers and surveyors, the prime meridians of chartmakers and geographers, and the ways in which these different concepts began to blur in practice late in the eighteenth century (it draws significantly on essays in Malin, Roy, and Beer 1985). A variety of astronomical and surveying tasks required a physically demarcated local meridian. The French language properly distinguishes between the conceptual méridien, an imaginary line of constant longitude circumscribing the earth from pole to pole, and the local méridienne, a specific portion of a meridian through a specific location that is given real, physical

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existence (Gotteland 2008, 1:19–20). Many eighteenthcentury texts explained the several possible methods for determining the direction of a meridian—i.e., the directions of true north and south—as the first step in physically demarcating the line (e.g., Cassini 1720, 22–33; Long 1742–85, 1:107–10; Patterson 1786). Traditional horizontal sundials created the simplest local meridians: the time-telling edge (the “style”) of the sundial’s gnomon must be physically aligned with the meridian. Such a short local meridian, rarely longer than fifty centimeters, is suitable for monitoring the sun’s diurnal movement. Much longer meridian lines were marked out to keep track of the sun’s annual motion, both to help determine religious feasts and fasts (especially Easter) and to convert solar time to stellar or clock time. In 1655, Jean-Dominique Cassini (I) built the meridiana in the cathedral of San Petronio, Bologna, specifically to measure key parameters of the sun’s motion. A small hole in the roof of the nave turned the church into a giant camera obscura: the measurement of the bright spot cast by the sun along a calibrated iron rod (66.8 m) set along the meridian line in the church floor permitted Cassini I and his colleagues to determine, among several factors, the precise tilt of the earth’s axis. Other meridiane were constructed and used in Catholic cathedrals and science academies, mostly in Italy. Although the adoption of telescopes and precise angle measurement made meridiane obsolete as solar observatories by 1750, many meridiane remained in use into the early nineteenth century to correct clocks (Heilbron 1999, 91–92, 107, 61–63, 135–37; Gotteland 2008). Astronomers constructed special monuments to demarcate the local meridian through each of their observatories. Basic astronomical practice entailed the observation and timing of the passage (transit) of the sun, moon, stars, and planets across the observer’s meridian. Transits of stars and the noon sun were essential for the determination of latitude and local time; in addition to regulating clocks, local time was essential for determining longitude. More generally, repeated transit observations were necessary to refine the mathematical models for the orbits of each heavenly body, to trace the motion of the stars, and so to improve astronomical tables and star catalogs. Carefully aligning their telescopes to the local meridian, whether in the field or at fixed observatories, astronomers used the monuments to check that their instruments had not become misaligned and, if they had, to realign them properly. The determination of longitude was a dominant concern for eighteenth-century astronomers. Just as latitude could be determined with the aid of tables of the sun’s declination, so the astronomical solution to determining longitude depended on tables of the movements either of Jupiter’s moons (eclipses of the Jovian satellites) or

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Fig. 536. DETAIL FROM JOSE DE CAÑIZARES, CARTA GEOGRAPHICA Q’CONTIENE LA COSTA OCIDENTAL DE LA CALIFORNIA (MEXICO CITY, 1781). This detail of the southern portion of the map shows the statement of local longitude as well as some of the lines of ships’ routes by which local differences in longitude were calculated.

Size of the entire original: 17 × 12 cm; size of detail: ca. 6 × 12 cm. Image courtesy of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University, Providence.

of the earth’s own moon (lunar distances). Funded by the French and British states, the necessary tables were prepared, respectively, in the observatories at Paris and Greenwich and published in La connoissance des temps (from 1690) and The Nautical Almanac (from 1767). By comparing their own timed measurements of Jupiter’s satellites or of the moon to the motions predicted in the almanacs, field observers could determine their own longitudes east or west of the observatories. Thus the precise locations of the main telescopes in the Paris and Greenwich observatories each defined an observed meridian. Observed meridians began to proliferate late in the eighteenth century when other European states recalculated the astronomical tables. In particular, the Amsterdam Admiralty began publishing astronomical tables recalculated for the meridian of Tenerife in 1788, and the Cadiz observatory (founded 1753) began in 1792 to republish The Nautical Almanac as the Almanaque náutico, y efemérides astronómicas, having recalculated it to its own meridian. Surveyors used local meridians in a variety of ways according to the nature of their work. In mapping particular properties and places, surveyors generally worked without regard to the meridian; if they used a compass, they worked with magnetic north. But if the subject was of sufficient importance—a colonial boundary, a

new town, or a plan of a major urban center—then the surveyor might align the work with true north by first determining the local meridian through a central point. In extensive surveys featuring one or more measured itineraries, surveyors (and geographers) could calculate longitudinal differences from the measured distances and bearings, as long as latitudes were also determined. In this situation, some reference point, generally the point of origin, was used to define a local zero mark for longitude. For example, a number of maps of the southern British colonies in North America were based in part on the 1728 survey of the east-west boundary line between Virginia and Carolina and accordingly calculated longitudes from the line’s origin at Currituck Inlet; also, a Spanish map of the coast of Baja California and New Spain, published in Mexico City in 1786, indicated “Longitud ocidental del Meridiano de San Blas,” Spain’s main naval center on the Pacific coast (fig. 536). Detailed topographical surveys of small areas similarly did not need to be tied to the global system of latitude and longitude. The early survey maps of English counties, for example, used prominent local features as the zero mark for their only approximately drawn graticules. Only after 1750 did the county surveyors begin to show longitudes from the prime meridian of London (below), but in doing so they still simply superimposed

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the graticule onto the topographical map in an approximate manner (Laxton 1976). The curvature of the earth’s surface became noticeable when detailed surveys were carried out over large areas. The public land survey system established in the nascent United States (in 1785–96) accordingly featured multiple reference meridians as the foundation of detailed surveys in particular areas. In a related manner, the first maps prepared by the fledgling Ordnance Survey after 1790 were projected to local reference meridians in order to minimize distortion. The Ordnance Survey maps were based on a statewide triangulation. The prototypical triangulation of this sort before 1800 was, of course, that of France by the Académie des sciences, which used the Paris Observatory as its origin. In such surveys, the latitude and longitude of every station in the network had to be calculated in order for the location to be projected onto the plane of the final map. That calculation required the triangulation to be properly oriented to the local, surveyed meridian through one station, which would then serve as the origin for those calculations. (The highly detailed work of such surveys required longitudes to be determined with much greater precision and accuracy than could be obtained through either astronomical or chronometric methods.) The process is evident in figure 537, a detail from an early map of the geodetic triangulation along the Paris Observatory’s meridian. Longitude is marked in degrees and minutes east and west of the Paris Observatory; the axial nature of the surveyed meridian is demonstrated by its being graduated in both degrees and minutes of latitude (right side) and in thousands of toises north and south of the observatory. The widespread adoption of systematic, triangulation-based surveys after 1790 was necessarily accompanied by the proliferation of surveyed meridians through other key observatories, such as Greenwich in the United Kingdom and Pulkova in Russia. This proliferation was also accompanied by calls for the adoption of a single observed and surveyed meridian from which to determine longitude: Pierre-Simon de Laplace (1808, 70–71) added the first such call to the third edition of his introduction to cosmography, dismissing Tenerife as inaccessible and instead suggested Mont Blanc as the highest mountain in Europe. In contrast to all the local, observed, and surveyed meridians of the astronomers and surveyors, geographers and mariners used prime meridians as zero markers for counting longitude around the world in their maps and charts. For geographers, longitude was important only in the abstract: before 1800, observed longitudes were few, and most were imprecise. Enlightenment geographers mostly adhered to Renaissance practices and placed their prime meridian in the Atlantic close to Af-

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Fig. 537. DETAIL FROM THE FIRST SHEET OF THE CARTE DES PROVINCES DE FRANCE TRAVERSÉES PAR LA MÉRIDIE.NE DE PARIS. In Cassini II 1720, from sheet one of four. Size of the entire original: 41.4 × 44.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 14 × 9 cm. Image courtesy of the Department of Special Collections, Memorial Library, University of Wisconsin–Madison.

rica, from which they counted longitude eastward, from 0° to 360°. Such meridians neatly divided the old and new worlds, as emphasized in the double-hemisphere world maps that were then dominant. (Geographers disliked the idea of running a prime meridian through a country, presumably because it would be confusing: places on either side of such a meridian, otherwise close to each other, would have wildly variant longitudes, such as 1° and 359°; in this respect the prime meridian was manifestly distinct from the central meridian used as the axis of the projection for a region.) Renaissance cosmographers had used a variety of Atlantic islands to mark their prime meridian. Some, notably Gerardus Mercator, had chosen to run their prime

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meridian through one of the islands in the Azores— Corvo, Pico, or São Miguel—where the coincidence of true and magnetic north, as observed in about 1500, appeared to define a natural prime meridian. Others had used one of the Cape Verde Islands or even Cape Verde itself. Others had adopted prime meridians through the Canaries, whether La Palma, Ferro (Fer, Hierro), or Tenerife. Still others simply ran the prime meridian through the middle of the archipelagos. Although use of all of these different meridians continued well into the eighteenth century, there was after 1650 a clear trend toward standardization (see censuses by Kleinn 1985; Forstner 2005, esp. 31–32). Willem Jansz. Blaeu had championed the high peak (Pico de Teide) of Tenerife as a zero mark. As he had explained on his 1617 globe, changes in magnetic declination had negated all claims for the precedence of any natural prime meridian, so geographers might as well adopt the highest point of the primary island in the archipelago used by the ancients as the prime meridian (Van der Krogt 1993, 509–14). By 1700, Dutch and German mapmakers and chartmakers mostly followed Blaeu’s lead. Conversely, in 1634, Louis XIII decreed that the westernmost island of the Canaries, Ferro, marked the prime meridian for the purposes of the French state: west of that line and north of the Tropic of Cancer, French ships were free to attack Spanish and Portuguese vessels. The adoption of Ferro as the default French prime meridian was made feasible when Guillaume Delisle began to use a precise value of 20° for the longitudinal difference between Ferro and Paris (fig. 538) (Delisle 1700). Delisle’s approximation persisted because the variable quality of field observations for the island’s longitude gave widely varying results (Lagarde 1979, 297–99). Spanish and Italian geographers used both Tenerife and Ferro, depending on whether they copied French or Dutch sources. The differences between these Atlantic prime meridians were too slight to be reconciled by contemporary technology, and eighteenth-century geographers were generally vague about which particular meridian they used. The identity of the prime meridian was obvious on world maps. Geographers did not identify the prime meridian on regional maps. Only when a prime meridian fell within the frame of a map—i.e., on continental maps of Europe, Africa, or the Americas—was it ever specifically identified. Even then, the labels were generally as uninformative as “Premier Meridien” (on Delisle’s L’Afrique, 1700). Only rarely did maps bear locationspecific labels such as “Meridianus primus per Insul Tenerifam” (Johann Baptist Homann, Totius Africae nova representatio, [1716]) or “Premier meridien fixé à l’Isle de Fer par la declaration de Louis XIII en 1634” (Gilles Robert Vaugondy, L’Europe, 1749). Moreover, when geographers adhering to one conventional prime meridian

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copied maps based on another, they simply renumbered the longitudes for each meridian. In doing so they used an appropriate and rounded conversion value of 2° as the difference between Ferro and Tenerife. The use of prime meridians grew complicated when assertions of cultural autonomy led geographers in Europe’s margins both to adopt locally significant prime meridians and then to identify those prime meridians prominently on all of their maps. British geographers began after 1670 to break with continental practice by adopting the meridian of London (specified overprecisely as the dome of the new St. Paul’s Cathedral). The transition extended into the early 1700s when, for example, Herman Moll gave longitudes on some maps from both Ferro and London (separated by a neat 19°). The innovation apparently stemmed from two nationalistic factors: the active rejection of Dutch cartographic models and a desire for mathematical rationality promoted by the public reception of Newtonian science. The latter prompted the few eighteenth-century arguments that the adoption of a standard prime meridian (i.e., one through London) would make the critical compilation of maps easier and would improve readers’ ability to evaluate maps critically and without confusion (e.g., Green 1717, 149–50; Senex 1721, 6). In ad-

Fig. 538. DETAIL FROM GUILLAUME DELISLE, MAPPEMONDE DRESSÉE SUR LES OBSERVATIONS DE MRS. DE L’ACADEMIE ROYALE DES SCIENCES (PARIS, 1700). The division of the hemispheres along the prime meridian of Ferro is shown. Note that Paris lies precisely on the meridian of 20°E. For the full map, see figure 201. Size of the entire original: 42.5 × 65.6 cm; size of detail: ca. 14.0 × 15.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [84 B]).

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dition, the early eighteenth-century public craze to solve the longitude problem led British geographers to count longitudes from 0° to 180° to both east and west of the prime meridian, as if they had all been determined by observation. British localism was recapitulated in the colonies, beginning with Lewis Evans’s structuring of his 1749 and 1755 maps of Pennsylvania on the meridians of both London and Philadelphia and continuing after the Revolution with the adoption of another prime meridian through New York. The same localism is evident in the Swedish use of a prime meridian through the observatory at Uppsala, as in the regional map Svea ock Göta riken med Finland ock Norland (1747, see fig. 324). For his uncompleted atlas of the Russian empire (1724–34), Ivan Kirilovich Kirilov used for his prime meridian the Baltic islands of Dagö (Hiiumaa) and Ösel (Saaremaa), the empire’s westernmost limits. On the other hand, the European émigrés who dominated the Russian Akademiya nauk, especially Joseph-Nicolas Delisle (Appleby 2001), set the style for Russian geographical mapping more generally to use Ferro.

The multiplicity of prime meridians was not an issue for mariners. Few mariners actually used longitude and few pre-1800 charts included graduations for longitude. Dutch sea charts used prime meridians from islands in each of the Atlantic archipelagos, although Tenerife increasingly became the standard after 1700. In the seventeenth century, if British mariners calculated longitude from their logs, they did so from the Lizard, the southern tip of Cornwall. After 1700, however, they increasingly reduced their work to the meridian of London. French chartmakers generally used Ferro in line with the 1634 royal decree although, as observations for longitude increased around the European and Atlantic seacoasts, after 1700 they began to add longitude scales counted from Paris. The lack of standardization was emphasized after 1753, when multiple scales for longitude were added to the maps of the second edition of Le Neptune françois, to permit comparisons between Dutch, British, and French charts (fig. 539) (Chapuis 1999, 106–10). Only after 1770 did naval authorities push the use of the new longitudinal technologies, even as they undertook new hydrographic surveys to update the charts

Fig. 539. DETAILS OF THE UPPER AND LOWER MARGINAL GRADATIONS ON JACQUES-NICOLAS BELLIN, CARTE RÉDUITE DES ISLES AÇORES (PARIS, 1755). Longitudes from several prime meridians are given: Paris, London, and the Lizard (upper); Paris (by time), Tenerife, Ferro, and Paris (degrees) (lower). Note that Ferro and Paris are precisely

20° apart. From Bellin’s Hydrographie françoise, 2 vols. (Paris: Dépôt général de la Marine, 1737–72), vol. 1, map no. 51. Size of the entire original: 60 × 94 cm; size of each detail: ca. 5 × 17 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [8484 B]).

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according to the new standards. The result was the promotion of new prime meridians as chronometers determined longitudes with respect to ports of origin and astronomical observations with respect to observatories. The acquisition of several chronometers by the Spanish after 1774 and their use on the Malaspina Expedition (1789–94) combined with the promulgation of a Spanish almanac to establish the Cadiz observatory as the prime meridian on Spanish charts. The first British charts to be based on the Greenwich meridian were the newly surveyed sheets of The Atlantic Neptune (1774–82), soon followed by the charts produced from James Cook’s voyages; starting in 1779, the charts of the East India Company were progressively realigned to the Greenwich meridian (Cook 2006). The French promoted the Paris Observatory and after 1800 dropped Ferro from their charts completely. The progressive incorporation of the results of the new era of marine exploration, with longitudes determined from observed meridians, into general geographical circulation would spell the end of the Atlantic prime meridians. The cartographic use of meridians was in significant flux by the end of the eighteenth century. The increasingly widespread application of new longitude technologies—whether measured by chronometer, observed astronomically, or calculated trigonometrically—emphasized the role of the national observatories as defining the zero markers of local meridians, whether observed or surveyed. The surge in the number of places with longitudes that had been properly determined inevitably led those observed and surveyed meridians to be used as marine and geographical prime meridians. This inflation was, in turn, fostered by the modern era of nationalism, as commentators argued that the adoption of a unique prime meridian was as essential an attribute of nationhood as currency and a flag. Although eighteenthcentury geographers had expressed their displeasure at the idea of running a prime meridian through a country, it became by 1800 a mark of national unity to have low values of longitude running to the east and west of a locally situated prime meridian (Edney 1994). The result was the semantic expansion of “prime meridian”: in the modern world, the prime meridian is at once geographic and marine, observed and surveyed. Historians have understandably, though improperly, sought the origins of early prime meridians in local meridians. In this respect, the conventional, and never strictly arbitrary, choice of a prime meridian serves as a marker of distinct phases of cartographic practice between the Renaissance (various Atlantic islands), Enlightenment (Tenerife, Ferro, London), and the nineteenth century (Greenwich, Paris, Cadiz). Mat t h ew H . Ed ney See also: Geodetic Surveying; Geographical Mapping: Enlightenment; Greenwich Observatory (Great Britain); Instruments, Astro-

nomical; Longitude and Latitude; North, Magnetic and True; Paris Observatory (France) Bibliography Appleby, John H. 2001. “Mapping Russia: Farquharson, Delisle and the Royal Society.” Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London 55:191–204. Brown, Lloyd A. 1949. The Story of Maps. Boston: Little, Brown. Cassini (II), Jacques. 1720. De la grandeur et de la figure de la Terre, Suite des Mémoires de l’Académie Royale des Sciences, année 1718. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Cook, Andrew S. 2006. “Surveying the Seas: Establishing the Sea Routes to the East Indies.” In Cartographies of Travel and Navigation, ed. James R. Akerman, 69–96. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Delisle, Guillaume. 1700. “Lettre de M. De Lisle au R. P. sur la longitude de Paris.” Le Journal des Savans (7 June):243–50. Edney, Matthew H. 1994. “Cartographic Culture and Nationalism in the Early United States: Benjamin Vaughan and the Choice for a Prime Meridian, 1811.” Journal of Historical Geography 20:384–95. Forstner, Gustav. 2005. “Längenfehler und Ausgangsmeridiane in alten Landkarten und Positionstabellen.” PhD diss., Universität der Bundeswehr München. Gotteland, Andrée. 2008. Les méridiennes du monde et leur histoire. 2 vols. Paris: Éditions Le Manuscrit. Green, John (Bradock Mead). 1717. The Construction of Maps and Globes. London: T. Horne et al. Haag, Heinrich. 1913. Die Geschichte des Nullmeridians. Leipzig: Otto Wigand. Heilbron, J. L. 1999. The Sun in the Church: Cathedrals as Solar Observatories. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Kleinn, Hans. 1985. “Various Prime Meridians of Old Maps in North-West Germany.” In Imago et Mensura Mundi: Atti del IX Congresso Internazionale di Storia della Cartografia, 3 vols., ed. Carla Clivio Marzoli, 1:247–52. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana. Krogt, Peter van der. 1993. Globi Neerlandici: The Production of Globes in the Low Countries. Utrecht: HES. Lagarde, Lucie. 1979. “Historique du problème du méridien origine en France.” Revue d’Histoire des Sciences 32:289–304. Laplace, Pierre-Simon de. 1808. Exposition du système du monde. 3d ed. Paris: Courcier. Laxton, Paul. 1976. “The Geodetic and Topographical Evaluation of English County Maps, 1740–1840.” Cartographic Journal 13:37–54. Long, Roger. 1742–85. Astronomy, in Five Books. 2 vols. Cambridge: For the author. Malin, Stuart R., Archie E. Roy, and Peter Beer, eds. 1985. Longitude Zero, 1884–1984. Vistas in Astronomy 28:4–408. Mayer, Ernst. 1878. “Die Geschichte des ersten Meridians und die Zählung der geographischen Länge.” Mittheilungen aus dem Gebiete des Seewesens 6, nos. 2–3:49–61. Patterson, Robert. 1786. “An Easy and Accurate Method of Finding a True Meridian Line, and thence the Variation of the Compass.” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 2:251–59. Perrin, William Gordon. 1927. “The Prime Meridian.” Mariner’s Mirror 13:109–24. Senex, John, et al. 1721. A New General Atlas, Containing a Geographical and Historical Account of All the Empires, Kingdoms, and Other Dominions of the World. London: Daniel Browne et al. Stams, Werner. 1986. “Nullmeridian.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols.,

942 ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 2:549–51. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. Waff, Craig B. 2001. “A Prime Meridian for the United States?” Review of The Jefferson Stone: Demarcation of the First Meridian of the United States, by Silvio A. Bedini. Journal for the History of Astronomy 32:157–59. Washburn, Wilcomb E. 1984. “The Canary Islands and the Question of the Prime Meridian: The Search for Precision in the Measurement of the Earth.” American Neptune 44:77–81. Withers, Charles W. J. 2017. Zero Degrees: Geographies of the Prime Meridian. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

Metaphor, Map as. What is a map if not a metaphor? As Christian Jacob put it, “Seeing the world from above is a timeless fantasy that geographical maps make actual by way of metaphor” (2006, 1). Strictly, a metaphor is a figure of speech in which a descriptive word or phrase is made to refer to an object or action different from, but analogous to, that to which it is literally applicable. If we see the map as an accurate representation—either of the whole earth or of part of it—then we ascribe to it the metaphor of “the map as mirror,” a faithful yet stylized mimetic representation of the real world. In another sense, those historians of cartography engaged in deconstructing the map have spoken of “the map as text,” a social document inscribed with different meanings and amenable to different readings (Harley 1989). If maps are not simply transmitters of previously existing facts but are the result of constructing and ordering knowledge in ways that did not exist before the act of cartographic representation, then any map is a metaphorical and rhetorical construct that refers to, creates, and transforms experience but never simply reflects it (MacEachren 1995). Even the geometry of cartographic representation, expressed in projections, lines, names, and symbols, is a metaphor of presumed certainty, of visual authority, of unproblematic viewing, and of reading: “Recourse to metaphor and to imaginary projection on the forms of the map helps to bypass the aporia of cartographical mimesis by making them recognizable, nameable, and memorizable” (Jacob 2006, 317). In the Enlightenment, the connections between charts, plans, and maps and metaphor, and between mapping and allegory for themes within the human experience, were apparent in several ways. From the late seventeenth century, notably in France and in relation to bourgeois or courtly culture, the Carte de Tendre was a significant allegorical map with later variants, in which feelings like love, or life experiences such as marriage, were spatially represented. The phrase savoir la carte, to know the map, had proverbial meaning, referring to those persons who understood the interests of the court or the manners of society. Other such terms were also known: trafiquer sur la carte, to traffic on the map or

Metaphor, Map as

give advice on a topic about which one knew little, or perdre la carte, to “lose the map” or become upset (Peters 2004, 24). In eighteenth-century English usage, the term “map” included the idea of a tract of land spread out, and, as the poet William Cowper had it in his poem “Hope,” the idea of a life’s course: “He draws upon life’s map a zig-zag line, / That shows how far ‘tis safe to follow sin” (Cowper 1782, 171). And just as maps resulted from travel, or could aid sedentary readers to travel the world as it were, allegorical maps portrayed the journey through life. Allegory was metaphor extended. As Hugh Blair, a leading Enlightenment rhetorician noted, “If the resemblance, on which the figure is founded, be long dwelt upon, and carried into all its minute circumstances, we make an allegory instead of a metaphor” (Blair 1783, 1:313). The metaphor of the map and of mapping was widely used in relation to the ordering of knowledge, notably in relation to that leading prospectus of the Enlightenment, the Encyclopédie of Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, and to the placing of the peoples of the world in terms of contemporary schema for social and historical classification. Maps were also used—sometimes in association with medical referents—to present the female form as a landscape, the object not of territorial but of sexual possession. In short, maps were metaphors for bodies of knowledge, knowledge of the body, and for charting through allegory the relationships between human bodies. The mapping metaphor appealed to Enlightenment natural philosophers because it spoke to their concerns to establish intellectual and moral order over the world’s manifest complexity and to describe the progress of scientific inquiry. In the work of the Swedish naturalist Carl von Linné, for example, metaphors of the mappa naturæ, the map of nature, informed his work on natural systems and geographical diversity, what is now considered bioclimatic zones. For Enlightenment encyclopedists especially, authors and publishers who sought to present in ordered and relational form the fast-increasing knowledge of the age, mapping was a common metaphor. For Diderot and d’Alembert, the Encyclopédie was to be understood “as a kind of mappemonde that would clearly demonstrate the interconnections of the arts and sciences, by tracing out a rigorous ‘topography’ of knowledge. Each article was a fragment of a vast three-dimensional ‘atlas’ of human endeavour, and the borders of each individual state, each specific locale, pointed to new regions and new frontiers of discovery” (Bates 2002, 1). This use of map imagery—“at once explicitly rhetorical and epistemological” (Bates 2002, 2)—did not mean either that the categories of knowledge themselves or the relationships between them were fixed immutably. Although contemporaries held to the view that mapping was about systematiza-

Metaphor, Map as

tion and stability in picturing the world—the view that “Enlightenment cartography, in both its epistemology and its practice, sweeps away local knowledge, particular itineraries, traditional points of reference, redrawing the world according to a comprehensive and rational system of mathematically controlled points” (Bates 2002, 7–8)—they recognized too that the Encyclopédie provided an abstract and a multiple, rather than a mimetic, view of knowledge. For d’Alembert, the best map was not the most “accurate” but the one “which reveals the most relationships” (1751, xv; and quoted in Bates 2002, 14). Writing in June 1777 to William Robertson, the Edinburgh historian and university principal, to congratulate him on the publication of History of America, Edmund Burke considered Enlightenment audiences would find in such works that “the Great Map of Mankind is unrolld at once” (quoted in Marshall and Williams 1982, 1). Burke was making metaphorical reference to one of the principal results of Enlightenment geographical exploration, namely that different human cultures were revealed and considered to be at different stages of moral and social development. While islands and distant continents figured in the emerging world map of the Enlightenment and as part of nascent social theory in that period, they also provided a basis for the metaphorical, even satirical, representation of the human condition and attributes in the worlds of science and of literature. One notable usage of such cartographic representation is the 1654 Carte de Tendre, map of tenderness, created by Madeleine de Scudéry in volume one of her tenvolume heroic novel Clélie, histoire romaine (1654–60) (see fig. 54). Far from being somehow aberrant within the context of cartography as only accurate mimesis, Scudéry’s map “generated a remarkable vogue for allegorical cartography that began in the 1650s, lasted throughout the rest of the century, and intersected with several of the period’s most important cultural conflicts” (Peters 2004, 23). Such maps were successful because of an increased engagement with geography in polite society, because maps were then being much used as political markers in territorial disputes, and because in poetry and in novels maps provided a figurative language “as instruments of persuasion, as forms of narration rather than as only science.” Scudéry’s map may be read allegorically as an example of women’s civilizing influence on the behavior of men: as Peters further notes, “the rivers and towns of the pays de tendre map of course an abstract, poetic topography of courtesy and courtship” (Peters 2004, 33, 34). For Franz Reitinger, “Cartographical allegory functioned according to the simple principle of replacing a map’s toponyms with commonplaces of practical reasoning. On one hand, it reduced figurative action to the

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level of abstract relationship, where personal qualities continued to exist as pure notions. On the other hand, it encouraged thinking in relative terms by visualizing moral, social and political values that went beyond an individual’s horizon of perception” (1999, 107). If in the work of Scudéry and others allegorical mapping was a kind of “géographie galante in which the formal language of geography was transferred into the mundane world and used as a means of expression to gain social prestige” (Reitinger 1999, 107), others used allegorical cartography to construe a less gallant view of social relationships. The otherwise innocuous A Map or Chart of the Road of Love, and Harbour of Marriage (see fig. 56), for example, was later tipped into a copy of the erotic book A Voyage to Lethe (1741), Lethe being both place and the female body laid out for the “survey” of “Captain Samuel Cock.” Works such as this and Thomas Stretzer’s A New Description of Merryland (1741), in which “Merryland” was the female body, were part of a genre of Enlightenment erotica that was evident in certain sorts of geography and allegorical cartography, in medicine, in literature, and in landscape gardening, where “pleasure grounds” were laid open for inspection and delight (Harvey 2004, 181–85). Allegorical maps echoed other cartographic styles as well as literary genres and cultural landscapes. The German mapmaker Matthäus Seutter produced a “love map” in 1730 in the style of contemporary military maps, with the male’s fortress besieged by female forces (see fig. 55), while a 1777 map of Das Reich der Liebe by Johann Gottlob Immanuel Breitkopf depicted the Land of Unhappy Love (Land der Taurenden Liebe) and the Desert of Melancholy (Wüste der Schwermuth) among other places in an allegorized topography of emotion (Hill 1978, 58). Also in 1730, Seutter produced a map of Schlaraffenland, an imaginary land of idleness and vice (fig. 540). Laid out according to cartographic convention, Seutter’s map (to be read with the aid of an accompanying text) depicted a fictive landscape of piety and of corruption. His was a moral cartography, an allegory about one’s place in the world. Given their prevalence, their function, and their role in the symbolic representation of human qualities, it is perhaps inappropriate to regard such allegorical cartographies in the Enlightenment (or, indeed, for other periods) as “cartographical curiosities,” as does Gillian Hill (1978). To do so uncritically is to establish a standard by which we interpret and read other “less curious” maps when, as Jacob has noted, all maps are metaphorical but are so in different ways. If in the early Enlightenment, Reitinger notes, “cartographical satire [was] used to claim the right to tell the truth in jest” (1999, 125), allegorical or, more properly, metaphorical cartography was not limited to that alone. The significance of the Carte

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Metaphor, Map as

Fig. 540. ACCURATA UTOPIÆ TABULA. DAS IST DER NEU ENTDECKTEN SCHALCK WELT, ODER DES SO OFFTBENANTEN, UND DOCH NIE ERKANTEN SCHLARRAFFENLANDES (AUGSBURG: [MATTHÄUS SEUTTER], 1730).

Size of the original: ca. 48 × 56 cm. Image courtesy of Barry Lawrence Ruderman Antique Maps, La Jolla.

de Tendre and its later variants lay in the metaphorical assertion of power—of women over men, tenderness over brutalism—in the depictive power of narrative imagery rather than of words alone and in the association between figurative language and cartographic convention. For these reasons, it is possible to agree with Jeffrey N. Peters when he asserts that “it may be that the very notion of allegorical cartography is redundant, the product of a foundational chiasmus: maps are always allegorical; allegory is always cartographic” (Peters 2004, 33). Yet we must also be cautious. For in the Enlightenment, many people read maps not as metaphors but as

more or less accurate documents about an ontologically real world. The metaphor of the map and of mapping was used widely in the Enlightenment precisely because the idea and the ideal of the map appealed to a world seeking to give order—scientific, textual, political, and moral—to its systems of knowledge and of governance. In botany, geology, and, not least, in geography—where, for example, children’s geographies and geographical games allegorized the journey of life—maps symbolized progress, spatial pattern, and the proper place of things. In some forms of literature as in some forms of mapping, metaphorical cartography was a rhetorical trope that al-

Meter, Survey for the

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lowed human relationships to be codified, and visuality to be a basis for and expression of social conduct. C ha r l e s W. J . With ers See also: Allegorical and Satirical Maps; Encyclopedias; Enlightenment, Cartography and the; Games, Cartographic B i bliogra p hy Alembert, Jean Le Rond d’. 1751, “Discours préliminaire des editeurs.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 1:[i]–xlv. Paris: Braisson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Bates, David. 2002. “Cartographic Aberrations: Epistemology and Order in the Encyclopedic Map.” In Using the “Encyclopédie”: Ways of Knowing, Ways of Reading, ed. Daniel Brewer and Julie Candler Hayes, 1–20. Oxford: Voltaire Foundation. Blair, Hugh. 1783. Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres. 2 vols. London: Printed for W. Strahan, T. Cadell and W. Creech. Cock, Samuel [pseud.]. 1741. A Voyage to Lethe. London: J.  Conybeare. Cowper, William. 1782. Poems. London: Printed for J. Johnson. Harley, J. B. 1989. “Deconstructing the Map.” Cartographica 26, no. 2:1–20. Harvey, Karen. 2004. Reading Sex in the Eighteenth Century: Bodies and Gender in English Erotic Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hill, Gillian. 1978. Cartographical Curiosities. London: For the British Library by British Museum Publications. Jacob, Christian. 2006. The Sovereign Map: Theoretical Approaches in Cartography throughout History. Trans. Tom Conley. Ed. Edward H. Dahl. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. MacEachren, Alan M. 1995. How Maps Work: Representation, Visualization, and Design. New York: Guilford Press. Marshall, P. J., and Glyndwr Williams. 1982. The Great Map of Mankind: Perceptions of New Worlds in the Age of Enlightenment. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Peters, Jeffrey N. 2004. Mapping Discord: Allegorical Cartography in Early Modern French Writing. Newark: University of Delaware Press. Reitinger, Franz. 1999. “Mapping Relationships: Allegory, Gender and the Cartographical Image in Eighteenth-Century France and England.” Imago Mundi 51:106–30.

of reference. The Assemblée Constituante adopted the report on 26 March 1791. After the defection of JeanDominique Cassini (IV) and Adrien-Marie Legendre, the Académie des sciences named as commissioners for the measurement of the meridian two students of the celebrated astronomer Joseph-Jérôme Lefrançais de Lalande, Pierre-François-André Méchain and Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Delambre (Levallois 1988, 61–74). Étienne Lenoir prepared new repeating circles devised by Borda (fig. 541), which were not ready until May 1792.

Meter, Survey for the. When Louis XVI convoked the États Généraux of 1789, several bailliages (bailiwicks) demanded a unified system of measurement to rectify the disparate metrology of the Ancien Régime. On 8 May 1790, the Assemblée Constituante named a Commission d’étude des poids et mesures composed of Jean-Charles Borda, Joseph-Louis Lagrange, Pierre-Simon de Laplace, Gaspard Monge, and Jean-Antoine-Nicolas Caritat de Condorcet. The commission’s report of 19 March 1791 proposed deriving a measure taken from nature. After fixing the arc of the meridian between Dunkirk and Barcelona, scientists would observe the length of the arc of a pendulum beating one second at 45° of latitude and at sea level. Such an “oscillation” of the pendulum would equal the ten-millionth part of the terrestrial meridian (Alder 2002, 84–86; 2005, 110–12). The new units would rest on a universal, not anthropometric, frame

Fig. 541. REPEATING CIRCLE BY BORDA. This instrument was an adaptation of the older quadrants used by French geodesists in that, in measuring the horizontal angle between two targets, the instrument’s graduated arc and telescopes were aligned so that its plane included the two targets (see fig. 265). Rather than a single measurement of the angle, however, the observer made repeated observations around a fully graduated circle (here of 32 cm diameter), taking the mean to achieve a high degree of accuracy. From Verkaven 1811, pl. 2, fig. 16. Size of the full plate: ca. 16.5 × 27.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 14 × 9.5 cm. Science, Industry & Business Library, New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations.

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Méchain had been received into the Académie des sciences in 1782. Hydrographer at the Dépôt de la Marine, he had participated in joining the French and English triangulations in 1787. He was to measure the portion of the meridian between Barcelona and Rodez. Delambre, an associate of the Académie des sciences since 1792, undertook the larger work of measuring the meridian between Rodez and Dunkirk. These two connecting chains of triangulation were supposed to reuse the stations of the meridian from the Carte de France in 1740, but this proved difficult: trees had grown; towers and belfries had crumbled. Seven astronomical stations used for latitude (Dunkirk, Paris, Evaux, Carcassonne, Perpignan, Mont-Jouy, and Barcelona) allowed study of the variation in the curvature of the meridian. The political troubles in France and their unexpected reversals complicated everything. Delambre’s measurements elicited suspicion if not animosity. He was arrested several times and his supplies confiscated. To proceed, he needed a decree from the Assemblée législative. Méchain’s mission in collaboration with Spain advanced until the outbreak of war with France (March 1793). After the insurrection of 10 August 1792, the new government of the Convention nationale, dominated by the Jacobins, abolished the monarchy. Disturbances erupted in all the provinces, the king was executed, and war broke out in both the interior and on the borders. At first Méchain remained in Spain; he then took refuge in Italy. In France, executive power was transferred to the Comité de Salut Public, which legislated by decree. The Reign of Terror (2 June 1793 to 28 July 1794) claimed many scientists both on the scaffold (e.g., Antoine-Laurent de Lavoisier) and in prison (e.g., Condorcet). Having adopted the metric system on 1 August 1793, the Convention suppressed the Académies on 8 August, and in December the Comité de Salut Public stopped work on the meridian project. Finally, on 25 October 1795, the Institut national des sciences et des arts was created, in which the former divisions of the Académie des sciences were restored. The Directoire was instituted the next day. Etienne-Nicolas Calon, who had worked on the Carte de France and was director of the Dépôt de la guerre et de la géographie from April 1793, recalled Delambre and Méchain to recommence work on the meridian from July 1795. The chain included ninety-four first-order triangles measured using Borda’s repeating circle between 1793 and 1794 by Delambre from Dunkirk to the Loire and by Méchain from Barcelona to Perpignan (Verkaven 1811, 77–94). Méchain made an error in the observation of Mizar (ζ ursae majoris), which created erroneous positions for Barcelona and Mont-Jouy. Stricken by guilt, he delayed returning to Paris. Following the Terror, Delambre continued his triangulation from the Loire to

Mikoviny, Samuel

Rodez from 1795 to December 1797. Continuing to delay, Méchain finally linked up in Rodez in November 1798. The Melun baseline had been measured between May and June and that of Perpignan in September; it remained to make the calculations. Delambre innovated by formulating the degree to which stations were off center and by taking spherical excess into account. The calculations were submitted on 2 February 1799 to an international commission of scientists, convoked in June; they were approved in spite of Méchain’s error. The value of the meter was settled at 443.296 lignes. The earth’s curvature had proved to be irregular. In June 1799, the instrumentmaker Etienne Lenoir presented to the government the platinum meter, the standard measure, with great ceremony. However, it was another matter entirely to put the new measures into use. The French public rejected the metric system entirely. Its acceptance would take more than a century. Cath erine Bo us q uet- Bressolier See also: Academies of Science: Académie des sciences (Academy of Sciences; France); Geodesy and the Size and Shape of the Earth; Geodetic Surveying: (1) Enlightenment, (2) France; Measures, Linear: Reform of Linear Measures Bibliography Alder, Ken. 2002. The Measure of All Things: The Seven-Year Odyssey and Hidden Error that Transformed the World. New York: Free Press. In French, Mesurer le monde, 1792–1799: L’incroyable histoire de l’invention du mètre. Trans. Martine Devillers-Argouarc’h. Paris: Flammarion, 2005. Levallois, Jean-Jacques. 1988. Mesurer la Terre: 300 ans de géodésie française, de la toise du Châtelet au satellite. Paris: Presses de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées; AFT. Verkaven, J. J. 1811. L’art de lever les plans: Appliqué à tout ce qui a rapport à la guerre, à la navigation et à l’architecture civile et rurale. 2d ed. Paris: Barrois. First published 1804 as a new ed. of Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson, L’art de lever les plans (first published 1763), revised, corrected, and augmented by Verkaven.

Mikoviny, Samuel. Samuel Mikoviny (Sámuel Mikoviny; Samuel Mikovini) was born around 1698 in the village Lehota-Ábelová (Slovakia), then in the Kingdom of Hungary. His father was a Lutheran minister who belonged to the lesser nobility. This social status in the Habsburg-ruled feudal country made his son sign his maps proudly as “nobilis Hungarus.” In the Hungarian kingdom he belonged to a multiethnic group of intellectuals, mainly Lutherans, who all considered themselves to be hungarus and worked for the development of the country in the period of Habsburg re-Catholicization. In 1718, Mikoviny enrolled at the Lutheran college in Pozsony (Bratislava, Slovakia). He was a student of Matthias Bél, a Lutheran minister and the director of the school. Returning from the University of Halle in Saxony, where he followed the Pietist educational principles of August Hermann Francke, Bél introduced the

Mikoviny, Samuel

new subject of geography. His major project was the historical-geographical description of the Kingdom of Hungary, reestablished after centuries of Turkish wars. Both Bél and Mikoviny were followers of the Pietists, a religious-cultural movement that presaged the nineteenth-century Enlightenment in Hungary. Most likely Bél not only encouraged but also supported the talented Mikoviny to continue his studies at the University of Altdorf from 1721, where he studied astronomy and mathematics with Johann Heinrich Müller, the brother of the mapmaker Johann Christoph Müller. In 1722 Mikoviny was an apprentice in Johann Georg I Puschner’s printing workshop and stayed in the house of the publisher Peter Conrad Monath in Nuremberg. Mikoviny’s first engravings were published in 1723 in the Hvngariae antiqvae et novae prodromvs, a portion of Bél’s later multivolume work. Mikoviny’s smaller views of Nuremberg and the university town Altdorf were also published by Monath. In 1723 Mikoviny moved to Jena to pursue mathematical studies. Before his return to Pozsony, the administrative center of Hungary, he probably took private lessons from the mathematician and astronomer Johann Jakob Marinoni in Vienna. From 1726 to 1735 he was the engineer of the county of Pozsony, engaged in hydrographic surveys, water regulation, and flood control. In 1728 he started making astronomical observations for the calculation of geographical coordinates that he needed for the county maps to be included in Bél’s monograph, Notitia Hvngariae novae historico geographica, from 1735. Eleven maps, representing nine counties, were printed and included in the four volumes of Bél’s work between 1735 and 1742, but many county maps remained in manuscript because the book series was interrupted. In 1735 Mikoviny was appointed court geometra, the first professor of the mining school at Banská Štiavnica (Schemnitz, Selmecbánya) to teach mathematical and engineering subjects as well as surveying and mapping. His equally important commission was to survey and map the country during summer months. Mikoviny’s duties involved a wide range of engineering and surveying tasks. To ensure water was available for the silver mines in Banská Štiavnica, he constructed a sophisticated system of canals, ponds, drainages, and water reserves (a World Heritage Site since 1995). From 1744 to 1745, during the War of the Austrian Succession, he served in the Habsburg army as a military engineer in Silesia. In this capacity, his practical achievements were remarkable; he constructed hydraulic machines, built bridges and roads, regulated rivers, built canals, and even excavated ancient and Roman sites. From 1747 he was appointed as the only engineer of the Magyar Kamara (royal Hungarian chamber). He worked almost

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continuously during his life and died while on his way home from performing regulation work on the River Váh in the spring of 1750. Mikoviny’s greatest contribution to the development of cartography in the region was his practical mapping activity based on theoretical principles that he published in the form of a public letter written to Bél in 1732. In this Epistola, Mikoviny introduced mapmaking as a scientific practice. To end the period of “geographical apathy” (1732, 4) he suggested employing four fundamental measurement methods of mapmaking: astronomical, geometric, magnetic, and hydrographic. The Epistola was among the first theoretical publications on topographical and geodetic surveying and mapping that emphasized the importance of astronomical determination of longitude and latitude and triangulation. Astronomical and geometrical measurements, usually emphasized in his maps’ titles (e.g., “astronomico-geometrico concinnata”), were combined to give greater geodetic accuracy and mathematical control. These scientific principles guided Mikoviny’s surveys in the field, and at the same time, they gave a rigid mathematical-geometrical structure to the information he collected. He integrated the fundamental methods, previously used in discrete mapping modes, into an evolving topographic paradigm (fig. 542). He also dealt with the problem of graphic representation, that is, map drawing. According to Mikoviny, maps should represent the natural characteristics of the landscape. Topographic relief—as if seen from above and projected onto a plane—should be represented by hachures. He suggested excluding all impractical decorations from maps, replacing them with elegant clear drawing, pleasing to the reader. Mikoviny’s maps were constructed as images of the landscape: the astronomical and geometrical measurements controlled observation, and the maps represented empirical and rational knowledge in graphic form. His contemporaries realized the importance of his theoretical treatise, and he was elected a member of the Königlich Preußische Sozietät der Wissenschaften in about 1733. He was later considered to be among the most important cartographers of the eighteenth century (Robert de Vaugondy 1757, 611). Mikoviny’s work was a forerunner to the later topographic surveys in the Habsburg Empire. In 1746 he proposed to Empress Maria Theresa a topographical survey of Hungary to support the military, state economics, communication, administration, and commerce. He wanted to start the survey of the Kingdom of Hungary “from almost the beginning” (quoted in Deák 1987, 113), meaning a systematic survey of the whole country, instead of by individual counties or regions. Mikoviny’s pioneering work represented the theory

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Militär-Ingenieurakademie (Academy for Military Engineers; Austrian Monarchy)

Fig. 542. SAMUEL MIKOVINY, VESTIGIUM OPERATIONIS ASTRONOMICO-GEOMETRICAE. Engraved by the author (“auctor sculps.”) and tipped into (“Tab. Ad pag. 20”) his Epistola (Bratislava, 1732). The map illustrates the combination of astronomic-geometric methods for mapmaking. To measure the considerable (ca. 150 km) distance between Pozsony (A at bottom left) and Neosolium (Nové Zámky, Slovakia; D at top right), Mikoviny used triangulation, as

shown, then checked its accuracy with astronomical measurements of longitude and latitude using the zero meridian of Pozsony, marked along the framing grid. The graphic scale in Hexapedae Parisienses reflects similar methods established in France. Copperplate engraving. Size of original: 14.5 × 30.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Országos Széchényi Könyvtár, Budapest.

and practice of Enlightenment cartography in EastCentral Europe. Mikoviny became influential not only through his theoretical publications and maps but also through his numerous students and followers who formed a new social context for a developing mapping paradigm in the region.

Militär-Ingenieurakademie (Academy for Military Engineers; Austrian Monarchy). Starting in the

Z s o lt G. Tö rö k See also: Geographical Mapping: Enlightenment; Military Cartography: Austrian Monarchy, with Topographical Surveying Bibliograp hy Deák, Antal András. 1987. A “Hungaria Nova” megrajzolója: Mikoviny Sámuel, 1700–1750. Budapest: Vízügyi Dokumentációs Szolgáltató Leányvállalat. Mikoviny, Samuel. 1732. Epistola, de methodo concinnandarum mapparum Hungariæ, topographicarum. Bratislava: Joannis Pauli Royer. Purgina, Ján. 1958. Samuel Mikovíni, 1700–1750: Život a dielo. Bratislava: Správa Geodézie a Kartografie na Slovensku. Robert de Vaugondy, Didier. 1757. “Géographie.” In Encyclopédie, ou, Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond d’Alembert, 17 text vols. and 11 plate vols., 7:608–13. Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand. Török, Zsolt G. 2003. Bél Mátyás, Mikoviny Sámuel és a honismereti iskola. Budapest: Országos Pedagógiai Könyvtár és Múzeum.

1690s, Prince Eugene steadily increased his influence on military affairs in the Habsburg monarchy. He was especially interested in establishing in Austria the advances made by the leading practitioners of French military cartography. In 1717, several of his initiatives led to the foundation of the Militär-Ingenieurakademie in Vienna, which was probably inspired by the francophone academy reestablished in Brussels in 1713 (Dörflinger 2004, 75–76). The advantage of the Militär-Ingenieurakademie lay in rendering the Austrian army independent of foreign experts by providing a training school for specialists. This institution thus laid the foundation for the enormous increase in Austrian military cartography that was soon to assume a leading position in Central Europe. The first directors and teachers of the academy were the cartographers and engineers Leander Anguissola and Johann Jakob Marinoni, both of north Italian descent (Dörflinger 1989, 70–71; Fasching and Wawrik 1989, 115).

Military and Topographical Surveys

Marinoni was born in Udine in 1676. After studying at the University of Vienna, he worked as a mathematician at the Viennese court and as a geometer in Lower Austria. Marinoni’s contributions especially influenced the development of surveying in the Habsburg Empire. Together with Anguissola, he was responsible for the first exact surveying of Vienna resulting in the Accuratissima Viennæ Austriæ ichnographica delineatio (1706) and cadastral surveys of the Duchy of Milan. Anguissola was mostly active in Vienna and its environs as well as in Hungary. In 1684 he was made junior engineer, followed by his promotion to lieutenant-colonel in 1701 (Dörflinger 2004, 76, 102–3). The evolution of the Militär-Ingenieurakademie was dominated by several problematic traits. It was largely self-financed; contrary to later military training institutions, it received practically no state aid, which produced recurring financial difficulties. Another problem was certainly related to the location assigned to the academy in the seventeenth century. After being housed in private quarters, it was not given its own premises until 1755, but it had to move twice before the 1790s. In addition to these relocations, the academy changed its name several times: it was called Ingenieurakademie when founded in 1717, was renamed Ingenieurschule in 1755, and reverted to its original designation as an engineering academy from 1769 to 1851. Many graduates of this originally purely military academy did not follow a career in the Imperial and Royal Engineering Corps (k.  k. Geniecorps) but rather in infantry and cavalry (Brunner and Kerchnawe 1942, 13–15). The Imperial and Royal Engineering Corps was founded in 1747. Its internal regulations of 1748 required trained military engineers to draw ground plans of the surveyed terrain, which meant abandoning the old style of showing terrain in perspective. The development of uniform manuscript maps and original topographic records in the Habsburg Empire dates back to the time after the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48) and in particular after the Seven Years’ War (1756–63), always with valuable contributions by graduates of the Militär-Ingenieurakademie. The highpoint in the eighteenth century was the first Josephinische Landesaufnahme (1763–87) (Dörflinger 2004, 76–78); most employees of this survey were graduates of the Militär-Ingenieurakademie. After Marinoni’s death in 1755, the MilitärIngenieurakademie entered a difficult period. Empress Maria Theresa was mainly interested in her Wiener Neustadt–based military academy founded in 1752 and largely shunned the older Viennese institution. In fact, the Viennese academy owed its survival to funds from the Chaos’sche Stiftung, a foundation for the training of young soldiers established in 1666 by the bequest of the

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late Johann Konrad Richthausen. Starting in the 1760s, the Militär-Ingenieurakademie experienced an upturn in its development when Karl Klemens, Count Pellegrini, was appointed commander of the Ingenieur- und Sappeurs-Corps. He was the first to choose outstanding officers-engineers as teachers, which led to a tremendous improvement in practical and theoretical training. Another enormous asset was the appointment of ColonelEngineer Joseph Toussaint Bourgeois as commander of the Militär-Ingenieurakademie in 1790, to whom the school owes its apogee in the first half of the nineteenth century (Brunner and Kerchnawe 1942, 33–39). Important cartographers who were graduates include MajorGeneral Baron Andreas von Soriot de l’Host, Colonel Maximilian von De Traux, Major-General Ludwig Augustin Fallon, Artillery Lieutenant-General Franz Ritter von Hauslab, and Lieutenant–Field Marshal Julius Ritter von Albach (Brunner and Kerchnawe 1942, 28). Petra Svatek See also: Josephinische Landesaufnahme (Josephine Survey; Austrian Monarchy); Marinoni, Johann Jakob; Military Cartography: Austrian Monarchy, with Topographical Surveying Bibliography Brunner, Moritz Ritter von, and Hugo Kerchnawe. 1942. 225 Jahre Technische Militärakademie, 1717 bis 1942. Vienna. Dörflinger, Johannes. 1989. “Vom Aufstieg Österreichs zur Grossmacht bis zum Wiener Kongress (1683–1815).” In Austria Picta: Österreich auf alten Karten und Ansichten, ed. Franz Wawrik and Elisabeth Zeilinger, 66–114. Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt. ———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karel Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Fasching, Gerhard, and Franz Wawrik. 1989. “Landesaufnahme und Militärkarten.” In Austria Picta: Österreich auf alten Karten und Ansichten, ed. Franz Wawrik and Elisabeth Zeilinger, 115–29. Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt.

Military and Topographical Surveys. It is not always simple to separate military surveys from general topographical activity in the 150 years under consideration. The possible factors that define a survey as military may be its purpose, its use, that it was organized by a military institution, or executed by military topographers. These factors are muddled by the mixed character of the institutions that partially controlled military topographical activity; for example, Great Britain’s Board of Ordnance was a civil organization with strong military responsibilities (Harley and O’Donoghue 1980, 2–12). Surveyors acquired the necessary skills for work in civil or military institutions according to the needs of war or peace. Even if a trend toward a clear distinction between civil and military topography emerged over

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time, the partial survey of Egypt during the French expedition (1798–1801) at the very end of the eighteenth century demonstrated the continued union of civil and military engineers with a common direction. To isolate and define the characteristics of the military survey requires recognizing the trends and stages in its evolution, without ignoring its mixed character, and the uses and purposes of much of the topographical activity of this period. In the second half of the seventeenth century, European armies continued to practice siege warfare. Military surveys of the time centered on the fort with a topographic representation of the surrounding area. Thus, topographic survey was one of the tasks of the engineers responsible for fortifications and required no differentiation in skills; around 1650, no military engineer specialized only in topographical survey to the exclusion of fortification. Nevertheless, at the end of the seventeenth century and the height of siege warfare, one can discern a trend toward expanding the area of land surveyed. The technical improvements in artillery that created a wider range of fire surely played a role. The pré carré of Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, is a clear example of an organized system of fortifications, wherein strongholds were not isolated but integral components to an effective defense of a clearly defined territory. Yet such systems demanded improved knowledge of the wider borders, not merely the immediate surroundings of one fortified position. Thus, siege warfare and topographical surveying should not be considered mutually exclusive. During the entire eighteenth century until the change brought about by the Napoleonic Wars, the border areas where the forts were built were the principal focus of military topographical surveys; gaining knowledge of the borders and maintaining the secrecy that surrounded this knowledge was a military responsibility. With this in mind, military engineers applied the same skills to topographical surveying that they used for fortifications, including the high level of mathematical ability they had acquired. An initial differentiation in tasks and organization (but not in innate skills and background) among military engineers occurred in France in 1691: the ingénieurs des camps et armées (or ingénieurs géographes) were separated from the ingénieurs du roi, with the former specially charged with topographical surveys and the latter with fortifications. It is not a coincidence that in the same year a general département des Fortifications was created under Vauban. These administrative units followed on the foundation of the Dépôt de la Guerre created in 1688. The task of the Dépôt was to maintain and organize mapmaking materials to be used in wartime, and from 1744 onward the Dépôt directed all military topographical activity in France.

Military and Topographical Surveys

There was regular topographical surveying activity, with differing levels of competence, in European armies by the end of the seventeenth century. However, the graphic record, in terms of documents and therefore in historiography, is very limited until at least the 1740s. The factors that might account for this are inherent in the nature of military topographical activity and in the preservation of documents. The first, not surprisingly, is secrecy. Surveys of the border areas or reconnaissance made in wartime were not widely published so that detailed knowledge of these territories could not be acquired by the enemy. Large-scale national surveys carried out by military engineers and intended for publication were a later and relatively exceptional development of the less systematic but normal surveying activity that primarily served war and defense. The scholarly focus on national surveys and their origins, plus their generally good state of preservation, have partially obscured the existence of locally oriented surveys and of topographical wartime production. The institutions responsible for conserving topographical military materials became directly linked to the production of maps only in the 1740s, either through the direction of new surveys, as in France, or by copying and drawing, as in Britain (Berthaut 1902; Marshall 1980). Before then, the preservation of maps and the execution of military surveys were two distinct tasks with few institutional links, and many documents were not preserved, particularly those detailing the different stages of survey work before the production of the finished map. The second half of the eighteenth century saw a broad structural change that became particularly clear after 1763 with the end of the Seven Years’ War. During the preceding long years of conflict, European armies fighting both in Europe and in the colonies had recognized the need for topographical work to cope with a new type of warfare: the siege was giving way to the open field of battle. Knowledge of the terrain in which open battles were now fought required complete surveys, which in turn demanded topographers with both mathematical and military skills. As it is necessary to study military topography within the regular rhythms of peace and war, the peace following the end of the Seven Years’ War represents the starting point for a total reorganization of topographical activity. With topographers now affiliated with the institutions of map preservation, new surveys were planned, and the information to be included in the surveys was revised. With the end of siege warfare, for example, an army needed to evaluate the resources of the area through which it passed and on which it was fighting in order to provide for its needs (Dupain de Montesson 1763). The configuration of the ground had to be rendered with great accuracy, since every detail was potentially useful to the opposing

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armies both for defense and attack. Because war used everything for its purpose, the military survey had to describe everything. Considering these requirements and the strong mathematical background of military engineers trained to build fortifications, it is not surprising that military surveys provided a higher degree of accuracy when compared to contemporary civil maps, especially when it came to mapping mountains (Konvitz 1987, 82–102). The survey directed by Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet in the Dauphiné from 1749 to 1754, and continued twenty years later, is a clear example of the extremely close attention paid to the rendering of the ground (Pichard 2002, 157–59, 166–85). Bourcet’s Principes de la guerre de montagnes (1888) makes it clear that the full military purpose of the survey was to provide the most accurate contemporary information, both in detail and in overview, for a general to prepare his campaign. At this stage, military and civil topographical surveys were clearly distinct, both superficially in their appearance (strong attention to details in the rendering of the landform, for instance, made a finished military map easy to recognize) and more deeply in how they were planned and executed (fig. 543). The comparatively good organization of military topographical activity in France and the particular training of French engineers were certainly among the reasons for such a high level of achievement. Indeed, the survey of the Dauphiné served as field practice for a whole generation of French military topographers trained under Bourcet. In Prussia too, cartographic skills were considered fundamental to military activity and were therefore regularly taught to officers. Survey handbooks were rapidly translated from French to German, from Paris to Berlin and vice versa (for example Brück 1767, translated as early as 1770), thus creating a common military topographical culture that went beyond alliances in war. Other European countries turned to French and Prussian works to fill the gaps in their own training, with some treatises being simply undeclared translations and others providing compendiums of earlier works on military engineering, such as O engenheiro portuguez, by Manoel de Azevedo Fortes, published in Lisbon (1728– 29), which draws upon earlier French works according to the precepts of Vauban (Concieção 2006, 46–47). According to J. B. Harley (1978b, 52–54), the American Revolutionary War showed how undeveloped British Army topographical education was compared to the French. However, the state of preservation of the historian’s sources must be taken into account when considering comparisons between national approaches to topographical surveying. Prior to the establishment of the Ordnance Survey, we know much less about British military topographical activity than that of France.

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National differences, both in the accomplishments and in topographical culture, are discernable but tend to be amplified by the state of preservation of the documents. In fact, the well-documented survey of Scotland carried out from 1747 to 1755 shows evidence of an organized military topographical enterprise, despite the youth of its leader, the military surveyor William Roy, who became an officer only in 1755. This operation was military in both its purpose—acquiring knowledge of an unruly area that had experienced a serious rebellion in 1745—and in its method—balancing the speed of execution against an attainable level of accuracy (Arrowsmith 1809; Whittington and Gibson 1986). The Ordnance Survey, which Roy began to contemplate soon after the Seven Years’ War, was far more ambitious, so much so that the focus of its first years (included in our period of analysis) were completely devoted to geodesy. The military surveys of the continental powers reached a turning point in 1763. In Russia the General’nyy shtab (General Staff) was established and methods were revised and adapted (Goldenberg and Postnikov 1985), and in the Austrian monarchy, a general and detailed survey was launched (Nischer-Falkenhof 1937; Rill 2001). In smaller countries with colonial empires, such as the Netherlands and Portugal, war strategies and the consequent planning of military surveys followed different paths in Europe and in the colonies. Defense requirements were the first concern at home and led to national peculiarities in the typical military rendering of the ground. In the Netherlands, for example, the smallest differences in height were indicated in flood plans (De Vries 1994, 43–50). By contrast, in the colonies all skills were employed to survey regions that were in principle considered hostile. Civil surveyors, military engineers, and native peoples, whose knowledge of the land and languages was indispensable, worked together (Abeydeera 1993), but the situation teetered between unstable peace and permanent war. Military surveys therefore had to be not only flexibly organized (their primary characteristic) but also able to accomplish tasks not dedicated purely to war. Where administrative and military issues were connected, the surveys served both, and the dividing line between the two is impossible to track. The models and methods applied in the colonies should be understood as an adaptation of the more stable surveying practices current in Europe. The alternation of war and peace provided the fundamental methodological distinction for surveying practices in Europe. The fieldwork required of good military topographers was radically different during wartime than peacetime, and their capacity to apply the appropriate survey method to the situation was a central skill. A military survey directly linked a desired level of accuracy to available conditions and time. No method (and

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Military and Topographical Surveys

Fig. 543. DETAIL FROM PLATE 9 OF THE CARTE GÉOMÉTRIQUE DU HAUT DAUPHINÉ ET DE LA FRONTIERE ULTERIEURE, 1758, BY JEAN VILLARET. Engraved map on nine sheets, ca. 1:86,400. Based on a survey conducted under the supervision of ingénieur géographe Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet 1749 to 1754, the published version of the map of the upper Dauphiné region of France was reduced to the same scale as the Cassini Carte de France, which it antecedes.

The military surveyors paid particular attention to landforms, rendering the mountainous landscape with a combination of hachures and cavalier prospective, as may be seen here along the frontier with the Alps. Size of each sheet: ca. 87 × 59 cm; size of detail: 15.0 × 17.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge CC 2061 [A]).

no instrument) was considered good or bad in itself but only in relation to the conditions of its use. This generally applied principle was strictly binding during periods of warfare when the lack of time and the presence of the enemy informed and motivated topographical activity. Only during peacetime could extensive surveys be undertaken, but they were seldom finished since the urgency attached to the preparation of new military campaigns claimed all available military topographers. But also during peacetime the quickest methods might be used. Expert surveyors would even travel incognito to foreign countries without instruments, sometimes not even a

pencil, and learn the lay of the land by heart, drawing it only after returning home. Such was the extraordinary work of the French chevalier François-Augustin Regnier de Jarjayes in the Alps in 1783, a meaningful (though unverified) episode (Berthaut 1902, 1:83–84). With the exception of this last example, we can classify military surveys by their use of triangulation, by the methods used to determine the principal points of the larger series of triangles, and by the instruments used to measure the angles of the lesser series of triangles, which allowed topographers to draw the detail of the land. For the lesser series of triangles, theodolites were very rarely

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used and the plane table and the compass very common. The plane table was considered more reliable, since the angles were directly drawn using the compass and did not need to be calculated, thus reducing errors. But of course in a geodetically based survey in the second half of the eighteenth century, the points of the first series of triangles and the first baseline would be determined using a theodolite (such as Jesse Ramsden’s great theodolite [see fig. 410], used by Roy for the Greenwich-Paris triangulation, the effective foundation of the Ordnance Survey, or Jean-Charles Borda’s repeating circle [see fig.  541], used for the survey of the meter). However, such an expensive instrument was rarely available. Most military surveyors, at least in Europe, used points previously determined by civil agencies or by local scholars, linked in a triangulation that, although not devised for military purposes, provided a reasonably reliable foundation for the smaller series of triangles and topographical detail. In Egypt during the Napoleonic expedition, the loss of most of the instruments in the shipwreck of the Patriote added to the complicated working conditions. No full triangulation was possible, and the thirty-six points determined by the astronomer Nicolas-Antoine Nouet were linked by the surveyor while carrying out the last piece of fieldwork, the one that usually led to the drawing of the detail of the land. In practice, the surveyors started from one of the thirty-six determined points and moved in the direction of another in a traverse; as they went, they pointed the alidade of the plane table or of the compass first at one object and then another, tracing angles until the goal of the other astronomically determined point was reached. This method excluded the measurement of the first linear base and the two broader triangulations. A geodetically based survey normally had three series of triangles: the first was traced by a team of engineers well trained in mathematics and geodesy; the second and the third were executed by officers with considerable practice in the survey and drawing of topography. In Egypt, the series with the smallest triangles was the only one actually traced by military surveyors. Nevertheless, this method represents both the adaptation that was mandatory in military surveys and the working conditions of the surveyors who operated mostly with plane tables and compasses to measure angles. Linear measurement by chains or poles normally required assistants and slowed down the survey’s progress. But military topographers were also trained to measure without instruments, to determine distances by sight or pace, to deduce them from the triangles, and to travel with a compass as their only instrument. Pure linear measurement could be useless at the detail level in a map survey that had to serve war: a note with distances

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in terms of walking time calculated for the infantry, the cavalry, and the artillery often accompanied the finished map. During wartime activity and in the fundamental practice of reconnaissance, the military topographer worked with few or no instruments. Full geodetic triangulation and reconnaissance mark the two extremes of military survey activity. Their apparently incomparable differences in terms of detailed information and time of execution should not prevent us from considering them together, particularly since the same people accomplished both tasks. In addition, the value attributed to the work could be, surprisingly, inversely proportional to its apparent accuracy: reconnaissance, based on personal observation without instruments, was considered the most crucial work in military topographical activity (Harley 1978a, 9–25; Marshall 1980, 33–36). In 1802 in Paris, the Commission topographique undertook to define new topographic language, to standardize methods and signs, and to adopt the metric system. By this time, France was not only the country that led the way in topographical surveys, but also the country poised to dominate Europe, which entailed an increasing need for military maps. The year 1802 marked the birth of a systematic program for military cartography in terms of accuracy and standardization; it was also the year in which the army assumed total dominance in the field of mapmaking and surveying in France, and later in the French First Empire. The trend toward a standardization of signs, methods, and units of measurement opened up new possibilities. The spread of the use of theodolites, though slow, permitted wider geodetically based surveys. Nevertheless, a critical problem exemplified a particular order of priorities still at work within the Commission’s deliberations. This concerned contour lines, which were occasionally being used to represent height. After long discussions, the Commission refused to adopt them even though they were considered to represent height more accurately than any other method. This was because it was extremely difficult for a surveyor to define the height along the contours without performing true leveling operations, a relatively rare endeavor. The lines of ruling gradient, more commonly used at the time, were discernible to the eye and therefore easier to reproduce. Thus, while contour lines were the best method for representing elevation, they were not necessary in wartime, which required lower levels of accuracy. Though accuracy of the map produced had to be taken into account, the needs of the surveyor, who had to work rapidly in often difficult conditions, were still a greater priority in 1802. The Commission’s decision reveals a powerful framework for any analysis of military surveys: although perfection was the aim, the needs of war came first. Va leri a Pansini

954 See also: Engineers and Topographical Surveys; Geodetic Surveying: Enlightenment; Military Cartography; Topographical Surveying; Traverse; Triangulation Surveying Bibliograp hy Abeydeera, Ananda. 1993. “Mapping as a Vital Element of Administration in the Dutch Colonial Government of Maritime Sri Lanka, 1658–1796.” Imago Mundi 45:101–11. Arrowsmith, Aaron. 1809. Memoir Relative to the Construction of the Map of Scotland Published by Aaron Arrowsmith in the Year 1807. London: A. Arrowsmith. Berthaut, Henri Marie Auguste. 1902. Les ingénieurs géographes militaires, 1624–1831: Étude historique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Service Géographique. Bourcet, Pierre-Joseph de. 1888. Principes de la guerre de montagnes . . . 1775. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. Brück, Gottlob Friedrich von. 1767. Vortheile eine Situation zum militairischen Gebrauch aufzunehmen und zu zeichnen. Dresden: Walther. Conceição, Margarida Tavares da. 2006. “A teoria nos textos portugueses sobre engenharia militar: O engenheiro portuguez e os tratados de fortificaçao.” In Manoel de Azevedo Fortes (1660–1749): Cartografia, cultura e urbanismo, ed. Mário Gonçalvas Fernandes, 35–55. Porto: GEDES, Departamento de Geografia da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Dupain de Montesson, Louis Charles. 1763. L’art de lever les plans de tout ce qui a rapport à la guerre, & à l’architecture civile & champêtre. Paris: Ch. Ant. Jombert. Godlewska, Anne. 1988. The Napoleonic Survey of Egypt: A Masterpiece of Cartographic Compilation and Early Nineteenth-Century Fieldwork. Ed. Edward H. Dahl. Monograph 38–39, Cartographica 25, nos. 1 and 2. Goldenberg, L. A., and Alexey V. Postnikov. 1985. “Development of Mapping Methods in Russia in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 37:63–80. Harley, J. B. 1978a. “The Contemporary Mapping of the American Revolutionary War.” In Mapping the American Revolutionary War, by J. B. Harley, Barbara Bartz Petchenik, and Lawrence W. Towner, 1–44. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1978b. “The Spread of Cartographical Ideas between the Revolutionary Armies.” In Mapping the American Revolutionary War, by J. B. Harley, Barbara Bartz Petchenik, and Lawrence W. Towner, 45–78. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Harley, J. B., and Yolande O’Donoghue (Hodson). 1980. “The Origins of the Ordnance Survey.” In A History of the Ordnance Survey, ed. W. A. Seymour, 1–20. Folkestone: Dawson. Konvitz, Josef W. 1987. Cartography in France, 1660–1848: Science, Engineering, and Statecraft. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Marshall, Douglas W. 1980. “Military Maps of the EighteenthCentury and the Tower of London Drawing Room.” Imago Mundi 32:21–44. Nischer-Falkenhof, Ernst von. 1937. “The Survey by the Austrian General Staff under the Empress Maria Theresa and the Emperor Joseph II., and the Subsequent Initial Surveys of Neighbouring Territories during the Years 1749–1854.” Imago Mundi 2:83–88. Pichard, Georges. 2002. “Terroirs et paysages provençaux au XVIIIe siècle: La cartographie à grande échelle des militaires du Génie.” Histoire et Sociétés Rurales 17:153–85. Rill, Robert. 2001. “Die Anfänge der Militärkartographie in den habsburgischen Erblanden: Die Josephinische Landesaufnahme von Böhmen und Mähren nach hofkriegsrätlichen Quellen.” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs 49:183–202. Vries, Dirk de. 1994. “Official Cartography in the Netherlands.” In La cartografia dels Països Baixos, 19–69. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya.

Military Cartography Whittington, G., and A. J. S. Gibson. 1986. The Military Survey of Scotland, 1747–1755: A Critique. Norwich: Geo Books for the Historical Research Group of the Institute of British Geographers.

Military Cartography. Enligh tenment Aus trian Mo narch y, with To po graphical S urveying D enmark and No rway France German S tates Great Britain Neth erland s , with To po graphi cal Surveying O tto man Empire Po rtugal S pain S wed en-Finland S witzerland

Military Cartography in the Enlightenment. That maps

aid in warfare is a truth so often repeated that it scarcely seems useful to discuss or analyze it. Without denying the strong association between war and cartography, not least within the popular imagination, one should define the concept of military cartography by identifying its limits, or rather by following the paths that cross its boundaries. The first step will be to identify the characteristics of military cartography as well as the cartographic documents produced and used by armies. This involves not merely highlighting technical features but also explaining the logic governing military cartography that distinguishes it from its civilian counterpart. The second step will be to establish a typology of activities and documents that may be defined as military. Finally, an analysis of those trends animating military cartography will provide possible points of contact with contemporary political, philosophical, and mathematical thought. Characteristics European armies during the Enlightenment organized and supported specifically military cartographic projects. Military personnel directed these efforts, and the cartographers carrying them out were also officers or became officers when they were chosen for the job. Beginning in the second half of the eighteenth century, these cartographic officers were more and more frequently attached to a specific army corps that remained active even in times of peace. There was a trend toward specialization that required adapted training as a necessary corollary. The art of surveying and making plans for military use was taught to the young officer within the military internal institutions, whether in special schools, through apprenticeship to experienced

Military Cartography

officers, or as part of teaching at military schools. The progressive separation of civil and military competence in cartography is apparent, with evidence regarding conflicts that pitted the two camps against one another (Pelletier 1990, 139–56). However, the two worlds should not be imagined as mutually impenetrable. Cartographers moved from the military to the civilian domain and even more so in the opposite direction, particularly in periods of crisis. When a state of war demanded manpower and there was an insufficient number of trained military recruits, the army drew on the skills offered by civilian personnel. In France after the Revolution, the purges, and the emigration of nobles, the new ingénieurs géographes, a group assigned to the army’s topographical projects, were recruited from the sons and nephews of existing military engineers, civil engineers, architects, and draftsmen—those who, it was thought, could be easily trained for military cartography because of their related preexisting skills. On the other hand, although engineers and military topographers rarely abandoned their positions to return to civilian life, administrations regularly used the skills of the military in geodesy and cartography, particularly for projects of large proportions (Postnikov 2000, 82–84). With their elevated level of scientific and technical training, generally superior to that of their civilian counterparts, military engineers and cartographers constituted a valuable skilled reservoir that governments could draw on in times of need. However, even though movement between the spheres of military and civilian cartography was frequent (accompanied by indefinite status and dual membership), truly official collaborations were rare. Each group used, when possible, the materials, strengths, and competences of the other, but each obeyed different directives and applied different demands to cartographic labors. The frequency with which cartographers passed from the civil domain to the military (and vice versa) does not render the situation incomprehensible, since their social role and rank were for the most part defined and declared. On the other hand, when considering the cartographic documents themselves, it is very difficult and ultimately not very fruitful to define them as strictly civil or military. In many cases, maps actually had multiple lives: military commanders contacted well-known mapsellers to obtain general, medium- to small-scale maps or compilations that could be readied quickly for use (Bulatov, Delano-Smith, and Herbert 2001, 71–72); these same mapsellers had copied and then published manuscript maps and plans produced by soldiers, particularly plans of battles and sieges; moreover, the seizure of cartographic materials of all types was a common military practice in time of war. Where does one draw the line? Should one define military cartography as only the production of materials ordered and organized by a military

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institution or as the fruits of labor actually undertaken by military personnel? In the latter case, should a largescale survey made with the participation of officers for nonmilitary ends be included in the analysis? In the confusion of institutional overlap and the multiple uses of maps, differences in cartographic savoir faire may serve as a more stable criterion for differentiation. In the military domain, there was an art of surveying plans for everything having to do with war (Dupain de Montesson 1763). The use of this savoir faire may serve as a guiding principle, enabling us to describe cartography as military even when this aspect was not inherent in all the stages of its production, its use, or the institutional affiliation of its producers. Among the numerous skills required of a cartographer-officer was the capacity to choose among maps, printed or manuscript, previously produced by civilians, to determine which were useful, and to adapt them to military use. In short, officers were required to use maps not originally designed for war and to transform them according to the savoir faire of military cartography. In the army, small-scale maps were used to follow unfolding military campaigns or to insert on-the-spot topographic surveys within an overall framework; different kinds of largeand medium-scale maps were brought together and reduced to a smaller scale in order to form an overall map that would otherwise be lacking. There was continual correction and adaptation performed both off-site, by compilation and juxtaposition of different documents en cabinet, and on-site by observation. A nonmilitary map thus reviewed and corrected by a competent soldier could even serve for the most delicate of tasks, the preparation for an imminent battle. The readapted map might be considered a military map because it shared the same fundamental goal and followed the same imperatives. When the military cartographer observed and surveyed terrain, he related the spaces he saw—the natural elements as well as buildings—with military action, either action that had taken place or was soon to take place (Pansini 2003). In the eighteenth century, no document of military cartography was conceived independently of military action. This was true of maps at all scales, and the usual division of maps and plans into sieges, battles, and campaigns—based more on events than geography—confirms this. While the medium- to small-scale map of a campaign provided an overall view of the movements of armies and the distances they had to traverse, a large-scale topographic plan localized the details of events and placed them in direct relation to the data regarding terrain and the army (distances including firing ranges, for example, or road widths to accommodate variously sized artillery pieces). These relationships had to be established when the map was produced, even if their actual representation was not necessarily obliga-

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tory. The officers using the plans would recognize the relationships as much as the topographers and would therefore require no explicit reference for reading them. If the immediate purposes of different military cartographic documents might not coincide (some were intended to prepare for military action or encampment, others furnished an overall view of a military campaign, and still others were meant to celebrate a battle or facilitate its study), their focus was nonetheless the same: military action and its location in space. Two consequences emerge from this observation: on the one hand, martial objectives demanded strong pragmatism, which moderated or at least guided the focus of knowledge implicit in cartographic activity. On the other hand, the direct relation between cartographic representation and military action necessarily involved a temporal dimension. These two characteristics ensured a certain specificity about military cartography. Absolute pragmatism was the consistent standard of martial activities: victory was the goal, and choices were evaluated based on the results they might produce. The victorious army (e.g., the Prussian army of Friedrich II or that of Napoleon) might immediately become a model because of its victory on the field of battle. This radical pragmatism, which gave priority to choices aiding success, could sometimes be in conflict with scientific ambition. Officers had to serve two masters, one military and one scientific. The possible contradictions between the two became more serious in the closing years of the eighteenth century, when the scientific ambitions of many cartographers (often members of learned societies and experts in other disciplines) and of the discipline of cartography itself became more defined. This double loyalty solidified a fundamental problem of military cartography: the rapid and direct tension between the time available for a given task and the level of completion and precision achievable in that time. It was the duty of the cartographer-officer to resolve that problem in the most advantageous manner possible by choosing an adequate level of precision and by furnishing the best possible document to the military command. The primary goal of supporting martial activity certainly set limits on cartographic achievement, forcing its ends to be adapted to contingent circumstances. However, the contradictions were not as marked as one might suppose, for war was also very demanding scientifically. Support of military action required a surprising amount of information and placed a high value on precision. As siege warfare gradually gave way to a more mobile warfare (ca. 1740s), the high level of expertise developed for fortification architecture extended to the terrain, where armies henceforth were grouped and confronted one another. As the mass of potentially useful information grew, cartography became its principal

Military Cartography

mode of visual representation. It was not the military character of cartography that limited the scientific ambitions of cartographers but rather the time available to complete it. This same temporal dimension inevitably affected the conception and production of maps in many ways. If space was represented in relation to a military action or event, it was also represented in time. This necessary relationship led to original technical solutions, as in the case of battlefield plans where successive positions of the opposing armies were indicated by different reproductions of the same topographic background with the troops displacement indicated by arrows. However, the temporal dimension was not limited to maps or plans representing an event. It entered into all types of military cartography, whether conceived to prepare for a future action or to study an action in the past. The military cartographer had to have the imagination to envision the movement of armies in the terrain he was representing and to insert details essential to their operations. He had to see the space at the moment of action and represent it on a map. Typology Despite the characteristics shared by military cartographic production in the eighteenth century, its typology remains extremely varied. Military engineers produced a wide range of different cartographic documents as well as attached texts and memoirs. Paintings of battles or other representations in frontal view, such as those of besieged fortresses, also figured among complementary documents but will not be considered here. The fortification plan represented at a very large scale a fortified building and the surrounding terrain. Produced initially in manuscript and sometimes printed commercially after war’s end, it was the fundamental product of military cartography from the end of the seventeenth century until the middle of the eighteenth. Its purpose was essentially defensive. Coastal maps and the cartographic representations of ports met this same demand. Clearly, a detailed plan of a fortification and its surroundings was a valuable document and was intended to be kept secret. The decline of the secrecy surrounding these documents may, moreover, be read as a sign of their decreasing strategic importance. The construction and maintenance of fortifications was a principal responsibility of military engineers, in addition to undertaking topographical operations. In this context, cartographic representation was just one aspect of a larger activity, undertaken by a corps of personnel whose functions were not yet differentiated. Only in France, the country at the forefront in the development of military cartography and fortifications, was there (beginning in 1691) a group of engineers, ingénieur géographes militaires, specially charged with topographi-

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cal operations, but their progressive autonomy was marked by numerous conflicts (Berthaut 1902; Gibiat 2001). The representation of fortified buildings, as well as cities, remained important even when siege warfare was abandoned. Attention then shifted to the battle zone or encampment, but the representation of the fortress or the walled city still remained necessary, as fortresses constituted strategic elements in a war zone and invited defense or attack. So the list of priorities was reversed. In the seventeenth century and the first half of the eighteenth, the center of cartographic representation was the fortified zone, with the surrounding terrain depicted only in relation to it. Between 1750 and 1760 the terrain itself became the focus, with fortifications shown simply as part of the mass of topography (fig. 544). The plan of a fortified zone also provided the foundation for the cartographic representation of sieges. Siege plans often included the position of the besieging troops as well as the lines of fire for both sides. The siege was directly inserted into the representation, albeit in a static and schematic fashion. Frontal views of attacks might also be included, as well as other similar views that often gave architectural details; all belong to the system

of military cartography. During the eighteenth century, there was no standardized distinction between perspective view versus plan, although a clear trend in the direction of the plan can be discerned. The truly exclusive and institutional choice of the zenithal projection (or plan) in military cartography occurred only in 1802 in France, when it was decreed by the Commission topographique, which brought together in Paris the directors of different cartographic institutions. This decision did not, however, suppress representation by frontal view or by pictorial representation; both continued to play a documentary role in conjunction with topographic plans at least through the era of the Napoleonic Wars. It was the mixture of plan and view, or, to put it another way, the mixed use of several types of representation (e.g., orthogonal plan and bird’s-eye view) on the same map or plan that was proposed for elimination. This mixture of plan and view was widespread throughout the eighteenth century in both civil and military cartography and was used for representing buildings and cities other than those that were the focus of the map. For example, the plan of the siege of Guelders from 1703 (fig. 545) shows the city under attack in plan form, with

Fig. 544. GEORGES-HENRI-VICTOR COLLOT, “RECONNOISSANCE DES ENVIRONS DE ST. OMER ET D’UN CAMP DE COMMODITÉ PROPRE À UN RASSEMBLEMENT DE TROUPES PENDANT LA PAIX,” 25 SEPTEMBER 1785. The fortified city of Saint-Omer, which once would

have been pictured at the center of the whole map, is now relegated to the right side, while attention is centered on the area of the camp de commodité. Size of the original: 55 × 98 cm. © Service historique de la Défense, Vincennes (GR 1 M 1052-21).

FIG. 545. GUELDRE: CAPITALE DE LA GUELDRE PRUSSIENNE, ATTAQUÉES ET PRISE EN 1703. PAR LES TROUPES DU ROY DE PRUSSE. The approximate character of the representation of terrain transforms depictions into

symbols: the rectangular, stereotyped fields symbolize cultivated lands rather than representing them. Size of the original: 42 × 35 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 3553).

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the remaining buildings represented in view. Throughout the century, elements shown in view gradually evolved into symbols. No longer were specific buildings represented in frontal view; rather a topographic sign designating buildings was inserted to indicate their presence. The same process evolved for symbols designating trees or crops. The Commission topographique of 1802 determined that certain symbols in frontal representation would be maintained and others replaced. Nevertheless, their insertion was part of a detailed orographic representation for which symbols provided information that color and shading could not. On the contrary, in the plan of the siege of Guelders, details of terrain were shown so approximately that even this representation became symbolic. Juxtaposed squares marked cultivated land in contrast to marshes, which were depicted more irregularly but equally stereotyped. In this plan there

was no desire to depict faithfully the appearance of all types of terrain; it sufficed to contrast cultivated land with swamp—landscapes that offered different challenges to passing troops. Even higher-quality and more detailed plans of sieges focused on similar information and tended toward similarly stereotyped figuration. The plan of the siege of Philipsbourg of 1734 (fig. 546) achieved detailed representation of the fortification, but the terrain remained merely a white background on which only the troops and a corner of forest were symbolically placed. Siege plans are more difficult to analyze, for they were often the victims of their own success. Manuscript maps produced by soldiers were certainly copied (by agreement with the author), collated, and even sometimes juxtaposed with other representations. This is the case with plan of the 1741 siege of Prague, found in

Fig. 546. ACCURATESTE U. WAHRE ABBILDUNG DES FRANZÖSISCHE LAGERS . . . VOR DER HAUPT VESTUNG PHILIPSBURG, 1734. There is a sharp contrast between the perfection of detail in the fortification and the generic representation of the terrain.

Size of the original: 29 × 39 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 4894).

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Military Cartography

Fig. 547. KRIEGS-EXPEDITIONS-KARTE IN BÖHMEN = CARTE DES EXPEDITIONS DE GUERRE EN BOHEME, 1743. From the Atlas d’Allemagne by Homann Heirs. The map depicts the end of the siege of Prague, which fell 26  November 1741. In the insets, two different representa-

tions by different engineers of earlier moments in the siege are juxtaposed. Size of the original: 50 × 59 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge CC 1280 [53]).

the Atlas d’Allemagne (1743) by Homann Heirs, which contains two plans of the same siege, each a different rendition (fig. 547). One of them, drawn by the French engineer Sinsart, perhaps served as the source of the other, which is drawn in view. Detailed analyses of the successive stages of copying and compilation (legitimate or otherwise) for siege plans, a genre so widespread and commercialized, would require deep textual analysis for each representation. Like the plan of a siege, the plan of a battle is a cartographic document that directly presents the action

of war. Conceived after the fact, it divides events into phases so that they can be individually studied and reveal the mechanics of the battle. Increasingly popular from the 1740s, the battle plan incorporated new types of information, which posed new problems. Before troop symbols could be placed on the map, the cartographer—usually a military topographer—had to establish with certitude the time and sequence of when troops took their positions. Since the action was no longer limited to the immediate surroundings of the fortress, the possibilities of movement increased and concurrently

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the difficulty of correctly reproducing them. Overseen by the commander, the cartographer was responsible for locating symbols according to official reports, other documentary sources, and verbal testimony. He then established a plan that fixed the image of the battle for study and for memory. In this context, even the limits of the terrain represented posed problems. To define them required determining the boundaries of the unfolding military action and consequently omitting zones whose representation would not be useful. Nevertheless, such “useless” terrain did find a place in military cartography on maps drawn at smaller scales depicting the army’s march. However, the location of the battle had to be represented in detail to allow for an accurate representation of troop movements (fig. 548). Open-field battle, a dynamic event, could not be represented in a static fashion, since the science of war—for which the battle plan provided the essential document of study—became essentially a science of movement during this period. Various

solutions emerged for technical problems of showing movement, which have been analyzed for the Napoleonic era (Palsky 1996). The arrangement of arrows on a single sheet was the most economical approach, while the juxtaposition of multiple images showing successive troop positions was the most common solution. The latter approach sometimes employed multiple frames grouped on the same page or on successive sheets, as in the plans created for the Relation de la bataille de Marengo by Louis-Alexandre Berthier (1805). Berthier, Napoleon’s minister of war, added a series of four plans plus a large-scale map and a view “indicating the different troop movements, surveyed geometrically by the ingénieurs géographes of the Dépôt général de la guerre,” allowing the reader to follow the account of the battle (quote on title page). The ingénieurs géographes who undertook the survey also determined the positions of troops on the plans, verified and corrected afterward by Berthier (Pansini 2002, 23, 394–97).

Fig. 548. GIUSEPPE PIETRO BAGETTI, SKETCH OF THE VIEW OF THE BATTLE OF MARENGO. From “Instructions faites par le chef de section Martinel dans les campagnes de l’an 11 et 12 pour les vues des champs de batailles tant français qu’ennemis.” Bagetti chose a perspective higher than the true point of observation in order to allow for the representa-

tion of troops on the plain of Marengo in June 1800. Those overseeing the Dépôt de la Guerre rejected the first painting based upon this sketch because it was illegible. Size of the original: ca. 20 × 34 cm. Licensed by the Ministero dei beni e delle attività culturali e del turismo–Musei Reali Torino (MSS. Saluzzo 248).

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Berthier was a member of one of the great French cartographic families of the eighteenth century—the eldest son of Jean-Baptiste Berthier, who had been the head of the king’s ingénieurs géographes and the director of the celebrated Carte topographique des environs de Versailles. Louis-Alexandre Berthier had entered service as an ingénieur géographe at the age of fourteen and had served in this capacity during the American campaigns of the army of Jean-Baptiste-Donatien de Vimeur, comte de Rochambeau, accompanied by his very young brother (Rice 1972, 1:191–282). Studying Berthier’s work reveals the function of the battle plan. As a commemorative document, it played an important role in a small volume dedicated to a battle that was politically significant though tactically uninteresting. Parallel productions of battle views and other pictorial works could lead interpreters to emphasize the commemorative function and not to consider the scientific role of such cartography. While one should not ignore the battle plan’s commemorative value (since the document, once created, could subsequently be used in different contexts), one should note that its creation was motivated primarily by the need to document the battle. The contradictions incorporated within it arose in particular from the divided loyalties of the mapmakers—cartographers and painters—who were sometimes forced to choose between military priorities and the requirements of their own disciplines (Godlewska, Létourneau, and Schauerte 2005; Pansini 2002, 212–25). As to painting, one should distinguish between a view— a genre of painting that was primarily documentary, rendered according to nature and assuming a value of reliable testimony—and the great historical paintings, which were more valued as a genre but were created in a workshop and not based on nature (Milizia 1797, 2:277). Both genres might represent war, but the first represented the battle and the second the drama of combat (Lavezzi 1999, 372). These different objectives yielded two different genres of painting, and only the first, which presented the disposition of troops, the terrain, and movement, was directly related to military cartography. The battle plans and siege plans, whether manuscript or printed, were often accompanied by more general maps, sometimes called maps of troop movement, campaign maps, or maps of the theater of war. These were small-scale maps, compiled from a variety of sources and usually printed, which provided a composite view of the whole zone in which troops were moving and where the entire military campaign was unfolding. As indicated by their titles, these maps were geared toward either study or commemoration but were nonetheless necessary for understanding a campaign and comprehending its phases. Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet, in his work on moun-

Military Cartography

tain warfare, went so far as to insert a general map to illustrate an imaginary campaign (fig. 549). These smallscale printed maps, often inserted in atlases, were usually copied from other medium- to small-scale general maps. But cartographers following armies on campaign were charged to prepare a type of map called a carte de marches. As the army moved along, the military topographers surveyed the surrounding terrain, their precision determined by their methods. They constructed their maps in a linear, nearly two-dimensional fashion, based on the surveyed valley or portion of the route. These sketches were assembled later in the camp or cabinet, then used for constructing a carte de marches, one of the cartographic tasks of a campaign, such as preparing plans of encampments, that was not directly linked to combat. The originals of these manuscript documents are rare in modern collections, for such sketches were not meant to be saved. Serving as the basis for more developed maps, they risked being destroyed, thus sharing the fate of many intermediate documents of cartographic production. The same situation applies to the preservation of reconnaissance maps, although preparation of these maps was fundamental for military cartography. Right before a battle, an officer with topographic talent was responsible for reconnoitering locations to anticipate where the armies would fight and with which units. This reconnaissance resulted in a manuscript sketch, to which a short, written document might be added, that was presented to the general. The officer might also make notes on a preexisting plan in order to verify it. Urgency and the presence of the enemy certainly limited the possibility of exactitude. The importance of the work seemed inversely proportional to its possible precision. Reconnaissance was entrusted to the most experienced men; it allowed the talent of a military topographer to be recognized. But the manuscript documents produced, so valuable for the preparation of military action, had little in common with a finished map. In addition, the circumstances of conservation condemned them. Since these sketches were prepared in time of war, submitted in secret, and used during the heat of conflict, they were rarely conserved. Although hundreds of maps and plans preserved in archives and libraries bear the title “reconnaissance,” they very seldom correspond to productions made on the eve of battle. Their titles might indicate a later reworking of wartime reconnaissance or simply a document of limited precision. In addition, a true reconnaissance map always focused on the preparation for a battle or an encampment or choosing terrain for construction. Naming a cartographic document a “reconnaissance” map was a means to emphasize its function. The peacetime counterpart to wartime reconnaissance was spying operations, which required the same carto-

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Fig. 549. PIERRE-JOSEPH DE BOURCET, CARTE RELATIVE A LA GUERRE FACTICE, 1775. Bourcet used this map concerning an imaginary war as a model for explaining mountain warfare. From Bourcet 1888, vol. 2, pl. 32.

© The British Library Board, London (General Reference Collection 8827.k.8).

graphic talent and military appraisal, and the resulting documents suffered the same fate. Survey operations also occurred during peacetime. When engineers and military cartographers were not occupied by wartime labors, they participated in organized geometric surveys and thus produced maps of great precision. These highly technical maps (particularly those mapping mountains) focused on the frontier zones. Since armies confronted one another near the frontiers, access to these zones had to be denied to the enemy, defenses had to be organized, and finally, the army had to coordinate its movement and supplies near the border. For these reasons, military cartographers maintained a monopoly on the survey and representation of frontier zones, sometimes at the cost of conflicts with civil authorities (Pelletier 1990, 2001). The highest level of secrecy was applied to these documents. After 1789, and even more during the wars of conquest in the Napoleonic era, the situation changed radically. Frontiers were

crossed, confrontations took place in zones that had never been surveyed, and the terrain that was considered important to map was not the same anymore. The example of the French-Savoy frontier helps illuminate these changes. The alpine border, considered of the highest importance, had been the object of one of the most famous military surveys of the eighteenth century, begun in 1749 by Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet. But this same frontier was only peripheral to confrontations in 1795, when French troops bypassed the area, traveling along the Nice and Ligurian coasts to reach the valleys south of the Piedmont where the first great battles of this campaign took place. The almost complete lack of reliable documents for these areas swiftly became evident. Cartographic demands increased as the movements of the armies broadened in scope and separated them from their supply centers. All these factors required logistical autonomy that only a detailed knowledge of local resources could make possible. By the end of the 1700s,

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the military machine carried to the extreme the trends already highlighted earlier in the century: harnessing topographical knowledge to allow the command to see, know, and control everything. The last type of military cartography is a written document: the memoir. Sometimes called the military memoir and later the statistical memoir, it assembled data that the map alone could not convey. In 1763 Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson explained how to prepare them and what information merited inclusion. His list was not short: local population figures; number of mills, horses, and wagons; the nature of local commerce and the character of the land were just a few of the “principal items that should constitute the foundation of a memoir connected to a map drawn up for military service” (Dupain de Montesson 1763, 185). The memoir recorded facts relating to past conflicts that had taken place in the battle zone. For military analysis of a locale, a record of past battles was important. Whether it provided statistical or historical data, the textual memoir was thus conceived as an appendix to the map, permitting the study of a battle zone according to consistent rules of military science. Perception and Control As European theaters of conflict broadened after the abandonment of siege warfare, cartographic documents and their annexed material fulfilled the need to see and register increasing quantities of information. Although everything was potentially useful for warfare, it was impossible to collect all relevant information. The central principle of military cartography was the regulation of the collection of information by adopting the most productive balance possible between satisfactory precision or detail and the time available to achieve it. The result was a trend toward idealization of both perception and control, two closely linked ideas that structured military thought in the eighteenth century. This system of thought joined cartographic practices to the heart of warfare. Seeing is the first act in cartographic labor. The operation of perception precedes and permits that of reproduction. Writings and manuals by military topographers in the eighteenth century (e.g., Brück 1767; Dupain de Montesson 1763; Verkaven 1811) often evoked the desire to overcome any physical barriers limiting the possibilities of perception, whether endemic to the human organism or integral to the exterior world. The methods used proved the continual force exerted against these limits, which were often called “deformations.” Sight limits were used to evaluate distances, for it was known at what distance under particular conditions an observed object became indistinct. Further, based on experience and the establishment of analogies, one could deduce the form of terrain hidden from view (or that one

Military Cartography

had insufficient time to traverse) from known, nearby terrain. Perfect vision—which had no limitations—remained the constant reference point for the military topographer, who was an incarnation of the sense of sight. He operated like a detached organ, an eye capable of autonomous perception. Connections with theories of perception in the age of Enlightenment, from René Descartes to John Locke, Étienne Bonnot de Condillac, and Denis Diderot are evident, even if the precise relationship is quite difficult to establish (Crary 1990; Hatfield 1990, 8–9). The eye, which was the topographer, nonetheless had to remain connected to the brain by direct and privileged communication in order use the information gained through perception. The brain was thus the general who, charged with the task of command, could manage the information sent to him by the eye in order to obtain final victory. The communication between the topographer and the general incorporated an idealized perception linked to idealized control: the act of complete perception was motivated by the act of total control. In fact, the battle was still conceived as a kind of duel between opposing commanders who would commit to the action all the means at their disposal by their own will. Once knowledge of all details was acquired, their application to the action at hand was thought to be possible without any other precondition. Such total knowledge leads naturally to the core of cartographic idealism: reproduction at a scale of 1:1, a document that so closely corresponds to reality that the possession of one equals the possession of the other. In order for the control and management of data to be thought possible, the cartographer nonetheless had to translate the perceived reality not only into cartographic language but into the language of military cartography (Pansini 2003). His chosen symbols did not refer simply to a perceived object, but to this object in its relation to the army’s needs. By providing information about the terrain that could be used in battle, cartography offered a technical means for the headquarters to control action during war and to understand it afterward. Cartography lay at the heart of the system—a tool permitting the perception of war despite its immense complexity (fig. 550). The role of the military cartographer in such a situation may be compared to statistical investigation, in particular the descriptive statistics of eighteenth-century Germany (Garner 2006). The art of government and the art of war both aimed at control and employed parallel technical means to reach the necessary prerequisite for such control: knowledge. The documents emanating from these two scientific practices—statistical investigations on the one hand and memoirs connected with military maps on the other—resembled one another in substance and appearance, but they differed in their im-

Military Cartography

Fig. 550. ENGRAVED FRONTISPIECE FROM P. P. A. BARDET DE VILLENEUVE, TRAITÉ DE L’ARCHITECTURE MILITAIRE (THE HAGUE: JEAN VAN DUREN, 1741). The work is volume 5 of Bardet de Villeneuve’s Cours de la science militaire. The goddess Minerva stands before a scene of battle while putti use maps, a globe, and geometric instruments. Image courtesy of the ETH–Bibliothek Zürich, Archives and Private Collections (Rar 7516).

mediate goals and probably also in their relations with the object represented. Military cartography in fact represented an attitude more closely aligned with probability because it was more pragmatic: “in the sciences whose goal is to teach how one should act, one may, as in the conduct of life, content himself with greater or lesser probabilities, . . . the true method therefore consists less in searching out rigorously proven truths than in choosing between probable propositions, and especially in knowing how to evaluate their degree of probability” (Condorcet 1784, 50–51). In the eighteenth century, mil-

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itary cartography was a science whose goal was to define how one should act and which, in its practices, chose to evaluate degrees of probability rather than to seek a rigorous demonstration of truth. This may be observed in the practice of measurement correction during a survey (operations continued not to the point of obtaining the perfect measurement, but to the point that the margin of error was small enough for the measurement to be useable) or in the investigation of resources (the quantities of interest were not the “true” quantities but those reported by the inhabitants, which indicated the useable quantity) ([Bourcet]1875; Dupain de Montesson 1763). Controlling error was a sufficient foundation for action, and it allowed engagement with the enormous quantity of data that one aimed to treat, translate, and include in a cartographic document. This leads to reflection on the nature of a map, what it aims to be, and, especially for the purpose of our analysis, how it should be evaluated. What is the measure of a map’s precision? Is it the correspondence with reality or the relationship between the means applied and the preestablished goal of its production? The rhetoric of “precision” or “accuracy” may not only be anachronistic but completely out of step with the documents and their function. “It mattered little to soldiers whether the earth was, according to Descartes and Leibniz, a little stagnant sun, or, according to Buffon, a splatter from the Sun itself” (Anonymous 1803, iii). What did matter to a soldier was the ability to represent the earth in order to command. However, knowledge was not merely a side effect of the science of war. The dialectic between knowledge and military demands was constant throughout the eighteenth century, and it aroused conflicts that by the century’s end clarified the tendency of military cartography to affirm its autonomy from the goal of military victory. These conflicts also concerned the place of cartography in the art of war. Among military writers are found not only numerous justifications of the central importance of cartography, but also their exact opposite, that is that war might be reduced to its geometric principles (Bülow 1801). If this conflict had no victor, it was nonetheless clear that when cartography and military cartographers detached themselves from the principal focus of warfare in their quest for scientific autonomy, cartography lost, almost by renunciation, its central place in the system of war. The result would become evident in the nineteenth century, when the trend grew for military cartography to produce documents of very high precision but more and more comparable and parallel to those of civil cartography. Va leri a Pansini See also: Engineers and Topographical Surveys; Military and Topographical Surveys; Military Map; Modes of Cartographic Practice; Topographical Surveying

966 Bibliograp hy Anonymous. 1803. “Avant-propos.” Mémorial Topographique et Militaire, rédigé au Dépôt Général de la Guerre, no. 5:iii–lii. Berthaut, Henri Marie August. 1902. Les ingénieurs géographes militaires, 1624–1831: Étude historique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Service Géographique. Berthier, Louis-Alexandre. 1805. Relation de la bataille de Marengo, gagnée le 25 Prairial an 8, par Napoléon Bonaparte, Premier Consul, commandant en personne l’armée française de réserve, sur les Autrichiens. Paris: Imprimerie Impériale. [Bourcet, Pierre-Joseph de]. 1875. Mémoire sur les reconnaissances militaires, attribués au général Bourcet. Paris: Librairie Militaire de Jean Dumaine. ———. 1888. Principes de la guerre de montagnes . . . 1775. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. Brück, Gottlob Friedrich von. 1767. Vortheile eine Situation zum militairischen Gebrauch aufzunehmen und zu zeichnen. Dresden: Walther. Bulatov, V. E., Catherine Delano-Smith, and Francis Herbert. 2001. “Andrew Dury’s Map of the Present Seat of War, between the Russians, Poles, and Turks (1769).” Imago Mundi 53:71–82. Bülow, Dietrich Heinrich von. 1801. Esprit du système de guerre moderne, destiné aux jeunes militaires. Trans. Léger-Marie-Philippe Tranchant-Laverne. Paris: Bernard, Levrault, Magimel, Firmin Didot. Condorcet, Jean-Antoine-Nicolas de Caritat de. 1784. Éloge de M. d’Alembert: Lu dans l’assemblée publique de l’Académie des sciences, le 21 avril 1784. Paris: Moutard. Crary, Jonathan. 1990. Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century. Cambridge: MIT Press. Dupain de Montesson, Louis Charles. 1763. L’art de lever les plans de tout ce qui a rapport à la guerre, & à l’architecture civile & champêtre. Paris: Ch. Amt. Jombert. Garner, Guillaume. 2006. “La représentation de l’espace dans les discours économique et géographique en Allemagne au XVIIIe siècle.” In Géographies plurielles: Les sciences géographiques au moment de l’émergence des sciences humaines (1750–1850), ed. Hélène Blais and Isabelle Laboulais, 217–34. Paris: L’Harmattan. Gibiat, Samuel. 2001. “Dépôt de la Guerre et Dépôt des Fortifications: Deux fonds d’archives techniques à vocation historique.” In Portefeuilles de plans: Projets et dessins d’ingénieurs militaires en Europe du XVIe au XIXe siècle, ed. Vincent Maroteaux and Émilie d’Orgeix, 93–105. Bourges: Conseil Général du Cher. Godlewska, Anne, Marcus R. Létourneau, and Paul Schauerte. 2005. “Maps, Paintings and Lies: Portraying Napoleon’s Battlefields in Northern Italy.” Imago Mundi 57:149–63. Hatfield, Gary. 1990. The Natural and the Normative: Theories of Spatial Perception from Kant to Helmholtz. Cambridge: MIT Press. Lavezzi, Élisabeth. 1999. “Tuer en peinture: Le tableau de bataille dans les discours au XVIIIe siècle (salons, dictionnaires, biographies).” In L’armée au XVIIIe siècle (1715–1789), ed. Geneviève GoubierRobert, 371–81. Aix-en-Provence: Publications de l’Université de Provence. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la Principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. Marshall, Douglas W. 1980. “Military Maps of the EighteenthCentury and the Tower of London Drawing Room.” Imago Mundi 32:21–44. Milizia, Francesco. 1797. Dizionario delle belle arti del disegno, estratto in gran parte dalla Enciclopedia metodica. 2 vols. Bassano: N.p. Palsky, Gilles. 1996. “Les ‘cartes de guerre’ sous le Consulat et l’Empire.” In La cartografia francesa, 111–26. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya.

Military Cartography Pansini, Valeria. 2002. “L’oeil du topographe et la science de la guerre: Travail scientifique et perception militaire (1760–1820).” PhD diss., École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris. ———. 2003. “Pratique de la description militaire: L’exemple des topographes de l’armée française (1760–1820).” In Pratiques de la description, ed. Giorgio Blundo and Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan, 115–34. Paris: Édition de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. ———. 2006. “La géographie appliquée à la guerre: Le travail des topographes militaires (1760–1820).” In Géographies plurielles: Les sciences géographiques au moment de l’émergence des sciences humaines (1750–1850), ed. Hélène Blais and Isabelle Laboulais, 167–83. Paris: L’Harmattan. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pelletier, Monique. 1990. La carte de Cassini: L’extraordinaire aventure de la carte de France. Paris: Presses de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées. ———. 2001. Cartographie de la France et du monde de la Renaissance au siècle des Lumières. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Postnikov, Aleksey V. 2000. “The Russian Navy as Chartmaker in the Eighteenth Century.” Imago Mundi 52:79–95. Rice, Howard C., and Anne S. K. Brown, trans. and eds. 1972. The American Campaigns of Rochambeau’s Army, 1780, 1781, 1782, 1783. 2 vols. Princeton: Princeton University Press; Providence: Brown University Press. Verkaven, J. J. 1811. L’art de lever les plans: Appliqué à tout ce qui a rapport à la guerre, à la navigation et à l’architecture civile et rurale. 2d ed. Paris: Barrois. First published 1804 as a new ed. of Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson, L’art de lever les plans (first published 1763), revised, corrected, and augmented by Verkaven. Warmoes, Isabelle, Émilie d’Orgeix, and Charles van den Heuvel, eds. 2003. Atlas militaires manuscrits européens (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles): Forme, contenu, contexte de réalisation et vocations. Paris: Musée des Plans-Reliefs.

Military Cartography and Topographical Surveying by the Austrian Monarchy. Until well into the second half

of the seventeenth century, military cartography played only a relatively minor role in the Austrian monarchy. In the event of war, military commanders had at their disposal dessineurs (draftsmen) who recorded positions, marches, and troop movements cartographically. They mapped the terrain on both sides of the marching lines, sketched reconnaissance, and recorded the battlefield during confrontations. In peacetime, military cartographers were mainly employed in the construction of fortresses. By the end of the seventeenth century, military cartographers had gained in prominence over civilian cartographers due to the second siege of Vienna by the Turks (1683) and the subsequent offensive war against the Ottoman Empire (1683–99), events that led Prince Eugene of Savoy to promote military cartography. In the first half of the eighteenth century, the Austrian monarchy relied almost exclusively on military officers and engineers for its cartographic production, and they subsequently provided the majority of maps and plans. The officers of the quartermaster general’s staff (Gene-

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ralquartiermeisterstab) were responsible for all military mapping, with the exception of fortifications. From the mid-eighteenth century, cartography was practiced for the most part within military structures in the Austrian monarchy. In 1758, the quartermaster general’s staff, which had previously been disbanded after each military campaign, was established as a permanent institution. Its most important task in peacetime was to survey territories, to compile military-related land descriptions, and to make maps. From then on, only officers with a proven aptitude for cartographic work were commissioned. The imperial government’s order for the first all-country survey from May 1764, conducted by the quartermaster general’s staff, marked the beginning of official military cartography in Austria. Until 1918, military cartographers shaped most small-scale cartographic activity in Austria. Their work became the basis for and source of private sector civilian cartography. A distinction between civilian small-scale cartography and military cartography along traditional lines does not seem useful during the Enlightenment. Due to the immense importance of military cartographers in terms of on-site surveying and cartographic representation of the Austrian monarchy (undertaken partly on behalf of civilian government institutions), “military cartography” is deliberately understood to be broader here than, for example, the term “military map” (“any map on either a large or a small scale made for military use or to show the results of military actions”; Wallis and Robinson 1987, 114). It is also different from Johannes Dörflinger’s (1984) classification of eighteenthcentury maps into “military cartography,” “civil cartography,” and “private commercial cartography” based on the concepts of “client” and “map purpose.” This entry looks at military cartography in two ways: the surveying and mapping projects commissioned on behalf of military commanders or institutions for military purposes regardless of whether they were carried out by military personnel or by civilian cartographers, and the surveying and mapping projects carried out by military personnel on behalf of civilian governmental institutions. Not considered here are cartographic products made by military personnel for private commercial purposes (e.g., for private publishing houses) and commercial cartographic materials that reflected military events, which may have been drafted by military or civilian cartographers (for example, maps of military campaigns, battle plans, and war atlases), which may be found in other entries in this volume. Military cartography started as early as the middle of the sixteenth century, primarily in the form of local surveys of fortifications. Natale, Nicolo, and Paolo Angielini from Milan made several manuscript maps of the Croatian, Slavonian, and Hungarian border areas

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with the Ottoman Empire, as well as maps of other Austrian border regions and of the Hungarian battleground (Pálffy 2011). Regular cartographic activity at the borders of the Austrian monarchy and the Ottoman Empire had already begun in the middle of the sixteenth century. The resulting manuscript cartographic representations were updated from time to time. Military cartography, in the sense defined above, became more established and tangible in the seventeenth century, mainly due to the military threat from the Ottoman Empire, which bordered on the Austria monarchy in southern and eastern Hungary at that time, and the subsequent wars with the Ottoman Empire (fourth Austro-Turkish War, 1661–64) through survey work connected to the installation of fortresses for defense and warfare. Numerous large-scale city and fortification plans, medium-scale maps of the vicinities of cities and fortresses, and smaller-scale maps of different zones were drafted by military cartographers in the area of the so-called Militärgrenze (military frontier), a region of varying width along the south, southeast, and eastern borders of the Austrian monarchy, which, irrespective of its constitutional affiliation with the Hungarian Crown, was used by the military administration to defend against the Turkish threat. Beyond a few names, little information exists about the authors of these cartographic representations, but Giovanni Battista Pieroni da Galiano, Johann Ledentu, and Martin Stier are especially well known. From 1636 to 1639, the Innerösterreichischer Geheimer Kriegsrat placed Pieroni in charge of reports on the state of walled cities and towns in Croatia, Carniola, Styria, and Istria, including suggestions for their improvement. His 1639 report contained a number of completed manuscript plans and views. Ledentu’s manuscript views and plans of fortified towns and villages in Hungary and in the border area with the Ottoman Empire also survive, drawn in 1639 on the order of Emperor Ferdinand III (Krompotic 1997). From 1657 to 1660 Stier carried out imperial orders by inspecting fortified towns and settlements in Styria, Carniola, Croatia, and the Habsburg possessions on the Adriatic. He wrote descriptions of the conditions of fortifications, suggested improvements, and made cost estimates, which he enhanced with numerous large-scale plans and maps (fig. 551). Stier also produced drawings and plans of fortifications in Bohemia, boundary maps, and a map of Hungary and the neighboring areas, which was reproduced as a copper engraving in 1664 and 1684 (Nischer 1925, 25–26). In the second half of the seventeenth century, the advance of the Turks to the north, the second siege of Vienna, and the war against the Ottoman Empire led to an upsurge of military cartography in the Austrian

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Fig. 551. MARTIN STIER, “ABRISS DER VÖSTUNG CARLSTADT SAMBT DEN VORLIGEN DEN WACHTEN UND PÖSSTEN,” IN HIS “RELATION UND BERICHT,” 1660. Ink on paper, hand colored, ca. 1:90,000. Map of the southern vicinity of the fortress Carlstadt (today Karlovac) with several

military-related elements with regard to defensive fortifications against the Ottoman troops. Size of the original: 37.5 × 50.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Sammlung von Handschriften und alten Drucken, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (Cod. 8608, fol. 74r).

monarchy. Mostly under the orders of Prince Eugene (commander in chief of the imperial army and, from 1703, president of the Hofkriegsrat), military engineers over the course of numerous wars produced a considerable number and variety of maps, especially fortification plans, siege plans, and war and boundary maps. Standing out among them are several siege plans of Vienna by Daniel Suttinger, as well as by Leander Anguissola (Broucek, Hillbrand, and Vesely 1983); the map of Transylvania with several cartographic elements related to the recent campaigns against the Ottoman troops drawn by Giovanni Morando Visconti and printed in 1699 (Plihál 2000); and the map of the new border with the Ottoman Empire after the Treaty of Karlowitz, drawn in 1706 by Johann Christoph Müller (see fig. 101). Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli and Müller made astronomical lo-

cation measurements and surveys in Hungary, Croatia, and Slavonia; drew maps of these areas; and produced, among other things, a detailed map of the Danube between Kahlenberg, near Vienna, and the mouth of the Yantra River in northern Bulgaria, finally published in 1726 (see fig. 530). For the training of Austrian military engineers, who were now responsible for cartographic work, the Militär-Ingenieurakademie was founded in 1717 in Vienna, with Anguissola as director and Johann Jakob Marinoni, surveyor, cartographer, and court mathematician, as his deputy. They instituted a curriculum of theoretical and practical surveying and of map drawing at the highest level. Commissioned by Emperor Joseph I, Anguissola  and Marinoni drafted a detailed map of Vienna based  on

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surveys conducted in 1703–4 and printed in 1706 (Mokre 1995a). Werner Arnold Steinhausen drafted another survey-based manuscript map of the city of Vienna in 1710—presumably on behalf of the Lower Austrian Estates (Mokre 1995b). Numerous militarized conflicts in the first half of the eighteenth century (War of the Spanish Succession, wars against the Ottoman Empire, War of the Polish Succession, War of the Austrian Succession) caused engineer officers to draft copious maps and plans of the war theaters in Flanders, Sicily, and Walachia. Of particular note are the operation maps of the campaigns of Prince Eugene on the upper Rhine (1702–13), in southern Germany (1702–12), and in Hungary (1716), and some battle plans and operation maps of Sicily (1718–20) drafted by Cyriak Blödner (Bonacker 1957). During the war against Spain, troops were to reconquer Sicily. On the imperial command from Austrian engineer officers, Samuel von Schmettau was commissioned to draft a map of Sicily, Malta, and Gozo based on surveys in 1719–21 (Dufour 1995; Hühnel 1995) (see fig. 305). In 1722 military cartographer Friedrich Schwantz (later von Springfels) drew a map of Lesser Walachia (Holban 1997). A map of the Banat of Temeswar made on the orders of Prince Eugene by D. Haring in 1723 still survives. In 1733 and 1734, Johann Conrad von Weiss undertook a major topographic survey in Transylvania. But even in peacetime, military cartographers were entrusted with important cartographic work. Emperor Joseph I wanted a survey of his lands and transferred this task to Johann Christoph Müller, who had already achieved great acclaim as a military cartographer. Müller drafted a map of Hungary and Transylvania (retaken from the Turks) that was engraved on copper and printed in 1709. Müller also made maps of Moravia (1716) and Bohemia (1722). Müller died in 1721 before completing his map of Silesia, but his work was continued by Johann Wolfgang Wieland and Matthäus von Schubarth and published in 1752 (Konias 1995). The Estates mainly provided the financing of these four national maps, but the Hofkriegsrat also made a financial contribution. In 1747, those engineer officers working as fortress builders, surveyors, and cartographers in the imperial army were combined into a special military unit, the k. k. Geniekorps (Imperial and Royal Engineering Corps). The Austrian monarchy, consisting of the Austrian hereditary lands, the lands of the Hungarian Crown, the Austrian Netherlands, and the Austrian possessions in Italy, always had a decentralized structure managed by civil governments, which only shared a sovereign and supreme authority for the conduct of foreign affairs of war and finances. Correspondingly, there had only been a need for maps of individual territories, not for a unified cartographic representation of the whole. Military

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necessity, however, made the preparation of such a map compulsory. For this reason, officers destined for the newly founded Geniekorps drafted and designed a large general map of Habsburg landholdings even before the corps was officially established (Regele 1947). In 1750, Constantin Johann Walter, who produced numerous maps and plans for military purposes, executed an accurate survey of the city of Vienna. This was most likely done under the auspices of the Ingenieurcorps, which was responsible for supervising fortifications. Based on his survey, Walter drafted a map that focused on a detailed representation of the fortifications of Vienna (Ulbrich 1955–56) (fig. 552). In addition, Empress Maria Theresa commissioned Walter to include a detailed survey of the border area between the two Habsburg territories of Lower Austria and Hungary. He completed these projects between 1754 and 1756 and drew a highly detailed map of the area in 1756 (Ulbrich 1952). After the end of the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48), Austrian officers began topographic surveys and the development of standardized manuscript maps of larger areas of the monarchy. From 1749 to 1753, Johann Lambert Kolleffel produced a very detailed manuscript map and a topographical description with more than five hundred detailed settlement plans of the margraviate of Burgau in Swabia, which was under Habsburg rule (Pfaud 1974). This map is considered the oldest example of surveying and mapping of a larger area by the quartermaster general’s staff and was a precursor to the Josephinische Landesaufnahme, the first general government land survey of the Austrian monarchy and named after Emperor Joseph II. The heavy losses incurred by Austria during the Seven Years’ War (1756–63), made the lack of reliable maps for warfare abundantly clear. After the Treaty of Hubertusburg (1763), Franz Moritz Graf von Lacy reported this dearth of cartography to the president of the Hofkriegsrat, Leopold Joseph, Graf von Daun, who forwarded the report to Maria Theresa. Already in 1763, officers of the quartermaster general’s staff began mapping the part of Silesia that the Austrian monarchy had retained. After this work was successfully completed in April 1764, the quartermaster general’s staff, on imperial command, began surveying and mapping the entire territory of the Austrian monarchy using uniform techniques, scales, and symbols. The military was the only state institution able to cope with such a large and lengthy task, for which it had adequately trained staff. By 1787 almost the whole territory of the monarchy had been surveyed, at a scale of 1:28,800, province by province, without a uniform triangulation grid. A plane table was used independently for each survey of the individual territories, and in the beginning, older maps served as base maps for some regions (fig. 553).

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Fig. 552. CONSTANTIN JOHANN WALTER, “PLAN VON DER KÄYSERL: KÖNIGL: RESIDENZ UND FESTUNG WIENN,” 1750. Ink on paper, ca. 1:1,800. This remarkably accurate plan of the city of Vienna with its fortifications is based on an original plane table survey.

Size of the original: 111 × 115 cm. Image courtesy of the Kriegsarchiv, Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (Kartensammlung G I h, 768-10).

In some surveyed areas, military cartographers under imperial orders were charged with conducting necessary economic surveys for tax collection and administration of civil government; some of them were directly employed to measure the properties required for the cadastre. This became an inextricable link between military defense and civil government activity. Mapping of the Austrian Netherlands in the years

1770 to 1775 was not carried out by officers of the quartermaster general’s staff. Instead, it was modeled on the Carte de France and executed on a scale of 1:11,520 under the leadership of Joseph Jean François de Ferraris and members of the imperial Austrian Netherlands field artillery corps. The quartermaster general’s staff worked continuously until 1805 to revise measurements in Bohemia,

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Moravia, and Silesia; to perform the cartographic surveys of Tyrol and Lombardy; and to map newly acquired territories of western Galicia and Venice. In the course of the war against the Ottoman Empire from 1788 to 1790, they made surveys of western Moldavia and Walachia, as well as parts of northern Serbia. During the wars against the French Republic, from 1792 to 1802, they mapped larger areas of southwestern and southern Germany (including Austrian Vorarlberg), a part of northeastern France, and parts of northern Italy and Switzerland as well as northern Istria (NischerFalkenhof 1937, 86–87). In 1776, the president of the Hofkriegsrat, Andreas Graf Hadik von Futak, decreed the consolidation of all militarily relevant maps and plans and corresponding textual descriptions into the office of the Hofkriegsräthliches Archiv (from 1801, Kriegsarchiv). The so-called Karten-Depot (Map Collection) was the first headquarters of state cartography. By 1805, Austrian military cartographers had sur-

veyed and mapped an area totaling approximately one million square kilometers in central and eastern Europe, a breadth of coverage that exceeded all other European surveys of the eighteenth century, making their work one of the most remarkable achievements of European military cartography. The policy of secrecy based on military considerations meant these cartographers did not receive contemporary international recognition. Only three maps from the Josephinische Landesaufnahme were printed: the Carte chorographique des PaysBas autrichiens (1777–78) (see fig. 238), the Mappa von dem Land ob der Enns by Carl Schütz and Franz Müller (1787) (Dörflinger 2004, 112–13), both at reduced scales, and a map of Vienna and its surroundings by Stephan Jakubicska, Neuester Grundriss der Haupt und Residenzstadt Wien (first published in 1789) (Opll 2004, 63–64) (see fig. 69). While work on the Josephinische Landesaufnahme was taking place, Austrian military cartographers completed other important cartographic projects until the

Fig. 553. AUSTRIAN QUARTERMASTER GENERAL’S STAFF, “THEIL DES MAHRBURGER KREISES,” 1784–87. Ink on paper, hand colored, 1:28,800. One of the more than 3,500 sheets of the Josephinische Landesaufnahme showing the area around the township Schwanberg in western Styria (Austria).

Size of the original: 46.0 × 71.8 cm. Image courtesy of the Kriegsarchiv, Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (Kartensammlung B IX a 54 Section No. 123).

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end of the century. Ignaz Müller executed a manuscript map of Hungary from 1764 based mostly on classified military documents, on behalf of Lacy. This map was printed in 1769 in a very small number of copies with the title Mappa geographica novissima Regni Hungariæ (Bendefy 1974; Dörflinger, Wagner, and Wawrik 1977, 174–75). In 1769, Joseph Daniel von Huber, who worked on the survey of Bohemia, on his own initiative drafted a large and extraordinarily attractive bird’s eye view of Prague titled Wahre Laage der Königlichen Haubt und Residentz Statt Prag (Mokre 2017). Maria Theresa bought this map with her own funds and commissioned Huber to produce the same kind of map of Vienna, with her financial backing. From 1769 to 1773, Huber was released from his other survey-related duties while he drew the map “Scenographisch. oder Geometrisch: Perspectiv. der Kaÿser. Königl: Haupt u: Residenz-Stadt Wien” (1773), published as Scenographie oder Geometrisch Perspect: Abbildung der Kaÿl: Königl: Haupt u: Residenz Stadt Wienn in Oesterreich in 1778 (Heinz and Mokre 1991–92) (see fig. 889). When Austria gained possession of sea and coastal territories and an Austrian navy became part of the imperial forces at the end of the eighteenth century, its mapping efforts were based on Venetian, Neapolitan, and French preliminary surveys. Austrian marine cartography did not begin until 1810 and therefore lies outside the scope of this volume. J an Mo kre See also: Anich, Peter; Austrian Monarchy; Josephinische Landesaufnahme (Josephine Survey; Austrian Monarchy); Marinoni, Johann Jakob; Mikoviny, Samuel; Müller, Johann Christoph Bibliograp hy Bendefy, László. 1974. “Egy kiváló magyar térképszerkesztő: Müller Ignác (1727–1804).” Geodézia és Kartográfia 26:122–32. Bonacker, Wilhelm. 1957. “Leben und Werk des österreichischen Militärkartographen Cyriak Blödner (1672–1733).” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs 10:92–135. Broucek, Peter, Erich Hillbrand, and Fritz Vesely. 1983. Historischer Atlas zur zweiten Türkenbelagerung: Wien 1683. Vienna: Deuticke. Dörflinger, Johannes. 1984. Österreichische Karten des 18. Jahrhunderts. Vol. 1 of Die österreichische Kartographie im 18. zu Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Privatkartographie zwischen 1780 und 1820. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. ———. 1989. Die Landesaufnahmen des österreichischen Generalquartiermeisterstabes, 1749–1854. Karlsruhe: Fachhochschule Karlsruhe. ———. 2004. “Vom Aufstieg der Militärkartographie bis zum Wiener Kongress (1684 bis 1815).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karl Kriz, 75–167. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien. Dörflinger, Johannes, Robert Wagner, and Franz Wawrik. 1977. Descriptio Austriae: Österreich und seine Nachbarn im Kartenbild von der Spätantike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert. Vienna: Edition Tusch. Dufour, Liliane, ed. 1995. La Sicilia disegnata: La carta di Samuel

von Schmettau, 1720–1721. Palermo: Società Siciliana per la Storia Patria. Haradauer Edler von Heldenauer, Karl. 1891. “Entwickelung der Kartographie von Österreich-Ungarn mit besonderer Berücksichtigung offizieller Kartenwerke.” In Verhandlungen des Neunten Deutschen Geographentages zu Wien am 1., 2. und 3. April 1891, ed. Georg Kollm, 259–83, 339–66 (catalog). Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Heinz, Markus, and Jan Mokre. 1991–92. “Über Joseph Daniel von Huber (1730/31–1788) und sein Vogelschauplan von Wien.” Jahrbuch des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Wien 47–48:93–122. Hofstätter, Ernst. 1989. Beiträge zur Geschichte der österreichischen Landesaufnahmen. 2 vols. Vienna: Bundesamt für Eich- und Vermessungswesen. Holban, Maria, ed. 1997. “Friedrich Schwanz von Springfels (c. 1690– 1728).” In Caˇlaˇtori straˇini despre Țaˇrile Române, vol. 9, 43–45. Bucharest: Editura Academici Române. Hühnel, Helga. 1995. “Samuel von Schmettau: Sizilien, um 1721.” In Kartographische Zimelien: Die 50 schönsten Karten und Globen der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek, by Franz Wawrik et al., 114–15. Vienna: Holzhausen. Konias, Andrzej. 1995. Kartograficzny obraz S´ląska na podstawie map księstw s´ląskich Jana Wolfganga Wielanda i Mateusza Schubartha z połowy XVIII wieku (z oceną kartometryczną). Katowice: Uniwersytet S´ląski. Krompotic, Louis. 1997. Relationen über Fortifikation der Südgrenzen des Habsburgerreiches vom 16. bis 18. Jahrhundert. Hannover: Krompotic, HZ-Verlag. Messner, Robert. 1980. “Die österreichische Landesaufnahme: Ihre Entwicklung bis zur Gründung des Bundesamtes für Eich- und Vermessungswesen (1923).” In 75 Jahre Kartographie am Hamerlingplatz, 1905–1980, 23–97. Vienna: Bundesamt für Eich- und Vermessungswesen, Landesaufnahme. Mokre, Jan. 1995a. “Leander Anguissola, Johann Jacob Marinoni: Wien, 1704.” In Kartographische Zimelien: Die 50 schönsten Karten und Globen der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek, by Franz Wawrik et al., 102–3. Vienna: Holzhausen. ———. 1995b. “Werner Arnold Steinhausen: Wien, 1710.” In Kartographische Zimelien: Die 50 schönsten Karten und Globen der Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek, by Franz Wawrik et al., 108–9. Vienna: Holzhausen. ———. 2014. “Die Militärkartographie in der Österreichischen Monarchie bis zum Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts, mit einem Ausblick auf das 19. und das beginnende 20. Jahrhundert.” In Galicja na józefin´skiej mapie topograficznej: 1779–1783 = Die Josephinische Landesaufnahme von Galizien: 1779–1783. ed. Waldemar Bukowski et al., vol. 2, XXIII–XXX. Kraków: Uniwersytet Pedagogiczny. ———. 2017. “Über Joseph Daniel von Huber (1730/31–1788) und seine kartographischen Werke unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der perspektivischen Pläne von Prag und Wien.” Prazˇky´ Sbornik Historicky´ 45:123–72. Nischer[-Falkenhof], Ernst [von]. 1925. Österreichische Kartographen: Ihr Leben, Lehren und Wirken. Vienna: Österreichischer Bundesverlag. ———. 1937. “The Survey by the Austrian General Staff under the Empress Maria Theresa and the Emperor Joseph II., and the Subsequent Initial Surveys of Neighbouring Territories during the Years 1749–1854.” Imago Mundi 2:83–88. ———. 1938. “Die Landesaufnahmen des österreichischen Generalquartiermeisterstabes, 1763–1854.” Mitteilungen der Geographischen Gesellschaft in Wien 81:225–26. Opll, Ferdinand. 2004. Wien im Bild historischer Karten: Die Entwicklung der Stadt bis in die Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts. 2d ed. Vienna: Böhlau. Paldus, Josef. 1919. Die militärischen Aufnahmen im Bereiche der

Military Cartography Habsburgischen Länder aus der Zeit Kaiser Josephs II: Ausgeführt durch den k. k. Generalquartiermeisterstab in den Jahren 1763– 1785. Vienna: In Kommission bei Alfred Hölder. Pálffy, Géza. 2011. Die Anfänge der Militärkartographie in der Habsburgermonarchie: Die regelmäßige kartographische Tätigkeit der Burgbaumeisterfamilie Angielini an den kroatisch-slawonischen und den ungarischen Grenzen in den Jahren 1560–1570 = A haditérképészet kezdetei a Habsburg Monarchiában: Az Angielini várépítészfamília rendszeres térképészeti tevékenysége a horvát-Szlavón és a magyarországi határvidéken az 1560–1570-es években. Budapest: Archívum, Magyar Országos Levéltár. Pfaud, Robert, ed. 1974. Johann Lambert Kolleffel: Schwäbische Städte und Dörfer um 1750: Geographische und topographische Beschreibung der Markgrafschaft Burgau, 1749–1753. Weißenhorn: Konrad. Plihál, Katalin. 2000. “G. M. Visconti Erdély térképe 1699-ből.” Cartographica Hungarica 7:2–24. Regele, Oskar. 1947. “Die erste Generalkarte der gesamten österreichischen Erblande.” Die Warte: Blätter für Literatur, Kunst und Wissenschaft, no. 41, 18 October, 2. ———. 1955. Beiträge zur Geschichte der staatlichen Landesaufnahme und Kartographie in Österreich bis zum Jahre 1918. Vienna: Verlag des Notringes der Wissenschaftlichen Verbände Österreichs. Ulbrich, Karl. 1952. “Die Grenzkarte Ungarn-Niederösterreich von C. J. Walter (1754–56).” Burgenländische Heimatblätter 14:108–21. ———. 1955–56. “Der Wiener Stadtplan von C. J. Walter (1750) und seine Stellung im Rahmen der Wiener Stadtvermessung.” Jahrbuch des Vereines für Geschichte der Stadt Wien 12:166–81. Wallis, Helen, and Arthur H. Robinson, eds. 1987. Cartographical Innovations: An International Handbook of Mapping Terms to 1900. Tring: Map Collector Publications in association with the International Cartographic Association. Wawrik, Franz. 2004. “Von den Anfängen der österreichischen Kartographie bis zur zweiten Türkenbelagerung Wiens (1683).” In Österreichische Kartographie: Von den Anfängen im 15. Jahrhundert bis zum 21. Jahrhundert, by Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, ed. Ingrid Kretschmer and Karl Kriz, 11–73. Vienna: Institut für Geographie und Regionalforschung der Universität Wien.

Military Cartography by Denmark and Norway. In the seventeenth century, Denmark’s army comprised the militia and a standing army dominated by expensive foreign mercenaries; after 1650, reliance on foreign troops steadily decreased as the Danish kings marshaled their resources to turn Denmark, by 1700, into one of the most militarized states in Europe (Kaspersen 2004, 80). Denmark’s military growth emphasized its large navy, infantry, and a cavalry freed from the control of the nobility. To improve the quality of officers, the Søkadetakademi was established in 1701 to teach midshipmen all aspects of ship handling and navigation and the Landkadetakademi in 1713 to educate boys in military practice. Even so, the officer and specialized corps continued to be dominated by foreigners and, until the political reforms of 1772, the language of the military command remained German. Thus, a Danish corps of engineers was organized in 1684 (Mead 2007, 1800n66) but relied on engineers trained elsewhere in Europe. In this context, while several wars produced a demand for both

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the mapping of fortresses and their environs as well as of battles, military cartography by the Danish-Norwegian state was poorly organized before 1800. An initial period of fortifications and other military mapping was accomplished in Denmark by a group of Silesian-born engineers who arrived in the 1640s and 1650s to work on Frederik III’s expansion of the fortifications of Copenhagen and of multiple towns in Jylland (Jutland): Georg Hoffmann, his younger brother Gottfried, and their cousin Christoph Heer. Together, they produced a number of maps of the newly established fortress of Frederiksodde (Fredericia), placed strategically on the sound between Jylland and Fyn. During war with Sweden 1657–59, Gottfried worked first in the ceded areas of Skåne and was later moved to Copenhagen during the siege of that city; he continued to map various fortifications and their environs (fig. 554) until his death in 1687, after which there were few military mapping activities in Denmark. Georg was likely responsible for

Fig. 554. DETAIL FROM GOTTFRIED HOFFMANN, “CHRISTIANSTATT AO 1677 BEY KONIGL. SCHWEDICHE ARMEE BELAGERT,” 1677. This manuscript plan depicts an early stage of the Swedish siege of Kristianstad during the Scanian War (1675–79), before the Danes ultimately surrendered in August 1678. The Swedish lines are clearly indicated to the north and west of the walled city. Size of the original: 62 × 52 cm. Image courtesy of Det Kgl. Bibliotek; The Royal Danish Library, Kortsamlingen, Copenhagen (KBK Ingeniørkorpsets Samling XVIII, 4, 1).

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creating a particular technique, common to this group’s otherwise manuscript maps, of using a hand press with metal type to impress place-names (Dahl 2003). This technique can be seen in the large map of Denmark and Norway that Gottfried compiled for the Crown in about 1660, “Daniæ et Norvegiæ tabvla” (see fig. 203). An active effort was made to map the fortifications and terrain of Norway in the same era. In 1644, Isaac van Geelkerck, a Dutch military engineer, was engaged to construct fortresses and make military maps. Over the next thirteen years, he produced hundreds of maps, from detailed fortress plans (at about 1:2,000) to general maps, including sources for the “Daniæ et Norvegiæ tabvla.” Unlike in Denmark, mapping of fortifications continued into the eighteenth century; many of the resulting plans of towns and fortresses were collected in the great atlas assembled by Frederik V, including detailed plans of Christiania (Oslo), Bergen, Trondheim, and Frederikssten. General topographical mapping of Denmark was limited. In seeking to rationalize the income and military supplies received from royal estates, Christian VI commissioned a series of surveys in 1720–23 by Captain Abraham Christian Willars of each rytterdistrikt (cavalry district; see fig. 16). These topographical maps would be supplanted after 1762 by the survey and map of the Kongelige Danske Videnskabernes Selskab. The academy’s maps were criticized by military officers, especially for their lack of detailed terrain information.

In the period 1752–66, the border between Norway and Sweden was finally mapped by military engineers after an agreement between the two countries, with complete sets of these maps deposited in the Swedish and Norwegian state archives. Some of the maps from the same survey, made by Jørgen Nicolai Holm, are also in the so-called Frederik den Femtes Atlas. Hostilities continued despite the boundary agreement and survey, so that in 1771 German-born general Heinrich Wilhelm von Huth, chief of the engineers and artillery corps, moved to Norway to survey the border areas. Managing to secure the requisite funding, Huth was central to the founding in 1773 of the Norges Grændsers Opmaaling (later the Norges Geografiske Opmåling) (fig. 555). Starting in 1779 the survey undertook a systematic triangulation by Johan Jacob Rick (or Rieck) and Ditlev Wibe, who had been trained in Copenhagen by Thomas Bugge. After 1805, the topographical survey was extended to include more detailed surveys to serve as the basis for a land registry (Harsson and Aanrud 2016, 14–33). Huth also cultivated a young military engineer and instructor at the military academy in Christiania, Jørgen Henrik Rawert. On his return to Copenhagen after 1790, Huth brought Rawert with him and secured his position as an instructor at the military academy there. Also, with the permission of the Crown prince, the future Frederik VI, the effective ruler during the mental infirmity of Christian VII, Huth had Rawert undertake a

Fig. 555. DETAIL OF THE SOUTHEASTERN CORNER OF KVADRATMILKART 101, 1781. One of the 210 manuscript kvadratmilkarten (military squares) mapped at 1:10,000 by the Norges Grændsers Opmaaling between 1774 and 1808. The series covered most of Østfold and the border portions

of Akershus and Hedmark as far north as Sør-Trøndelag. For modern reference, this detail shows the area between Fagernessjøen and Lake Hærsjøen (north and south). Image courtesy of Kartverket, Norges Geografiske Opmåling, Hønefoss (Kvadratmilkart 101).

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secret project to map the regions north of Copenhagen at the large scale of 1:13,333. Detailed information on this project is lacking, and only about fifteen manuscript maps are preserved today in Rigsarkivet. In this work, Rawert followed the methods he outlined in his instructional text on military surveying, Forelæsninger over den geometriske trigonometriske og militaire landmaaling tilligemed nivelleringen (1793), which included standardized sets of map signs. After Copenhagen’s great fire in 1795, Rawert was appointed as town architect in charge of the reconstruction. Only in 1808 did the quartermaster general’s staff organize a more systematic survey of Denmark (Korsgaard 2006, 56–57). The Danish corps of engineers made many maps of both Danish territories and of foreign areas and fortresses, both for the education of engineers and for actual use in battles. The whole collection has been divided between Rigsarkivet (Statens Arkiver) for the Danish areas and the Kongelige Bibliotek for foreign areas; all maps and plans of Norway from these collections were transferred to Norway in 1935 following an agreement with the Norwegian government. Hen r ik D upo nt See also: Denmark and Norway; Urban Mapping: Denmark and Norway B i bliogra p hy Dahl, Bjørn Westerbeek. 1987. “Gottfried Hoffmann: Ingeniør, administrator og militærkartograf ca. 1628–1687.” Krigshistorisk Tidsskrift 23, no. 1:10–22. ———. 2003. “Typetrykkerne.” Fund og Forskning 42:103–20. Harsson, Bjørn Geirr, and Roald Aanrud. 2016. Med kart skal landet bygges: Oppmåling og kartlegging av Norge, 1773–2016. Hønefoss: Statens Kartverket. Kaspersen, Lars Bo. 2004. “How Denmark Became Democratic: The Impact of Warfare and Military Reforms.” Acta Sociologica 47:71–89. Korsgaard, Peter. 2006. Kort som kilde—en håndbog om historiske kort og deres anvendelse. [Copenhagen]: Dansk Historisk Fællesråd, Sammenslutningen af Lokalarkiver. Mead, William R. 2007. “Scandinavian Renaissance Cartography.” In HC 3:1781–1805. Widerberg, C. S. 1924. Norges første militæringeniør Isaac van Geelkerck og hans virke, 1644–1656: Et bidrag til de norske befestningers historie. Oslo: Jacob Dybwad.

Military Cartography by France. As military cartogra-

phy expanded and developed in France in the sixteenth century, it increasingly became the work of specialists. Although its products remained largely in manuscript, certain maps were engraved: some had only a limited circulation, others celebrated royal victories, and still others added to the documentation available to commercial editors of maps and atlases. During the seventeenth century, military cartography benefited from the creation of the royal service of fortifications, whose engineers (ingénieurs du roi) had to measure and survey the fortified places of their respective provinces. During the reign of Louis XIII (1610–43) the number of ingé-

nieurs du roi increased to around fifty. They produced numerous manuscript atlases covering the frontier provinces and several European countries. The reign of Louis XIV (1643–1715) confirmed the importance of maps: they accompanied the king in his travels, depicted the fortified places defending the frontiers (which were transformed by Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, and received royal visits), and kept alive the memory of glorious engagements. The ornamentation of maps intended for the king, particularly the cartouches, was often rich and original. Texts and paintings demonstrate Louis XIV’s interest in maps of theaters of operation (fig. 556), an interest shared by his minister François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois, who possessed a substantial collection of maps (mostly in manuscript) mentioned in an inventory after his death (Pelletier 2012, 20). Among the manuscript atlases at the king’s disposal were compendia of the campaigns of Louis XIV, which focused on the war in Holland between 1675 and 1678. Composed on vellum, these were the work of Jules Louis Bolé, marquis de Chamlay, maréchal général des logis aux armées et camps du roi, and his collaborator François La Prée, first baron of Bontin (Martin 1972; Cénat 2006). Composed of texts, maps, and paintings (either map cartouches or views covering the whole page), they show a collaboration of talented artists. In the seventeenth century, the great master of the engraved military commemoration was Sébastien de Pontault, sieur de Beaulieu. A 1647 royal privilege gave Beaulieu—commissaire ordinaire and contrôleur de l’artillerie in Arras, but also ingénieur et géographe ordinaire du roi—exclusive right to the publication of views and maps of sieges and battles, plates that were intended as tools of propaganda (fig. 557). The collection of fortification plans corresponded to the rationalization and the consolidation of the frontiers. Several series of manuscript atlases reminded the king of his initiatives. One series on vellum, dating from the 1680s, includes three volumes dedicated to France, with sumptuous cartouches ornamenting the maps (Vincennes, Service Historique de la Défense, atlas 108 [1–3]). Another (dated 1693), copied during the War of the League of Augsburg, consists of two volumes, while a brightly watercolored series, dating from the beginning of the eighteenth century, maps the areas surrounding fortified places along the frontiers (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Cartes et plans, Rés. Ge. DD. 4585 and Rés. Ge. DD. 4586 [1, 2, 4 and 6], respectively). Richer in detail was the collection of plans-reliefs, which grew rapidly to 144 models by 1697. These “portraits in relief” modeled the cities and surrounding countryside extending out to the range of artillery volleys (Warmoes 2006). Vauban judged them too costly, but useful for convincing his interlocutors. The interest in new fortifications and the attraction of siege warfare,

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Fig. 556. CHARLES LE BRUN, “LE ROI DONNE SES ORDRES POVR ATTAQVER EN MESME TEMPS QVATRE DES PLVS FORTES PLACES DE LA HOLLANDE, 1672.” This painting decorates the ceiling of the Hall of Mirrors (La galerie des Glaces or Grande Galerie) at Versailles, completed around 1678. The map locates “four of the strongest fortified towns in Holland”: from south to north, on the left bank of the Rhein, Orsoy, Rheinberg (Rhynberg), Büderich (Burick); on the right bank, Wesel. Figures dressed in Roman clothing surround the king: on his right (on the left in the painting), his brother, Monsieur (Philippe [I] d’ Orléans), and le Grand

Condé (Louis II de Bourbon); on his right, Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, vicomte de Turenne. Paul Pellisson-Fontanier, the royal historian, wrote in a letter (20 May 1672) to Madeleine de Scudéry: “We have seen him these past days at his petit coucher with his back turned [to us] at a large geographic map made expressly for the purpose, amusing himself by putting his finger, without ever missing, on places of some consequence whose names were proposed to him” (Paul Pellisson-Fontanier, Lettres historiques, 3 vols. [Paris: F. Barois, 1729], 1:78–79). Réunion des musées nationaux (Inv. 2920, Musée national du château et des Trianons, Versailles)/Art Resource, New York.

conceived as veritable theatrical performance, stimulated the publication of atlases. The Plans et profils of fortified cities, abundant in the seventeenth century, disappeared in the following century, while the “theaters of warfare” developed: collections of maps and plans illustrating the latest campaigns or separate maps depicting the theater of operations. In 1688 Louvois ordered the centralization of the correspondences received by the war services. At this time

military command was making systematic use of maps that provided information on topography of regions traversed by its personnel—routes used and usable, places fit for encampment and for battle—and reports on the local resources required by armies in the field. The first ingénieurs géographes (geographic engineers), initially called ingénieurs des camps et armées, attempted to respond to these exigencies. Instead of leaving service during peacetime, they remained to update their documen-

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tation and, if necessary, to make reductions of the maps surveyed during the campaigns. At the beginning of the eighteenth century, the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Guerre was created to collect and conserve cartographic materials for future use either at Versailles or in the field. In addition to the maps required by the campaigns, military engineers, either ingénieurs géographes or ingénieurs du roi (fortification engineers), dedicated themselves to the cartography of frontier provinces. Their first surveys resulted in maps at a scale of 1:28,800: a map of the Atlantic coast drawn up between 1688 and

1724 by Claude Masse, a map of the Flanders border carried out in 1723 by Jacques Naudin, le jeune, and a map of the northern border by Masse and his sons, surveyed between 1724 and 1737. The map of the Pyrenees by Roussel, first geographic ingénieur en chef, and JeanFrançois de La Blottière, ingénieur des fortifications, was completed in 1730 at the scale of 1:36,000. Although subject to justified criticism, the map was nonetheless engraved at a smaller scale of 1:216,000, certainly for limited and controlled circulation. The precision of French military cartography pro-

Fig. 557. SÉBASTIEN DE PONTAULT, SIEUR DE BEAULIEU, BATAILLE DES DUNES PREZ DUNQUERQUE GAGNÉE PAR L’ARMÉE DU ROY COMMANDÉE PAR LE VICOMTE DE TURENNE, SUR L’ARMÉE D’ESPAGNE COMMANDÉE PAR DON IUAN D’AUSTRICHE, LE 14 IUIN 1658, ENGRAVED BY FRANÇOIS ERTINGER (PARIS, S.D.). Engraved well after the Battle of the Dunes by

Jean Baptiste Hamont, sieur Des Roches, the nephew of Beaulieu, who used the services of Ertinger. This impression was taken after the plates had been acquired by the Cabinet du roi in 1727. Size of the original: 44.4 × 52.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge CC 4804 [11]).

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gressed in the second half of the eighteenth century thanks to the adoption of a framework of large triangles, following the example of the work by the Académie des sciences and the Cassini family (Pelletier 2006). At the same time, maps of fortifications were specifying the altitude of several points. Ministers of war, such as Marc-Pierre de Voyer de Palmy, comte d’Argenson, and Étienne-François, duc de Choiseul, encouraged the progress of cartography. In 1748 d’Argenson founded the École du Génie de Mézières to provide ingénieurs des fortifications with well-structured training in cartography, at the expense of the ingénieurs géographes, who were less numerous and not as well organized. The military engineer played an important role: he saw what ministers and generals could not see and communicated it to them—orally, in writing, or with the help of a map that could replace or complement a visit to the field. The surveys, generally at a scale of 1:14,400, were accomplished with a plane table, compass, and surveyor’s chain. The engineer had to know what strategists would require and to imagine military action in the space he was describing (Pansini 2003). Although quite often unfamiliar with the places he was mapping, he knew how to take into account the variety of terrains. The colors he used attempted to reproduce those of the countryside, which facilitated interpretation of his work. The first framework of large triangles was established by a civilian, César-François Cassini (III) de Thury. Beginning in 1746, he applied to Flanders and Brabant the triangulation operations completed in France. Two years later, French troops invaded the comté of Nice, and the minister of war immediately ordered an ingénieur géographe to carry out the triangulation operations that had to precede surveys and were to extend as far as possible. Pierre-Joseph de Bourcet, an ingénieur du roi, was named director of the map, which was at a scale of 1:14,400 and based on this triangulation (fig. 558); the surveys extending to the Dauphiné mobilized three ingénieurs géographes—Jean Villaret; Louis Charles Dupain de Montesson, theoretician of the graphic representation; and de Montannel (Michel-Jean-Auguste Cruels)—as well as seven ingénieurs du roi (Limacher 1963). Villaret executed two reductions of the map of the upper Dauphiné and the comté of Nice, at scales of 1:28,800 and 1:86,400 respectively; the second, engraved in 1758, was intended for limited circulation (see fig. 543). The work of Bourcet marked an important step in the representation of relief in a more or less accessible area crossed by many roads. The engineer used color and shading, combining a vertical projection for the middle heights with a cavalier’s perspective for the highest ranges. The makers of boundary maps had both military and political goals in mind. The precision afforded by

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Fig. 558. DETAIL OF LIEGE FROM A SHEET OF THE MAP OF BELGIUM AT A SCALE OF 1:14,400. Produced by French ingénieurs géographes in 1748 based on the triangulation of Cassini III. Size of the entire original: 67.5 × 95.0 cm; size of detail: 38.0 × 40.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Cartothèque, Institut géographique national, Saint-Mandé (chem. 292-69).

the geometric operations made these documents indispensable. Thus, Bourcet participated in establishing the Franco-Sardinian border, and the minister for foreign affairs created a map depository in 1772, first integrating the collection of Jean-Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville. Texts establishing standardized procedures were also needed: in 1755 Cassini III provided instructions for a survey of the Channel coasts, and in 1761 instructions were sent to the engineers of the army of the Bas-Rhin (Bousquet-Bressolier 2002, 50–51). The Seven Years’ War increased the number of ingénieurs géographes to forty in 1765 (Berthaut 1902, 1:40), while the ordinance of 1762 established that the corps du Génie should include four hundred officers, all ingénieurs du roi (Blanchard 1979, 218). The end of the war saw increased cartographic operations of a broad scope, as designed in a 1762 program by Jean-Baptiste Berthier. Enjoying Louis XV’s favor, Berthier became the mainspring of the “Carte des chasses du roi,” the surveys for which were undertaken by the ingénieurs géographes in 1764 and finished in 1774 (Blumenfeld 1997). As head of the ingénieurs géographes and of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Guerre from 1758, Berthier deemed two activities most important: the survey of the French colonies and the survey of France’s coasts, to complement operations already carried out along the land frontiers (Ract 2002, 5–29).

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Work in the colonies began in 1764 in French Guiana and Guadeloupe, at Martinique, Saint Lucia, and Saint Domingue (Berthaut 1902, 1:38–39), while work continued on the land frontiers of the kingdom. In 1768 ingénieur géographe Joseph Tonnet, who had worked on Cassini’s map, was ordered to assemble an atlas of fortified locations in Alsace as well as a general map of the province. Tonnet had to conform to the orders of the director of fortifications, a requirement that he did not appreciate (Berthaut 1902, 1:56–57, 85–87, 90–91). On the northern frontier, beginning in 1771, the ingénieurs géographes attempted to improve upon the works of the Masse family by conforming them to the Cassini map of France, an exercise that proved difficult (Berthaut 1902, 1:49–56). In 1771–72, mapping the Atlantic coast, continually menaced by the English enemy, became urgent, and in April 1774, priority was given to the Breton coastlines, whose survey was completed in 1785 (fig. 559). Instructions for these surveys had been drawn up in 1771: only the regions close to the sea were to be surveyed, quality triangulation was extended to islands and rocks overlooking the sea, and the detailed illustration of numerous features limited the need to rely on written reports accompanying the maps (Ract 2002, 191–95). Although the first sheets were very precise, those following were

somewhat less so. These surveys remained incomplete: the sea from which islands and rocks projected bore no indication of depth because the hydrographers had not been able to fulfill their mission, thereby opening a significant rift between topography and hydrography. In 1774, the minister of war decided to create a series of atlases of French fortified places—one atlas per fortified site containing three principal maps, one of which expressed height measurements (Lacrocq 1981). An important stage had been reached that would lead to a map showing respective levels using contour lines, later carried out in Italy for the great projects of the Consulate and the Empire. The cartographic projects of the military engineers culminated in the works of Jean-Claude-Eléonor Le Michaud d’Arçon, who became an ingénieur du roi in 1755. He was charged twenty years later with continuing Bourcet’s map of the Dauphiné and Provence frontiers. In instructions of 1777, Le Michaud d’Arçon gave priority to works of triangulation; he reserved for himself the construction of the large triangles and created different teams that each worked outward from a central point. The map’s objectives remained military: the number of points depended on their military importance; they were more numerous in cultivated, cultivable, and accessible

Fig. 559. DETAIL FROM A MANUSCRIPT SURVEY PLAN BY THE INGÉNIEURS GÉOGRAPHES TO THE NORTHEAST OF THE BAY OF LANNION (CÔTES D’ARMOR) CARRIED OUT AT A SCALE OF 1:14,400 BETWEEN 1774 AND 1785. Note the abundance of islands and rocks, the latter caught at the moment when they are exposed by low tide.

Size of the entire original: 42.5 × 59.5 cm; size of detail: 17.0  ×  31.8 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18è, pf 43, div 3, p 67D).

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areas, and fewer in the “wilderness areas” (Pelletier 2006, 175–77). In 1779 Le Michaud d’Arçon was summoned to the Jura frontier; he made his way to Belfort and Montbéliard in 1781 and continued work in Alsace (Berthaut 1902, 1:76–77). He drew up new instructions for surveys to be carried out beyond French territory. In his view, the cartographic expression of information should not obviate preparing written reports to describe different geographic entities and express military observations closely connected to the political situation. The military surveys of the second half of the eighteenth century, based on triangulation operations and carried out on a large scale, could be easily assembled despite being scattered in space and time. Although they surpassed the work of Cassini’s engineers in quality, they still covered only a part of French territory and were protected by military secrecy. Increased surveying activity and resulting data required standardization. The commission of 1802, with the director of the Dépôt de la Guerre presiding, attempted to find good solutions for standardization that would be applicable in all cases. The plates of Cassini’s map had been transferred to the Dépôt de la Guerre in 1793, but the military wanted a truly new document at their disposal. Prepared by the work they had carried out in the eighteenth century, they were ready for the enterprise of the carte de l’ÉtatMajor—after Cassini’s Carte de france, France’s second foundational map. Mon iq u e Pelletier See also: Commission topographique of 1802; Dépôt de la Guerre (Depository of the War Office; France); France; Masse Family; Military Map: Plan-relief; Naudin Family Bibliograp hy Berthaut, Henri Marie Auguste. 1902. Les ingénieurs géographes militaires, 1624–1831: Étude historique. 2 vols. Paris: Imprimerie du Service Géographique. Blanchard, Anne. 1979. Les ingénieurs du “roy” de Louis XIV à Louis XVI: Étude du corps des fortifications. Montpellier: Université Paul-Valéry. Blumenfeld, Hervé, Michel Hermelin, and Christian Thibault. 1997. “La carte topographique des environs de Versailles dite carte ‘des chasses.’” Les Cahiers de l’Institut d’Aménagement et d’Urbanisme de la Région d’Île-de-France 119:86–113. Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine. 2002. “Les ingénieurs géographes militaires au XVIIIe siècle et la naissance de la cartographie moderne.” In Du paysage à la carte: Trois siècles de cartographie militaire de la France, ed. Marie-Anne de Villèle, Agnès Beylot, and Alain Morgat, 48–55. Vincennes: Ministère de la Défense, Services Historiques des Armèes. Cénat, Jean-Philippe. 2006. “Le marquis de Chamlay, conseiller militaire de Louis XIV.” Thèse, Université de Paris I. Lacrocq, Nelly. 1981. Atlas des places fortes de France, 1774–1788. Vincennes: Atelier d’Impression de l’Armée de Terre. Limacher, Pierrette. 1963. “Le général Bourcet et la géographie des Alpes: 1748–1760.” Thèse diplôme d’archiviste paléographe, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Martin, Ronald Dale. 1972. “The Marquis de Chamlay, Friend and Confidential Advisor to Louis XIV: The Early Years, 1650–1691.” PhD diss., University of California, Santa Barbara. Pansini, Valeria. 2003. “Pratique de la description militaire: L’exemple

des topographes de l’armée française (1760–1820).” In Pratiques de la description, ed. Giorgio Blundo and Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan, 115–34. Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Pelletier, Monique. 1995. “Formation et missions de l’ingénieur géographe militaire au XVIIIe siècle.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 73–92. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. ———. 2006. “De Cassini de Thury à Le Michaud d’Arçon: Les militaires français et la triangulation dans la seconde moitié du XVIIIe siècle.” In Margaritae cartographicae: Studia Lisette Danckaert 75um diem natalem agenti oblata, ed. Wouter Bracke, 159–78. Brussels: Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique. ———. 2012. “La géographie du roi: Sous le règne de Louis XIV.” In Les globes de Louis XIV: Étude artistique, historique et matérielle, ed. Catherine Hofmann and Hélène Richard, 16–33. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Ract, Patrice. 2002. “Les ingénieurs géographes des camps et armées du roi, de la guerre de Sept Ans à la Révolution (1756–1791): Étude institutionnelle, prosopographique et sociale.” Thèse diplôme d’archiviste paléographe, École nationale des chartes, Paris. Warmoes, Isabelle. 2006. Les plans en relief: Des places fortes du nord  dans les collections du Palais des beaux-arts de Lille. Paris: Somogy.

Military Cartography by the German States. The struc-

ture of the politically fragmented Holy Roman Empire, or Reich, produced a complex military system. The smaller estates supplied imperial levies that were organized by each Kreis (imperial circle); the levies did not form a standing army but were mobilized only as needed for the Reich’s defense. This system progressively declined in effectiveness after 1735. The Landesherren (sovereigns) of the great estates were permitted to organize and field their own regiments. These troops were mobilized for the sake of the Reich—for example, in the relief of Vienna in 1683 and the subsequent Great Turkish War (1683–99) (maps of Hungary and the Balkans can be found in the provincial archives of Karlsruhe [Baden]) and also in the wars with Louis XIV of France (1688–97 and 1701–13) (Wilson 2004, 170–75). The expansion of Brandenburg-Prussia after 1700 intensified internal conflicts among the Landesherren and drew the German states into wars of divided loyalties; for example, the Seven Years’ War between Prussia, Great Britain, Hanover, Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, Hesse-Kassel, and Schaumburg-Lippe on the one hand, and France, the Holy Roman Empire, the Austrian monarchy, Saxony, Bavaria, Russia, Spain, and Sweden on the other. Most European wars between 1650 and 1800 were fought on German soil, so German territories were mapped by all combatants; conversely, the main German estates mapped their own and other territories for military purposes, as discussed in this entry. In line with general military trends, standing armies in Germany increasingly required a variety of maps that were essentially modified topographic maps. In order of decreasing scale, these can be grouped into local maps

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of fortifications, sieges, and battles, as well as plans for maneuvering, review, and battle order; more regional maps for tracking winter quarters, mobilization, and campaigns; and regional maps of border defenses and topography. To these may be added certain thematic maps, such as maps of military district classifications. All these maps were in manuscript and were not generally intended for publication. Map publishers sometimes printed simplified military maps prepared by military engineers for the news-hungry public when secrecy was no longer paramount after an event or when it could not be enforced. Publishers also compiled their own general maps of theaters of war for public consumption and planning commissions. Most surviving military maps in Germany from be-

fore 1800 are engineers’ plans of fortifications, the environs of fortresses and fortified cities, and siege and battle maps (fig. 560). However, despite a long history of fortress construction in Germany, engineers remained a relatively small and unorganized element within German armies for much of the eighteenth century. The key engineers who imported the new techniques of Menno van Coehoorn and Sébastien Le Prestre, maréchal de Vauban, were mostly trained in France, Italy, or the Netherlands. In Brandenburg-Prussia, the Dutch-born Gerhard Cornelius von Walrave organized the scattered Prussian military engineers in 1729, but Friedrich  II (r.  1740–86) set aside the hierarchy to work directly with a small number of field engineers before each in turn fell out of favor. Indeed, Friedrich II did not wel-

Fig. 560. “PLAN DES SCHELLENBERGES,” 2 JULY 1704, DURING THE WAR OF THE SPANISH SUCCESSION. The modern hilltop fortifications, protecting the bridge at Donauwörth across the Danube, were held by the French and Bavarians, against an army of Imperial and English troops led by

the duke of Marlborough. This anonymous manuscript is a fair copy made some time after the battle; south is at the top. Size of the original: 30 × 36 cm. Image courtesy of the Sächsische Landesbibliothek—Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Dresden/Deutsche Fotothek (Kartensammlung, KS A9388).

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come theoretical expertise or innovations on the part of nonaristocratic engineers and refused to provide a coherent system of pay and promotion. He did establish, in 1765, an Académie des Nobles in Berlin for a few aristocratic infantry and cavalry cadets to learn the principles of warfare, which included fortifications and geography, and in 1779 he created five more Inspectionsschulen (military district schools) in which young officers could enroll during the winter months; yet the numbers educated were small and seem to have had little effect on the army as a whole. In 1788, shortly after Friedrich’s death, Friedrich Wilhelm II (r. 1786–97) created an IngenieurAkademie in Potsdam for both civil and military engineers; Friedrich Wilhelm III (r. 1797–1840), however, distrusted education as a source of social unrest and disbanded the academy during the reforms of 1806. Only in 1809 would a formal corps of engineers be created in Prussia (Duffy 1974, 110–11, 123–25; 1985, 134–37; White 1988, 35–36, 87). Other German states also established academies for military engineers: Saxony in 1743, Bavaria in 1752, and Hanover in 1782 (Gat 1989, 60). It was in the Saxon academy, at the very end of the century, that Johann Georg Lehmann would develop his systematic method for relief shading (see fig. 356). German military texts, such as Friedrich II’s own “Principes généraux de la guerre” (1748, later published), stressed issues of leadership, morale, and strategy. Nonetheless, many textbooks about fortifications were published, mainly in southern and eastern Germany, from which officers might learn field mapping. These works include Christoph Nottnagel, Manuale fortificatorium (1659), Leonhard Christoph Sturm, Teutsch-Redender Vauban (1702), and Johann Gottlieb Tielke, Unterricht für die Officiers, die sich zu Feld-Ingenieurs bilden (1769). Instructions were also included in the widely circulated basic work, Der vollkommene teutsche Soldat by Hanns Friedrich von Fleming (1726) (fig. 561). Also, a series of technical works were published in Prussia after 1760, notably the Essai sur la maniere de faire les cartes (1762), by Simon Lefebvre, a French engineer in Frederick II’s service, and J. C. G. Hayne’s Deutliche und ausführliche Anweisung, wie man das militairische Aufnehmen nach dem Augenmaas ohne Lehrmeister erlernen könne (1782). Johann Ludewig Hogrewe, the Hanoverian engineer who tutored the sons of George III in cartography (Barber 2014, 157–58), wrote several important works, including Praktische Anweisung zur topographischen Vermessung eines ganzen Landes (1773). Beyond the particular arena of engineering works, German military commanders recognized the value of maps as tactical and strategic tools. In all the German armies, the Generalquartiermeister was the staff officer in charge of the quartering and movement of troops, which made the position responsible for the produc-

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tion of regional military maps (Duffy 1974, 143). In line with the increasing strategic complexity of European warfare, such mapping became increasingly intense after the 1740s. The development is clearest in the case of Brandenburg-Prussia. Dutchman Gerhard von Belkum became the first Generalquartiermeister in 1655, and in 1673 the Plankammer (map office) was founded to store and produce maps. Overview maps of Prussia were produced under the supervision of Peter von Montargues around 1720 for administrative purposes and were partially revised in 1748 by the Italian engineer Giovanni de Balbi. In 1740, Friedrich II’s preliminary invasion of Silesia was hindered by a lack of detailed maps, so in 1741 he commissioned a general map at 1:200,000; this ultimately did not meet his needs, so he commissioned still more detailed surveys from the engineer Carl Friedrich von Wrede from 1747 to 1753. During the Seven Years’ War, Friedrich II was accompanied on campaign by a traveling Plankammer (Duffy 1974, 146–47). The Polish acquisitions were mapped repeatedly—for example, in 1772–73 by Levin von Geusau and Theodor Philipp von Pfau and in 1796–1802 by Johann Samuel Ferdinand von Brodowski and Christian Wilhelm von Chlebowski (Albrecht 2001). Samuel von Schmettau began a triangulation-based survey of Brandenburg itself in 1750, but Friedrich II discouraged this work in case the maps should fall into enemy hands. The military survey of the electorate of Saxony, undertaken during the Seven Years’ War by Isaac Jacob von Petri, was published because it was part of a foreign country. After Friedrich II’s death in 1786, secrecy provisions were relaxed; for example, Karl Ludwig von Le Coq’s 1795 survey of northwest Germany at 1:864,000 appeared in print in 1805 (Scharfe 1986; Lindner 1990). The theater of war with France was southwestern Germany, encompassing Swabia and three other Kreise, as well as the medium-sized estates of Baden and Württemberg. Swabia was thus well mapped, starting with Cyriak Blödner, who prepared a twenty-sheet manuscript survey of the region in 1713–15 (fig. 562), which survives in multiple manuscript copies (Musall and Sperling 2010); some of the later surveys by Jacques Michal were incorporated into published maps, including Matthäus Seutter’s Suevia universa (1725) (see fig. 747) (Neumann 1990). After 1763, military mapmakers were used in regional surveys intended to aid civilian administration, such as Jakob Friedrich Schmauß, his English-born successor Peter Perez Burdett, and Carl Christian Vierordt (who died a major general in 1812) in Baden. Toward the end of the eighteenth century and during the years of Coalition Wars with revolutionary France, printed military maps appeared, such as the six-sheet theater of war map between the Rhine and Mosel at 1:864,000. Published at Rheinwald in Mannheim, this work was created by

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Fig. 561. STUDENTS IN A MILITARY ACADEMY LEARNING HOW TO USE MAPS FOR MILITARY PURPOSES. From Hanns Friedrich von Fleming, Der vollkommene teutsche Soldat, welcher die gantze Kriegs-Wissenschafft, insonderheit was

bey der Infanterie vorkommt, ordentlich und deutlich vorträgt (Leipzig: Johann Christian Martini, 1726), pl. D. Size of the original: ca. 28 × 35 cm. Image courtesy of the Koninklijke Bibliotheek, The Hague (KW 509 B 12).

Palatinate general surveyor Peter Dewarat and was intended for the public at large as well as for use in battle (Salaba 2001).

Gat, Azar. 1989. The Origins of Military Thought from the Enlightenment to Clausewitz. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Lindner, Klaus. 1990. “Preußisch-Schlesien im Schmettau-Schulenburgschen Kartenwerk und die Josephinische Landesaufnahme für Österreichisch-Schlesien: Handgezeichnete Karten aus der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts im Kriegsarchiv Wien und in der Berliner Staatsbibliothek Preußischer Kulturbesitz.” In 4. Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium Karlsruhe 1988, 17.–19. März 1988: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe, Heinz Musall, and Joachim Neumann, 103–10. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Musall, Heinz, and Walter Sperling. 2010. “Das Theatrum Belli Rhenani von Cyriak Blödner von 1713/15.” Cartographica Helvetica 42:3–18. Neumann, Joachim. 1990. “Der Atlas des Schwäbischen Kreises von Jacques Michal.” In 4. Kartographiehistorisches Colloquium Karlsruhe 1988, 17.–19. März 1988: Vorträge und Berichte, ed. Wolfgang Scharfe, Heinz Musall, and Joachim Neumann, 93–96. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer.

J oac h im N eumann See also: German States B i bliogra p hy Albrecht, Oskar. 2001. Beiträge zum militärischen Vermessungs- und Kartenwesen in Brandenburg-Preuβen. Euskirchen: Amt für Militärisches Geowesen. Barber, Peter. 2014. “Mapmaking in Hanover and Great Britain.” In Als die Royals aus Hannover kamen: The Hanoverians on Britain’s Throne, 1714–1837, 146–59. Dresden: Sandstein. Duffy, Christopher. 1974. The Army of Frederick the Great. Newton Abbot: David & Charles. ———. 1985. The Fortress in the Age of Vauban and Frederick the Great, 1660–1789. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

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Fig. 562. DETAIL OF WORMS AND MANNHEIM FROM CYRIAK BLÖDNER’S “THEATRUM BELLI RHENANI,” SHEET 9 (1713–15). The map shows the distribution of numbered units of infantry and cavalry.

Size of the entire original: 44 × 61 cm; size of detail: ca. 14 × 17 cm. Image courtesy of the Kriegsarchiv, Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (Kartensammlung KA KPS KS H III d 344).

Salaba, Marie. 2001. Peter Dewarat und die Kurpfälzische Landesaufnahme der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts. Karlsruhe: Fachhochschule Karlsruhe—Hochschule für Technik, Fachbereich Geoinformationswesen. Scharfe, Wolfgang. 1986. “Preußische Monarchie.” In Lexikon zur Geschichte der Kartographie: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, 2 vols., ed. Ingrid Kretschmer, Johannes Dörflinger, and Franz Wawrik, 2:636–42. Vienna: Franz Deuticke. White, Charles Edward. 1988. The Enlightened Soldier: Scharnhorst and the Militärische Gesellschaft in Berlin, 1801–1805. New York: Praeger. Wilson, Peter H. 2004. From Reich to Revolution: German History, 1558–1806. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

of Ordnance and, to a lesser extent, officers of the line regiments, both British and Hanoverian (see Harley, Petchenik, and Towner 1978). Many of the officers responsible for mapping activities were recruited on the Continent, so there was great stylistic variation in maps produced on behalf of the British military. This entry first describes the institutionalization of mapping within the Board of Ordnance (Harley 1980a, 1980b; Harley and O’Donoghue 1980) before reviewing the broader cartographic work of military officers. The 1740s stand as a threshold: thereafter, Britain’s competition with France became increasingly global, the military became increasingly map-minded (Edney 1994), military surveys proliferated, and officials sought to standardize mapping activities.

Military Cartography by Great Britain. British military cartography in the period 1650–1800 was the product of artillery and engineer officers under the Board

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By 1660, the civilian Board of Ordnance, whose headquarters were in the Tower of London, was responsible for preserving old fortifications and building new ones; for supplying the army and navy with arms, armor, munitions, and all the equipment needed to wage war and to quarter troops; and for providing artillery and engineer personnel. The task of carefully measuring army encampments fell mostly to the engineers, whose experience led to their frequently being appointed as quartermasters, with all the associated mapping that that entailed. The Board developed two sets of mapmakers: the surveying officers themselves, mostly engineers, who were organized in 1714 as the uniformed Corps of Engineers (from 1787, Corps of Royal Engineers) (Porter 1889; Marshall 1976); and the draftsmen who were attached to the Drawing Room in the Tower of London (Marshall 1980). The Board’s role in producing and systematizing military cartography began in the late seventeenth century, through the work of the Dutch-born engineer Sir Bernard de Gomme. De Gomme’s work and ideas underpinned the theory, practice, and policy of British military survey and cartography for the next century. With extensive experience in mapping and building fortifications, first in the Netherlands and then with the Royalists during the English Civil Wars (1642–51), De Gomme was in 1661 appointed engineer-in-charge of all the king’s fortifications in England and Wales and of a new fortress-building program along the south coast of England (fig. 563). From 1682 until his death in 1685 he was also surveyor general, one of the principal officials of the Board of Ordnance. (Note that in this context, “surveyor” meant supervisor or inspector, not mapmaker: Willmoth 1993, 138–47.) De Gomme used this position to shape the conduct and training of the engineers. He undoubtedly framed the “Instructions to Our Principal Engineer” (in the “Rule, Orders and Instructions for the Government of the Office of Ordnance”) of 1683, regarded as the basic charter for the professionalization of engineers. These instructions outlined the necessity for a detailed knowledge of the geographical environment; the requirement to map, or to acquire mapping of, the locations and environs of fortifications under siege; and the training of new entrants to the engineers by requiring them to gain experience through foreign travel and the observation of military practice in Europe (Saunders 2004, 244–46). Between 1717 and 1723, the Board regularized its various civilian draftsmen within a Drawing Room in the Tower of London with three functions: to act as a repository for the maps and plans of all sorts that were made or acquired by Ordnance officers; to provide copies of these maps and plans whenever they were required by other officers, government officials, or the king; and to train draftsmen for service in Ordnance depots at

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home and abroad. The Drawing Room fostered a distinctive house style (fig. 564). The particular style of lettering, map design, and use of color wash techniques appears to have been initiated by Clement Lempriere, who was already a draftsman in 1716 and who had become chief draftsman by 1741 (Christian 1990; Hodson 1991a). Lempriere’s style was still apparent in engineers’ maps in the 1780s and 1790s, such as those by William Test and Thomas Chamberlain. In 1741 a military academy for Ordnance engineering and artillery officers was founded and established at Woolwich (Harley and O’Donoghue 1980, 3). Prior to its foundation, engineers had a basic, sometimes an advanced, grasp of the theory and practice of military survey and cartography, as evidenced by the mapping of Gibraltar by Sir Martin Beckman (chief engineer, 1685– 1702) and Talbot Edwards (chief engineer to the garrison, 1705), and by the surveys of John Armstrong (chief engineer, 1712; major general in 1739) for the campaigns of John Churchill, first duke of Marlborough, during the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14). The “General Instructions for the Engineers, to be sent to the several Garrisons” of 1740 specified seven scales to be used for maps, from 1:19,200 for the “General Map of a Coast or small Island,” through 1:2,400 for the survey of a town, to 1:60 for a “Draw-Bridge, Gun Carriage, or any other Carpenter’s Work” (Porter 1889, 1:149–50). Despite these recommendations, a large proportion of surveys and maps made after this time were based on different scales. From 1776, the more able of the Drawing Room draftsmen began to receive the same training in surveying as the engineer cadets from Woolwich, supervised by the mathematics professor Reuben Burrow (Kew, The National Archives of the U.K. [TNA] WO46/10 “Regulations for the Drawing Room,” ff. 156–57 [17 May 1776] and ff. 158–60 [12 June 1776]; Royal Military Academy 1851, 28). The Board formally recognized the significance of survey duties when it formed a dedicated surveying company of engineers in 1784, in the wake of the American Revolutionary War. A set of surveying instructions presumably devised for this new company constituted the most comprehensive English account of military survey practice to date. It made no reference to triangulation but concentrated on the quicker road traverses that would better suit operational conditions. In 1787, a new class of draftsmen in the Drawing Room was created, and William Gardner was appointed as first chief surveying draftsman (Harley 1980a, 44–45). Gardner imposed a new standard style of draftsmanship on the next generation of surveying draftsmen, such as Robert Dawson, who in turn was to train cadets at Woolwich and the Royal Military College at High Wycombe. Such stylistic similarities were advantageous for joining together the work of a number of surveyors. In

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Fig. 563. SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY STYLE OF DRAFTSMANSHIP BY BRITISH ENGINEERS. The seventeenthcentury style is exemplified by this plan of “The Bounds of the Fortificatie of Gosport” (ca. 1678), drawn by Bernard de Gomme to show proposed fortifications. Pencil, pen and ink,

and watercolor on paper; ca. 1:1,250. Compare figure 564 of the same area. Size of the entire original: 74 × 93 cm. Image courtesy of the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven (Octavo Room/ De Gomme).

December 1800, the Tower draftsmen were absorbed into the uniformed Corps of Royal Military Surveyors and Draftsmen and made subject to military discipline (Jones 1974; Hodson 1991b). By contrast, army officers in the line regiments who made maps had little formal cartographic training and were largely self-taught. Only at the very end of the century, in 1799, was John Gaspard Le Marchant able to establish a Royal Military College for line officers, directed by the French émigré General François Jarry. Military survey and topography—not of the precise engineer species, but of the rapid reconnaissance variety that was essential in war—were integral to its curriculum, both for the “senior department” of experienced officers

and for the “junior department” of new cadets. Along with mathematics and geometry, mapping was taught by Isaac Dalby, formerly of the Board of Ordnance’s trigonometrical survey. Between 1799 and 1811, over 200 senior officers and 1,500 new officers graduated from the college (Le Marchant 1841, 150–51); together they had a noticeable effect on the mapping of the Napoleonic Wars (Clark and Jones 1974; Thoumine 1968, 72–73; Edney 1994, 17). The British army was deployed repeatedly after 1650, both in local conflicts and in a series of increasingly global wars in Great Britain, continental Europe, North America and the Caribbean, and South Asia. During these wars, and in periods of peace, engineers and line

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Fig. 564. BOARD OF ORDNANCE HOUSE STYLE OF DRAFTSMANSHIP BY BRITISH ENGINEERS. The Board of Ordnance developed a distinctive house style, as in this detail from the anonymous “Plan of the Town and Fortifications of Gosport, Together with the Crown Lands thereunto Belonging, and Forts Adjacent” (1742); proposed new outworks are

shown in yellow. Ink on parchment; 1:2,400. Compare figure 563. Size of the entire original: 53.3 × 74.9 cm; size of detail: ca. 40 × 57 cm. Image courtesy of The National Archives of the U.K. (TNA), Kew (MPE 1/386).

officers engaged in a variety of cartographic endeavors. In addition to engineers’ detailed architectural plans, military officers made battle plans (including orders of battle), maps of fortifications and encampments, and reconnaissance and route surveys that encompassed many types of areas, from the local environs of fortresses to extensive regions. These categories follow contemporary descriptions found in eighteenth-century textbooks of the different activities in which officers were expected to be proficient. The prevalence of fortification plans stemmed from the preeminence of the principles and practice of the attack and defense of fortified places in the education of Ordnance and army officers alike. In spite of the “military revolution” (Parker 1988), in which siege warfare gave way to greater movement of larger armies and more pitched battles, sieges of fortified places contin-

ued to be common throughout the eighteenth century, although they were not as long in duration. The great fortifications of Portsmouth, Plymouth, Edinburgh, and Gibraltar (after its capture by the British in 1704) are represented by continuous sequences of large-scale mapping throughout the period (Hodson 1978; Stuart 1991; Anderson 2010). All available printed plans of fortified places and towns in foreign theaters of operations were also collected; these could form the basis for field observations, as when engineer Patrick Mackellar “enlarged” his plan of Quebec (ca. 1757) “from Bellin’s plan with additions” (London, British Library, Cartographic Items Maps K.Top.119.34). Reconnaissance mapping, including the production of accompanying written reports, was practiced from at least the second half of the seventeenth century, when the focus of this genre of mapping was the immediate

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hinterland of an existing fort or of a potential fortified site. For example, the mathematician Sir Jonas Moore, surveyor general of Ordnance, 1669–79, was commissioned in 1662 to map the Thames estuary; this survey was extended in 1667 to include a “description of all castles, forts, batteries, creeks, &c.” in the area as well as to provide valuations of lands to be purchased for military use (Willmoth 1993, 128–30, quote on 142). Smaller-scale maps were commonly made to show the distribution of harbors, towns, and fortifications, but fortification and environs maps remained the primary activity of Ordnance officers throughout the eighteenth century (Anderson 2009). Route surveys were a common task for military surveyors, complete with written commentaries on the quality of existing roads and their capacity for military traffic. Such work is exemplified by the “A Sketch of General Braddock’s March” to the River Monongahela in Pennsylvania in 1755, with its accompanying account of “Work done to the Road”: “a great deal of cuting, digging and Bridging” (London, Royal Collection, Inventory Number 731062). Other route surveys of note include those of the marches by the army in Flanders between 1740 and 1748 (also in the Royal Collection). Starting in the 1740s, these topographical surveys began to be carried on over much larger areas (Harley and O’Donoghue 1980, 5–6). In Scotland, David Watson needed a general map to organize the construction of new roads and fortresses for the pacification of the Highlands after the Jacobite rebellion of 1745–46, leading to the famous Military Survey of Scotland (1747– 55) by William Roy. The extensive surveys in North America and India led to several regional surveys, as much for administrative as military purposes, including the so-called Murray Map of the St. Lawrence River valley in Quebec (see fig. 838), other surveys that would eventually be published, in part, as The Atlantic Neptune (1774–82) (see fig. 502), James Rennell’s survey of Bengal (1765–77) (see fig. 708), and Charles Vallancey’s surveys of Ireland (1778–90) (see fig. 836). The threat of French invasion led to detailed surveys of southern England, first by Watson, Roy, and David Dundas during the Seven Years’ War, and by a variety of engineers and officers during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (fig. 565). A key figure in the later surveys was Charles Lennox, third duke of Richmond, master general of Ordnance (1782–95). In the 1760s, Richmond had employed commercial surveyors Thomas Yeakell and William Gardner to survey his estate at Goodwood in Sussex; he recruited them in 1782–84 for the Tower Drawing Room, where they used their survey and drafting skills to make six-inch (1:10,560) surveys of Plymouth, Guernsey, Jersey, Kent,

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and the Isle of Wight. Richmond championed Roy’s ideas for comprehensive surveys, leading to the creation in 1787 of the permanent cadre of topographical surveyors (Harley 1980a, 44–45, appendix I [363–65]). In 1791, building on Roy’s triangulation between the royal observatories of Greenwich and Paris, Richmond also approved the use of engineer and artillery officers to carry on a national geodetic and topographic survey that became known as  the Ordnance  Survey of Great Britain (Hodson 1991c). The greater part of the extant cartographic materials generated by British military survey is in manuscript. Little survives of operational mapping in the field, and for the most part the manuscript maps are finished copies. The major collections are those of George III, now the King’s Topographical Collection in the British Library, and the King’s Military Collection, which includes that of his uncle, William Augustus, duke of Cumberland, now in the Royal Collection. Printed mapping of military events was largely left to private publishers, who were allowed to use official military manuscript source material. Commercial mapmakers were not slow to maximize the business potential that conflict offered (Pedley 2005, 118–55). The seventeenth-century media saw the rise of the broadsheet news coverage of war, in which engraved maps were combined with letterpress text to give the public graphic and written accounts of the progress of military events, such as the Particular Relation of the Great Victory Obtained by Their Majesties Forces over the Irish Army, at Aghrim in Ireland, on the 12th of July, 1691, which was printed alongside a Draught of the Incampment of the Irish Army at the Battel near Aghrim . . . by Colonel Richards, First Engineer of Ireland and published “by Authority” (London, Royal Collection, Inventory Number 724051). This practice became particularly prevalent in the eighteenth century, when maps by engineers in the service of the British monarch formed the basis of commercial maps of battles such as Henry Overton’s of Culloden (1746), taken from a plan by the engineer Dugal Campbell; Minden (1759), published by Thomas Major in 1760 from Roy’s manuscripts; Quebec (1759), published by Thomas Jefferys from original material by the engineers Samuel Holland, Hugh Debbieg, and J. F. W. Des Barres; and Boston, with its entrenchments, published in 1775 “from the Observations of Lieut. Page” by William Faden, to give a few examples. The production of printed mapping of military events by the military itself had to wait until new technology emerged during the Peninsular War, when the quartermaster general’s department set up a lithographic printing press at the Horseguards in the first decade of the nineteenth century. The first map to be printed in Britain by this means

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Fig. 565. DETAIL FROM A MAP OF THE COAST OF EAST ANGLIA BETWEEN WINTERTON NESS AND FELIXSTOWE, TOGETHER WITH A DEEP HINTERLAND, ENDORSED BY GEORGE PINK, CHIEF MILITARY SURVEYOR, 1798. Although based on existing published commercial mapping by William Faden and Joseph Hodskinson, the landscape is shown in a style that represents the terrain from a military point of view in such a way that the eye can instantly grasp the minutiae of hills, marshes, and coastal dunes and cliffs. Roads are classified according to their passability

by heavy artillery at different times of the year, and possible landing places along the coast are indicated. It was accompanied by a series of reports by an engineer officer that detailed the positions to be taken up by the defending army and plans for the evacuation of the local population in case of invasion. Pencil, pen and ink, and watercolor on paper; 1:63,360. Size of the entire original: 72 × 157 cm; size of detail: ca. 30 × 38 cm. Image courtesy of The National Archives of the U.K. (TNA), Kew (MR 1/1415).

at the Horseguards was of Bantry Bay, dated 7  May 1808 (Ristow 1975).

Christian, Jessica. 1990. “Paul Sandby and the Military Survey of Scotland.” In Mapping the Landscape: Essays on Art and Cartography, ed. Nicholas Alfrey and Stephen Daniels, 18–22. Nottingham: University Art Gallery, Castle Museum. Clark, Peter K., and Yolande Jones. 1974. “British Military MapMaking in the Peninsular War.” Paper presented at the Seventh International Cartographic Conference, ICA, Madrid. Edney, Matthew H. 1994. “British Military Education, Mapmaking, and Military ‘Map-Mindedness’ in the Later Enlightenment.” Cartographic Journal 31:14–20. Harley, J. B. 1980a. “The Birth of the Topographical Survey.” In A His-

Y ola n d e H o d s o n See also: Education and Cartography; Great Britain; Roy, William B i bliogra p hy Anderson, Carolyn J. 2009. “State Imperatives: Military Mapping in Scotland, 1689–1770.” Scottish Geographical Journal 125:4–24. ———. 2010. “Constructing the Military Landscape: The Board of Ordnance Maps and Plans of Scotland, 1689–1815.” 2 vols. PhD diss., University of Edinburgh.

990 tory of the Ordnance Survey, ed. W. A. Seymour, 44–56. Folkestone: Dawson. ———. 1980b. “The Resumption of the Trigonometrical Survey.” In A History of the Ordnance Survey, ed. W. A. Seymour, 21–32. Folkestone: Dawson. Harley, J. B., and Yolande O’Donoghue (Hodson). 1980. “The Origins of the Ordnance Survey.” In A History of the Ordnance Survey, ed. W. A. Seymour, 1–20. Folkestone: Dawson. Harley, J. B., Barbara Bartz Petchenik, and Lawrence W. Towner. 1978. Mapping the American Revolutionary War. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hodson, Donald, comp. 1978. Maps of Portsmouth before 1801: A Catalogue. Portsmouth: City of Portsmouth. Hodson, Yolande. 1991a. “The Highland Survey 1747–1755 and the Scottish School of Cartography.” In Opening Up the Highlands: Highland History and Archives, 1–4. Edinburgh: Scottish Records Association. ———. 1991b. “Robert Dawson (1771–1860), Ordnance Surveyor and Draftsman.” Map Collector 54:28–30. ———. 1991c. “Board of Ordnance Surveys, 1683–1820.” In Ordnance Survey: Past, Present and Future, unpaginated. Chichester: Survey and Mapping Alliance. Jones, Yolande. 1974. “Aspects of Relief Portrayal on 19th Century British Military Maps.” Cartographic Journal 11:19–33. Le Marchant, Denis. 1841. Memoirs of the Late Major-Genl. Le Marchant. London: Printed by Samuel Bentley. Marshall, Douglas W. 1976. “The British Military Engineers, 1741– 1783: A Study of Organization, Social Origin, and Cartography.” PhD diss., University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. ———. 1980. “Military Maps of the Eighteenth-Century and the Tower of London Drawing Room.” Imago Mundi 32:21–44. Parker, Geoffrey. 1988. The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Phillimore, R. H. 1945. Historical Records of the Survey of India, Vol. 1. Dehra Dun: Survey of India. Porter, Whitworth. 1889. History of the Corps of Royal Engineers. 2 vols. Chatham: Longmans, Green. Ristow, Walter W. 1975. “Lithography and Maps, 1796–1850.” In Five Centuries of Map Printing, ed. David Woodward, 77–112. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Royal Military Academy, Woolwich. 1851. Records of the Royal Military Academy. Woolwich: Printed at the Royal Artillery Institution. Saunders, Andrew. 2004. Fortress Builder: Bernard de Gomme, Charles II’s Military Engineer. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Stuart, Elisabeth. 1991. Lost Landscapes of Plymouth: Maps, Charts and Plans to 1800. Stroud: Alan Sutton in association with Map Collector Publications. Thoumine, R. H. 1968. Scientific Soldier: A Life of General Le Marchant, 1766–1812. London: Oxford University Press. Willmoth, Frances. 1993. Sir Jonas Moore: Practical Mathematics and Restoration Science. Woodbridge: Boydell Press.

Military Cartography and Topographical Surveying by the Netherlands. Military and topographical cartography in

the Netherlands in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries has been explored in volume three of The History of Cartography (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1271–90). Among the most important developments treated there were the availability of training for engi-

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neers as well as private surveyors in the program called Nederduytsche Mathematicque (Dutch mathematics) at the University of Leiden after 1600 and the establishment of a corps of military engineers under the aegis of Prince Maurits van Nassau in 1604. But the Nederduytsche Mathematicque, though it created many surveyors, did not transform the field of military engineering as its founders had hoped, and it ceased operations in 1681. By the time of the Rampjaar (disaster year) of 1672, when the Dutch Republic had been attacked by England, France, and a coalition of German princes, the engineering arm of the Dutch army was decimated, and only eight engineers were available. After 1660, courses in surveying and fortification engineering were offered in ’s Hertogenbosch, Utrecht, and, especially, at the Frisian Academy of Franeker, which offered a course in “geometria en militaire architectuur” (Scholten 1989, 28). Still, most engineers got their training on the job, from mentors and textbooks. The number of engineering officers, both ordinaris and extraordinaris, fluctuated drastically with the highest staffing during times of war. Both the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14) and the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–48) contributed to spikes in enrollment, but the number of engineers stabilized between sixty and seventy in the latter part of the century. Throughout the period, maps used by the military were not invariably the work of military engineers; there are numerous examples of private surveyors being employed by governments. The two main types of maps produced for military purposes were town plans that highlighted fortifications and military topographical maps. F. W. J. Scholten (1989, 203–25) provides a list of 410 town plans and 176 topographical maps made between 1579 and 1795 in Dutch archives, plus many more copies, tracings, and adaptations. Cornelis Koeman (1963, 95–108) lists both manuscript and printed topographical maps made between 1750 and 1850. For most of this period, medium-scale topographical maps were produced in smaller numbers primarily because military operations usually were sieges of fortified places, which required very large-scale plans. The characteristics of Dutch fortification plans are addressed in the entry on urban mapping in the Netherlands; this entry focuses on military topographical maps. For most of the Enlightenment, the province of Holland (the largest and most populous in the northern Netherlands) maintained its own institution for military engineering, the Departement der Hollandsche Fortificatiën, under the control of the States General of Holland. Its most influential controllers general were Genesis Paen (1647–79), his son Willem Paen (1679–1707), and Jan Philip Prevost (1737–62). In 1688, the States General of the Republic embarked on an unprecedented

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Fig. 566. MENNO VAN COEHOORN, WATERLINIE. Manuscript, ink and watercolor on paper, late seventeenth century; ca. 1:53,500. Van Coehoorn’s proposal for a defensive waterline between Nieuwpoort on the Lek (at the southern, left side of the map) and Muiden on the Zuiderzee (at the northern,

right side). The wide blue band between the Lek and the Vecht near Breukelen represents the lands that would be intentionally flooded. Size of original: 41.2 × 106.2 cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Leiden (COLLBN Port 15 N 101: 2).

effort to upgrade the country’s system of fortifications. At the urging of the Stadtholder William III, a director general of fortifications was appointed. The first two incumbents were French, and they began the transition to the French system of fortifications popularized by Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, a shift completed by the third director general, Baron Menno van Coehoorn. Obsessed with keeping the sea at bay, preventing flooding, and reclaiming land, the Dutch were also acutely aware of the strategic value of intentional flooding for defensive purposes. From 1681 to 1688 the engineer Johan van Alberding proposed a system of small dikes to be constructed in Friesland, Groningen, and Drenthe to keep the moorlands as wet as possible. Van Alberding made a series of maps showing more than 200 kilometers of these dikes, known as leidijken. Van Coehoorn, who became director general in 1695, oversaw a major restructuring of the corps. His 1685 book, Nieuwe vestingbouw, op een natte of lage horisont, demonstrated the superiority of the French system and also highlighted his emphasis on using strategic inundation (fig. 566). Under Van Coehoorn’s leadership, topographic maps of the Rhine and its tributaries, Gelderland, and Utrecht were made; some of these formed the basis of the Tabula nova provinciæ Ultrajectinæ published by Nicolaas  II Visscher in 1680 (Scholten 1989, 37–40). During the War of the Spanish Succession, strategic flooding was employed, but was not as effective as had been hoped; the method caused a lot of unnecessary damage and was opposed by local populations. These experiences led engineers to try to plan inundations involving smaller, more suitable areas. This required ever

more detailed knowledge of the terrain and hence more and better topographic maps, a number of which were produced during the relatively long period of peace between the War of the Spanish Succession and the War of the Austrian Succession. Of particular importance were maps by Pieter de la Rive (Westerwolde and Overijsselse Vecht, 1717–31), Bernard II de Roij (Gelderse IJssel, 1736–41), his son Bernard Jacob de Roij (Gelderse Vallei, 1741–44), and Cornelis Draeck (Noord-Brabant, 1739–44) (Scholten 1989, 53–69, 73–75). Although a civilian and a commercial mapmaker, Willem Tiberius Hattinga had a profound impact on military topographical mapping in midcentury. He began his career as an army doctor in Staats-Vlaanderen and began to compile, on his own initiative, a detailed topographic map of the area from his own surveys based on triangulation, the Kaarte van Staats Vlaanderen met de oude en nieuwe limiten (1745, 1:30,000) (Donkerslootde Vrij 1995, 161). With the French army attacking from the south, he began, at the behest of the States General, to bring together all available maps of the southern flanks of the Republic. He was granted open access to the map collections of the States General and the private map collection of the Stadholder Willem IV, who was very interested in cartography. With the greatest collection of military maps in the Republic at his disposal, Hattinga, assisted by his sons, David Willem Coutry and Anthony, compiled over the next decade four enormous atlases of manuscript maps (both from their original surveys and maps copied from the archives) that covered the Staats-Vlanderen, Staats-Brabant, the islands of Zeeland, and frontiers of Gelderland, Overijssel, and

Fig. 567. DETAIL OF NIJMEGEN FROM MAP OF THE IJSSEL AND ITS ENVIRONS BY HERMANUS VAN HOOFF, J. A. VAN KESTEREN, AND M. A. SNOECK, SURVEYED BETWEEN 1773 AND 1779. This second fair copy, completed in 1783 and signed by Van Kesteren, was included in what has become known as the Hottinger Atlas. Manuscript, ink and watercolor on paper, 1:14,400. Cultivated land,

moorlands, woodlands, and even trees lining the roads are all carefully delineated, and hachuring is used to indicate the (very slight) relief to the southeast of the city (north is toward the left). Outside urban areas, individual buildings are shown. Van Hooff served as director general of the corps of engineers in 1795–1803. Image © Nationaal Archief, The Hague (4.OSK, Y11Y2).

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Groningen (Scholten 1989, 69–73, 91–96). Altogether some 1,000 manuscript maps can be traced to the Hattingas, a number of which were later published (such as those in Isaak Tirion’s Atlas van Zeeland, 1760). The private/public relationship of the Hattinga family with military authorities was cemented even further when David Willem Coutry and Anthony joined the corps as ingenieurs extraordinaris in 1748 and 1751. Eighty manuscript maps by the Hattingas have been reproduced at full size (Hattinga 1977–[82?]), and plans are under way to publish full-size facsimiles of the atlases of Staats-Vlaanderen and Staats-Brabant housed in the Zeeuws Archief, Middelburg. From 1748 to 1773, the Republic’s corps of engineers was without a director general, but the next incumbent, Carel Diederik du Moulin (director 1774–92), played a crucial role. Despite much stalling by the states council, he managed to raise the salaries of engineers, reorganize the divisions, and begin work on a comprehensive defense plan. He was especially keen to form a corps of ingénieurs géographes on the French model that would make uniform maps of all strategic points at the very large scale of 1:14,400 (1,200 rods to the inch). Slowly, such an organization, and such maps, began to emerge (Scholten 1989, 78–86). An early contributor to this effort was Pieter Andriaansz. Ketelaar, a private surveyor employed by the province of Holland, whose ten-sheet map of the Holland-Utrecht border (Kaarte van een gedeeltte van de provintie van Holland, 1:14,400) made over the course of a decade (1769–79) had clear military uses, including the planning of inundations (Scholten 1989, 112–15). Johan Frederik Schouster, an ingenieur extraordinaris in Du Moulin’s corps, brought military topographical mapping in the Netherlands to the highest level with a consistent system of symbols and refined topographical representation. He was responsible for dozens of large-scale maps, and his sophisticated style can be said to have engendered a “school” (Scholten 1989, 84–86). Another ingenieur extraordinaris who had studied with Schouster was Johann Heinrich Hottinger. A number of engineers under his direction made detailed surveys and maps of the eastern and northeastern parts of the country that make up what is now known as the Hottinger Atlas (fig. 567) (although he himself did not work on the westernmost section that showed the course of the IJssel). All 118 sheets (at 1:14,400) have been reproduced at a reduced scale but in full color (Versfelt 2003). A small part of what is now the Netherlands along the border with Belgium and part of the present-day Dutch province of Limburg were included in the survey of the Austrian Netherlands made by Joseph Jean François de Ferraris from 1770–78 (ca. 1:11,520).

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Ironically, the French occupation of the Netherlands provided the centralization of the government that was needed to realize Du Moulin’s dreams of a modernized and revitalized engineering corps. An engineering school, through which every engineer officer had to pass, was founded in 1800 in Zutphen, and in 1806 a special brigade of ingénieurs géographes was established under the direction of Cornelis Rudolphus Theodorus Krayenhoff, who would produce the first countrywide, uniform topographical survey of the Netherlands in 1822 (Scholten 1989, 153). Martij n S to rms and Elger Heere See also: Netherlands, Republic of the United; Urban Mapping: Netherlands Bibliography Donkersloot-de Vrij, Marijke. 1995. Topografische kaarten van Nederland uit de 16de tot en met de 19de eeuw: Een typologische toelichting ten behoeve van het gebruik van oude kaarten bij landschapsonderzoek. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Hattinga, Willem Tiberius. 1977–[82?]. Topografische kaarten en plattegronden van de Hattinga’s, 1724–1755. 10 portfolios. Utrecht: Stichting tot Bevordering van de Uitgave van de Hattinga-Atlassen; Alphen aan de Rijn: Canaletto. Koeman, Cornelis. 1963. Handleiding voor de studie van de topografische kaarten van Nederland, 1750–1850. Groningen: J. B. Wolters. Koeman, Cornelis, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Surveying and Official Mapping in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1670.” In HC 3:1246–95. Scholten, F. W. J. 1989. Militaire topografische kaarten en stadsplattegronden van Nederland, 1579–1795. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Versfelt, H. J. 2003. De Hottinger-atlas van Noord- en Oost-Nederland, 1773–1794. Groningen: Heveskes.

Military Cartography by the Ottoman Empire. For Ottoman military cartography, the eighteenth century saw the transition from traditional mapmaking to modern surveying practices, as evidenced by surviving maps, plans, and draft sketches. Only a few Ottoman siege plans have survived owing to excessive use; among the extant works, a certain number comprise maps originally prepared for presentation purposes rather than for military planning. The number of illustrative maps depicting Ottoman military engagements in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries declined considerably, explained by the sultan’s only occasional participation and the consequent absence of artists accompanying the campaigns. By the latter half of the eighteenth century, under Western influence, Ottoman military maps assumed a more sophisticated form in their technical and quantitative details. Still, the overall picture of disorganized troops in Ottoman maps reflects the Ottoman practice of granting considerable freedom to its military units on the field. Some examples of Ottoman military mapping from the seventeenth century have been illustrated and de-

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scribed briefly in the History of Cartography, volume 2.1 (Karamustafa 1992, esp. 210–15); in them, one may see the influence of both the Ottoman art of illustration and foreign cartographers. The continuation, side by side, of two styles of depiction—the pictorial approach in keeping with Ottoman illustration norms and the scaled drawing reflecting a European influence—would continue throughout the eighteenth century until the military reforms of the 1790s. An increasing reliance on the translation, copying, and distribution of nonOttoman works led to further institutionalization of European norms of military cartography. The anonymous translated map delineating the Transylvanian, Walachian, and Bessarabian lands (Istanbul, Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi [BOA] Haritalar Katalog˘u 37) can be dated to the 1663 Érsekújvár campaign, based on the remarks concerning military initiatives on the Hungarian border in the previous years (e.g., listing Hotin and Giurgiu as the newly conquered castles but omitting Kamianets-Podilskyi), and longitude and latitude are shown with Latin numbers. By contrast, the plan of the second siege of Vienna by the Ottomans in 1683 (Museen der Stadt Wien, I. N. 52.816/1; Karamustafa 1992, 213, fig 11.4), which has yet to be analyzed thoroughly, is a fine example of the influence of Ottoman conventions of spatial representation on cartography. There are two maps related to the Prut campaign of 1123/1711 between the Ottoman army and Russian troops under the command of Peter I. The colored manuscript siege plan by treasurer Ah.med ibn Mah.mu¯d, who was also the official chronicler of the campaign, has no scale (Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin–Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Orientabteilung, no. 1209; Kurat 1968; Karamustafa 1992, 213, pl. 15). It marks the deployment of Ottoman troops and artillery units, intentionally ignoring human figures, and locates the trenches, newly constructed bridges, and the headquarters of the grand vizier with remarkable detail. The second plan of the Prut campaign, dated 1123/1711, is an anonymous piece and presumably translated from a French original (Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi [TSMA] E. 1551/1; Karamustafa 1992, 215–16, fig. 11.8). Its scale as stated on the map is based on the pace, that is 2.5 ells/ cubits (1.895 m). Similarly the notations adjacent to the frame clarify the deployment of Turkish and Russian armies over fourteen days. A number of colored drawings with striking visual features relate to the Ottoman-Russian naval clashes of  1737–39 in the sea of Azov. Those belonging to . el-H . a¯cc Feyzulla¯h (TSMA E. 9401; Istanbul, Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi [TSMK], “Keyfiyyet-i Ru¯siyye der-sa¯l-i 1122,” TSMK H. 1627, f. 71b–72a) show the deployment of Ottoman ships, military facilities, bombing areas of each side, and the ongoing combat on

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land. They also identify the classes of the ships as well as ships’ and commanders’ names. The colored manuscript with notations depicting the sea battle of Lori Burnu in 1737 (TSMK Y. 4524) shares features in common with . el-H . a¯cc Feyzulla¯h’s drawings. The colored siege plan of the small Danubian island of Adakale (TSMA E. 9439; Karamustafa 1992, 213–14, fig. 11.6) also functions as a topographical map of the town and surrounding area, marking religious and civil structures in addition to strongholds, palankas (a type of wooden fort), other fortifications, and trenches. The map describes the course of action during the siege prior to the surrender of the fortress to Ottoman forces on 15 August 1738. Thus, it represents the deployment of Ottoman troops, showing the headquarters of the grand vizier at the rear and the course of the Ottoman fleet; the amount of ammunition used in the campaign and certain military units and commanders with numbers and human figures are also depicted. A growing number of Ottoman manuscripts concerning the art of war in the eighteenth century led to the production of particular drawings related to contemporary military techniques. The “Miʿya¯ru’d-düvel” (Istanbul, Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Hekimog˘lu Ali Pas¸a 803), composed of translations compiled by the high-ranking military officer Esı¯rı¯ H . asan ibn H . üseyin, who was taken captive at the second siege of Vienna in 1683, contains one scroll map (f. 393a–396a) on which he fixed the ideal battle order for Ottoman troops facing the enemy. “Ümmü’l-ġaza¯,” written by Bayra¯mog˘lu ʿAlı¯ Aġa in the reign of Ah.med III (r. 1718–30), includes some sketches defining the functions of canons and mortars (TSMK B. 368, f. 44b–45a, . 48b–49a). In addition, the military man Mus.t.afa¯ ibn Ibra¯hı¯m composed “Fenn-i humbara ve s.ana¯yiʿ-i a¯tes¸ba¯zı¯” (Istanbul, Büyüks¸ehir ˘ Belediyesi Atatürk Kitaplıg˘ı, Muallim Cevdet Yazmaları, K. 439), in which he included many sketches explaining the operation of different mortars and pumps and how to lay a proper mine. Some works support the idea that in their military campaigns the Ottomans used certain European maps with the signs and labels translated into Turkish. Ottoman translations of the Atlas curieux oder Neuer und compendieuser Atlas (1704) of Gabriel Bodenehr and of the Atlas geographicus, oder Accurate vorstellung der ganzen Welt (1720) of Matthäus Seutter support this view (Istanbul, Köprülü Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, II. B. 367, 370). The data on the maps were translated into Ottoman Turkish, including the distances. The positions of urban settlements and military installations are shown and sometimes colored; additional information supplements the maps of Hungarian lands and Venice. The translation of the work of the distinguished Italian general Raimondo Montecuccoli in service to the Habs-

Military Cartography

burgs under . the title “Fünu¯nü’l-h.arb,” presumably prepared by Ibra¯hı¯m Müteferrik.a in the reign of Mah.mu¯d I (r. 1730–54), marked the first wide-ranging attempt to bring Western and middle European military developments into Ottoman warfare (Sarıcaog˘lu and Yılmaz 2008). In the same period, the term fünu¯n-ı h.arb / fenn-i h.arb seemed to correspond to the notion of “art of war,” and a relatively vast literature began to emerge with numerous manuscripts titled with this term. These translations appeared in various versions and supplements and included military sketches. In the “Fünu¯nü’l-h.arb” sketches show the battle order of infantry troops, military installations and arsenals, fortifications and sieges, and cannons and hand-grenades with descriptive explanations (Istanbul, Nuruosmaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, 3237, f. 9a, 11a, 13a, 15a, 33a, 37a, 39a, 55a). By the middle of the eighteenth century, the Ottoman state employed foreign experts to fill the knowledge gap in contemporary military affairs and to overcome deficiencies in engineering. They contributed to Ottoman cartographic training and map collections. ClaudeAlexandre, comte de Bonneval, who later became known as Humbaracı Ah.med Pas¸a and sought Otto˘ man protection and converted to the Muslim faith in 1729, brought many maps with him, probably from the Habsburg Empire, where he had served. The Marquis de Mornai served under de Bonneval, later taking the name Mühendis Selı¯m, attended the ʿUlu¯feli humbaracı ocag˘ı ˘ in 1735, and three years later was appointed military engineer (ceng miʿmaˉrbas¸ısı) and draftsman. In 1772 another French officer, François baron de Tott, surveyed an area in the Bosporus to prepare for the construction of two fortresses and submitted his plans to the sultan. The manuscript maps produced by French experts in the eighteenth century are presently archived according to their language: those in Ottoman Turkish are in Istanbul and the French originals or copies reside mainly in French and Russian archives. . Enderu¯nlu Mus.t.afa¯ (also known as Ingiltereı¯ Mus.t.afa¯ Ag˘a) used translations of a number of operational maps of the 1768–74 Russo-Turkish wars to prepare his multicopy map of the campaign of 1768. His map delineates Ottoman, Habsburg, and Russian lands from the Black Sea to the Danube, by placing Habsburg and Russian Empire in the center of the map (TSMK E.H. 1454, title: “Macarista¯n ve Moskof Da¯ru’l-h.areka¯tı harı¯t.ası”; Karatay 1961, 1:475). He also prepared a ˘ map centered on the Danube (1768) that depicted military theaters of Hungary, Russia, Poland, Moldavia, and Walachia in order, as he said on the map, to expose Russian concentrations along the frontier (TSMK A. 3625; TSMA E. 1551/2; Karamustafa 1992, 215, 217, fig. 11.9). Enderu¯nlu Mus.t.afa¯’s 1773 translated map of military areas in the Black Sea and Crimea includes

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Polish and Russian borders and southern Russian territory. Completed under the supervision of army translator Mikelza¯de Yorgaki (TSMK E.H. 1450; TSMA E. 8410/2), it was hand colored and drawn on silk. The notes on the map suggest it was translated from a map published by the Seutter-Lotter-Probst firm in Augsburg in 1769, but the original work must have been the map compiled by Andrew Dury (. . . Map of the Present Seat of War between Russians, Poles, and Turks, 1769, ca. 1:170,000). The 1773 map of Belgrade and Poland prepared by Enderu¯nlu Mus.t.afa¯ was compiled in a similar way (TSMK E.H. 1451). Enderu¯nlu Mus.t.afa¯ mostly reproduced at the original scale from these translated works, adding some symbolic figures and informational data to his maps while benefiting from local craftsmen especially skilled in Ottoman calligraphy. Maps of naval warfare may also be numbered among the maps that depicted military operations. Mühendis Ah.med Ra¯sim’s map of the siege and bombardment of the city of Algiers by the Spanish navy commanded by Antonio Barceló in August 1783 (TSMK H. 1851) was presented to and appreciated by Abdülh.amı¯d I. Its legend identifies each ship or ship’s commander, with their Turkish equivalents in some cases, and names the different types of ships as well as including some topographical features. A hand-colored map from 1788 covers the Ottoman naval campaign against the castle of Kılburun (Qılburun) and the battles around the castle of Özi (Ochakiv) with vivid illustrations of the naval and land combat set against a topographically rich and detailed background. The images of fortresses in the area add to its importance (fig. 568). The handbooks written by French military experts for the imperial naval engineering school, Mühendisha¯ne-i ˘ Bah.rı¯-i hüma¯yu¯n, included several military sketches and drawings. The Elémens de castramétation et de fortification passagère of André-Joseph Lafitte-Clavé, . translated by K.as.s.a¯bbas¸ıza¯de Ibra¯hı¯m under the title Us.u¯lü maʿaˉrif fıˉ tertıˉbi’l-ordu ve tah..sıˉnihıˉ muvak.k.aten (1787), provided twelve sketches related to the arrangement of trenches and parapets; the construction of fortresses, bridges, palankas, and protected emplacements; as well as the deployment of troops and heavy guns. The Turkish translation of Admiral Laurent-JeanFrançois Truguet’s Traité de manœuvre pratique, titled Us.u¯lü’l-maʿaˉrif fıˉ vech-i tas.fıˉf-i sefaˉyin-i donaˉnmaˉ ve fenn-i tedbıˉr-i h.arekaˉtihaˉ (1788), also contained many plans and sketches on naval operations and maneuvers. The Tableau des nouveaux reglemens de l’empire Ottoman of Mah.mu¯d Ra¯ʾif Efendi (1798) embraced a plan of a five-bastion fortress (pl. 17) and some encampment plans (pl. 18). In addition to these printed materials, some manuscripts of this period contain plans and sketches about war tactics, techniques, and materials.

Fig. 568. OTTOMAN NAVAL OPERATION OF KILBURUN AND THE CONFLICTS IN FRONT OF THE FORTRESS OF . ÖZI, 1202/1788. Hand-drawn map by el-H . a¯cc Feyzulla¯h.

Image courtesy of Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Ars¸ivi, Istanbul (E. 9403/1).

Military Cartography

There were a large number of plans of Ottoman fortresses, beginning with the seventeenth-century plan of the castle of Van (TSMA E. 9487; Karamustafa 1992, 213–14, fig. 11.5), representing a continuity in the Ottoman art of illustration. The anonymous plan of the castle of Buda dated after 1686 (Bologna, Biblioteca Universitaria, Marsigli 8; Karamustafa 1992, 215, fig. 11.7) marks the inner and outer walls, the Kızılelma Sarayı, and the arsenal and gives the number of guards at each of the defense towers. An Ottoman depiction of the city of Buda in the Marsigli collection in Bologna shows the town during the 1684 siege of the Christian forces and has recently been reevaluated (Molnár 2006). Fierce wars and the increasing employment of European experts by the Ottomans during the reigns of Abdülh.amı¯d I (r. 1774–89) and Selı¯m III (r. 1789–1807) led to great progress in the development of fortifications and the related practices of surveying and drafting. During this period, French engineers and cartographers and their Ottoman students prepared many maps and plans of military fortresses and harbors along the coasts of the Bosporus, the Black Sea, and the Aegean Sea using European drafting principles. At the same time, the Ottoman administration undertook extensive reconnaissance work, initiating castle construction and repair to which they applied contemporary innovations. This effort resulted in the design plans for newly built or planned fortifications or draft plans of buildings supplementary to existing structures, such as the plans of the fortress of Ochakiv (1737) (BOA, Plan, Proje ve Krokiler Katalog˘u, no. 857) and the fortress of Anapa (1793) (fig. 569). Among the maps housed in BOA and TSMA the plans for the fortresses of Yenikale, Berat, Avlona, Izmail, Maˇcin, Kherson, Kılburun, and Al-Iskandarı¯yah (Alexandria) are typical. The manuscript regional maps that depict the fortresses in the area north of the Black Sea, particularly those on the River of Ochakiv and its branches (BOA, Haritalar Katalog˘u, no. 90–92) also come from this period. After legislation in 1794, a self-contained building situated in the barracks of the ʿUlu¯feli humbaracı ocag˘ı within the Mühendish.a¯ne was allocated˘ for the preservation of the fortress plans and maps. The 1794 regulation further stipulated that all fortress plans and maps should be inventoried and duplicated, and the terms for using the maps were fixed. After 1791 several translations were published by the . state press under the titles Fenn-i h.arb, Fenn-i lagım, or Us.u¯l-i h.arbiye / Fenn-i muh.aˉs.ara; they included many plans and drafts related to military tactics, army mobilization, and deployment. Almost all of them, with a single exception, were translated into Turkish by Konstantin . Ipsilanti, with Fenn-i h.arb, the Traité de l’attaque et de la défense des places of Sébastien Le . Prestre, maréchal de Vauban, being the first (1791). Ipsilanti copied the

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Fig. 569. PLAN OF THE FORTRESS OF ANAPA, 1207/1793. Manuscript plan, cartographer unknown. Size of the original: 51 × 50 cm. Image courtesy of the Bas¸bakanlık Osmanlı Ars¸ivi, Istanbul (Plan, Proje ve Krokiler Katalog˘u, nr. 829).

figures and the illustrations himself with Meh.med Emı¯n, . Kapril Efendi, and Istefan Efendi participating in this effort (fig. 570). Three colored maps and plans come from the period of Russian-Turkish-British alliance that responded to the French occupation of Egypt and the island of Corfu in 1797–98 (TSMK H. 1847, 1848 and 1849). Most probably prepared by the French engineer François Kauffer, whose signature appears on the last map, they depict the Turkish-British allied siege of Alexandria in 1798–1801 and the Abu¯ Qı¯r (Ebu¯hu¯r) landing on 25 July 1799 and provide an account of the events below the maps. There is another colored military plan with a distance scale of six hours (TSMA E. 6200/32; see fig. 521). The English version of this map (TSMA E. 6200/27; see fig. 522), presumably also drawn by Kauffer, shows the operational area from Abu¯ Qı¯r and Rashı¯d (Rosetta) to Rah.ma¯niyye and the siege and bombardment of TurkishBritish joint fleet of Alexandria in March 1801. It also marks the dates of deployment of the military units and shows the initial positions and subsequent movements of the troops. Mah.mu¯d Ra¯ʾif Efendi, the naval secretary of the period, left some maps on the naval operation against Corfu that compelled the surrender of the island to Turkish-Russian forces on 3 March 1799. Mah.mu¯d

. Fig. 570. S.AH . RA¯-YI GAYR-I MÜSTEVIYYEDE METRISLENMIS¸ ORDUNUN BIR K.IT . ʿASI (ENTRENCHMENT OF TROOPS ON OPEN FIELD). From D . arben ve def ʿan muh.aˉs.ara ve muh.aˉrese-i k.ılaˉʿ ve h.us.uˉn, translated by Kostan-

. tin Ipsilanti, 1206/1792, the Turkish translation of Vauban’s Traité de l’attaque et de la défense des places. Size of the original: 33 × 27 cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

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Ra¯ʾif’s siege plan of the island of Vido adjacent to Corfu (TSMA E. 4004/5) is a translation of a Russian map. The descriptive notes above and below the map provide day-to-day information about the progress of the battle. Another colored and scaled map by Mah.mu¯d Ra¯ʾif that depicted the siege of Corfu, this time entirely by Ottoman means, has been lost. By the end of the eighteenth century, as the military reforms were under way within the empire, the Ottoman state had made progress toward a military cartography based on scale, observation, measurement, and institutional map collecting. By employing a pragmatic approach and foreign cartographers when necessary, the Ottoman government without hesitation translated and used military maps and plans produced in Western Europe. . F i k r et S a r icao g˘ lu

See also: Ottoman Empire, Geographical Mapping and the Visualization of Space in the B i bliogra p hy Beševliev, Bojan. 1983. “Die Nord- und West-Schwarzmeerküste nach einer osmanischen Karte des 18. Jahrhunderts.” Materialia Turcica 7–8:72–112. Beydilli, Kemal. 1995. Türk bilim ve matbaacılık tarihinde Mühendishâne, Mühendishâne Matbaası ve Kütüphânesi (1776–1826). Esp. 53, 89, . 159, 292, 302–3, 376–77, 386. Istanbul: Eren. Bostan, Idris. 2005. Kürekli ve yelkenli Osmanlı gemileri. Esp. 138– 39, 144–45, 150–51, 154–55, 160–61, 238–39. Istanbul: Bilge. Goodrich, Thomas D. 1993. “Old Maps in the Library of Topkapi . Palace in Istanbul.” Imago Mundi 45:120–33. Ihsanog˘lu, Ekmeleddin, et al. 2000. Osmanlı cog˘rafya literatürü tarihi (History of Geographical Literature during the .Ottoman Period). 2 vols. Esp. 149–50, 165, 735–36, 759. Istanbul: Islâm Tarih, Sanat . ve Kültür Aras¸tırma Merkezi. Ihsanog˘lu, Ekmeleddin, et al. 2004. Osmanlı askerlik literatürü tarihi (History of Military Art and Science Literature during the . Ottoman Period). 2 vols. Esp. 34, 44–46, 686, 760–65. Istanbul: Islâm Tarih, Sanat ve Kültür Aras¸tırma Merkezi. Karamustafa, Ahmet T. 1992. “Military, Administrative, and Scholarly Maps and Plans.” In HC 2.1:209–27. Karatay, Fehmi Edhem. 1961. Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Kütüphanesi: Türkçe Yazmalar Katalog˘u. 2 vols. Istanbul: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi. Kreutel, Richard F. 1953–55. “Ein zeitgenössischer türkischer Plan zur zweiten Belagerung Wiens.” Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 52:212–28. Kurat, Akdes Nimet. 1968. “Hazine-i Bîrun Kâtibi Ahmed bin Mahmud’un (1123-1711-Prut) Seferine Ait ‘Defteri’ (Berlin, Preussische Staatsbibliothek, Orientalische Abteilung, Nr. 1209).” Tarih Aras¸tırmaları Dergisi 4, no. 6–7:261–426. Kurtog˘lu, Fevzi. 1935. Türk süel alanında harita ve krokilere verilen deg˘er ve Ali Macar Reis atlası. Esp. 30–35, 40–45, 50, and the addenda. Istanbul: Sebat Basım Evi. Molnár, Mónika. 2006. “Buda 1684: Évi ostromának ‘ismeretlen’ török ábrázolása a bolognai Marsili-gyűjteményből.” Hadtörténelmi Közlemények 119:373–88. Sarıcaog ˘ lu, Fikret, and Cos¸kun Yılmaz. 2008. Müteferrika: Basmacı . . Ibrahim Efendi ve Müteferrika Matbaası = Basmacı Ibrahim Efendi and the Müteferrika Press. Trans. Jane Louise Kandur. Istanbul: Esen . Ofset. Uzunçars¸ılı, Ismail Hakkı. 1956. Osmanlı tarihi, vol. 4, pt. 1. Esp. 76–83, 110, 281–83, 537–38, pictures 1–11. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi.

Military Cartography by Portugal. The period between

1650 and 1800 corresponds to what might be called the “golden age” of military cartography in Portugal. Following an interlude of sixty years under the rule of the Spanish Crown, Portugal regained its autonomy in 1640. The separation from Spain compelled Portugal not only to invest in the immediate defense of its European borders but also to strengthen its imperial activities, which lasted from the middle of the seventeenth century throughout the entire eighteenth century. Portuguese lines of demarcation were in discussion in South America, and its sphere of influence fluctuated in Africa and the Far East. To maintain defenses, consolidate borders, and expand trade, the Portuguese relied heavily on military cartography. To respond to the wartime urgency of the Portuguese Restoration War (1640–68), various foreign specialists were hired to rebuild the obsolete fortifications along the land border (especially in the Alentejo) and also to take care of the maritime border. Holland and France supplied both theoretical works as well as engineers for hire, definitively supplanting Italian influence in royal affairs, which dated back to the sixteenth century. War with Spain also raised the awareness of the need to create Portuguese specialists to avoid reliance on foreign mercenaries, always seen as dangerous. One route to cartographic independence was to reestablish the educational institutions that had first been introduced in the sixteenth century. The Aula de Fortificação e Arquitectura Militar was formally instituted in 1647 in Lisbon, one of the first of its kind in Europe. The first director was Luís Serrão Pimentel, who had studied mathematics at the Jesuit college of Santo Antão. Subsequently nominated as cosmógrafo-mor (1671) and engenheiro-mor (1676), Pimentel wrote the Methodo Lvsitanico de desenhar as fortificaçoens das praças regulares, & irregulares, published posthumously in 1680. His book synthesized the principal schools of European fortifications with an eclectic method, taking the best from each. Designed as a practical fortifications handbook, it provided the basic curriculum for the first generation of engineers trained at the Aula. Thereafter, similar institutions were created in Portugal (Viana, 1701; Peniche, 1719; Almeida and Elvas, 1732) as well as in the principal cities of the empire, above all in Brazil (Salvador, 1696; Rio de Janeiro, 1698; São Luís, 1699; Recife, 1701; Belém, 1757). Although the operation of these aulas was not constant, with some becoming truly effective only in the second half of the eighteenth century, the result was a considerable increase in the number of educated specialists who could meet the demands for boundary surveying in Portuguese America, especially after the Treaty of San Ildefonso (1777) (Conceição 2000; Bueno 2011). These schools were defended staunchly by the enge-

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nheiro-mor of the kingdom, Manoel de Azevedo Fortes (appointed in 1719). A graduate in philosophy and mathematics from Madrid and Paris who helped introduce Cartesian thought to Portugal, Azevedo Fortes authored several books including O engenheiro portuguez: Divido em dous tratados (1728–29), which synthesized his pedagogy and methodology. His work significantly influenced the development of military cartography in Portugal. Engineers assigned to the principal cities of the empire had a contractual obligation to teach as part of their work. Some treatises on fortification were produced by these teachers but remained in manuscript. Students emerging from these schools had a solid theoretical foundation that was also extremely practical, emphasizing mathematics (geometry) and drafting. These methodological bases for instruction and theoretical principles were constantly updated. Albums of drawings exist from the fortification classes in Bahia, including illustrations of various treatises that were used as student exercises (fig. 571). The cartographic production of Portuguese engineers shows the indissoluble relationship between teaching and building practices, as the images nearly always corresponded to a project under construction. Once an engineer had received training in one of the aulas he entered the military in the infantry corps, officially ready to practice the “exercise of engineer” (as it was called in the contemporary documentation). It was up to the engenheiro-mor of the kingdom to approve or disapprove of all projects carried out by officers in all parts of the empire. Many drawings exist in manuscript, but few were engraved. Although no policy of secrecy was maintained, there were neither the means nor the interest to reproduce these maps in print. Whenever necessary, manuscript copies of the drawings were sent to the overseas council, the Conselho Ultramarino. Their designs served different purposes: to plan, to discuss, and to implement projects and to represent completed works. They were produced in the workspace of the teaching academies or in the fortifications themselves (fig. 572), and while varying aesthetically, they generally used similar materials. Beginning in the eighteenth century, color was used with greater frequency, often following the rubrics established by the Tratado do modo o mais facil, e o mais exacto de fazer as cartas geograficas (1722) of Azevedo Fortes. The collections that today belong primarily to the cartographic archives of the Portuguese and Brazilian armies include examples of every type of design and drawing necessary for the maintenance of the empire: additions to existing fortifications; plans for new projects; geographic, topographic, and hydrographic surveys; and studies of civil and religious architecture—all completed by military engineers. The techniques used

Military Cartography

Fig. 571. DRAWING BY STUDENT FROM THE MILITARY SCHOOL. An illustration from the manuscript notebook of “Ignacio Joze,” a student in the Aula Militar da Bahia, made in 1779, showing different steps in surveying, leveling, and triangulation necessary for the creation of military maps. Size of the original: 33.3 × 21.7 cm. Image courtesy of the Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino, Lisbon (AHU_CARTm_005, D. 990-1028-1028A).

reveal a significant French influence, especially in the eighteenth century. In his Tratado, Azevedo Fortes laid out a method of mapmaking and fought for the standardization of signs to be utilized in all Portuguese military cartography, but this result was never completely accomplished. Following this example, António José Moreira published Regras de desenho para a delineaçaõ das plantas, perfis e prespectivas pertencentes à

Fig. 572. “PLANTA DA PRAÇA DE ALMEIDA & SEUS ATTAQUES,” 1764, BY MIGUEL LUÍS JACOB. Jacob, an infantry sargent and staff engineer, drew the map on site at the request of the commander of the fort. It shows both the potential ballistic range and topography surrounding the fort.

Size of the original: 94 × 81 cm. Image courtesy of Portugal/ Gabinete de Estudos Arqueológicos da Engenharia Militar/Direção de Infraestruturas do Exército, Lisbon (14-1-2-2).

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architectura militar, e civil (1793), designed for students in the Academia Real de Fortificação, Artilharia e Desenho (created in 1790 in Lisbon) to better consolidate and reinforce the continuity of the former framework used to educate an elite group of specialists within Portugal in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The privileged relationship between military engineering and urban planning in the context of the Portuguese culture of this period is shown significantly in the role played by military engineers in the reconstruction of Lisbon after the 1755 earthquake. Under the authority of the engenheiro-mor Manuel da Maia, work teams were formed that were responsible for rebuilding the city. Similarly in Brazil, military engineers were also called to design new towns, particularly in the second half of the eighteenth century. In spite of a reluctance to rely on foreign mercenaries, some nonnative engineers worked in Portugal, especially during the war with Spain and France (1762–63). Some also were sent to Brazil, and their work was incorporated into the military production by indigenously trained Portuguese engineers. R en ata Araujo See also: Portugal Bibliograp hy Bueno, Beatriz Piccolotto Siqueira. 1998. “A iconografia dos engenheiros militares no século XVIII: Instrumento de conhecimento e controlo de território.” In Colectânea de estudos: Universo urbanístico português, 1415–1822, ed. Hélder Carita and Renata Araujo, 87–118. Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para as Comemorações dos Descobrimentos Portugueses. ———. 2011. Desenho e desígnio: O Brasil dos engenheiros militares (1500–1822). São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo. Conceição, Margarida Tavares da. 2000. “A Praça de Guerra: Aprendizagens entre a Aula do Paço e a Aula de Fortificação.” Oceanos 41:24–38. Delson, Roberta M. 1995. “The Beginnings of Professionalization in the Brazilian Military: The Eighteenth Century Corps of Engineers.” Americas 51:555–74. Dias, Maria Helena, ed. 2003. Contributos para a história da cartografia militar portuguesa. CD-ROM. Lisbon: Centro de Estudos Geográficos, Instituto Geográfico de Exército e Direcção dos Serviços de Engenharia. Fernandes, Mário Gonçalves. 2006. “Manoel de Azevedo Fortes: Linhas e Aguadas.” In Manoel de Azevedo Fortes (1660–1749): Cartografia, cultura e urbanismo, ed. Mário Gonçalves Fernandes, 123–40. Porto: GEDES (Gabinete de Estudos de Desenvolvimento e Ordenamento do Território), Departamento de Geografia da Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto. Moreira, Rafael. 1986. “Do rigor teórico à urgência prática: A arquitectura militar.” In Historia da arte em Portugal, vol. 8, O limiar do barroco, by Carlos Moura, José Fernandes Pereira, and Rafael Moreira, 67–85. Lisbon: Publicações Alfa.

Military Cartography by Spain. During the sixteenth century, the Spanish monarchy was aware of the need for accurate information for control of its kingdom, and the cartography of military engineers and mathematicians

at its service was excellent. In the seventeenth century, cartography continued to have military objectives in the different kingdoms of the monarchy (Cámara 2005, 15– 20), exemplified by the work of the Portuguese military engineer and cosmographer Pedro Teixeira Albernaz. The second half of the seventeenth century is noteworthy for the precipitous decline in cartographic production despite the fact that military engineers continued their well-established and respected tradition of military cartography, such as Ambrosio Borsano’s manuscript map of Catalonia, “El Principado de Cattalvña y condados de Rossellon y Cerdaña” (1687) (Líter Mayayo, Martín-Merás, and Sanchis Ballester 2001, 133–35; Buisseret 2007, 1079–1081, 1090–91, fig. 39.21). When the new dynasty of Bourbons came to power in the eighteenth century, they adopted the French system for organizing a corps of military engineers. This system definitively incorporated the engineers in the army with military grades and formal ordenanzas (ordinances or official instructions) that defined their functions. The ordinances described the production of maps necessary for understanding the nature of the king’s territories and for administrative planning, as well as for military goals of defense and information on fortifications, fortresses, battles, and everything to do with war. The Jesuits played a major role throughout the seventeenth century by teaching mathematics and allied sciences and embracing geography within their sphere of influence. Even well into the eighteenth century, Felipe V commissioned the Jesuits Carlos Martínez and Claudio de la Vega to produce a map of Spain, which was never finished. Toward the end of the seventeenth century, courses in map reading, map drawing, and geography were offered to military engineers by the Academia Real y Militar del Ejército de los Países Bajos (also known as the Academia Real y Militar de Bruselas), established in Brussels by the Spanish Habsburg monarchy in 1675 and directed by Sebastián Fernández de Medrano (Cámara 2013). This academy was the model for the Real Academia Militar de Matemáticas de Barcelona, created by the Bourbon dynasty in 1716 and opened in 1720, for the education of military engineers; it was directed by the Flemish ingeniero general Jorge Próspero de Verboom, a student of Fernández de Medrano (Capel, Sánchez, and Moncada 1988; Muñoz Corbalán 2004, 2015; Galland Seguela 2008, 55). In the Barcelona institution, scientific cartography for military purposes was reclaimed, with production focused on large-scale maps: the environs of a fortification, for example, Gibraltar (fig. 573); a boundary or frontier; and political borders. To a larger extent, cartographic works by naval officers and military engineers working for the Spanish monarchy, many of whom were of Flemish or Italian

Military Cartography

origin, developed in America, which was an excellent venue for experimentation, as is illustrated by the numerous maps conserved. One of the functions of the military engineers was the production of maps, as well as urban cartography with military goals, such as the preserved plans of Manila in the Philippines, Orán in Algeria, and Havana in Cuba. The movement of engineers through all the lands of the monarchy was a constant from the sixteenth century; their better organization in the eighteenth century can be credited to the rules regulating the functioning of the Cuerpo de Ingenieros, which spent much time in America. Thanks to them we have topographic urban studies of places of strategic value to the monarchy, especially of large ports and their fortifications. Those who made the most accurate geographic and topographic maps, even if partial, based on field surveying, continued to be the military engineers. In 1796, the army’s Cuerpo de Ingenieros Cosmógrafos de Estado was created. One of the goals of this organization was to produce a “Carta Geométrica del Reyno,” but the corps was dismissed in 1804 before such a map could be realized (Silva Suárez 2005, 223–28). The process of teaching cartography to military engineers is well known and explains the accuracy of their works. Throughout the eighteenth century, students in the Academia de Matemáticas de Barcelona learned the use of geographic and topographic maps and plans in addition to other subjects such as astronomy and topography. In the drawing course, future engineers were taught how to make maps and plans, how to use color, and how to write the memorias to accompany the graphic information. The production of geographic maps was taught in the last course. Not all military engineers were able to make maps, but they all had to be able to read them and know how to use them. The ordenanzas for surveying maps and plans by engineers—the earliest one dating to 1718—also established the scales at which maps were to be drawn; scales were to be in proportion to the information that was being presented, and the possibility of different scales was further elaborated in later ordenanzas. The compass rose was to indicate the orientation, and numbers, lines, and colors helped make the information clearer. Text was commonly added to the map image that explained each of the elements and circumstances on the map. Maps had to have greater width than height with the top oriented north. If the scale employed was excessively large, the map was to be divided into sheets, all preserving the same scale. Military engineers had to take particular care in placing boundary lines on the maps as well as roads and other indications of transportation and communication. In the case of areas belonging to other countries

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included in boundary maps, engineers could use only measurements that could be obtained within the territories of the king of Spain and from maps already published. Marine charts had to include all characteristics of the coasts—tides, reefs, rocks, obstacles, harbors, and water depths. Under orders from the ministry of war, engineers had to produce three copies from each original map. One copy was to be used on the spot where it had been made and two were to be archived, one in the Secretaría del Despacho de la Guerra and the other in the Dirección General de Ingenieros (Galland Seguela 2008, 37–43). Of the hundreds of maps extant in Spanish archives, no military map could fall into the hands of foreigners. Military cartography, most of it hand drawn, was not intended to be printed. It remained in manuscript for restricted use—the experience of three centuries demonstrated that it was absolutely necessary for the knowledge, defense, and protection of the territories of the Spanish monarchy. This secretive character contributed to the excellence of the cartography of military engineers because only a description that represented the territory with absolute fidelity, its fortifications, cities, coasts, and ports, would serve the exercise of power. A li ci a Cám ara See also: Spain Bibliography Buisseret, David. 2007. “Spanish Peninsular Cartography, 1500– 1700.” In HC 3:1069–94. Cámara, Alicia. 2005. “Introducción: Esos desconocidos ingenieros.” In Los ingenieros militares de la monarquía hispánica en los siglos XVII y XVIII, ed. Alicia Cámara, 13–29. Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa, Asociación Española de Amigos de los Castillos, Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica. ———. 2013. “Fernández de Medrano, Sebastián.” (El ingeniero: primera parte, de la moderna arquitectura militar, 1687; French translation, L’ingenieur pratique ou l’archiectura militaire et moderne, 1696.) Architectura: Architecture, textes et images, XVIe– XVIIe siècles. Centre d’Études Supérieures de la Renaissance Université François-Rabelais, Tours. Online publication. Capel, Horacio. 1988. “Geografía y cartografía.” In Carlos III y la ciencia de la Ilustración, ed. Manuel Sellés, José Luis Peset, and Antonio Lafuente, 99–126. Madrid: Alianza Editorial. Capel, Horacio, Joan Eugeni Sánchez, and José Omar Moncada Maya. 1988. De Palas a Minerva: La formación científica y la estructura institucional de los ingenieros militares en el siglo XVIII. [Barcelona]: Serbal; [Madrid]: CSIC. Galland Seguela, Martine. 2008. Les ingénieurs militaires espagnoles de 1710 à 1803: Étude prosopographique et sociale d’un corps d’élite. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez. Líter Mayayo, Carmen, Luisa Martín-Merás (Verdejo), and Francisca Sanchis Ballester, eds. 2001. Tesoros de la cartografía española: Exposición con motivo del XIX Congreso Internacional de Historia de la Cartografía, Madrid, 2001. [Salamanca]: Caja Duero; [Madrid]: Biblioteca Nacional. Muñoz Corbalán, Juan Miguel, ed. 2004. La Academia de Matemáticas de Barcelona: El legado de los ingenieros militares. [Madrid]: Ministerio de Defensa. ———. 2015. Verboom: Jorge Próspero Verboom, ingeniero militar

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Fig. 573. JUAN CABALLERO, PLAN OF GIBRALTAR, 1780. Manuscript; hand colored. In this plan some characteristics of Spanish military cartography of the eighteenth century are found, including the wind rose indicating orientation, the width being much greater than the height (as ordered by the ordenanza of 4 July 1718), the use of color to make information clearer, the incorporation of written text on the plan, and

the relationship between the development of cartography and defensive tactics. Scale: 8.3 cm = 600 varas (Castilian measure of length) and 8 cm = 250 toesas (equivalent to French toises). Size of the original: 42.0 × 107.8 cm. Image courtesy España, Ministerio de Cultura, Archivo General de Simancas, Valladolid (MPD,01,030).

flamenco de la monarquía hispánica. Madrid: Fundación Juanelo Turriano. Silva Suárez, Manuel. 2005. “Institucionalización de la ingeniería y profesiones técnicas conexas: misión y formación corporativa.” In Técnica e ingeniería en España, vol. 2, El Siglo de las Luces: De la ingeniería a la nueva navegación, ed. Manuel Silva Suárez, 165–262. Zaragoza: Institución “Fernando el Católico.”

kilde, which concluded the Dano-Swedish War (1657– 58), controlled not only the modern areas of Sweden and Finland, but also the Baltic regions of Kexholm län (part of Karelia), Ingria, Estonia, and Livonia, as well as parts of Pomerania, Wismar, and Bremen-Verden. Military engineering and mapping took place within the Fortifikationen (fortifications administration), organized in 1635. The leading figure in the second half of the seventeenth century was Erik Dahlbergh, who has been called the “Vauban of Sweden.” Dahlbergh had gradu-

Military Cartography by Sweden-Finland. Sweden had been a major military power since the reign of Gustavus Vasa (1523–60), and by the time of the Treaty of Ros-

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ally acquired a thorough theoretical and practical training in fortification design, beginning in 1647 as konduktör (leader of construction work) to Conrad Maesberg (ennobled von Mardefelt), commander of the Swedish fortifications in Germany. In 1650–54, Dahlbergh lived in Frankfurt am Main, where he became acquainted with Matthäus Merian, and some of his drawings of cities and fortifications were engraved and printed in Merian’s Theatrum Europæum in 1657. Over the following two years he undertook study tours in Central

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Europe and Italy. In this period, Dahlbergh mainly studied drawing and architecture. However, his focus was on fortifications, and in 1656, during the war with Poland, he was employed by the Swedish army. His drawings of the campaigns of Karl X Gustav were later published in Samuel Pufendorf’s De rebus a Carolo Gustavo Sveciæ rege gestis commentariorum libri septem (1696). In 1674, Dahlbergh was appointed quartermaster general and stayed in this office until his death in 1703. During this period the permanent staff rose from about 50 to

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Fig. 574. ERIK DAHLBERGH, “GEOMETRISCH DELINEATION AF CHRISTIANSTAD SAMPT DES SITUATION OCH HURULEDES DET AN. 1677 OCH 1678.” Manuscript map showing the Swedish siege of the Danish town Kristianstad 1677 to 5 August 1678.

Size of the original: 30 × 38 cm. Image courtesy of Krigsarkivet, Stockholm (SE/KrA/0425/08/002).

almost 450 men. In 1680, he also received full responsibility for the Baltic provinces and the following year the German provinces. Parallel to this, he was entrusted with many other commissions. He traveled extensively and made a great many fortification plans (fig. 574). From 1661, Dahlbergh worked on Suecia antiqua et hodierna (published in 1716), which contains the most ambitious architectural and topographical documentation of Sweden during its age of imperial greatness. The 353 pictures depict the architectural achievements, cities, and towns, as well as ancient history, with the express purpose of enhancing the glory of Sweden. Dahlbergh’s strength was constructing fortresses, not being a cartographer per se, but as head of Fortifikationen, he had access to two skillful cartographers: Ger-

hard von Buhrman and Carl Magnus Stuart. Buhrman’s manuscript maps of Skåne (Scania) (fig. 575) would be copied for several decades. Stuart would make his principal contribution to the military mapping of the Baltic possessions of Kexholm län, Ingria, and Livonia, culminating in a large map probably compiled in 1699 (Krigsarkivet, Stockholm, SE/KrA/0403/32/048 00–33). In the same year, Stuart drew up an ambitious educational program in Fortifikationen in which cadets and officers were trained in all aspects of fortification work, one of the earliest such programs in Europe. Among Stuart’s goals was the normalization of drawing styles (Nisser 1986, 150–52). On Dahlbergh’s death in 1703, Stuart succeeded him as head of Fortifikationen, and during the Great North-

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Fig. 575. GERHARD VON BUHRMAN, “SCHOONE,” MANUSCRIPT, 1687. This map of Skåne (Scania) is based on an inventory of all residences of military potential, which was commissioned in 1681.

Size of the original: 124 × 119 cm. Image courtesy of Krigsarkivet, Stockholm (SE/KrA/0400/17A/004).

ern War (1700–1721), he and his successor engineers carefully documented the army’s progress. A special field unit consisting of twenty-five officers and twelve artisans was created in 1700. Under the direction of Quartermaster General Gerhart Ehrenschantz, the unit

played an important role in Karl XII’s victory in the Battle of Klissow (1702). Altogether, the main collection (Sveriges krig) in Krigsarkivet contains 699 manuscript maps and plans relating to the Great Northern War, including orders of battle; fortification plans; siege

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plans; road maps; reconnaissance, artillery, and hydrographic maps; city plans; and plans of encampments (SE/KrA/0425/09/016–SE/KrA/0425/14/123). After the Battle of Poltava (1709), where the Swedish army was defeated by Czar Peter I, most of the Swedish prisoners of war were taken to Tobolsk. While in Siberia, one of the fortification officers, Philipp Johan Tabbert (ennobled von Strahlenberg), and fellow prisoner, Johan Anton Matérn, managed to gather information for a large and important map of all of eastern Russia. After returning to Stockholm as a free man, Strahlenberg had the map (Nova descriptio geographica Tattariæ magnæ) engraved in 1730 by Philipp J. Frisch in Berlin. In the peace agreements of 1719–21, Sweden lost Bremen-Verden to Hannover, parts of Pomerania and Stettin to Prussia, and the Baltic provinces and the southeast part of Finland to Russia. The position of Sweden’s military strategy changed; its time of great power was gone. Fortifikationen, too, ceased to be an independent body and was subsumed by the Krigskollegium (war board), the number of staff declining to ninety-five by 1721. Beginning in 1738, Swedish foreign policy was aligned with France. It was ruled by the so-called Hat party, made up of a coalition of officers, public officials, and big businessmen. Their increased antagonism toward Russia and desire for revenge led to the war of 1741–43. The war generated 143 manuscript maps in the Sveriges krig collection (SE/KrA/0425/15/005–120) but ended badly for Sweden, which had to cede the land east of the Kymmene (Kymi) River and Lake Saimaa in southeast Finland to Russia. In June 1757, the Swedish council of state, Riksrådet, decided to take part in the war against Prussia, in alliance with France and Austria. When the Swedish army landed in Pomerania, the only map available was Eilhard Lubin’s map from 1618. To rectify this lacuna, Axel Magnus von Arbin, a major with the Fortifikationen, set energetically to work in a manner that would come to set the standard. In 1751, he had traveled through Holland, Brabant, and Flanders in order to study both fortifications and new French methods of mapping. In 1759, Arbin issued a manuscript instruction manual describing the principles that should be applied to the mapping work. He divided the area up into twelve reconnaissance districts based on land cover and mainly using natural boundaries in the form of waterways and marshland. These principles, later elaborated in a printed book (Arbin 1761), would provide the basis for Swedish military mapping well into the nineteenth century. The first sections of the military map of Pomerania were produced at a scale of 1:40,000 during the winter of 1758. In March 1764, the work was completed mainly by Cap-

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tain Samuel Conrad Kempfe, along with separate maps of more than five hundred villages at a scale of 1:4,000. Copies of these maps can be found in several archives, among them Krigsarkivet (under the title “Svenska Pommern och Rügen,” SE/KrA/0402/19/A/001–037) and the Staatsbibliothek, Berlin (Kartenabteilung 2o Kart. N 7517) (Ehrensvärd 1995). The buffer function of Finland had been clearly demonstrated during the Russian war of 1742–43, and between 1748 and 1774 a sound triangulation network covering southern Finland was built up. In 1773, the general in chief in Finland, Berndt Otto Stackelberg, pointed out that there was no “military map of Finland.” He argued that a map of this type could be drawn up on the basis of the maps on which “land surveyors previously have divided up and described the land,” and Arbin suggested that the model for the work should be the Pomeranian military map from the 1760s (Alanen and Kepsu 1989, 5–7). In August 1776, the first directions for Finska Rekognoseringsverket (Finnish reconnaissance authority) were drawn up. The country was to be divided into two units: a southern one, with its drawing office in Helsingfors (Helsinki) and a northern one, based in Sankt Michel (Mikkeli) and led by Göran Magnus Sprengtporten (see fig. 860), who had taken part in the mapping of Pomerania. The southern unit would be responsible for the mapping of southern Finland west of the Kymmene River, while the northern one would deal with Savolax, Carelia, and Österbotten. In 1780, a major in the Army’s fleet, Carl Nathanael af Klercker, became head of Finska Rekognoseringsverket, and—since Sprengtporten had resigned—the northern area was also assigned to him (fig. 576). The ultimate objective of the reconnaissance was to prepare a series of maps on a scale of 1:40,000, but this was not achieved. The result was maps of three principal types: (1) koncept maps of a general character (1:20,000), hachured to show relief; (2) maps of strategic localities (1:4,000), showing the principal highways, byways, bridle paths, quartering sites, etc.; and (3) maps of strategic sites on much larger scales, showing ridges capable of supporting defense, intervisible hills where beacons could be burned, and eminences where cannons could be placed (the series SE/KrA/0411/A and SE/KrA/0411/B). Another important function was to map and measure water routes and identify lock sites for possible canalization. A by-product of this detailed mapping was the recording of an immense number of local place-names in the Finnish languages, which are of considerable value for ethnographers and toponomists. In Sweden, a field-surveying corps was set up in 1805, and the reconnaissance work in Finland then ceased. By

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Fig. 576. CARL NATHANAEL AF KLERCKER, MANUSCRIPT RECONNAISSANCE SURVEY MAP, 1776. One of the 329 sheets of the southern district of the Finnish reconnaissance survey; sheet 74 showing Loviisa (Lovı˘sa), scale 1:20,000. See also fig. 860.

Size of the original: 72 × 112 cm. Image courtesy of Krigsarkivet, Stockholm (SE/KrA/0411/A/09/5 o).

1809, the end of its Swedish period, no fewer than five million hectares of Finland had been subjected to reorganization with associated maps on varying scales.

sance of Finland: A Neglected Chapter in the History of Finnish Geography.” Acta Geographica 20:255–71. Nisser, Marie. 1986. “Fortifikationsofficerarnas utbildning under 1600- och 1700-talen.” In Fortifikationen 350 år 1635–1985, ed. Bertil Runnberg and Sten Carlsson, 147–60. Stockholm: Fortifikationskåren. Runnberg, Bertil, and Sten Carlsson, eds. 1986. Fortifikationen 350 år 1635–1985. Stockholm: Fortifikationskåren. Stormaktstid: Erik Dahlbergh och bilden av Sverige. 1992. [Lidköping:] Stiftelsen Läckö Institutet.

U l l a Eh r ensvärd See also: Sweden-Finland B i bliogra p hy Alanen, Timo, and Saulo Kepsu. 1989. Kuninkaan kartasto Suomesta, 1776–1805: Konungens kartverk från Finland. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Arbin, Axel Magnus von. 1761. En swensk ingenieur-corps uti fäldt med dess tilhörige sysslor. Greifswald: Tryckt hos A. F. Röse. Ehrensvärd, Ulla. 1995. “Die schwedische Landesaufnahme von Pommern in den Jahren 1758–1763.” In Karten hüten und bewahren: Festgabe für Lothar Zögner, ed. Joachim Neumann, 51–55. Gotha: Justus Perthes. ———. 2008. Cartographica Poloniae, 1570–1930: Catalogue of Manuscript Sources in Swedish Collections to the History of Polish Territories. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Retro-Art. Mead, William R. 1968. “The Eighteenth Century Military Reconnais-

Military Cartography by Switzerland. There was no uniform Swiss army before 1798, since Switzerland was only a loose formation of practically independent states. Cooperation only took place according to the agreements, or Defensionale, of Wil (1647) and Baden (1668) for a collective Swiss national defense. The two most powerful cantons of Bern and Zurich took the lead

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militarily. The results of military mapping are accordingly distributed across multiple archives and libraries. By contrast, throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Swiss cantons were a major supplier of mercenaries for the armies primarily of France but also of the Netherlands, Piedmont, Britain, and Spain. The Swiss cantons were largely spared wars. The only armed conflict with a foreign power occurred during the Thirty Years’ War when the French, Austrians, and Spanish contested the Grisons (1620–37), which then included Valtellina. At that time, Swiss and foreign authors produced numerous maps of the Grisons and Valtellina, which included depictions of forts and troop positions (Bianchi 2007, e.g., 154 [no. 57]). The Swiss Diet issued the first declaration of neutrality in 1674, and henceforth the Swiss stayed out of European wars. Consequently, until the Napoleonic invasion of 1798, the only wars were civil in nature: the Peasant War of 1653 and the two Villmergen Wars of 1656 and 1712 between individual Reformed and Catholic cantons. The threat in the Thirty Years’ War led the Confederation to reorganize its defense forces. For the first time, military engineers were appointed, first in Bern in 1610 (Valentin Friderich), then in Zurich, Basel, and Geneva (Peter 1907, 16). Important military engineers in Bern were Wolf Friedrich Löscher, Johannes Willading, and Pierre Willommet the Elder. Military engineers were also active in other cities, such as Jakob Meyer in Basel and Heinrich Peyer in Schaffhausen. In Zurich, officers were instructed by the authorities to draft a military map of northeast Switzerland, drawn by Hans Conrad Gyger in 1620. At that time, the mobilization and alert systems (Hochwachten, or signal towers) were reorganized, particularly in Bern and Zurich. In 1643, Gyger drew a Hochwachten map of the Zurich region, joining the individual Hochwachten by lines that formed the basis of a triangulation network (fig. 577). Although all of Switzerland from Lake Constance to Lake Geneva was covered by a system of Hochwachten, only the Hochwachten maps of Zurich are known. Maps of Zurich were also produced to show the new military districts (Militärquartierkarten) created in the event of a mobilization, such as Gyger’s manuscript maps from 1644–60 (Dürst 1977). In the latter half of the seventeenth century, various cities considered renewing, reinforcing, or rebuilding their fortifications. Only a few of these projects, however, were either partially or completely brought to fruition. The largest project was the new fortification of Zurich, 1642–78, according to plans by Hans Georg Werdmüller. Solothurn was likewise fortified from 1667 until about 1727 according to the plans of Francesco Polatta and Jacques Tarade in consultation with Sébastien Le Prestre, maréchal de Vauban, as an expert. Between

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1663 and 1686, Maximilien d’Yvoy updated the ramparts of Geneva, a city that implemented the last large fortification construction plan in Switzerland, produced between 1716 and 1750 at the order of Guillaume Le Vasseur des Rocques and realized by Pierre Pradès de la Ramière. New ramparts were established in Bern from 1622 to 1634 according to plans by Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné. Aarburg was enlarged into a fortress from 1659 to 1673. Pietro Morettini, of Ticino, was municipal engineer in Lucerne and planned fortifications in Fribourg, Solothurn, and other Catholic cities from 1707 to 1712. These military engineers were usually active in several countries and traveled to where their commissions took them. Plans of projected fortifications have often not survived or exist only as copies, often anonymous or undated. The Bern fortress plans were bound in four atlases (Bern, Staatsarchiv, Festungsatlas, Atlanten 6, 6a, 7, 8), of which 6a is now part of the so-called Schauenburg Collection (Engelberts 1989). Wooden models of the fortification projects of Zurich (1628 and 1640) are held at the Landesmuseum, Zurich. Johann Ardüser was the sole Swiss author of a treatise on fortress building: Architectura von Vestungen (1651). He collected and elaborated fortress plans in all of Europe (in total 230 plans in manuscript, especially from the Netherlands, Germany, France, and Italy; Zurich, Zentralbibliothek, Ms. B 81 “Vestungs Bau”). In 1672 in Bern a permanent artillery corps was founded under the command of Johannes Willading (Grosjean 1978, 15). For the first time, artillery officers received training in measurement and plan drawing. In 1783, an actual artillery school came into existence, of which Andreas Lanz was appointed director. In Zurich, officer training was provided by private companies. The Militärische Gesellschaft der Pörtner, founded in 1713, orchestrated maneuvers that were recorded between 1754 and 1798 on printed maneuver maps (e.g., Zürcher Neujahrsblätter 1971, 59–62). Handwritten and printed maneuver maps were also produced in Basel and Bern. The Mathematisch-Militärische Gesellschaft, founded in Zurich in 1765, compiled and recorded the boundaries of the canton and created an unofficial manuscript border atlas in 1795 (Zurich, Zentralbibliothek, Sign.: MK 503 + MK 503 Erl). The school’s efforts to create a new canton map remained incomplete and limited to the repeated measurement of a baseline (first in 1791). The battles of the Swiss Civil Wars are documented in plans and drawings. A manuscript plan of the Battle at Herzogenbuchsee of the Peasant War of 1653 by Johannes Willading in 1654 is preserved in the Zentralbibliothek Zurich. Manuscript and printed drawings of the first Battle of Villmergen and the siege of Rapperswil are known from the first Villmergen War of 1656. The

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Fig. 577. DETAIL FROM HANS CONRAD GYGER’S 1643 MANUSCRIPT MAP OF THE SIGNAL TOWERS OF THE CANTON OF ZURICH (ZÜRCHER HOCHWACHTENKARTE). The map shows the ten military districts for mobilization (Militärquartiere) and twenty-one signal towers (Hochwachten) with lines of mutual sight, which could be used later

for triangulation. The black grid was made later. Colored penand-ink drawing on paper. Size of the entire original: 42.0 × 55.7 cm; size of detail: ca. 19.5 × 28.0 cm. Image courtesy of the Staatsarchiv des Kantons Zürich (PLAN O 113).

battles and sieges of the second Villmergen War of 1712 (the so-called Staudenschlacht near Bremgarten [Aargau] and the second Battle of Villmergen, the skirmish at Hütten, sieges of Baden and Wil) were recorded in numerous manuscript or printed plans, among others, by Johann Adam Riediger. In response to the growing threat to Switzerland presented by France after the French Revolution, the Bern Council of War had its territory reconnoitered, recorded, and drawn to plan defense positions in 1794, under the leadership of French engineer Lambert-Fidèle-Amable Rouph, sieur de Varicourt, who resided in the territory of Bern as a Royalist immigrant.

avenna und Graubünden unter der Lupe: Alte Karten aus dem 16. bis 18. Jahrhundert. Scarmagno: Priuli & Verlucca. Dürst, Arthur. 1977. Die Zürcher Militärquartierkarten 1644–1660 von Hans Conrad Gyger. 10 facsimile maps and text. Zurich: Verlag E. Matthieu. Engelberts, Derck C. E., ed. 1989. Die Schauenburg-Sammlung der Eidgenössischen Militärbibliothek und des Historischen Dienstes: Beitrag zur Geschichte der Schweiz anhand von Karten des 17. und 18. Jahrhunderts. 62 facsimile maps and text by Georges Grosjean et al. Hauterive: Editions Gilles Attinger. Grosjean, Georges. 1978. Drei Jahrhunderte bernische Kartenkunst: Handschriftliche Karten und Pläne aus bernischen Beständen vom 17. bis 19. Jahrhundert. Bern: [Schweizerische Gesellschaft für Kartographie; Schweizerisches Alpines Museum]. Jorio, Marco, ed. 2002–14. Historisches Lexikon der Schweiz. 13 vols. Basel: Schwabe. Peter, Gustav Jakob. 1907. Zur Geschichte des zürcherischen Wehrwesens im XVII. Jahrhundert: Ein kulturgeschichtlicher Beitrag, Quellenmässig dargestellt auf Grund von Originalkarten Hans Konrad Gygers. Zurich: Schulthess. Zürcher Neujahrsblätter: Beschreibendes Verzeichnis mit Personen-, Ort- und Sachregister. 1971. Zurich: Hans Rohr.

Ha n s -Peter H ö h ener See also: Switzerland B i bliogra p hy Bianchi, Silvia, ed. 2007. Valtellina, Valchiavenna e Grigioni sotto la lente: Antica cartografia dal XVI al XVIII secolo = Veltlin, Valchi-

Fig. 578. “BATTLE OF GUILDFORD FOUGHT ON THE 15 OF MARCH 1781.” From the collection of Sir Henry Clinton, commander of British forces in North America during the American Revolution. This finished manuscript topographical map shows movements and different phases of the Battle of Guilford Court House in North Carolina.

Size of the original: 21.3 × 18.7 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Small Clinton Maps 291).

Military Map

Military Map. Bat t l e Map F o rt i f i cat i on P l a n Plan-relief

Battle Map. The ultimate purpose of armies is to engage and defeat opposing military forces. The eighteenth century was a time of nearly continuous warfare between the nations of Europe, both on the Continent and in their overseas possessions. Each campaigning season saw numerous examples of two types of battle: sieges of fortified places and open-field actions of fire and maneuver. Both forms of combat were relatively slow-moving and were fought with much smaller numbers of participants and in much more limited areas than battles of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Battle maps, both manuscript and printed, preserved a record of the progress and outcome of many of these military encounters. Battle maps of the eighteenth century were essentially topographical maps on which were projected the composition, positions, fortifications, and movements of military forces before, during, or after a martial action. They provided a useful graphic account of a battle or siege and could be used to analyze the action or to justify the conduct and skill of officers in positions of responsibility. Battle maps are often found in the manuscript archives of prominent military figures. They were

Fig. 579. DETAIL FROM THE “BATTLE OF MONMOUTH, 28TH JUNE 1778.” From the collection of Sir Henry Clinton, this finished manuscript topographical map shows the positions and movements of the British and American troops in New Jersey; the various units are identified in a table of references. Clinton added some annotations.

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usually drawn by military officers who were engineers or artillerymen, though they were sometimes drawn by officers from other branches. The creators of most battle maps had either witnessed the fighting or had an opportunity to survey the field on which it was fought. The majority of such maps remained in manuscript form, but those depicting significant actions were sometimes engraved and printed. Maps of field actions generally identify the specific units or types of units present using rectangular symbols, sometimes further identified as to their type—infantry, cavalry, or artillery. In some colored compositions, individual units are rendered in the colors of their uniforms or labeled with their name or title. Unit symbols were used to show the movements and maneuvers of a battle in a variety of ways. Dotted or solid lines showed the track of individual units. Other maps presented movement and the passage of time by identifying the initial and later positions of units on the field of battle (fig. 578). Occasionally, the situation before or after the fighting was shown by the use of small overlay flaps glued to the print. The flaps cover part of the print but could be drawn back to reveal an earlier or later situation on the same ground. Significant details or events of the battle or siege were often identified or explained by means of a table of references (fig. 579). Maps of sieges represent a more static type of battle

Size of the entire original: 39 × 55 cm; size of detail: ca. 17.0  ×  38.5 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 6-A-1778 Ba).

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that might have taken weeks or even months to resolve. These maps are dominated by the fortifications under attack and by the trenches (also called approaches) and artillery batteries constructed by the besiegers. The movements of individual units are not often shown, but the progress of digging trenches toward the target fortress can sometimes be traced by date. Maps of battle enjoyed growing commercial appeal in Europe from the end of the seventeenth century and particularly in Britain during the American Revolutionary War. British engravers, most notably William Faden, produced representations of almost every important battle fought in North America between 1775 and 1781. Postwar histories, most published in the 1780s, frequently included maps of American battles as well. Eighteenth-century battle maps document maneuvers of hard-fought engagements between opposing armies. They record battle events in relation to the topography over which they were fought and record military actions that often affected the history of the era. B r i a n Leig h D unnigan See also: Military and Topographical Surveys; Military Cartography; Public Sphere, Cartography and the Bibliograp hy Harley, J. B., Barbara Bartz Petchenik, and Lawrence W. Towner. 1978. Mapping the American Revolutionary War. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Nebenzahl, Kenneth. 1975. A Bibliography of Printed Battle Plans of the American Revolution, 1775–1795. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Fortification Plan. European warfare of the seventeenth

and eighteenth centuries was dominated by the influence of the “place,” a fortified position ranging in complexity from a walled city with its citadel to a simple wooden fort protecting a strategic pass or transportation route. The chief purposes of a fortified place were to occupy important territory, to provide a secure depot and refuge for armies and their provisions, and to force an enemy to squander time and resources in besieging such positions, which could not safely be bypassed or ignored by an advancing army. The positional warfare that developed around the numerous fortified places in Europe and its colonies required the skills of military engineers, who produced large numbers of plans detailing fortifications and the siege tactics used to conquer them. Fortification plans were formal architectural renderings of military defenses, often carefully measured and frequently colored to identify or highlight certain details (fig. 580). They usually took the form of ground plans, often enhanced by cross sections and occasionally by elevation drawings. Most included a table of references that identified important features of the defenses or the buildings within them. Other conventions of drawing and coloring practiced by engineers gave plans of

Fig. 580. “PLAN OF JOHNSTON FORT AT CAPE FEAR,” 1767. Manuscript plan surveyed and designed by Captain John Abraham Collet in North Carolina. Size of the original: 58.7 × 72.0 cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 6-H-1767 Co).

fortifications a uniform appearance that could be read and understood by their peers in the service of other nations. While a few fortification plans were engraved and printed commercially, most remained in manuscript, from which they were copied as needed. Fortification plans were created for a variety of purposes, some of which influenced the style in which they were drawn. Those showing existing conditions were useful for reporting or planning purposes; some plans were used to design new works or to represent their form on the ground in relation to topographical or architectural features; still others depicted details needed to guide construction or to show its progress. The completion of new defenses or the repair of existing ones often inspired a plan intended to display for higher authority the results of often-considerable expenditures of labor and treasure. Larger-scale plans included renderings of forts in relation to nearby topography to show the absence (or presence) of higher ground within cannon range that might present an attacker with an advantage. Another aspect of fortification plans was the representation of siege operations or assaults that threatened or captured fortified places. The same general rules and conventions applied to renderings ranging from simple wooden stockades in North America to the complex masonry defenses of fortified towns in Europe. Creating understandable fortification plans required great detail, including the depiction of walls, ditches, and other features, all of which were laid out according

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to strict geometrical principles that ensured that no part of the land surrounding a fortified place was sheltered from the musket and cannon fire of its defenders. Likewise, deep ditches and earthen outer defenses shielded the walls of fortified places from the cannon fire of besieging forces. Plans used strong lines to represent the abrupt changes in elevation of parapets and other features. The form of the defenses was often further revealed by inset cross sections that sometimes identified the material—earth, log, or masonry—from which they were constructed. Color was often used in conventional ways to enlighten readers of the plan. Although exceptions were common, certain information could be conveyed at a glance: carmine or red usually identified masonry components; green depicted turf, which covered earthen walls to impede erosion; brown or burnt umber usually showed the dry ditch that surrounded most fortifications of any size, while blue-greens indicated water. Yellow generally showed projected or unfinished features. Additional details—embrasures for cannon; the guns themselves; flagpoles, wells, and buildings—were included according to the purpose of the plan or the inclination of the draftsman. Fortification plans documented important man-made features that influenced military events, the growth and change of cities, and the events of warfare that had a significant influence on the life of eighteenth-century Europe and her colonies. B r i a n L eig h D unnigan See also: Engineers and Topographical Surveys; Military and Topographical Surveys; Military Cartography; Topographical Survey Map; Urban Map: Urban Plan B i bliogra p hy Duffy, Christopher. 1996. Fire & Stone: The Science of Fortress Warfare, 1660–1860. New ed. London: Greenhill Books. Harley, J. B., Barbara Bartz Petchenik, and Lawrence W. Towner. 1978. Mapping the American Revolutionary War. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, George. 1779. An Universal Military Dictionary, Or a Copious Explanation of the Technical Terms &c. London: J. Millan.

Plan-relief. The phrase plan-relief first appeared in the

nineteenth century, a contraction of the term plan en relief (plan in relief), which had been used throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, concurrently with the words “model,” “relief,” or even “plan,” all used to designate the three-dimensional scale models of fortified cities created under Louis XIV, a collection that continued to be expanded and enriched until 1870. The collection of Louis XIV was started in 1668, at the behest of François-Michel Le Tellier, marquis de Louvois, minister of war, who ordered a relief plan of Dunkerque from Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban. The first relief plans were conceived to accompany the fortification works managed by the ingénieurs du

roi (the king’s engineers) in the strongholds of recently conquered Spanish Flanders. The models, initially simple working instruments quickly executed, evocatively represented the evolving state of a stronghold: the projects, the progress of their execution, and the final fortifications. As veritable long-distance assessment and valuation tools for the king and his headquarters, these plans en relief revealed in a very immediate way both the details of the fortifications and the imprint of each stronghold on the territory. This easy means for understanding complex sites enjoyed great success, and the collection grew rapidly. An inventory prepared by Vauban in 1697 shows that in less than thirty years 144 models were created, representing 101 fortified sites (Warmoes 1997, 8). From 1684 the purpose of the plans-reliefs was modified, and they were henceforth designed to represent strongholds built in the decade after the completion of the fortification campaigns. The plans-reliefs thus became the memory of works completed, tools representing the mastery of the territory. From then on, engineers who specialized in the creation of plans-reliefs codified the construction techniques, and the scale of 1 pied per 100 toises (i.e., 1:600) was imposed as the most suitable for the representation of fortifications, for building inside the cities, and for the surrounding countryside (fig. 581). Increasing attention to detail was brought to bear on the models, which were made of wood, silk, metal, and painted and engraved papers; they soon acquired the status of art objects. The prestige of the plans-reliefs increased until 1700, when Louis XIV decided to install his models in Galerie du Bord-de-l’Eau in the Louvre (fig. 582). During the first half of the eighteenth century, the collection was still being developed, keeping pace with the rhythm of territorial conquests and the building of fortification works. The end of the Seven Years’ War in 1763 marked a cessation of conflicts on European soil until the end of the Ancien Régime. The defensive border of the kingdom remained stable, and no need was felt to create new plans-reliefs of the strongholds; at that point the collection was complete. At the same time, techniques for conducting terrestrial surveys improved from 1749, and the systematic creation of atlases of the kingdom’s fortifications increased from 1774, both of which reduced the need for further model building. From then on, the gallery of plans-reliefs was the site of a program for restoration of the old models, begun in 1754 by Charles Louis Auguste Fouquet, maréchal de Belle-Isle, minister of war. However, the utility of the plans-reliefs suffered a setback, and the fate of the entire collection was threatened during the reign of Louis XVI. Ultimately it was preserved but transferred from the Louvre to Les Invalides in 1777.

Fig. 581. PLAN-RELIEF OF NEUF-BRISACH (1703–6). Built under the direction of the engineer Jean-François de Montaigu to represent the fortified town on the border between France and the German States. It is constructed of wood, painted pa-

per, silk, and metal at a scale of 1:600, in five layers covering 15.3 square meters. Size of the original: 3.4 × 4.5 m. © Réunion des musées nationaux—Grand Palais/Art Resource, New York.

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1017 See also: Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Relief Map; Topographical Surveying; Urban Mapping: (1) France, (2) Switzerland Bibliography Corvisier, André, ed. 1993. Actes du colloque international sur les plans-reliefs au passé et au présent. Paris: SEDES. La France en relief: Chefs-d’œuvre de la collection des plans-reliefs de Louis XIV à Napoléon III. 2012. Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux—Grand Palais. Roux, Antoine de, Nicolas Faucherre, and Guillaume Monsaingeon. 1989. Les plans en relief des places du roy. Paris: Adam Biro. Reedition 2007. Warmoes, Isabelle. 1997. Le musée des Plans-reliefs: Maquettes historiques de villes fortifiées. Paris: Editions du Patrimoine. Reimpression 2012. In English, Musée des Plans-reliefs: Historic Models of Fortified Towns. 1999.

Fig. 582. GALLERY OF PLANS-RELIEFS AT THE LOUVRE. From volume 4 of the “État des ingénieurs,” 1749, fol. 2. Manuscript design, ink and wash on paper. Size of the original: 16.5 × 10.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, Archives et manuscrits, ms-4426).

The construction of plans-reliefs was resurrected during the Revolution with an order for a relief plan of Toulon, and modelmaking continued in an important way until 1870. Between 1668 and 1870, 260 plans-reliefs were created, representing 150 sites (Roux, Faucherre, and Monsaingeon 1989, 154). Today the models are conserved in the collections of the Musée des Plansreliefs (Hôtel des Invalides, Paris); fifteen of the models are on deposit at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Lille. I sa b elle Warmo es

Modes of Cartographic Practice. A cartographic mode comprises a distinctive suite of practices whereby maps are produced, circulated, and consumed within discourses that share a particular scale-dependent spatial conception. Each mode is part of a larger arena of activity within which humans conceptualize the world in certain ways in order to understand, organize, and modify it. Identification of particular modes, and of their internal changes and external interactions, is an empirically driven process (Edney 1993; 2011b; 2019, 9–49). The concept of cartographic mode is thus a heuristic device that aids in both the synchronic (comparative) study of early mapping and the diachronic study of mapping activities over time (e.g., Edney 2007, 2011a). As such, the concept serves as the intellectual foundation for the design of volumes 4 through 6 of The History of Cartography (Edney 2015). As a first example, the creation, regulation, and preservation of real property sustain multiple discourses (legislative, judicial, cadastral, managerial, commercial, communal), all of which treat landscape as being fragmented into discrete parcels. These discourses have used various strategies to delimit and represent those parcels, at very large scales, from the physical marking of the land and often ritualized inspections of boundary marks, through oral description and written metes-and-bounds descriptions, to graphic plans. The cartographic mode of property mapping is accordingly the set of practices for producing, circulating, and consuming property plans across the several discourses in conjunction with the other representational strategies. By contrast, topographical mapping is the mode associated with discourses of landscape and the character of places. This mode conceptualizes the world at smallto-medium scales within the various civil and military discourses concerning landscape and territory; it is intertwined with the practices of landscape art and poetry and of architecture and engineering. Property and topographical mapping might have a common foundation

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in the observation and measurement of land and share some of the technology for surveying and drafting, but they are otherwise distinct in their spatial conceptions and in the functions and institutions that defined their production and consumption. Both property and topographical mapping are distinct from geographical mapping, which is the representation of the world and its regions at small scales. Intertwined with written accounts, geographical mapping contributed in the eighteenth century to a variety of discourses that shared an interest in the nature and organization of the wide world, whether scholarly (geography per se), educated (politics, religion, economics, commerce, history, science), administrative, military, or for popular consumption. Although historians have privileged this mode and have often written the history of cartography as if it comprised solely the history of geographical mapping, it is essential to realize that geographical mapping is just one mode among several. Overall, we can identify nine modes within the long Enlightenment (table 4). They were by no means dis-

crete and independent. At an institutional level, government agencies and the marketplace mixed cartographic practices within four broad endeavors that require historical attention (table 5). Moreover, the Enlightenment witnessed an intensification of geography’s omnivorous approach to sources. In addition to the long-standing appropriation of marine charts and logs, geographical mapping began after 1650 to appropriate property and topographical plans as they were increasingly extended across large regions in the Americas and Europe, respectively. Although this blurring of source materials would later contribute, in the 1800s, to the modern idealization of cartography as a singular practice (Edney 2019), it did not actually entail any merger of modes. The discourses of property and landscape remained as distinct from those of geographical knowledge as they all did from those of marine mapping. Furthermore, new modes developed after 1650. The rise of public discourse and the collection of statistics both led to the formation of thematic mapping to show the spatial distribution of natural and human phenom-

Table 4. The cartographic modes pursued in modern Europe as applied in this volume. In these descriptions, large-scale is defined as larger than ca. 1:100,000, small-scale as smaller than ca. 1:1,000,000, and medium-scale in between. boundary mapping celestial mapping geodetic mapping geographical mapping marine charting property mapping thematic mapping topographic mapping

urban mapping

medium-scale or small-scale mapping of boundaries between polities such as states and provinces (not properties); in many respects a hybrid of geographical and topographical mapping small-scale mapping of the heavens: the celestial vault (stars); the tracks of comets; orbits of the moon and planets; the sun, moon, and individual planets measurement of the size and shape of the earth through high-level triangulation small-scale mapping of regions or of the entire world, including road maps, generally associated with a wide variety of institutions concerned with knowledge (states, general public) large- to small-scale mapping of seas, coasts, and harbors, undertaken by and for marine institutions; harbor charting pragmatically associated with topographical mapping large-scale mapping of parcels of property for creating, regulating, and preserving property rights and use mapping of the distribution of natural or social phenomena from small to large scales; not the same as special-purpose maps, which are precise manifestations of other modes large- to medium-scale mapping of places and by extension of the earth’s surface generally, allied to the representation of landscapes by various institutions including engineers (civil and military) and antiquarians large- to medium-scale mapping of urban places

Table 5. Modern European cartographic endeavors, or institutional groupings, within which multiple cartographic modes are pursued, as applied in this volume. administrative cartography map trade map collecting military cartography

the commissioning and use of maps of all sorts within agencies of civil government (central and local) the sale and dissemination of maps through the public marketplace, mostly geographical but also marine, urban, and thematic the conscious effort to collect and consume maps across all modes but generally emphasizing geographical and printed maps, whether in small or large quantities the commissioning and use of maps of all sorts within military organizations, not only topographical (tactics) but geographical (logistics, strategy) and marine as well

Müller, Johann Christoph

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ena. State sponsorship of the natural sciences and extensive surveys together encouraged the new mode of geodetic surveying to flourish by century’s end. These developments have traditionally been seen as marking cartography’s “scientific turn” in the Enlightenment. Yet by understanding these new cartographic activities as constituting discrete modes, and not as establishing a new character for cartography as a whole, we can be properly precise in exploring and explaining the relationships between Enlightenment’s cartographies and the sciences. Mat t h ew H . Ed ney See also: Administrative Cartography; Boundary Surveying; Celestial Mapping; Geodetic Surveying; Geographical Mapping; Map Collecting; Map Trade; Marine Charting; Military Cartography; Property Mapping; Thematic Mapping; Topographical Surveying; Urban Mapping B i bliogra p hy Edney, Matthew H. 1993. “Cartography without ‘Progress’: Reinterpreting the Nature and Historical Development of Mapmaking.” Cartographica 30, nos. 2–3 (1993): 54–68. ———. 2007. “Mapping Parts of the World.” In Maps: Finding Our Place in the World, ed. James R. Akerman and Robert W. Karrow, 117–57. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2011a. “Knowledge and Cartography in the Early Atlantic.” In The Oxford Handbook of the Atlantic World, 1450–1850, ed. Nicholas Canny and Philip Morgan, 87–112. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2011b. “Progress and the Nature of ‘Cartography.’” In Classics in Cartography: Reflections on Influential Articles from Cartographica, ed. Martin Dodge, 331–42. Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell. ———. 2015. “Modes of Cartographic Practice.” In HC 6:978–80. ———. 2019. Cartography: The Ideal and Its History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Moon Globe. See Globe: Lunar Globe Mortier Family. See Covens & Mortier (Netherlands) Mountains, Representation of. See Heights and Depths, Mapping of: Relief Depiction

Müller, Johann Christoph. Born in Wehrd (Wöhrd, Germany) on 15 March 1673, and died in Vienna, 21 June 1721, Müller “in early childhood . . . showed evidence of his strong inclination toward science and art, and he acquired a thorough education in Latin and the humanities” (Doppelmayr 1730, 138). Presumably he attended the University of Altdorf and later studied mathematics, practical astronomy, engraving, and drafting with the renowned Nuremberg astronomer and engraver Georg Christoph Eimmart. Eimmart’s acquaintance with Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli resulted in the latter’s invitation to Müller to come to Hungary at the age of twenty-three, where he worked until 1704 as Marsigli’s assistant making astronomical observations and drafting maps of the Carpathian Basin, along the

Danube. He also assisted in the establishment and mapping of the Austro-Turkish border after the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699), for which Marsigli was the chief commissioner for the Austrian monarchy. Müller drafted the maps as supplements to the border reports sent by Marsigli to Vienna (see fig. 101). In 1704, after Marsigli’s disgrace, Müller was named Austrian imperial cartographer and commissioned with the task of surveying the Austrian Hereditary Lands—Bohemia and Moravia. He completely dedicated his life to cartography until his death in 1721. Müller’s first systematic astronomical observations for cartographic purposes were made in the Carpathian Basin. In 1696 he established the latitude of seven locations in Hungary through astronomical observations using a quadrant, a sextant, a telescope, a precise clock, and astronomical charts. He made drawings recording the occurrence of shadows on the moon from these locations (figs. 583 and 584) to determine their longitude, later used by his daughter Maria Clara Eimmart for her own lunar drawings (see fig. 159). He recorded directions using a compass. Because he used rivers as a framework for his maps, he placed great emphasis on the correct depiction of their courses. The revised cartographic route of the Danube River affected the cartographic appearance of the Kingdom of Hungary—by correcting errors in earlier maps, Müller revised the generally west to east course of the Danube to make a sharp turn south just beyond Esztergom (see fig. 530). The sectional maps of the Danube published in Marsigli’s Danubius Pannonico-Mysicus (1726) and in La Hongrie et le Danube (1741) were forerunners of topographical hydrographic maps in their rich detail and three-dimensional rendering. During the Austro-Turkish boundary surveys, Müller kept a cartographic journal (“Notitiae geographicae originales circa lineam limitanema . . . sive diaria”) containing more than four hundred sketch maps and his triangulation notes (now in the Fondo Marsili in the Biblioteca Universitaria di Bologna). Using these sketches, he drafted regional maps of the Kingdom of Hungary (Croatia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Serbia, Bulgaria, the Banat, Transylvania, Walachia, and Moldova), containing numerous new details, and several hundred boundary maps rich in topographic detail that served as models for later maps. Of these, the most famous is the large boundary map of thirty-nine sections, along with two additional pages of the site plans of the ninety-six border markers, made under Marsigli’s supervision at a scale of ca. 1:37,500, now in the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek in Vienna (see figs. 426 and 427). Essentially all of the areas depicted on contemporary maps of the region were based on the sketches from his field surveys, for example Guillaume Delisle’s map of Hungary (Carte particulière de la Hongrie, 1717). His

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Fig. 583. MANUSCRIPT IMAGE OF THE MOON. This sketch of the moon is a pen and ink drawing from Johann Christoph Müller’s journal, kept during his field observations and astronomical measurements in Hungary in 1699 during the boundary survey for the Treaty of Karlowitz. The image formed the basis of a later publication, figure 584. Size of the original: 21.5 × 32.4 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca Universitaria, Bologna (Mss di Marsigli Vol. 100. I. 1-47. Observationes Astronomicae).

own map of Hungary (Mappa regni Hungariæ, 1709), as published by Johann Baptist Homann, became the model for Western European cartographic depictions of the region for a century. Significant among his thematic maps, produced jointly with Marsigli, were Hungary’s first postal map (“Mappa geograph: facta in usum officialum,” 1700) and the “Mappa geographica, facta in usum commerciorum” (1699), which may be considered the world’s first thematic commercial map. The latter outlines every commercial land and water route in the Kingdom of Hungary, both existing and planned, indicating their points of departure (terminus a quo) and where they end (terminus ad quem). He prepared the maps of Moravia (Tabula generalis Marchionatus Moraviae, 1716) and Bohemia (Mappa geographica regni Bohemiae, 1720; published 1722) through careful field surveys, using compasses and distance recording tools. Müller’s maps

Müller, Johann Christoph

Fig. 584. PRINTED IMAGE OF THE MOON. The sketch of the moon in figure 583 was the basis for this image in Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli’s Danubius Pannonico-Mysicus, observationibus geographicis, astronomicis, hydrographicis, historicis, physicis perlustratus, 6 vols. (The Hague: P. Gosse, R. Chr. Alberts, P. de Hondt, 1726), vol. 1, pl. 28. The plate was engraved in Nuremberg by Georg Christian Eimmart, who completed the missing portions from the drawings of his astronomer daughter, Maria Clara Eimmart. Courtesy of Special Collections, Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas Libraries, Lawrence (Ellis Aves H115).

are notable for their aesthetic beauty and his method of rendering that clearly portrays the essential elements. Antal András Deák See also: Boundary Surveying: Austrian Monarchy; Karlowitz, Treaty of (1699); Marsigli, Luigi Ferdinando; Military Cartography: Austrian Monarchy, with Topographical Surveying Bibliography Deák, Antal András. 2005. “Johann Christoph Müller (1673–1721)— Ein Nürnberger Kartograf in Diensten des Grafen Marsigli.” Mitteilungen des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Nürnberg 92:159–98. ———. 2006. Maps from under the Shadow of the Crescent Moon = Térképek a félhold árnyékából = Carte geografiche dal’ombra della mezzaluna =Landkarten aus dem Schatten des Halbmondes. Also available on DVD and containing most of the manuscript maps of Marsigli-Müller. Esztergom: Duna Múzeum. Doppelmayr, Johann Gabriel. 1730. Historische Nachricht von den Nürnbergischen Mathematicis und Künstlern. Nuremberg: Peter Conrad Monaths. Paldus, Josef. 1907. Johann Christoph Müller: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte vaterländischer Kartographie. Mitteilungen des k. und k. Kriegsarchivs, 3d ser., vol. 5. Vienna: L. W. Seidel & Sohn.

N Nagayev, Aleksey Ivanovich. Born in 1704 in Sertyakino, Russia, to a landed gentry family, Aleksey Ivanovich Nagayev entered the St. Petersburg naval academy, Morskaya akademiya, in 1715. He graduated with honors and acquired a tutoring position at the academy at age eighteen. In 1724, he was promoted to the rank of sublieutenant and was teaching navigation, charting, and map compilation. Nagayev led the most crucial stage in the Russian charting of the Baltic. Between 1736 and 1740, he studied and corrected Russian maps and with Johann Ludwig von Pott Luberas charted the inshore waters in the Gulf of Finland. After serving as a naval line officer in various waters, Nagayev was commissioned by the Admiralteystv kollegiya to carry out official mapping and charting work. The Admiralteystv kollegiya gave him the task of compiling summary charts based on materials from Vitus Bering’s Second Kamchatka Expedition (1732–42). Nagayev was engaged in this task as a head of a commission attached to the Morskaya akademiya for all of 1745. The commission’s major contribution was the General’naya karta Rossiyskoy imperii (1757), a general map of the Russian Empire including the northern and eastern shores of Siberia. Between 1748 and 1751 he carried out intensive surveys of the Baltic, which resulted in the publication of his atlas, General’nyye i raznyye spetsial’nyye karty vsego Baltiskogo morya, in 1750, based on the Swedish atlas of Nils Strömcrona. Nagayev’s most notable contribution to Russian cartography was the compilation of the navigational charts of the Baltic, engraved in 1752. Remarkable for their precision and quality, they were published as the Atlas vsego Baltiyskogo morya in 1757, an expansion of Nagayev’s 1750 atlas. The 1757 atlas contained fifteen plates from the 1750 atlas, two from a 1714 Russian at-

las, and twenty-seven entirely new maps. Elegantly and richly ornamented in the Baroque style, many of the cartouche engravings were clearly designed to glorify Russia’s naval might (fig. 585). Although published, these maps were for navy use and barely known to Western European seafarers; for reasons of security, the Russians tried to make sure no other navy obtained copies of the charts. Nagayev nevertheless enjoyed great esteem in Russian naval circles. The 1757 atlas was republished many times under the title Lotsiya ili morskoy putevaditel’. After charting the Baltic, Nagayev returned to his work on the Kamchatka Expeditions, and in 1767 he presented a new manuscript chart of the northern Pacific Ocean, “Karta morskaya merkatorskaya,” to the Admiralteystv kollegiya (Efimov 1964, 95, pl. 140). The overall accuracy of Nagayev’s work was confirmed when the expedition of Pёtr Kuz’mich Krenitsyn and Mikhail Dmitriyevich Levashov reported back to St. Petersburg in 1771. Nagayev’s chart, however, remained secret and unavailable even to the Akademiya nauk, whose charts published in 1756 and 1775 did not include all the findings derived from Russian exploration of the Pacific Ocean. Beyond his charting achievements, Nagayev played an important role in Russian naval higher education. From 1752 onward he supervised reform in the Morskaya akademiya; organized the naval cadet corps, Morskoy shlyakhetskiy kadetskiy korpus; and directed that corps for eight years. During the Seven Years’ War (1756–63), Nagayev headed the hydrographic survey of Prussia’s coasts. The end of his career also was notable for his promotion to rear admiral, vice admiral, and, in 1769, full admiral, as well as for service on the Admiralteystv kollegiya. Nagayev died in 1781 at St. Petersburg. Alexey V. Po stnikov See also: Marine Charting: Russia Bibliography Alekseyev, A. I. 1959. Admiral Nagayev. Magadan: Knizhnoye Izdatel’stvo. Berkh, V. N. 1836. Zhizhneopisaniye Admirala Alekseya Ivanovicha Nagayeva. Zhizhneopisaniya pervykh rossiyskikh admiralov, ili opyt istorii rossiyskogo flota. 4 vols. St. Petersburg: V Morskoy Tipografii.

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Fig. 585. TITLE CARTOUCHE ON NAGAYEV’S MAP OF THE EASTERN PART OF THE GULF OF FINLAND. From Nagayev’s Atlas vsego Baltiyskogo morya, 1757.

Size of the entire original: 61  ×  82  cm; size of detail: ca. 23.0  ×  28.5  cm. Image courtesy of the National Library of Scotland, Edinburgh.

Efimov, Aleksey Vladimirovich. 1964. Atlas geograficheskikh otkrytiy v Sibiri i v Severo-Zapadnoy Amerike XVII–XVIII vv. Moscow: “Nauka.” Goncharov, V. G. 1956. “Admiral Aleksey Ivanovich Nagayev—Vydayushchiysya russkiy gidrograf XVIII v.” Izvestiya Vsesoyuznogo Geograficheskogo Obshchestva 88:187–89. Kokkonen, Pellervo. 1997. “Practice of Marine Cartography and the Russian Representation of the Baltic Sea in the Eighteenth Century.” Fennia 175:1–96.

the family, and it should therefore be incorporated into a sovereign political unit, the nation-state (e.g., Leerssen 2006, 14, 79). The nation-state supported by cultural nationalism is a phenomenon associated primarily with the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (although there were precursors aplenty). Benedict Anderson (1991, 36) remarked that modern nationalism grew up only with the dissolution of the old certainties, such as revealed religion and royal divine right, which for Western Europe only occurred at the end of the eighteenth century. For the Enlightenment, therefore, we are looking not so much at modern populist nationalism, but the popularized later phases of state formation: the state was being imposed, and the state’s political elites sought the support of the people of the nation rather than simply the endorsement of the monarch.

Nationalism and Cartography. There are many definitions of nationalism, but most of them hold it to be an ideology or even a doctrine that makes the nation paramount and implies a national identity based on cultural, linguistic, or ethnic lines. The nation is seen to be the most natural and valid collectivity of humans beyond

Nationalism and Cartography

That maps could assist in and be harnessed for these purposes is not in doubt. Cartography has been particularly associated with the assertion of national unity at the expense of diversity within, the declaration of one state’s territorial ambitions vis-à-vis another’s, and overarching claims of empire (Wintle 2016). Christian Jacob (2006, 57, 240) thus called the map on the wall “the visual glue of a sense of national identity,” and asserted that the mastery of space through maps “probably constitutes an essential stage in the process of acculturation of the individual in the formation of . . . a national identity.” Maps have been employed to focus early forms of national loyalty since at least the sixteenth century, and not only by the state: the Jacobite movement in the early eighteenth century regularly used maps of Great Britain in its campaign for Stuart reinstatement (Barber and Board 1993, 78–79). Cartography can perform a “‘nationalising’ function” by standardizing locations in the map, and in charting both physical and human geography at the same time the map can unite a population with its natural surroundings (such as German forests, or maritime England) to express the nation (Cubitt 1998, 10–11). Maps, therefore, “have the power to transform discourses of national identity” (Daniels 1998, 128–29). An obvious early example of this nationalism by means of cartography would be the famous Leo Belgicus, or lion in the shape of the Low Countries (the Seventeen Provinces), created during their struggle against the tyrant Spain. It was in print in various forms from 1579 well into the eighteenth century and represented “an image of the nation” (Hoenselaars 1993, 96; Van der Heijden 1990). Although the lion could be facing either left or right and its vague and changing boundaries demanded a considerable suspension of disbelief, there is no arguing with the power of the image to draw together scattered feelings of territorial nationhood and indeed to stimulate further ones. Such feelings of unity in the Seventeen Provinces of the Southern and Northern Netherlands (approximately an enlarged Benelux) were indeed necessary in the early stages of the Dutch Revolt against Spain, and then in the Eighty Years’ War, which finally delivered a modern Dutch state of just seven northern provinces and their dependencies in 1648. The community was indisputably imagined rather than actual, but the Leo Belgicus maps were indubitably of assistance to the required imagination. A seminal study on the functions of cartography in the consolidation and indeed generation of early feelings of national identity was Richard Helgerson’s Forms of Nationhood (1992), which traced the spatial visualization of England in various narratives, including maps and atlases of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, principally those by Christopher Saxton, Michael Drayton, and William Camden. He was able to

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demonstrate a move in cartographic treatments away from a state envisaged in terms of the monarch, as emblematic of the nation, toward a conception in which the personification Britannia became representative of the nation. Britannia stood for loyalty to the land, landscape of the country, and people, as opposed to fealty toward the dynasty. Helgerson’s work was influential in persuading scholars of national identity and of literature to pay attention to the discursive role of the visual and especially the cartographic media in “writing the nation” (Helgerson 1992, 298). He was careful to point out that, in the seventeenth century at least, neither France nor the Low Countries shared this particular trend. French maps continued to be an ode to the emblem of the state in the form of the monarch, while the Dutch were feeding “a nascent bourgeois republicanism” (Helgerson 1992, 146–47, 300). Were these different forms of cartographic nation building still current in the long eighteenth century? Certainly in the nineteenth century maps were used to help imagine or even create the nations: historical maps were employed to show the evolution of the nation, and the map of the nation as a logo was used on certain nationalist propaganda material (Anderson 1991, 174–75). But what happened during the Enlightenment? In applying poststructuralist principles to the cartography of the eighteenth century, J. B. Harley asserted that maps of the European states “served still as a symbolic shorthand for a complex of nationalist ideas” (Harley 2001, 162). There were new conditions pertaining to Europe in the later seventeenth century and throughout the eighteenth. States were taking on new forms, with bureaucrats, enclosing landlords, soldiers, and colonizers all wanting maps for their various purposes. The business of making and selling maps was, more than ever, governed by factors of supply and especially demand in the cartographic marketplace. That demand generally increased from the political, military, landowning, and fiscal authorities (Pedley 2005). How did the relationship between cartography and emergent nationalism, modern or otherwise, fare under these changing conditions? The major change was the continuing emergence of stronger, more centralized states that wanted more recorded information about both their internal and external affairs. There was a rising demand for clarity regarding geographical borders, especially after wars or other international disputes. The Treaty of Ryswick (1697), which ended the Nine Years’ War between Louis XIV and much of the rest of Europe, traced the agreed borders on appended maps. Similarly, delegates who drafted the Treaty of Paris (1783) relied on late versions of John Mitchell’s 1755 map of North America to define the border between the United States and Canada (Edney 2008, 70).

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Probably the most obvious new form of cartography during the Enlightenment that affected the nation and national feeling was the national triangulation survey. French minister of state Jean-Baptiste Colbert had made active use of maps in his administration since the 1660s, and it was the highly centralized French state that led the way, encouraging the labors of the Cassini family. These great surveys created an unprecedentedly detailed image of the state, in which the nation could imagine its territoriality, especially in the revolutionary reorganization of French territory communicated through the Atlas national (1790–94) (see fig. 732). The Austrians followed suit in the Southern Netherlands, while Peter I invited the Delisle brothers, Joseph-Nicolas and Louis Delisle de La Croyère, to Russia to produce a great Atlas Rossiyskoy (1745) consisting of a general map and nineteen regional maps (see fig. 316). In Britain, a number of privately funded large-scale surveys were undertaken in the eighteenth century, as well as state-sponsored military ones, which foreshadowed the establishment in 1791 of what would become the Board of Ordnance’s national survey. Sweden, Denmark, and Norway were fully surveyed in the course of the century, and Switzerland had its own Atlas Suisse (1796–1802). The German territories and the United Provinces were also included. The Napoleonic state embraced the ideology of the information-packed national survey, which resulted in the introduction of the cadastre, or land registry for the purposes of taxation, in most of the satellite states. Highly detailed surveys were launched, laboriously carried out, and then completed in the early part of the nineteenth century, for example, in the Netherlands by 1832. These surveys were undoubtedly, in the first place, functions of state building, which responded to the needs of new-style, highly centralized governments. These governments needed to visualize and assess everything within, alongside, and over their boundaries for the purposes of taxation, civil and military security, the law, and governance. At the same time, the resulting publications, unique in their completeness, detail, accuracy, and comparability across regions, allowed a visualization of the state in which the nation could project itself with unparalleled clarity. A number of examples can serve to make the point. In Scotland, a series of surveys in the eighteenth century right up to 1830, made initially for military purposes, allowed the visualization of the Scottish nation in a context of “geography, Enlightenment and the public sphere”; it was further developed in the familiar direction of cultural nationalism in the remainder of the nineteenth century (Withers 2001, 112–57, esp. 142–57). In Russia, Peter I was a great patron and utilizer of cartography; his capture of the fortress of Azov in 1696, with its potential to allow access to the Black Sea, was commemorated in

Nationalism and Cartography

Fig. 586. DETAIL OF MUSCOVY, DIVIDED BETWEEN “MOSCOVIE ASIATIQUE” TO THE EAST AND “MOSCOVIE EUROPE” WITH “RUSSIE MOSCOVITE” TO THE WEST, 1700. From Guillaume Delisle, L’Europe dressée sur les observations de M.rs de l’Academie royale des sciences et quelques autres (Paris, 1700). Size of the entire original: 46  ×  60  cm; size of detail: ca. 28 × 24 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 12052).

a new map of those parts just five years later. In a campaign to “civilize” Russia, he turned Muscovy toward Europe rather than Asia, establishing for the first time for Russia the Ural Mountains as the border between the continents. This included his Western Muscovy, with its new capital in St. Petersburg on the Baltic, at the heart of Russia but nonetheless firmly and irretrievably within Europe. In a 1695 edition of Nicolas Sanson’s world map, Muscovy had occupied a kind of no-man’s-land between Europe and Asia, while Tartary (the eastern reaches of the empire) was definitely placed in Asia. A map of Europe by Guillaume Delisle, published in Paris in 1700, split Muscovy into a western and eastern part (fig. 586). Meanwhile, a map of Europe by Adam Friedrich Zürner, published by Petrus II Schenk later in the eighteenth century, had labeled Tartary as Siberia, which became the general usage (Wolff 1994, 191). The use of such new maps of the Enlightenment encouraged Peter I to rearrange the spatial manifestation of Russia from an extra-European identity to a Europe-facing, “civilized”

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Fig. 587. DETAIL FROM JOHANNES COVENS AND CORNELIS MORTIER, GERMANIÆ: L’EMPIRE D’ALLEMAGNE DISTINGUÉ SUIVANT L’ÉTENDÜE DE TOUS LES ESTATS, PRINCIPAUTÉS ET SOUVERAINETÉS (AMSTERDAM, 1734).

Size of the entire original: 50  ×  60  cm; size of detail: ca. 24 × 30 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 10981).

country with  European culture and orientation. The nation of Russia had abandoned Tartary, prevaricated over Muscovy, and embraced Europe, switching its gaze from East to West in a few short decades, due not least to managed trends in cartographic practice. The German lands were also an interesting case. In the nineteenth century, of course, unification of a large part of the German-speaking principalities (specifically excluding Austria) under the leadership of Otto von Bismarck would be achieved and ably assisted by maps composed for that purpose. In the period of the Enlightenment, however, the myriad states were effectively independent within the Habsburg-dominated Holy Roman

Empire. A 1715 map published by Johannes Covens and Cornelis Mortier of Amsterdam was titled Germaniæ: L’Empire d’Allemagne. Although evidently referring to the totality of the German nation, the borders of the various statelets and principalities were clearly shown: nationalism may have been the aspiration in the cartouche, but it was not yet manifested on the map (fig. 587). Maps well up to the end of the eighteenth century continued to show the many German states, but more and more maps of Europe tended to demonstrate a new Europe of emergent nation-states, led by France and England, but with Germany and the Austrian Empire increasingly being shown as single units.

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European nations also sought to assert their national pride and qualities in maps of other parts of the world where they had influence and therefore a chance to express their cultural nationalism. Increased accuracy and improved surveying methods meant that scientific authority could be expressed through maps in support of national claims abroad, especially in the North American colonies from the 1680s onward. British colonial maps of North America often showed the territory as empty and ripe for the taking by the nations of Europe (Harley 2001, 134–46). The process of “othering,” or defining one’s own (national) identity by making observations about alterity, or “otherness,” was widespread in the mapping of the colonial areas of the world. In the Indian subcontinent, Britain’s cartographic activities in the eighteenth century were not only extensive, bolstering imperial administration and control, but they also asserted the national identity by imposing order and science on the apparently unruly Indian landscape, replete with symbols of British national identity, as in the cartouche of James Rennell’s 1782 map of the East India Company’s claims in South Asia (fig. 588). Britannia is shown dispensing imperial order to the inhabitants of “Hindoostan” and receiving into her protection a “shaster” (sastra), or Hindu sacred legal code, from the pundits or Brahmins. Sepoys point out on a monument the names of the British victories that won her a place in India. A lion is at Britannia’s back pawing a globe; symbols of the arts, architecture, and mapping (a palette, a mallet, and dividers) are strewn at her feet; and British merchant ships are seen in the background being loaded with sacks of trade goods. Britannia’s spear rests on a bolt of cotton cloth, the economic key to the colonial relationship, and the surrounding wreath supports more Western arms and the opium poppy, essential to the lucrative trade with China. The caduceus of Mercury emphasizes the commercial theme of empire, and the scale bars elsewhere on the map symbolize the ordering of chaotic India by means of Western science. It is a most eloquent expression of imperial themes, especially tribute, but is also an embodiment of nationalist sentiment and identity through cartography in an imperial connection (Edney 1997, 12–15). An equally cogent example was Napoleon Bonaparte’s expedition of 1798–99 to Egypt. This military operation included a huge team of experts in many scientific, economic, and administrative fields (including mapmaking). He arrived with the express intention of bringing scientific civilization to the Orient: the duty to carry civilization underpinned a right to conquer the world and improve it. The economic success and excellent governance of the nation of France were being celebrated as national virtues, set against the rich but chaotic, external, Egyptian, and Oriental “other” (Godlewska 1995). Finally, there were also changes in maps induced by

Nationalism and Cartography

Fig. 588. CARTOUCHE FROM JAMES RENNELL, HINDOOSTAN (LONDON, 1782). Size of the entire original: 81  ×  80  cm; size of detail: ca. 28  ×  22  cm. Image courtesy of the Geography and Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. (G7625 1782 .R4).

variations in fashions, trends, and taste. Some of those alterations affected the way in which national feelings were or could be portrayed. For example, it began to be popular in the eighteenth century to use color to link countries together in a thematic way: all the territories owing allegiance to one monarch might be colored the same. Fads in the education of children could also be important. The use of maps to teach geography as a kind of game was well known in seventeenth-century France, and it caught on in England in a big way in the second half of the eighteenth century. Many jigsaw puzzles and board games were made in the form of maps of the British Isles; for example, John Wallis’s 1794 Wallis’s Tour through England and Wales: A New Geographical Pastime allowed children of all ages to follow a route around the territorialized nation, visualizing the national geography from a young age. Beyond that, the jigsaw could be used to emphasize national difference by producing a map of Europe or the world with pieces for each nation. One such map from 1766, Europe Divided into Its Kingdoms by John Spilsbury,

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permitted the pupil to detach each kingdom as a single piece. Interestingly from the point of view of nationalism, this map presented all of Italy as a single piece and similarly combined the Southern and Northern Netherlands. For Scotland, however, there was a piece separate from England and Wales, as there was for Ireland. The consistency of the geography is not the point: it is the suggestion that certain nations form states or kingdoms that was the invitation and encouragement to think in nationalist terms. Not only in jigsaws and board games was this geography lesson in nationalism perpetrated. Embroidery samplers were also marshalled into the service of educating the female youth of the day. These samplers could be designed around a single nation, or a continent, such as Europe. The outlines were printed, usually on silk or satin, and sold to be embroidered as practice pieces or samplers. An anonymous English sampler (Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum, T.142-1938) probably from the 1780s, shows Germany, Italy, Hungary, and Poland as separate undivided territories, which in the late eighteenth century would not have accorded with the views of the crowned heads and their ministers. In comparison, the British Isles were divided into Scotland, England, and Ireland (Humphrey 1997, 104–5). Not all such samplers were the same, and some reflected more complex nonnational situations. However, a discourse was taking place in these cartographic forms created by new markets at the government, landlord, and consumer level, which enabled and indeed encouraged the consideration of nationalist feelings of loyalty and their visual territorialization. There is little doubt that mapmaking was in the service of the state during the Enlightenment period, as it had been since the sixteenth century. The systematic way in which such service was commissioned and provided in much of the eighteenth century led to a major increase in accuracy and reliability and an emphasis on objectified territory rather than simply an allegiance to a dynasty or a religious figurehead. This could increase the weakness of a dynastic state like the Holy Roman Empire, which would indeed be finally abolished in 1806 at the hands of Napoleon. Many of the developments were products of and a support for the evolving European state, but they also allowed the subject of the nation to be aired, discussed, and contested. Truly modern, Romantic, cultural nationalism would have to wait for the nineteenth century, but its early forms were active in Europe throughout the modern period, especially in the age of Enlightenment, leaving room for the visualization of the nation as a people in a territory through the cartographic forms of the long eighteenth century. M ic h a el Wintle See also: Boundary Disputes and Cartography; Consumption of Maps; Games, Cartographic; Projections: Geographical Maps; Public Sphere, Cartography and the; Revolution, French; Samplers, Map

Bibliography Anderson, Benedict. 1991. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. Rev. ed. London: Verso. Barber, Peter, and Christopher Board. 1993. Tales from the Map Room: Fact and Fiction about Maps and Their Makers. London: BBC Books. Cubitt, Geoffrey. 1998. “Introduction.” In Imagining Nations, ed. Geoffrey Cubitt, 1–20. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Daniels, Stephen. 1998. “Mapping National Identities: The Culture of Cartography, with Particular Reference to the Ordnance Survey.” In Imagining Nations, ed. Geoffrey Cubitt, 112–31. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Edney, Matthew H. 1997. Mapping an Empire: The Geographical Construction of British India, 1765–1843. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 2008. “John Mitchell’s Map of North America (1755): A Study of the Use and Publication of Official Maps in EighteenthCentury Britain.” Imago Mundi 60:63–85. ———. 2009. “The Irony of Imperial Mapping.” In The Imperial Map: Cartography and the Mastery of Empire, ed. James R. Akerman, 11–45. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Godlewska, Anne. 1995. “Map, Text and Image, the Mentality of Enlightened Conquerors: A New Look at the ‘Description de l’Égypte.’” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, new series 20:5–28. Harley, J. B. 2001. The New Nature of Maps: Essays in the History of Cartography. Ed. Paul Laxton. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Heijden, H. A. M. van der. 1990. Leo Belgicus: An Illustrated and Annotated Carto-Bibliography. Alphen aan den Rijn: Canaletto. Helgerson, Richard. 1992. Forms of Nationhood: The Elizabethan Writing of England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hoenselaars, Ton. 1993. “Europe Staged in English Renaissance Drama.” In Borders and Territories, ed. Joep Th. Leerssen and Manet van Montfrans, 85–112. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Humphrey, Carol. 1997. Samplers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jacob, Christian. 2006. The Sovereign Map: Theoretical Approaches in Cartography throughout History. Trans. Tom Conley. Ed. Edward H. Dahl. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Leerssen, Joep Th. 2006. National Thought in Europe: A Cultural History. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Pedley, Mary Sponberg. 2005. The Commerce of Cartography: Making and Marketing Maps in Eighteenth-Century France and England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wintle, Michael. 2016. “Emergent Nationalism in European Maps of the Eighteenth Century.” In The Roots of Nationalism: National Identity Formation in Early Modern Europe, 1600–1815, ed. Lotte Jensen, 271–87. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Withers, Charles W. J. 2001. Geography, Science and National Identity: Scotland since 1520. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wolff, Larry. 1994. Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

Naudin Family. The Naudin brothers—Jean-Baptiste (d. 1743) and Jacques (1673/74–1744)—represent a first generation of engineers trained in the field, gaining experience during the War of the League of Augsburg (1688–97) and the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14). Never integrated into the royal corps of engineers (Génie), the brothers focused their activity on topography.

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Naudin Family

Jean-Baptiste, known as Naudin l’aîné, served on the Rhine between 1688 and 1692, where he produced his first known maps, those of Philippsbourg (1688 and 1690) and Rheinfels (1692). Subsequent campaigns in Flanders allowed him to produce his first synthetic work, “Théâtre de la guerre en Flandres” (1700), a sumptuous collection of twenty-one manuscript maps (1:72,000) in the style of works produced by Pennier in the same period. During the War of the Spanish Succession, Jean-Baptiste participated in all the most important campaigns and battles, including Maubeuge (1705), Malplaquet (1709), Douai (1710), Bouchain and Le Quesnoy (1712), and Fribourg (1713). The long period of peace from 1713 allowed him to concentrate on producing his “Théâtre de la guerre en Allemagne,” completed in 1726. The long topographic and military descriptions that accompany the approximately sixty manuscript maps and plans in the collection demonstrate its use as a practical work rather than a prestigious volume. From 1726, Jean-Baptiste devoted himself to directing a family workshop that employed at least four draftsmen. In 1733, he was appointed as supervisor of the Dépôt des cartes et plans of the ministère de la Guerre, a post retained until his death on 2 April 1743. The influential book, L’ingénieur françois (1695), which

describes the application of geometrical principles to the representation of terrain, is attributed to Jean-Baptiste Naudin, among others. Jean-Baptiste’s younger brother, Jacques, was known first as Naudin le jeune, then Naudin cadet, and finally Naudin père. He began in the service of Maximilian II Emmanuel, elector of Bavaria, and last governor of the Netherlands under the Spanish regime. Jacques seems not to have participated in any military campaign, instead producing essentially topographic surveys in Flanders until the battle of Ramillies (1706), then in the Duchy of Lorraine as far as the area of the Hundsrück (Hunsrück Mountains) and the Duchy of Deux-Ponts (Zweibrücken). He returned to France for good and settled in Versailles with Jacques Denis, son-in-law of JeanBaptiste, and his own son Jean-Jacques (d. 1752), who had worked with him from 1731 but did not join the royal corps of engineers until just before 1737. Jacques Naudin died in Versailles in 1744, where his son died in 1752, leaving little trace of his work. The extent of the territory covered by the Naudin surveys at a scale of 1:28,800 was completely new and shows the concern of the royal government for obtaining dependable topographic coverage of the frontier provinces (fig. 589). Produced over more than thirty

Fig. 589. DETAIL FROM “CARTE TRES PARTICULIERE DU COURS ET DES ENVIRONS DE LA MEUSE DEPUIS S.T MIHEL JUSQUES A VNE DEMIE LIEÜE AU DESSUS DE DUN,” 1:28,800. Compiled between 1739 and 1741 from the survey made in 1738 by Jacques Naudin and his relative Jacques Denis, this large manuscript map represents landscape in a manner geared to military needs: fortified towns shaded

in pink, the varied colors and symbols for different types of ground, detailed distribution of woods and forests, elevation shown by hachuring, and all rendered at a scale allowing for strategic planning of the march. Size of the entire original: 235  ×  307  cm; size of detail: ca. 33 × 63 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque municipale de Metz (RES ROL 013).

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years, the map quality is uneven. However, despite the numerous distortions resulting from the difficulty of assembling surveys, as well as numerous inexactitudes, they made an important contribution to the knowledge of the territory and its strategic use. They also contained a density of data not seen again for more than a century until the publication of the carte de l’État-Major. Ma r i e -A n n e C o rv i sier-d e Villèle See also: Engineers and Topographical Surveys; League of Augsburg, War of the; Military Cartography: France B i bliogra p hy Corvisier-de Villèle, Marie-Anne. 1995. “Les Naudin et la cartographie militaire française de 1688 à 1744.” In L’œil du cartographe et la représentation géographique du Moyen Âge à nos jours, ed. Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier, 147–73. Paris: Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royal de l’Armée. Wagner, Pierre-Edouard. 2003. “Les Naudin en Lorraine.” In Les Naudin entre Meuse et Vosges, 7–32. Metz: Médiathèque du Pontiffroy.

Navigation and Cartography. The practical importance of marine charts rests on the role of navigators in the improvement of the art and science of navigation. As the entry on marine charting in the Enlightenment makes clear, the creation of charts to be used for navigation relied heavily on information provided by the navigators themselves. This situation contrasted sharply with that of terrestrial cartography at various scales: on land, potential users did not necessarily gather the data required for the mapmakers. At sea the navigator (whether naval officer, coastal pilot, or merchant sailor) provided and evaluated cartographic data as he corrected the document that his data had helped to create (fig. 590). Yet some of the navigators providing the data for marine charts did not necessarily use these charts and, in certain cases, did not want to use these charts, just as there were many sailors, mainly operating in the oral tradition of coastal navigation, who did not provide data and who did not use these charts. The use of charts and the fundamental ability to evaluate them as accurate (or not) was determined by the potential consumer’s level of education and mathematical expertise and whether the type of sailing was oceanic or coastal, that is, out of sight of land or within sight of land. The gathering of marine data, chart creation, and a chart’s navigational use revolved around two basic questions concerning position: where am I, and where am I going? Accuracy was relative, and this relativity depended on the technical ability of the sailor to answer these questions at the time the chart was made. Yet while accuracy was never 100 percent complete, it was a necessary condition for the viability of the chart. However rich the chart’s data were, to be useful for positioning the chart needed to incorporate specific obser-

Fig. 590. DETAIL FROM ARCHIBALD HAMILTON’S MANUSCRIPT “BOOK OF DRAFTS AND REMARKS,” 1763. In this decoration the sailor employs an octant with his log board in front of him, at his feet a compass, a lead and line and log and line, ready for deployment. From “Book of Drafts and Remarks, with Lattitude, Longetude, of Places, of the Variation of the Compass, of Sands Shoals Sounding Seamarks, Anchorage, Roads, Bays, Harbours, High Water, and Setting of Tides, With the Best Directions for Sailing into Ports, or Roads, of Wooding, Watering, of the Setting of Currents, and Winds that Prevail on Different Coast,” by Archibald Hamilton, 1763. © National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London (NVP/11, p. 1). The Image Works.

vations taken from a ship: if the chart concerned open waters, the absolute positions of the sun and stars, and if the chart was prepared near land, the relative position of landmark bearings, which had to be connected to absolute positions in latitude and longitude. The contemporary user’s ability to judge accuracy thus depended on personal training and instrumental and mathematical expertise to understand and use the observational data to good effect. This criterion of accuracy was all the more important (if not the only important criterion) since positioning was one of the main goals of chartmaking in the eighteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 98). Astronomical and geodetic positioning on marine charts was approximate and developed only as the

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methods and tools evolved. Positioning in navigation was similarly approximate. Even though positioning improvements were at the cutting edge of the science and technology of the period, translating the results into graphic representations and texts that could be both understood by a scientifically literate elite and assimilated by the less proficient required a certain incubation period. This time lapse needs to be considered when studying the history of a practice, like navigation, in relation to maps. It is not simply a matter of knowing when innovative theories emerged, but understanding how, where, and when the theories evolved into practice. Preaching to his own parish of longitude seekers, the celebrated clockmaker Ferdinand Berthoud summed up succinctly the primary challenge that faced marine cartography and navigation, handmaidens of commerce, war, and science in the eighteenth century: to fix positions in order to be able to return to them at will. “Thus before anything else, the true positions of all the places on the globe that need to be known must be fixed on the charts so that they can be navigated” (Berthoud 1773, 344–45). The critical urgency and enormity of the problem is shown by the fact that by the middle of the century, the error in longitude of the North Atlantic passages still frequently corresponded to the equivalent of three good days of navigation or more (Chapuis 1999, 25–26, 50). At the same time, the Connoissance des temps of 1753 listed 220 astronomical positions in latitude and longitude for the entire world, and only slightly more than 30 of them were outside of Europe. The 1785 Connoissance listed 870 positions, proof of both the work accomplished in thirty-two years and the enormous task that remained (Chapuis 1999, 26–27). As Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, noted: “What security is it for the navigator to know the position of his vessel on the globe, to almost a half of a degree, if the charts on which he is obliged to report his position were never able, through common astronomical and nautical methods, to become images that represent the landscape before him and the dangers he should avoid with the same accuracy of half a degree?” (Chabert 1785, 12). Role of the Navy In this era of scientific inquiry, the theory and practice of navigation occupied a unique position (Chapuis 1999, 140–43). It depended on marine cartography to record its progress in time and space, as expressed by the Scottish hydrographer Murdoch Mackenzie the Elder: “The Lives and Fortunes of Sea-faring Persons, in great Measure, depend on the Accuracy of their Charts” (Mackenzie 1750, 3). Because global trade in this period was carried out primarily at sea, sailing was at the heart of the scientific and technical research on which the performance and security of sea crossings depended. For most regions, state-run navies assumed

Navigation and Cartography

responsibility for the secure and free flow of trade and colonial expansion, for which an educated elite naval officer corps was an essential component. By the end of the 1780s, there were 4,000 to 5,000 officers in European naval fleets, of whom 2,500 were in the British and French navies (Acerra and Meyer 1990, 187; Meyer 1982, 38). Of these officers, only a small number were at the forefront of the scientific movement. Most officers, especially in Great Britain and the Netherlands, were barely involved in the sciences. Between ca. 1740 and 1770, French commercial navigation surpassed that of other European countries in terms of scientific knowledge, particularly in the period after the foundation of the Académie de marine (Brest, 1752; reorganized 1769), which graduated a new generation of scientific state naval officers before the French navy assumed its excellent position among European navies considered as spearheads of scientific knowledge (Chapuis 1999, 136–37, 154–58; Rodger 2003, 5). The maps and theoretical works of study-based geographers and scholars were shunned by the vast majority of navigators, especially the English, who preferred practice at sea to the theory of nautical manuals (Rodger 2003, 15). Nonetheless, the publication of manuals expanded, and the debate between theory and practice remained lively during the period (Chapuis 1999, 137–41, 158). The stumbling block for many navigators was mathematics, a major language of the Enlightenment with many nuances (Rodger 2003, 5–8). Astronomy and navigation were the two branches of inquiry that engaged many of Europe’s most brilliant scientists and technicians (through intellectual curiosity) and states (through self-interest). Occasionally, sailing instruments were developed by sailors and artisans with little scientific knowledge, but many projects never came to fruition. As for patenting innovations, most inventors appealed to learned societies—such as the Royal Society of London, the Académie des sciences in Paris, or the Académie de marine in Brest. In general, navigators worried less about whether charts were accurate—and in fact they were not, until the correction of their longitudes—than about whether sailors could navigate accurately enough to understand that they were not. Yet, it is clear that some navigators employed the scientific and technological developments of their day better than others. Only a small elite was actually able to assess charts effectively based on data collected through the new methods and latest instruments, especially marine chronometers. Chartmakers had to successfully determine absolute points (through astronomy) and local points (through trigonometry) and draw the coastline on the chart in the best way possible, before any evaluation could be made of how closely the

Navigation and Cartography

best navigators (including these surveyors) approached such an accuracy (Chapuis 1999, 98). Merchant Marine In addition to state navies, maritime commerce also developed considerably by the middle of the eighteenth century. In 1764, England counted 8,100 merchant ships, accounting for 590,000 tons; in 1776, it had 9,400 vessels totaling 700,000 tons. Through the century, the transport capacity of the British merchant fleet increased five- or sixfold (Meyer 1975, 255–56). Great Britain was the leading maritime and commercial world power with about 10,000 ships, holding close to 1,500,000 tons by 1785. France was a distant second, with half the number of merchant vessels for a global tonnage of 730,000. Its long-haul merchant fleet grew from 186,000 tons in 1743 to 427,000 in 1787 (Taillemite 1987, 31), with the value of French foreign trade increasing threefold in constant pricing in 1716–20 and 1784–88 (Chapuis 1999, 188). In 1785, the English and French together controlled about 45 percent of the available commercial fleet in the Western world, followed by the Netherlands (1,800 ships, for 400,000 tons), Denmark and Norway (3,600 vessels, for 400,000 tons), Sweden (1,200 ships, for 170,000 tons), and Spain (150,000 tons) (Meyer 1975, 255; 1989, 372). Although the demand for nautical documents did not increase in proportion to this increase of traffic, since not all navigators used them in the same way, many did request them, such as French fishermen along the banks of Newfoundland and those sailing off the northern coast of France, who used Dutch charts (Chapuis 1999, 189–90). The military, too, required good detailed charts to avoid disaster, evidenced by an entire squadron rendered powerless off the south coast of England for lack of good charts in August 1779 (Chapuis 1999, 245–46). The development of global fleets required more charts and nautical instructions for the protection of men and cargo. The ships of the East India Company seldom had a tonnage of more than five hundred before 1750, but in the 1770s ships with nearly eight hundred tons began to grow in number, with ships finally reaching more than a thousand tons (Fry 1970, 242–43n51; Parkinson 1937, 164). As the tonnage of merchant vessels increased, their draughts and maneuverability became more compromised, requiring charts with soundings. The experience of the trading companies contributed in major ways to meet the challenge of safe navigation with better charts. Navigational Problems The example of soundings on charts illustrates the balance between supply and demand for data. In the eighteenth century, soundings were still rare on most marine charts, especially in the approaches. If charts did include soundings, such as the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) charts

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along the Asian coasts, the accuracy of their positions was very questionable. In fact, the precision of soundings was not the main problem of the time, since to make a sounding in deep waters (requiring a thicker line and a heavier weight), the boat usually had to be slowed down, even brought to a standstill; thus, the ability to sound was not permanent. Magnetic declination was another observation derived from navigation and essential in the interaction with the chart. The difference between compass bearings and true bearings and their relationship in space was widely studied in the eighteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 60–62). Yet before 1815, except for a few pioneers such as Matthew Flinders (Chapuis 1999, 660–61), French and British officers were generally not aware of the problems of magnetic deviations resulting from ferrous quantities along the coasts (Rodger 2003, 15). Alexander Dalrymple and others who were well familiar with the inconsistencies of the compass in surveying pointed out the difficulties of obtaining an accurate reading given the constant movement of a ship (Dalrymple 1771, 3). Similarly, charts and navigation had to incorporate the data from research on the global grid of longitude and latitude. Improvements in determining the length of a degree of latitude followed the geodetic surveys along the equator in South America and near the North Pole, in the Gulf of Bothnia (Lapland), in 1735–45 under the aegis of the Académie royale des sciences and on the Cape of Good Hope in 1750–52 (Chapuis 1999, 90–92). The length of a degree of latitude affected the length of the nautical mile and the division of the log line. Although the determination of longitude occupied Enlightenment science throughout the century, even with many misconceptions and errors—often the case when the landlubber dealt with matters of the sea (Chapuis 1999, 158, 163)—it was a concern that eluded a good portion of the maritime community (Chapuis 1999, 137). From the late seventeenth century, interest in nautical education increased throughout most of the maritime states of Europe with the exception of France, where almost no progress was made until 1770 as the solution to the longitude problem required a substantial increase in navigational manuals or their complete overhaul (Chapuis 1999, 152–53). It is important to consider also a point of vocabulary, at least in French. From 1630–50 to around 1800, hydrographie essentially referred to the art of navigating, in the sense of fixing the position or setting the course, in other words the navigation. The term was directly related to navigational instruction within schools of hydrography, which were rechristened schools of navigation in October 1795. At the same time, hydrographie also denoted marine cartography, a usage only gradually employed after 1750 and not fully evident until the

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Navigation and Cartography

Two Types of Navigators In the eighteenth century, two main groups of navigators coexisted in Europe and along the east coast of North America. The first comprised those who practiced offshore or inshore navigation. Offshore navigators (grand cabotage) lost sight of land only for short periods, almost always frequenting the same coastline or making a short crossing in the Mediterranean or along the coasts of Northern and Western Europe; they still required great skill, especially in the face of rocks or shoals and fierce tidal currents that swept the Atlantic coast. Similar dangers affected those inshore navigators (petit cabotage or pilotage) who confined themselves to a particular “nautical garden,” where each stone was known nearly by heart. In France, as in England and elsewhere, inshore pilots such as the Trinity House pilots who navigated the Thames estuary took a single practical exam, devoid of theory, which barely referenced nautical documents; their atavistic knowledge was transmitted orally from generation to generation (Chapuis 1999, 147–50). Offshore navigation required

a better theoretical background as the captains’ level of knowledge increased in the eighteenth century. The second main group of navigators sailed in open waters and undertook lengthy ocean crossings toward the coasts of America, Africa, and Asia out of sight of land. Their theoretical training addressed the problem of positioning at sea and the random landings that resulted from it, not only overseas but also on the return to Europe, with the inherent dangers of unpredictable dead reckoning, inaccurate nautical documents, and the inclement weather that existed for much of the year. Within this group, a clear distinction existed between officers of the navy and those of the merchant marine. During the eighteenth century, deep-sea pilots gradually passed their expertise on to these officers. As the officers acquired the skills of celestial navigation and use of nautical documents, the oral knowledge of pilots was gradually replaced by charts. In France alone, where relevant legislation had been very strict since Jean-Baptiste Colbert (the death penalty, though rarely employed, could legally be exercised for navigation errors), the functions of deepsea pilots were gradually removed and finally eliminated by an ordinance of 1 January 1786. At the same time,

Fig. 591. DETAIL FROM MICHEL MAGIN, CARTE GÉOMÉTRIQUE DE L’ENTRÉE DE LA RIVIERE DE LOIRE, 1757. Engraved map, ca. 1:28,500. According to the author, this chart was one of the first to allow its user to function as a pilot in entering the estuary of the Loire. Magin incorporated one leading line, or line of alignment, on the chart for the navigator, using the two Tours d’Aiguillon as guides to enter safe waters, a representational device that was both modern and

rare for the eighteenth century. Rocks, soundings, sea bottom, and beacons were based on local knowledge from pilots. An “Observations” text in an inset (not shown here) provided verbal information on tides, landmarks, and routes. Rhumbs are centered on some landmarks to make the bearings more fast. Size of the entire original: 66.0 × 99.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 20 × 37 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque national de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge C 10084).

very beginning of the nineteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 38–40).

Navigation and Cartography

mooring or berthing assistants continued their job of bringing ships in and out of port (a practice that still exists), and coastal pilots continued to compensate for the deficiencies of nautical documents until the beginning of the nineteenth century, as new charts were slowly assimilated and used by navigators (Chapuis 1999, 146–47). Through to the end of the eighteenth century, coastal pilots were employed throughout Europe, especially where the ocean floor was in constant flux due to currents and to alluvial depositions in estuaries (Chapuis 1999, 148–49). Even in the British Isles, Royal Navy officers hesitated to navigate without a pilot, their coastal experience not becoming sufficient until the end of the century (Rodger 2003, 15). Generally, only those with extensive knowledge of a region could enter a port with only their charts, their experience, and a mooring assistant. Nonetheless, some chartmakers were known to proclaim that their product could replace a local pilot, as Michel Magin claimed for his chart of the entrance to the Loire of 1757 (fig. 591). Magin drew a leading line on the chart for the navigator to follow to safe waters, a representational device that was both modern and rare for the eighteenth century. Magin was a naval engineer, a member of the Académie de marine, not a chartmaker, who was in charge of the hydrologic development of the Loire. His chart visually translated the knowledge he acquired from local pilots with whom he had daily contact, making it superior to the other charts by hydrographers of the period (Chapuis 1999, 134, 149). Cost and Inertia While charts increasingly found a place in the curriculum for teaching navigation, merchant seaman tended not to follow their professors’ advice once their schooling was complete. Large-format atlases, such as Le Neptune françois and The Atlantic Neptune, were very expensive, as were the collections of the Hydrographie françoise. Jacques-Nicolas Bellin’s Le Petit atlas maritime (five volumes) or the pilot books, which incorporated charts, were less expensive and more practical, but their small format did not allow for marking position on the chart. Instead, sailors used the reduction quadrant, or plotting chart, for this task (fig. 592), or even the ship’s log, although this last method was discredited by scientific officers, such as Jean-Baptiste-Nicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette, who was long familiar with helmsmen and their ways (Chapuis 1999, 51, 144–45). The high cost of charts was a crucial problem. In France, the state willingly intervened to control costs in the Dépôt de la Marine (Chapuis 1999, 190–98), while in Britain, they were published commercially, allowing masters or captains to have their own charts made up or copied from other sources. Hydrographers such as J. F. W. Des Barres initially paid for the engraving and printing of his masterpiece, The Atlantic Neptune, be-

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Fig. 592. ENGRAVED REDUCED QUADRANT OR QVARTIER DE REDVCTION, 1671. The reduction quadrant, printed on flat paper, provided a graphic solution to many navigation problems that involved trigonometry. A thread passed from the corner of the quadrant and along the divided arc, allowing the user to find sines, cosines, tangents, cotangents, secants, and cosecants when the radius is taken along its base, which is divided into sixty-five parts. This printed quadrant was sold at a bookseller in Le Havre. Size of the original: 39  ×  33  cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge D 12530).

fore receiving government reimbursement (Hornsby 2011, 163–97). Similarly, Alexander Dalrymple had to turn to public subscriptions, despite the fiscal power of the East India Company (Fry 1970, 226–27). Inertia, with its concomitant reluctance to embrace innovation, lay behind the slow adoption of the Mercator projection for marine charts well into the eighteenth century. It was developed, of course, in order to allow navigators to plot their compass bearings over long distances in a straight line, a critical process for maintaining estimated position at sea. Maintaining position near land was possible with the plane chart, used for very short distances on a large scale. The Mercator projection’s effectiveness relied on the new mathematical tools of logarithms and integral calculus. Introduced in France only in 1693 and in Portugal in 1698, it was not widely used for navigation in Europe until well into the eighteenth century, even as late as between 1789 and 1794 in Spain, after the hydrographic reconnaissance of

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Navigation and Cartography

Fig. 593. DETAIL FROM THE RIGHT HALF OF VICENTE TOFIÑO DE SAN MIGUEL, CÔTES D’ESPAGNE: ASTURIES ET PARTIE DE GALICE, D’APRÈS LES PLANS LEVÉS EN 1788 ([PARIS]: DÉPÔT DE LA MARINE, 1793). Engraved, ca. 1:3,085,000. Oriented with south at the top and extending between the latitudes of 43° and 44°, this plane chart shows a portion of Spain’s northern coast. The combination of coast and views continued a type of representation

on charts that remained highly valued in the eighteenth century. The Spanish hydrographer Tofiño de San Miguel adopted such a layout on this occasion by using views more frequently found during this period in pilot books. Size of the entire original: 77  ×  175  cm; size of detail: ca. 70 × 91 cm. Image courtesy of the Biblioteca nacional, Madrid (MV/3).

Alejandro Malaspina in the colonies. For most navigators, the Mercator chart competed with the usual plane chart and all the other tools, such as the ship’s log or the reduction quadrant for keeping the estimated position in open seas before the solution to the longitude problem (Chapuis 1999, 52–53). The relatively reduced northsouth dimension of a sea like the Mediterranean minimized the need for the increasing latitudes of the Mercator projection. Captains sailing there refused to use the first Mercator chart of the Mediterranean published by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine in 1737 (see fig. 206) (Chapuis 1999, 151–52, 170–71), instead

swearing by plane charts and their traditional navigational techniques—forty-four years after the rejection of Le Neptune françois (1693), which had been rejected for the same reason by captains in France (Chapuis 1999, 103–6). Although the Dutch and English, by about the 1650s, occasionally used Mercator charts on the Atlantic run and the Dutch carried them on board the VOC ships, the Mercator projection was not in general use by navigators, especially if the plane chart still served for reaching a destination quickly and safely (fig. 593). Thus, many navigators refused to use the very cartographic projection that provided the best graphic solution

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Importance of Scale Medium- and large-scale nautical charts in the eighteenth century were still a long

way from replacing coastal pilots, and the sales numbers of the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine reveal that marine charts were first and foremost tools for the open seas; their small scale was better at masking their substantial inaccuracies. Of the 4,184 charts and works delivered by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine to merchants on 28 February 1773, the strongest demand was for the descriptions of the straits of Santo Domingo (1,190 copies), a chart of the Atlantic Ocean (446 copies), charts of the Gulf of Biscay (240 copies), and charts of the Channel (202 copies). Demand for these sea charts exceeded that for more detailed maps, even though the primary danger for navigators was land. This low demand for larger-scale (detailed) charts may be explained by the preference of offshore navigators for pilot books, especially for their coastal views (see fig. 593). Interpreting a profile that could be compared to the coastline facing them was a more familiar technique than interpreting the zenithal view offered by maps (fig. 594). Practitioners of inshore navigation

Fig. 594. DETAIL FROM CHARLES KNATCHBULL, “A PLAN OF THE HARBORS OF PORT ANTONIO IN THE ISLAND OF JAMAICA SURVEY’D A.D. 1770.” Manuscript, ca. 1:60,000. The chart combines the large-scale elements of soundings, sea bottom description, anchorages, rocks, and other impediments, as well as the coastal view at the top of the chart and written directions at the bottom (not shown here),

making it a graphic pilot book. The detail shows the rendering of coastline both planimetrically and with coastal view, preparing the sailor for landing with soundings, directions, and images. Size of the entire original: 42.0 × 53.5 cm; size of detail: ca. 20  ×  28  cm. Image courtesy of the William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (Maps 8-I-1770 Kn).

to rhumb lines: compass bearings and directions drawn in a straight line (Chapuis 2009, 34–41). The irony of this history is that sailors actually practiced orthodromy (the shortest distance between two points on the surface of a sphere, measured along the surface of this sphere), as generations of sailors had done before, often unwittingly without fully realizing that any shortest distance between two points in sight on the curved surface of the globe is in fact a portion of a great circle arc; only the most scientific navigator perfectly understood the mathematical theory of a great circle. Orthodromy was much more complicated to construct and implement at the scale of an ocean than to follow a constant course, making it difficult to employ in open sea waters until a later period when mechanical propulsion replaced the wind and the line of position allowed for more precise control of a great circle arc on a Mercator chart (see fig. 646).

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relied on verbal knowledge (Chapuis 1999, 149–50). Finally, coastal pilots were not necessarily inclined to share their knowledge of coastlines with hydrographers, even though they became increasingly aware of their imminent obsolescence by the end of the eighteenth century. Manuscript large-scale charts, such as those used for coastal approaches, continued well into the 1700s and were copied for distribution. Navigational errors gradually declined over the course of the eighteenth century, the result of the ability to maintain the estimated position more reliably, advances in education, and progress in celestial navigation. Methodological and instrumental development in celestial navigation was substantial in the eighteenth century, particularly from 1750 to 1775 (Chapuis 1999, 53–86). For the longitude question, the method of lunar distances and marine clocks encouraged the Atlantic test voyages and great circumnavigations, and allowed navies to correct their defective charts. These corrections offered a new positioning grid to navigators who were capable of locating themselves in two dimensions, and their number increased toward the end of the century in both state navies and in the merchant marine. Yet troubles still arose for navigators returning to European coasts with tired crews, and ships confronted tricky meteorological conditions on the windward coastlines that were poorly marked. It was difficult to evaluate a chart if one did not know how to locate oneself on it accurately. The estimation error could play out in two ways since the disoriented navigator could attribute his confusion to his own estimation as well as to the chart itself. What use was a chart of the mouth of the Loire if one were in fact at the entrance to the Channel or off Ushant in a fog (Chapuis 1999, 177)? Competence of Navigators Nearly thirty years after finding a secure method for measuring time, still no more than a handful of sailors could calculate longitude using both lunar distances and marine watches. CharlesPierre Claret de Fleurieu estimated their number to be fewer than a hundred for France in 1797, in the Marine and marine de commerce combined (Chapuis 1999, 653). For chartmaking, there were fewer than one-tenth as many: in 1791, Chabert stated that fewer than ten state officers knew how to use marine chronometers “for hydrography” in the latter half of the eighteenth century, or less than 1 percent of all active officers (Chapuis 1999, 306). Around 1785, the precision attained by the great European observatories was within two seconds in latitude and, exceptionally, within fifteen seconds in longitude, as determined from the most precise terrestrial observations (Cassini, Méchain, and Legendre [1791], x–xi). These optimal values defined the limits of all other

Navigation and Cartography

forms of observations not only for nautical applications, but also for geographical representation. In the improvised observatories of large scientific expeditions, astronomers sometimes recorded excellent results. The best navigators of the mid-1780s determined latitude at sea within one minute and longitude at sea from lunar distances within between fifteen and thirty minutes; Jean-François de Lapérouse reported a margin of error of twenty to twenty-five minutes (Milet-Mureau 1797, 2:47, 285). During a six-week crossing, longitudinal accuracy remained on the order of thirty minutes, as obtained by Étienne Marchand, officier de la marine de commerce, during his world tour from 1790 to 1792 (Fleurieu 1797–1800, 1:cxxxviii–526, 561, 2:3). Such accuracy was comparable to the best celestial navigation at the beginning of the twenty-first century within a minute of angle of both latitude and longitude. It was made possible by better instruments and improved measurement of lunar distances during the 1780s (Chapuis 1999, 304). Between the voyages of Louis-Antoine de Bougainville (1766–69) and Lapérouse (1785–[88]), the observations of longitude by lunar distances gained thirty minutes of angle accuracy thanks to the lunar tables of The Nautical Almanac (1766), to more efficient instruments, and to the best reduction methods. Similar progress was made between the third voyage of James Cook (1776–80) and that of George Vancouver (1791–95), to a lesser degree between the voyages of Lapérouse and Joseph-Antoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux (1791–93). For the French, the reflecting circle of JeanCharles Borda seemed to be the preferred measuring instrument for sailors (especially for lunar distances), astronomers, geodesists, and, not least, hydrographers. The English preferred their own exceptional sextants when at sea and their new theodolites when on land (Chapuis 1999, 305). Yet the navigational skills of a military and civilian elite, so clearly evident on the large expeditionary voyages, were not paralleled in the mainstream of average officers, who were far from obtaining similar results. Given that inertia is a fundamental fact of the marine environment, the adoption of any new navigational and hydrographic technique requires an incubation time. It is not significant to remember the dates of the inventions if these inventions were not in wide-spread use, and especially if no one knew how to use them. At no other time did so many navigational innovations exist alongside so many archaisms, with so much scholarship masking so many deficiencies. What actions were taken to benefit the majority of navigators? European governments certainly tried to encourage the proliferation of the understanding of lunar distances and to simplify these calculations, since these practices had gained in ac-

Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique

curacy since the 1770s, even though marine clocks were still largely inaccessible. In 1785, the French ministre de la Marine required the Académie royale des sciences to review the production of Connoissance des temps in order to bring its price down to a more affordable level for officiers de la marine de commerce who used it for lunar distances. While the cost of nautical documents impeded their diffusion in Europe, the cost control of charts sought by the French state in 1775 proved effective by 1791 (Chapuis 1999, 306). Challenge for the Nineteenth Century The independent sailing of the navigator was the challenge of the next century, not only in open waters, but also near the coast, for landings as well as coastal navigation. If the eighteenth century had been the period of position fixing at sea in two dimensions, longitude and latitude, the nineteenth century would concentrate on the large-scale, even very large-scale, charts that would create high-definition hydrography, resulting in a complete overhaul of the littoral charts of Europe and North America to bring them to the same standard as that of land topography. Two goals stood out: to correlate sounding points to station points, themselves linked to the triangulation of the coasts, and to initiate bathymetric comprehensiveness, at least with selective representative soundings. A colossal task faced European hydrography at home and overseas. Yet these vital tasks were not sufficient for the overall development of navigation and marine charts. In the wake of the European maritime elites of the period of the Enlightenment, entry-level navigators would also have to acquire two skills: to master the sea in all circumstances using the stars or landmark bearings, rather than with estimated position alone; and to develop a hydrographic understanding, that is, to be able to use a good chart at any scale for a given situation. For a sailor arriving on land from open sea, this succession of scales operated like a zoom from the smallest scale to the largest. As the eighteenth century drew to a close, a demand grew for substantial and standardized markings and for more accurate charts, rich in detailed information, simpler and easier to read night and day: a steep challenge for hydrography to be met in the nineteenth century. O l iv ier Ch apuis See also: Longitude and Latitude; Marine Chart; Marine Charting; Pilot Book; Projections: Marine Charts; Sounding of Depths and Marine Triangulation B i bliogra p hy Acerra, Martine, and Jean Meyer. 1990. L’empire des mers: Des galions aux clippers. [Paris]: Nathan. Berthoud, Ferdinand. 1773. Traité des horloges marines, contenant la théorie, la construction, la main-d’œuvre de ces machines, et la maniere de les éprouver, pour parvenir, par leur moyen, a la recti-

1037 fication des cartes marines, et a la détermination des longitudes en mer. Paris: Musier. Cassini (IV), Jean-Dominique, Pierre-François-André Méchain, and Adrien-Marie Legendre. [1791]. Exposé des opérations faites en France en 1787, pour la jonction des observatoires de Paris et de Greenwich. Paris: Institution des Sourds-Muets. Chabert, Joseph-Bernard, marquis de. 1785. Sur l’usage des horloges marines, relativement à la navigation, & sur-tout à la géographie. Paris: Imprimerie Royale. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. ———. 2007. Cartes des côtes de France: Histoire de la cartographie marine et terrestre du littoral. Douarnenez: Chasse-Marée. ———. 2009. Du bon usage de la carte marine et du GPS. Paris: Voiles et Voiliers. Dalrymple, Alexander. 1771. Essay on the Most Commodious Methods of Marine Surveying. London: [N.p.]. Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de. 1797–1800. Voyage autour du monde, pendant les années 1790, 1791, et 1792, par Étienne Marchand. Édition in 4o. 4 vols. Paris: Imprimerie de la République. Fry, Howard T. 1970. Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808) and the Expansion of British Trade. Toronto: For the Royal Commonwealth Society by the University of Toronto Press. Hornsby, Stephen J. 2011. Surveyors of Empire: Samuel Holland, J.  F.  W. Des Barres, and the Making of “The Atlantic Neptune.” Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Mackenzie, Murdoch. 1750. Orcades: Or a Geographic and Hydrographic Survey of the Orkney and Lewis Islands in Eight Maps. London: Murdoch Mackenzie. Meyer, Jean. 1975. Les Européens et les autres: De Cortés à Washington. Paris: Armand Colin. ———. 1982. “Le contexte des grands voyages d’exploration du XVIIIe siècle.” In L’importance de l’exploration maritime au siècle des Lumières (A propos du voyage de Bougainville), ed. Michel Mollat du Jourdin and Étienne Taillemite, 17–39. Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. ———. 1989. L’Europe des Lumières. Le Coteau: Horvath. Milet-Mureau, Louis-Antoine Destouff. 1797. Voyage de La Pérouse autour du monde. 4 vols. Paris: Imprimerie de la République. Parkinson, C. Northcote. 1937. Trade in the Eastern Seas, 1793–1813. Cambridge: University Press. Rodger, N. A. M. 2003. “Navies and the Enlightenment.” In Science and the French and British Navies, 1700–1850, ed. Pieter van der Merwe, 5–23. Greenwich: National Maritime Museum. Taillemite, Étienne. 1987. “La mer au XVIIIe siècle.” In La mer au siècle des encyclopédies, ed. Jean Balcou, 17–38. Paris-Geneva: Champion-Slatkine.

Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique. CharlesPierre Claret de Fleurieu, the encyclopedic intellect of the French navy, began the great cartographic project of his life in 1785 when he sharply attacked Nicolas-Gabriel Le Clerc, who had just published two maps of the Baltic Sea that proved unreliable for sailors (Chapuis 1999, 207–11). Fleurieu’s deep interest in the Baltic reflected its strategic and economic importance for northern Europe; its complex hydrography with numerous reefs, shoals, and other dangers fascinated the marine geographer. Fleurieu believed it was vital for France to have its

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Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique

own maps of the Baltic that would synthesize maps published by states bordering the sea ([Fleurieu] 1794, 1). From August 1785, Fleurieu enlisted the services of the young Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré to work on the atlas, which he published in his hôtel particulier, away from the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine, but using funds from the Marine (Chapuis 1999, 284). Fleurieu envisioned a three-part work: maps assembled in an atlas (the Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique), nautical instructions, and a never-completed Description géographique et historique, militaire, politique et commerciale (Pastoureau 1992, 38). With his new assistant, and the aid of Pierre-François-André Méchain for foreign astronomical data (Chapuis 1999, 966n252), Fleurieu concentrated on compiling the best sources from all countries, whether printed or manuscript, often of high quality, since a number of geodetic projects from the end of the seventeenth century had focused on the Baltic Sea (Chapuis 1999, 284–85, 298). On 17 March 1788, Fleurieu composed the preface to the Fondemens des cartes du Cattegat et de la Baltique, which did not appear until 1794. This very technical work was entirely devoted to justifying the astronomi-

cal and geodetic positions of the Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique. The accumulation of such a dense array of data demonstrates the importance of the project to the mathematical training of Beautemps-Beaupré for positions determined both astronomically and by triangulation (Chapuis 1999, 285). On each sheet, an inset titled “Fondemens de la carte” provided information on the multiple sources and the determination of points. Beautemps-Beaupré prepared and drew the maps under the direction of his cousin, Jean-Nicolas Buache (Chapuis 1999, 285). This eighteenth-century maritime compilation atlas, comprising all scales from general map to detailed plans, was one of the best of the period for its demonstrable rigor of construction. Fleurieu planned seventy sheets, including sixty-six maps ([Fleurieu] 1794, 42). In fact, without counting two undated sheets and three views of coasts and ports, over a period of five years Beautemps-Beaupré prepared sixteen unfinished plans (usually lacking only insets) and forty-three finished maps. The expedition of JosephAntoine-Raymond Bruny d’Entrecasteaux distracted Beautemps-Beaupré from February 1791 until his return to Paris on 30 August 1796. From September, he worked

Fig. 595. DETAIL FROM CARTE RÉDUITE DU SUND . . . DRESSÉE ET GRAVÉE 1786, BY CHARLES-PIERRE CLARET DE FLEURIEU [COMPLETED BY CHARLESFRANÇOIS BEAUTEMPS-BEAUPRÉ] ([PARIS: DÉPÔT GÉNÉRAL DE LA MARINE], 1809). Map engraved in one sheet, ca. 1:160,000. This map from the Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique is oriented with north to the left; the longitude scales, based on the Paris meridian, are thus along the left and right edges of the map with the latitude scale at the bottom of the sheet. The numerous soundings were compiled from work on land by Danish, Swedish, and Russian officers and thus not trigonometrically determined at sea. An inset (not shown) pro-

vides the basic data used for compilation. Although it has no legend, the nature of the bottom is clearly indicated; stippling marks are used for the sandbars; crosses show rocks and small isles covered and uncovered by tides. Buoys, important for the entrance to Copenhagen harbor, are also shown. Finally, the map demonstrates the fine linework resulting from new procedures for chart engraving established by Fleurieu from 1773 and executed in his own workshop during the late 1780s. Size of the entire original: 60  ×  89  cm; size of detail: ca. 15.5 × 37.5 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge CC 1208, carte 26).

Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise

to complete the general maps for the Neptune but informed Fleurieu that he could not continue much longer with the project, as he knew that the surveying methods he had just developed with d’Entrecasteaux would render this type of cartographie de cabinet completely obsolete from a methodological point of view. Aware of this development, Fleurieu did not take offense at his collaborator’s frankness and continued alone. Following Fleurieu’s death, Beautemps-Beaupré personally oversaw the engraving of the project’s final plates in autumn 1810, even though the much-delayed appearance of the Neptune was officially dated 1809. There were thirty printed exemplars, often unbound and conserved in individual sheets, like the one held in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, which includes sixtythree maps and plans and three views (fig. 595) (Fleurieu 1809). The diffusion of the work remained limited despite the 177,325 francs spent by Fleurieu and the Marine for the plates. These copies became obsolete with the projects in the Baltic during the French Revolutionary Wars and the First Empire, and they were then voluntarily destroyed (Chapuis 1999, 286, 967n259). Simultaneously Fleurieu’s great dream and personal failure, the Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique nonetheless had great didactic value. It provided experience to BeautempsBeaupré after his work preparing the maps of Jean-François de Lapérouse. It also gave Fleurieu the opportunity to renovate instruments and perfect methods of engraving and printing in his private workshop (Chapuis 1999, 286, 297–98). His most notable contributions were to develop the chassis, or framework, of graduated longitude and latitude points upon which the meridians and parallels were based ([Fleurieu] 1794, 22), and to train engravers, who anticipated the brilliant school of French marine engraving of the nineteenth century. Oliv ier Ch apuis See also: Atlas: Marine Atlas; Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de; Map Trade: France; Marine Charting: France B i bliogra p hy Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. [Fleurieu, Charles-Pierre Claret de]. 1794. Fondemens des cartes du Cattégat et de la Baltique. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale Exécutive du Louvre. ———. 1809. Neptune du Cattegat et de la mer Baltique: Recueil. Paris: [Dépôt général de la Marine]. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1992. “Le monde en cartes: L’apport de Fleurieu.” In Fleurieu et la Marine de son temps, ed. Ulane Bonnel, 31– 39. Paris: Économica.

Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise. In 1662, during the reign of Louis XIV, Jean-Baptiste Colbert sent Louis-Nicolas de Clerville, commissaire géné-

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ral des fortifications, to survey the coasts of France. However, the imprecision of the resulting maps forced Colbert to have the work redone. La Favolière, ingénieur des fortifications from 1670, labored along the coasts of Poitou, Aunis, and Saintonge between 1670 and 1677; the hydrographic portion of his work surpassed all previous efforts. North of the Loire and along the coasts of Brittany, the works from about 1670 by Denis de La Voye, ingénieur de la Marine, were the best of that region (Chapuis 1999, 101). Nonetheless, strategic considerations kept the maps of La Voye and La Favolière secret for nearly twenty years. Finally, their work along with that of other authors including Clerville was finally assembled into a collection of coastal maps of France, bound in an atlas with the coat of arms of Colbert, which served as the foundation of Le Neptune françois for the part covering the French Atlantic coast and northern Brittany. Le Neptune françois was the first maritime work (and one of the first geographic atlases) to benefit from the astronomical observations produced by the Académie des sciences (Chapuis 1999, 102), even if these results were integrated after the fact, added nearly ten years after the maps of La Voye and La Favolière were completed. Astronomers Jean Picard and Philippe de La Hire surveyed along the coasts of France between 1679 and 1682 at the request of the Académie, of which they were members (Débarbat and Dumont 2002, 241). They built upon the work of Jean-Dominique Cassini (I), one of the proponents of Le Neptune françois, by adopting his method of using the eclipses of the satellites of Jupiter to make astronomical observations. The positions determined by Picard, La Hire, and Cassini constituted to some degree the foundational framework for the French maps in the Neptune, as did the map of France presented to the Académie des sciences in 1684 and published in 1693 (see fig. 625). However, despite much updating, Le Neptune françois benefited from no formal geodetic framework. For the Mediterranean maps, most of the astronomical work fell to Jean-Mathieu de Chazelles, former assistant to Cassini I at the Paris Observatory and professor of hydrography at Marseilles; as a collaborator on the Neptune, he had mapped the English Channel and served as cartographic editor under general editor Charles Pène. In 1701, Chazelles proposed to the Académie a second volume of Le Neptune françois dedicated exclusively to the Mediterranean. It never appeared, although Joseph-Bernard, marquis de Chabert, tried to renew the effort in 1753. Le Neptune françois first appeared in print in Paris in 1693, with a frontispiece drawn by Jean Berrin and magnificently engraved by Pierre Lepautre, depicting the god Neptune watching over sailors, explaining why the word neptune was used henceforth to designate a maritime atlas. By employing the arms of France and

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the radiant rising star, the frontispiece also bore witness to the prestigious character of the work by evoking the maritime glory of the Sun King, whose palace at Versailles was home to many statues of Neptune scattered throughout the landscape. Finally, the frontispiece of the atlas also reminded the beholder that state power directed the cartography of national territory. The Neptune’s use of small-scale maps, together with its nearly double elephant format and correspondingly high price, explained its poor reception by the general public. For nearly fifty years its notes and copperplates were forgotten, giving the impression that French hydrography had been abandoned in the first half of the eighteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 103, 106). A particular problem for the Neptune was its use of the Mercator projection, which had not won over French sailors, a situation that would continue into the eighteenth century (Chapuis 1999, 151–52). However, the Neptune gained more recognition abroad than in France. The Dutchman Pieter Mortier promptly produced three pirated editions in French, English, and Dutch (Koeman 1970, 4:423– 31). Mortier’s French version was falsely attributed to the extraordinarily prolific publisher Alexis-Hubert Jaillot, whose name alone could sell books in Paris. Despite the assertions of Jacques-Nicolas Bellin (Pène 1753, 3), the false French copy by Mortier was not filled with errors, but it did suffer from a rigid style of engraving (Pastoureau 1984, 352). However, the consumer could not always distinguish the original from the copy, even upon close examination. The interest the Neptune excited in Europe was less surprising because the foreign portions, which encompassed European coasts from Norway to Gibraltar, were based on compilations from sources published in the countries concerned. One of the atlas’s most innovative aspects, inspired by La Voye’s manuscript maps, was the depiction of safe water channels alongside traditional danger markings, the foreshadowing of a style of representation that would take hold only in the nineteenth century. Similarly, the charts of the Neptune displayed inset legends that synthesized the work of Colbert’s engineers (heretofore kept secret) and established uniform conventional signs. The large-scale charts of the French coasts in the Neptune were standardized at a scale of ca. 1:100,000, quite large for the period (Chapuis 1999, 104). Overall, the work was clearly superior to the majority of marine charts available at the end of the seventeenth century. Soundings were provided for low tide during the period of greatest tides, establishing another charting tradition: ever since the Neptune, the zero point on official French marine charts, the reference point for all soundings, has corresponded to the lowest possible sea (i.e., the maximum coefficient of spring tide, or 120). Therefore, the Neptune was conceived as a model at-

Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise

las, but it did not have an early impact. At a time when geodesy was only taking its first steps between Paris and Amiens, geodetic methods were not employed along the coasts. Sailors would have to wait much longer for the positive effects of triangulation. Although the first state to elaborate a large geodetic framework for terrestrial space, France missed the opportunity to apply similar methods to its hydrography. The central authorities envisioned only the terrestrial applications of this advanced technique, revealing an essentially continental preoccupation. Because Le Neptune françois was to remain, for lack of any superior work, the indispensable reference until 1800 and later (much later, for certain maps), only a very few French marine charts relied on the eighteenth-century geodetic network of France. By employing a ritualized but obsolete model, the Neptune immobilized French hydrography (Chapuis 1999, 110). For example, the 5e carte particuliere des costes de Bretagne (fig. 596) remained the official image of the tip of Brittany until 1822 (Chapuis 1999, 614). For the second edition of the Neptune (1753), Bellin added lines of latitude and longitude to the charts of Brittany (eight of twenty-nine charts in the original edition), after the fact and in a completely artificial manner (fig. 597) (Chapuis 1999, 104–10). In the Neptune’s third edition (1773), which Bellin prepared just before his death, worn plates yielded paler and paler products. Joseph Sauveur’s general map of Brittany, compiled from detailed maps of the province, was the only new plate (Chapuis 1999, 833). In 1775, the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine planned a general map on a uniform scale of France’s western coast. The thirty-six overlapping sheets would allow navigators to move from one section of coast to another without problematic breaks. According to a ministerial decision (13 December 1775), this very ambitious program, Nouveau neptune françois, was to survey the coast from Dunkirk to Spain. This first modern hydrographic mission along the French coast (Chapuis 1999, 257–62) began with work by Louis-Bon-Jean de la Couldre de La Bretonnière and Pierre-François-André Méchain in Picardy and Normandy during the spring of 1776. However, although the surveys relied on a modest triangulation (which was entirely redone by Charles-François Beautemps-Beaupré scarcely half a century later), the American Revolutionary War brusquely interrupted the survey in 1778, and the few Norman charts surveyed did not appear until the French Revolution. In contrast with the Le Neptune françois, the Hydrographie françoise was not an atlas at all but rather a collection of maps printed and distributed by the Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine under Bellin’s direction. As individual maps were published, numerous versions of these collections appeared: the idea was that a neptune

Neptune françois and Hydrographie françoise

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Fig. 596. DENIS DE LA VOYE, 5E CARTE PARTICULIERE DES COSTES DE BRETAGNE CONTENANT LES ENVIRONS DE LA RADE DE BREST ([PARIS, 1693]). Engraved on one sheet, ca. 1:100,000. This map from the first French edition of Le Neptune françois (1693) remained the official image of the tip of Brittany until 1822. This original edition of 1693 was indistinguishable from the Dutch copy published by Mortier, except for the titles, which in Mortier’s edition men-

tion “Jaillot” and “Paris” in order to sell them. For the second edition of 1753, Jacques-Nicolas Bellin simply added scales of latitude and longitude to the existing copperplates; the third edition (1773) remained otherwise identical. Size of the original: 63 × 87 cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 PF 42 P 10).

could be put together from the Dépôt’s stocks upon request, based upon the needs of ships in the Marine. Several of these atlas factices, held in the Département des cartes et plans at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, display the standard elements. The first collection appeared in 1756 with a frontispiece printed by Didot; later, some maps from 1757 and a few from 1759 were integrated. The Dépôt des cartes et plans de la Marine established a subsequent version in 1765, with maps from 1766 and a 1773 frontispiece added later. The version most representative of the state of the collection at Bellin’s death (1772) was that produced by the printing

works of the ministère de la Marine at Versailles that same year. More recent maps were continually added to the collection until 1806, but always under the title Hydrographie françoise (Chapuis 1999, 833–34). O li vi er Chapuis See also: Atlas: Marine Atlas; Bellin, Jacques-Nicolas; Map Trade: France; Marine Charting: France Bibliography Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne.

Neptune oriental, Le Débarbat, Suzanne, and Simone Dumont. 2002. “Le rôle des astronomes français dans la cartographie des côtes aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles.” In Défense des côtes et cartographie historique, ed. JeanPierre Bois, 233–54. Paris: Éditions du CTHS. Koeman, Cornelis. 1970. Celestial and Maritime Atlases and Pilot Books. Vol. 4 of Atlantes Neerlandici: Bibliography of Terrestrial, Maritime, and Celestial Atlases and Pilot Books Published in the Netherlands Up to 1880. Amsterdam: Theatrum Orbis Terrarum. Pastoureau, Mireille. 1984. Les atlas français, XVIe–XVIIe siècles: Répertoire bibliographique et étude. Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale, Département des Cartes et Plans. Pène, Charles, ed. 1753. Le Neptune françois ou recueil des cartes marines levées et gravées par ordre du roy. 2d ed. Paris: Imprimerie Royale.

Neptune oriental, Le. Le Neptune oriental, ou routier general des cotes des Indes orientales et de la Chine, enrichi de cartes hydrographiques tant génerales que particulieres, pour servir d’instruction à la navigation de ces differentes mers was the first nautical atlas published in France devoted to sailing to the China Sea via the Indian Ocean. By the second half of the eighteenth century, the progress of scientific methods in marine charting and French trade prospering in the East Indies had made this navigation possible. The author of Le Neptune oriental, Jean-BaptisteNicolas-Denis d’Après de Mannevillette, was an officer and captain in the service of the Compagnie des Indes from 1724 to 1760. His interest in navigation stemmed from his early days of sailing with his father, who commanded a vessel for the Compagnie des Indes, and from his studies with Guillaume Delisle (Chapuis 1999, 249; Briot 1990, 161–62). Like other Compagnie pilots, he collected nautical material (charts, memoirs, logbooks, sailing directions) during his voyages that could help update existing charts. He was one of the first French sailors to use Hadley’s quadrant (1736, in the China Sea) and lunar distances for longitude (with the astronomer NicolasLouis de La Caille in 1750, en route to the Cape of Good Hope) (Haudrère 1997, 57). When the Compagnie des Indes opened a hydrographic office in Lorient in 1762, d’Après de Mannevillette became its director. He stayed on as keeper of the collections after the dissolution of the company in 1770. This office merged with the Dépôt des

(facing page) Fig. 597. CHARLES PÈNE, CARTE DU GOLFE DE GASCOGNE CONTENANT LES COSTES DE FRANCE ET D’ESPAGNE ([PARIS, 1753]), MAP 13. Second edition, engraved on one sheet, ca. 1:903,400. Based on and very similar to the original edition of Le Neptune françois (1693), this edition adds scales of latitude and longitude (without reference to the original meridians, other than that of the Île de Fer) and a network of rhumb lines, but it is the only map to present the true meridians and parallels. On the other plates in the Neptune, the principal rhumb lines of the north-south and

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cartes et journaux de la Marine in 1780, after d’Après de Mannevillette’s death. He had become a corresponding member of the Académie des sciences in 1743 and of the Académie de marine in 1752. He was seen as a European authority on matters regarding the Indian Ocean, advising ministers and sailors (such as Yves-Joseph de KerguelenTrémarec) in preparing expeditions. He exchanged data and charts with the British hydrographer Alexander Dalrymple, who helped him sell his atlas in England. Jean-François Robustel published the first edition of the Neptune in Paris in 1745. The twenty-six folio charts (two at small scale on a Mercator projection and twentyfour cartes plates carrées, i.e., equirectangular projection), engraved by Guillaume Dheulland, covered the area from Ethiopia on the Arabian Sea to China. The sailing directions were published separately in a quarto volume. A general chart of the Indian Ocean and a map of the southeastern coast of Africa were added in 1753. Guidelines for sailing from France to the Cape of Good Hope, Mémoire sur la navigation de France aux Indes, were published with maps of the Cape Verde Islands and the Cape in 1765 and reprinted with new information in 1768. The general chart of the Indian Ocean was revised in 1771. A few copies of the 1745 atlas were also reprinted. A second edition of Le Neptune oriental, printed in Brest by Malassis in 1775, contained fifty-six folio charts (of which nine were small-scale reductions) engraved by Guillaume-Nicolas Delahaye with sailing directions from France to China (fig. 598). A separate version of the text in a quarto volume was published simultaneously as Instructions sur la navigation des Indes orientales et de la Chine, pour servir au Neptune oriental. The Supplément au Neptune oriental with eighteen folio charts and an adequate commentary appeared in 1781, after the author’s death. Charts from Le Neptune oriental were also published in English: the earliest versions were prepared by William Herbert for his A New Directory for the East Indies in 1758. Thomas Jefferys published the translated text of the Mémoire sur la navigation as Directions for Navigating from the Channel to the East Indies (1769). Charts from Le Neptune also served as sources for the charts in The East-India Pilot or Oriental Navigator

east-west axes, in thick lines, give the illusion of meridians and parallels, which they are not. To this edition of 1753 (which appeared also in the Hydrographie françoise in the same year), Bellin later added scales of longitude with reference to the meridians of Paris, London, Cape Lizard, and Tenerife (for comparison see fig. 539). Size of the original: 73.9  ×  91.5  cm. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge DD 2987 [773 B]).

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Neptune oriental, Le

Fig. 598. JEAN-BAPTISTE D’APRÈS DE MANNEVILLETTE, CARTE RÉDUITE DE L’OCEAN ORIENTAL, DEPUIS LE CAP DE BONNE ESPÉRANCE JUSQU’À L’ISLE FORMOSE, 1775. Engraving and etching on copperplate. This chart shows the contribution of Le Neptune orien-

tal to the knowledge of the Indian Ocean in the early 1770s, but was soon outdated. Size of the original: 50.5  ×  70.0  cm. © The British Library Board, London (Cartographic Items Maps K.MAR.VI.4).

(Sayer and Bennett from 1782; Laurie and Whittle after 1794) and for the collection of charts and plans by Alexander Dalrymple, published from 1774. The publication of this atlas began as the work of a private individual but very soon became an institutional production. The Compagnie des Indes, which did not have a hydrographic office of its own, financed the first edition and recouped the investment by selling it mainly to Compagnie officers, deducting the price from their salaries to ensure payment. After a shipwreck at the Cape in 1762, the Compagnie des Indes asked its own hydrographer, d’Après de Mannevillette, to write instructions for sailing from France to the Indian Ocean. Prepared in 1764, the instructions were printed under the supervision of the astronomers Alexandre-Gui Pingré and Pierre-Charles Le Monnier, with the ministry of the Marine bearing all the printing costs. About three

hundred copies seem to have been acquired by the Compagnie des Indes for its ships’ service (Filliozat 2002, 211–15). The second edition of Le Neptune oriental was published at a time when the Dépôt des cartes de la Marine claimed the monopoly for publishing nautical charts and instructions (Chapuis 1999, 251). Financed by subscription, the Neptune was approved by the Académie de marine just before the law of 1773 came into effect, which prohibited private publications of charts and rutters. The Dépôt de la Marine took advantage of this law to lay claim to the collections in Lorient and the original plates of the charts, offering compensation by purchasing 120 copies for the Marine (Chapuis, 1999, 251–52; Filliozat 2002). The Supplément was published at the personal expense of d’Après de Mannevillette’s brother under the supervision and with financial help

Neptune oriental, Le

of the Dépôt de la Marine, which sold the maps and instructions until 1847. Le Neptune oriental can, therefore, be regarded as one of the first French official nautical publications. Jacques-Nicolas Bellin based several of his charts on information from the first edition of the Neptune, such as the plan of Africa’s southeastern coast in 1755. But the second edition was ultimately merged with the collection and publications of the Dépôt de la Marine. Technically, the two editions of Le Neptune oriental reveal the evolution of French marine charting; the second edition exhibits finer etching and detail: in it, wind roses were added by the engraver only on the seas and not on land; and greater care was given to mark the soundings and dangers along the coasts. All the maps use the meridian of Paris as the prime meridian, a practice introduced by Bellin in 1737 (Bellin 1739, 2). But unlike Bellin, who was a land-locked hydrographer, d’Après de Mannevillette employed astronomical observations and surveys, usually taken from the ship, as much as possible on his charts. For the 1745 edition, he had only eight exact positions in the Indian Ocean, but the second edition boasts twenty-four (Chapuis 1999, 251). He himself made observations at Mauritius, La Réunion, Madagascar, Mergui (Beik), and Canton. D’Après de Mannevillette also used a few surveys made by pilots of the Compagnie des Indes and even better observations made by officers of the Marine in the 1760s and 1770s. He also employed observations made by English officers, especially of the Chagos Archipelago, which were sent to him by Dalrymple. As keeper of the charts and journals of the Compagnie des Indes, with a reputation as the specialist of the Indian Ocean, d’Après de Mannevillette could ask officers to check or to survey places, as in the case of Jean-François de Trobriand in the archipelagos and isles northeast of Madagascar in 1772 (fig. 599). To ensure safe navigation, d’Après de Mannevillette did not hesitate to have charts reengraved when the newer data became available between 1775 and 1780 (fig. 600). Le Neptune oriental reflects French interests in the Indian Ocean. The sources of the 1745 edition are The English Pilot, the Third Book, Describing . . . the Oriental Navigation for the Indian Ocean and China Sea, and Dutch charts for the Gulf of Siam and the southeastern part of the Indian Ocean, completed by information from the logbooks of sailors in the Compagnie des Indes. The 1775 edition shows more of the western part of the Indian Ocean between Africa and India, as the French focused on developing Mauritius and La Réunion as their main ports of call and naval bases for trade and operations during wars in the East Indies. To this end, during the 1760s and 1770s, they supported explorations in the archipelagos between Madagascar and India to try shorter routes. A hydrographic office

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Fig. 599. JEAN-FRANÇOIS DE TROBRIAND, “VUE DE L’ISLE AGALEGA,” 1773. Manuscript map. Such surveys made from the ship by a few officers of the Marine were sent to d’Après de Mannevillette to help him correct Le Neptune oriental. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH PF 222 div. 7 P 4 D).

was set up in 1771 at Port-Louis, with Michel Sirandré (1724–ca 1789) ordered to collect all the data brought in by these explorations and send them to France. D’Après de Mannevillette used these data, asking Sirandré, Dalrymple, and other sailors for more details; he published the results immediately, calling for more explorations. His work is the summary of European hydrographic knowledge of the East Indies around 1780, developed from a few available astronomical observations, available surveys, and many logbooks. Mano nmani Res ti f- Fi lliozat See also: Atlas: Marine Atlas; Compagnie des Indes (Company of the Indies; France); Dalrymple, Alexander; Marine Charting: France Bibliography Bellin, Jacques-Nicolas. 1739. Observations sur la construction de la carte de l’Océan Méridional pour servir aux vaisseaux du roi, dressée au Dépôt des cartes, plans & journaux de la Marine. In Bellin’s Recueil des mémoires qui ont été publiés avec les cartes hydrographiques. [Paris]: [Bellin]. Bonnichon, Philippe. 1982. “Éléments de connaissances géographique de l’Océan Indien en France au temps de Bougainville.” In L’Importance de l’exploration maritime au siècle des Lumières (A propos du

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Fig. 600. DETAIL FROM JEAN-BAPTISTE D’APRÈS DE MANNEVILLETTE, “CARTE DE L’ISLE MAHÉ OU SEYCHELLE AVEC LES ILES CIRCONVOISINES DECOUVERTES,” CA. 1775. This manuscript draft for the printed map of the same title, which would be published in the Supplément au Neptune oriental (1781), improves on the map of the

same area published in 1775 by the author’s incorporation of observations from recent navigations, soundings, and location measurements of the Amirante Islands, southwest of Mahé in the Seychelles. Image courtesy of the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (Cartes et plans, Ge SH 18 PF 222 div. 2 P 4 D).

voyage de Bougainville), ed. Michel Mollat du Jourdin and Étienne Taillemite, 123–47. Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. Briot, Claude. 1995. “J. B. D. N. d’Après de Mannevillette: Hydrographe de la Compagnie des Indes auteur du Neptune oriental, 1707–1780.” In Les Normands et la mer: XXVe Congrès des Sociétés historiques et archéologiques de Normandie, 160–67. SaintVaast-la-Hougue: Conseil Général de la Manche; Musée Maritime de I’lle Tatihou. Chapuis, Olivier. 1999. À la mer comme au ciel, Beautemps-Beaupré & la naissance de l’hydrographie moderne (1700–1850): L’émergence de la précision en navigation et dans la cartographie marine. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne. Filliozat, Manonmani. 2002. “L’Océan oriental: Connaissances hydrographiques françaises aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles.” MS thesis, École pratique des Hautes-Études, IVe section, Paris. ———. 2003. “J.-B. d’Après de Mannevillette et la cartographie de la nouvelle route des Indes.” Bulletin du Comité Français de Cartographie 175:6–16. Haudrère, Philippe. 1997. “Jean-Baptiste d’Après de Mannevillette et les progrès de la connaissance de l’Océan Indien au XVIIIe siècle, d’après les routiers et les cartes françaises.” Revue Française d’Histoire du Livre, n.s. 94–95:53–62. Special issue, La découverte géographique à travers le livre et la cartographie, ed. Christian Huetz de Lemps.

Saunier, Éric, ed. 2008. Autour de d’Après de Mannevillette: Savant navigateur havrais au siècle des Lumières. Le Havre: Centre Havrais de Recherche Historique.

Netherlands, Republic of the United. The political division of the Seventeen Provinces was settled with the Treaty of Münster (1648), which ended the Eighty Years’ War of the Dutch Republic against Spain, an event that simply consolidated the actual situation existing since the end of the sixteenth century (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1247, fig. 43.1). Seven of the Seventeen Provinces formed a confederation under the name Republic of the Seven United Provinces in 1588 but were not officially recognized by Spain until 1648: Holland, Zeeland, Utrecht, Friesland, Groningen, Overijssel (with Drenthe), and Gelderland (without the southern portion known as the Upper Quarter). The conquered areas of Flanders, Brabant, and Limburg were governed by the Republic as Generality Lands (Staats-Vlaanderen and Staats-Brabant), while Drenthe had its own admin-

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Fig. 601. EXACTISSIMA BELGII FŒDERATI TABULA CUM ANNEXIS DIVISA IN PROVINCIAS (AMSTERDAM: R. & I. OTTENS, AFTER 1725); LATER EDITION OF THE 1702 MAP BY CASPAR SPECHT. Copper engraving; ca. 1:450,000. The regions with solid coloring are the seven provinces, whose arms are shown at left. Staats-Vlaanderen and

Staats-Brabant, at the bottom center, are left uncolored and only indicated by the names Flandria Batava and Brabantia Batava. Size of the original: 50.5  ×  60.0  cm. Image courtesy of the Universiteitsbibliotheek Amsterdam (Bijzondere Collecties, OTM: HB-KZL 33-35-16).

istration but lacked full sovereignty. The area of the Republic comprised more or less the territory of the present-day Netherlands, minus the southern part of the present Province of Limburg, which was added in 1815 (fig. 601). Each province was governed by the States, a sort of parliament whose composition was arranged differently in each province, but usually consisted of representatives of the cities, regions, and ridderschappen (councils of the nobility). The Generality Lands, being governed directly by the Republic, lacked these bodies. The government

of the Republic was formed by the States General, consisting of representatives of the provincial councils. The responsibilities of the States General were navigation, administration of conquered areas, the promotion of colonial expansion, and religion. The States General met in The Hague, the capital of Holland, which thus became de facto capital of the Republic. Originally the monarch was represented in the various provinces by a governor, or stadhouder. When the States General refused in 1581 to recognize Felipe II of Spain as their monarch, the post of stadhouder as representative of the monarch became

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unnecessary. However, the function was maintained as the military commander of the Republic. The southernmost of the Seventeen Provinces, unlike the United provinces, continued to be ruled after 1648 by the king of Spain and were known as the Royal Netherlands or Spanish Netherlands. After the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–14), in 1715 these provinces were assigned to the Austrian branch of the House of Habsburg, hence the name Austrian Netherlands. The provinces of Brabant (without the northern part), Flanders (without the northern part), Hainaut, Artois, Namur, Luxembourg, Limburg (Limbourg), Mechelen, and Antwerp represent the territory of most of presentday Belgium and Luxembourg, except for the PrinceBishopric of Liège, which was part of the Holy Roman Empire. The cartography produced in the Southern Netherlands is covered elsewhere in this volume. In 1795 the French army invaded the Republic and was aided by a popular uprising that supported revolutionary France. Stadhouder Willem V fled to England and the States General dissolved itself, leaving the newly declared Bataafsche Republiek virtually a puppet state of France. Instead of restoring the old situation, in 1815 the United Kingdom of the Netherlands was formed, consisting of the territories of the Republic of the United Netherlands, the Austrian Netherlands, and the PrinceBishopric of Liège. Stadhouder Willem V’s son became king of the new kingdom as Willem I. The institutions that initiated or influenced cartographic production in all its modes were civic, military, and commercial. The Republic was a confederation; the central government took no part in the domestic administration of the provinces. Except for military purposes toward the end of the eighteenth century, mapping large parts of the country was not initiated by the central government. Some of the provinces carried out their own surveys; for others, large overview maps were produced by commercial publishers. Cities were one center of cartographic impulse. In the seventeenth century, the Republic was a highly urbanized society, expressed cartographically through the publication of special town atlases (especially Joan Blaeu’s Tooneel der steden, 1649) (Koeman et al. 2007, 1333– 38) and the manufacture of large city maps with decorative borders. The highly urbanized province of Holland saw its power concentrated in cities such as Dordrecht, Haarlem, Delft, Leiden, Amsterdam, Gouda, and Rotterdam (to list them in their medieval hierarchy). The governing boards of these cities had large wall maps of their cities made for public display. In addition, cities undertook large-scale survey projects for purposes of taxation, civil engineering, and urban expansion. The waterschappen (water management boards), also called hoogheemraadschappen, were organiza-

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tions found in the western part of the Republic, especially the province of Holland, responsible for the dikes and waterways in their area with a focus on flood prevention, for which they required accurate large-scale maps, many of which were printed (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1263–68). In addition, waterschappen maps were sometimes used to determine taxes based on the location and/or size of a property. The importance of the fluvial network and maintenance of dikes led to some particularly innovative river mapping under the leadership of Cornelis Velsen and Nicolaas Samuelsz. Cruquius. The waterschappen were the major mapping agencies undertaking administrative mapping mainly in Holland. Private landowners and universities also undertook large-scale property surveying to determine landownership, assess tithes, plan for expansion, and resolve boundary and judicial disputes. Military cartography was institutionalized in Holland with a fortificatiemeester (master of fortifications) in 1579, and in the Republic as whole, with the corps of military engineers established in 1604 (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1271–90). Their primary responsibilities were the preparation of fortification plans and topographical mapping, principally for the purpose of planning defensive flooding. Both bodies commissioned maps by private surveyors and by military engineers, and most of their work remained in manuscript. By the end of the eighteenth century, military topographical mapping began to reach the same standards as the maps of the French ingénieurs géographes. Commercial cartography was perhaps the most visible and dominant form of mapping in the Netherlands and was centered almost exclusively in Amsterdam where dozens of publishers produced and sold maps, charts, pilot guides, wall maps, atlases, and globes independent of any government interference (except for a single privilege granted by the States of Holland and the States General). Although foreign competition had played little role in the first half of the seventeenth century, by late in the century Paris mapmakers vied for the market. Amsterdam publishers responded by copying French maps and atlases, with Pieter Mortier and his successors in the firm of Covens & Mortier especially prominent. The major publishers active in the late seventeenth century were Nicolaas I Visscher, his son Nicolaas II, and Frederick de Wit. While they published maps in a larger format than their predecessors, they happily included in their atlases the smaller Blaeu and Johannes Janssonius maps from the previous century for regions of which they had no maps themselves. The eighteenth century was dominated by Covens & Mortier; other major publishers were the brothers Reinier and Josua Ottens and Petrus II Schenk. Significant foreign competition came from the German firms Homann in Nurem-

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berg and Seutter in Augsburg. Many eighteenth-century Dutch atlases consist of a mixture of maps from various Amsterdam and German publishers. The Amsterdam publishers produced some 2,000 atlas volumes from the late sixteenth century to the end of the eighteenth century, containing over 12,000 atlas maps (excluding sea atlases and charts), as well as over 250 wall maps and 30 globe pairs (Van der Krogt 1993, 1997–). Marine charting was also produced within the commercial sector, outside of government control. From the second half of the seventeenth century, a group of Amsterdam publishers including Hendrik Doncker, Pieter Goos, the Lootsman family, and Johannes I van Keulen and his successors dominated the Dutch market for charts, continuing throughout the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth, although their charts were largely derivative. The Van Keulens also produced manuscript charts for sale, and after 1743 were the official chartmakers for the Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC, East India Company), which prohibited publication of its charts. The VOC and the West-Indische Compagnie (WIC, West India Company) managed the mapping activities for the Dutch interests in the East and West Indies and the routes to their overseas territories. Both companies functioned without active government intervention; without state support, a scientific approach to maritime surveying and systematic charting was slow to emerge. A commission was established only in 1787 to tackle the question of longitude and to publish a nautical almanac. A careful survey of the Dutch coast did not begin until the end of the eighteenth century. Mapping and map production in the Republic of the United Netherlands in the eighteenth century was characterized, in all respects, by private initiative and minimal or no national and provincial government involvement, a situation that would change radically in the nineteenth century. P e t e r va n d er Kro gt See also: Administrative Cartography; Geographical Mapping; Map Collecting; Map Trade; Marine Charting; Military Cartography: Netherlands, with Topographical Surveying; Property Mapping; Thematic Mapping; Urban Mapping; Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC; United East India Company; Netherlands); WestIndische Compagnie (WIC; West India Company; Netherlands) B i bliogra p hy Koeman, Cornelis, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Surveying and Official Mapping in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1670.” In HC 3:1246–95. Koeman, Cornelis, et al. 2007. “Commercial Cartography and Map Production in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1672.” In HC 3: 1296–1383. Krogt, Peter van der. 1993. Globi Neerlandici: The Production of Globes in the Low Countries. Utrecht: HES. ———. 1994. “Commercial Cartography in the Netherlands with Particular Reference to Atlas Production (16th–18th Centuries).” In La

cartografia dels Països Baixos, 73–140. Barcelona: Institut Cartogràfic de Catalunya. ———. 1997–. Koeman’s Atlantes Neerlandici. Multivolume. ’t GoyHouten: HES.

Netherlands, Southern. Cartography in the Southern Netherlands, the small region more or less conterminous with today’s Belgium, was produced by a variety of mapmakers living in the region, including works they might have made outside the country. The tumultuous period from ca. 1650 to 1780 saw Spanish, Austrian, Dutch, English, French, German, and Italian armies, at times allied, at other times opposed, crisscross the country in battle. Between 1568 and 1713, the Southern Netherlands experienced nearly continuous war, interrupted now and then by only forty years of peace. As Europe’s battlefield, it was a temporary home to military mapmakers from many nations, often personally related, who were frequently surveying the open country to create topographical and fortification maps that survive in abundance, in both manuscript and print. Such political upheaval stemmed from the region’s geography, whose only natural boundary is the North Sea (the Rhine River being further east). Two rivers pass through the region, flowing from the south to the northeast and then west toward the North Sea: the Escaut or Scheldt, which passes through Tournai toward Antwerp, and the Meuse or Maas, which runs through Namur and the Principality of Liège. Both the rivers and the relatively flat landscape helped trade develop in an eastwest direction and also helped invading armies. Politically, the area was squeezed between France to the south, the Republic of the United Netherlands to the north, Great Britain across the Channel to the west, and a cluster of German principalities to the east. From 1648 (Peace of Westphalia) to 1697, the area shrank, slowly at first, and then dramatically during the reign of Louis XIV of France, to the benefit of the United Provinces and France, as it lost Artois, the western and northern parts of Flanders, and one third of Hainaut and also of Brabant (Van der Essen 1927). By the end of the seventeenth century, the Southern Netherlands with the Principality of Liége roughly corresponded in shape and size to modern Belgium and included the counties of Flanders, Artois, Hainaut, and Namur, the city of Tournai, and the duchies of Brabant, Luxembourg, and Limburg. The Principality of Liège remained independent until the period of the French Revolution. This rich geography and political history also gave the region a variety of names. From the fifteenth century, the region of the Seventeen Provinces was simply called Bourgogne (Burgundy) or l’États bourguignons, a name used as late as 1659, when the duchy itself had been lost for nearly two centuries. The estates of Burgundy

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consisted of the Pays Haut (or Pays par-deçà), which included the inland areas, and the Pays Bas (or Pays par-delà, Nederlanden, or Low Countries), for the area nearer the North Sea. The Pays-Bas espagnols generally meant the southern part of the Low Countries after its return to Spain’s authority (1555); it was synonymous with the Pays-Bas méridionaux or, as often termed in English on contemporary maps, the Catholic Provinces of the Low-Countries. The name Flandres was also used (Flandre in the singular means the county of Flandre). Frequent war caused the government to change hands several times, producing a somewhat eclectic cartographic tradition. In the sixteenth century, the Seventeen Provinces were under the sovereignty of the Habsburgs. After Charles V’s abdication in 1555, the Habsburg Spanish branch ruled the country (Spanish Netherlands, 1556–1713), and after the War of the Spanish Succession, the Habsburg Austrian branch assumed control (Austrian Netherlands, 1714–95). France also vied for influence by taking possession of the duché (duchy) de Bourgogne in 1582, leaving the comté (county) de Bourgogne to the Habsburg heirs until 1678, when it was conquered for the French by Louis XIV. The succession of national jurisdictions gave the region multiple languages, with two dialects usually spoken—Romance (French) and low-German (Flemish). German was and is still used in the eastern Principality of Liège and in the Duchy of Luxembourg, while French, the language of society, spread rapidly during the eighteenth century. The reigning sovereign exerted the principal influence on the development of cartography. In the sixteenth century, Charles V ordered the survey of provinces and important towns—projects resulting in a rich documentation, not least the maps of the southern provinces by father and son Jacques and Jean Surhon. Charles V’s son, Felipe II of Spain, continued this tradition by ordering over two hundred town maps by Jacob van Deventer and relied on his géographe royal, Christiaan Sgrooten, to compile three huge manuscript atlases after van Deventer’s death in 1575, of which atlases two survive (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1260–63, 1272–77). If sovereigns did not directly commission maps, they fostered them indirectly. Felipe II’s daughter, the Archduchess Isabella Clara Eugenia, sovereign from 1598 with her husband Archduke Albert VII and sole Gouvernante générale (governor general) des Pays-Bas from 1621, protected intellectuals and artists, such as Michel Coignet, editor of Abraham Ortelius’s Epitome (1601) (Koeman et al. 2007, 1332); his son-in-law, Guillaume Flamen, ingénieur des Archiducs, who authored more than twenty fortress maps between 1603 and 1621 (Bracke 2007); and Pierre Vernier, engineer from the Franche-Comté, who invented a new quadrant equipped with a graduated mobile sector (vernier), allowing a

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much more accurate reading of a sighting. Royal intervention and support were equaled in the Austrian period under the reign of both Archduchess Maria Elisabeth, daughter of Leopold I, and her brother, Charles Alexandre, duc de Lorraine, brother-in-law to the Empress Maria Theresa. Maria Elisabeth created the Jointe des terres contestées in 1740 to examine territorial disputes with the Principality of Liège and to gather documents, including maps, to defend and support various claims and to instruct boundary commissioners. The Jointe’s jurisdiction later expanded to include disputes with France. Charles Alexandre supported several cartographic initiatives, the most important being the Ferraris Survey of the entire region based on principles similar to those of the Cassini survey. After the sovereign, the military was the most significant promoter of mapping efforts. Receiving orders directly from the gouverneurs généraux and their headquarters, military engineers during the Spanish period were artillery officers with engineering training and cartographic responsibilities who drew maps of towns and fortifications, surveyed border areas, and, at the request of a city, furnished maps of rivers for studying problems of flooding or for public works projects like canals and bridges (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1275–88). Military engineers initially learned their craft from a family member or an older officer on site. Requisite knowledge in mathematics could be provided by Jesuit colleges. From the last quarter of the seventeenth century, specialized training was offered at the Academia Real y Militar del Ejército de los Países Bajos (or, in much of the literature, Academia Real y Militar de Bruselas) founded in 1675 under the direction of Sebastián Fernández de Medrano, a Spanish military engineer from Toledo (Barrios Gutiérrez 1983, 23, 25). Fernández de Medrano came to the Spanish-controlled Netherlands in 1667 as a reserve officer and served under military engineer Salomon van Es, designer of the fortress of Charleroy (1666). A self-taught mathematician, Fernández de Medrano authored numerous influential illustrated texts on artillery, engineering, architecture, geography (with maps), geometry, and other applied sciences (Rodríguez Villa 1882). Twenty to thirty student-officers or pupils from various parts of Europe could attend the academy for one or two years to study arithmetic, practical geometry, fortification, geography, artillery, and tactics. The academy had a long-range impact, even after its closure in 1706, through the influence of its pedagogy and curriculum on one of Fernández de Medrano’s students and collaborators, Jorge Próspero de Verboom. Verboom served in the Spanish army in the Pays-Bas before being transferred to Spain in 1702, where he built the citadel of Barcelona, improved other Spanish defenses, and helped create the Spanish Cuerpo de Ingenieros, stocked

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Fig. 602. MILITARY ARCHITECTS USING SURVEYING TECHNIQUES FOR LAYING OUT THE WALLS OF A FORTIFICATION. From Sebastián Fernández de Medrano, El architecto perfecto en el arte military (Brussels: L. Marchant, 1700), pl. VIII (with vignette).

Size of the original: 13.5  ×  18.0  cm. Image courtesy of the Special Collections Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (UG 460 .F36 1700).

with personnel lured from the Low Countries, many of them tutored by Fernández de Medrano. Verboom’s proposal for an academy of mathematics in Barcelona in 1712 resulted in the physical establishment of the Real Academia Militar de Matemáticas de Barcelona in 1720 with a curriculum based on that of Fernández de Medrano in Brussels, which provided more on-site experience than theoretical training (Lombaerde 2011, 153–60; Galland Seguela 2008, 29–37, 55–56). Other publications connected with the Spanish military were published in Brussels and Antwerp well into the eighteenth century and track the evolution of the military engineer and his cartographic skills. The Tratado de la artilleria (1613; French and German translations, 1614) by Diego Ufano, captain of the artillery in Antwerp’s castle, incorporated plans of fortifications

and cities to illustrate the use of artillery in siege warfare. Fernández de Medrano’s books were even more clearly designed for engineering and geography: El ingeniero (1687; French, 1696) was written in Spanish, not Latin, and as the author explained in his “Preface” to his own French translation of 1696, l’Ingenieur pratique, it was organized and written in a simple style “in such a way that the most ignorant and dullest can understand it easily” (unpaginated). The work was reprinted until the 1790s. Fernández de Medrano provided details about surveying with various instruments, advising an engineer preparing a siege to have an exact plan of the fortress plus a map of its surroundings within a onehour perimeter, just as Sébastien Le Prestre, marquis de Vauban, had recommended (fig. 602). Another director of the Academia Real y Militar de Bruselas, Nico-

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las Bernard d’Hucher, wrote the Leçons mathématiques (1755–65), dedicated to the gouverneur général Charles Alexandre; its summary of what was absolutely necessary for an engineer made it the perfect handbook for a military cartographer. The Treaty of Utrecht (1713) gave the Southern Netherlands newfound sovereignty. The military academy founded by Fernández de Medrano reopened that year under the name Académie militaire de fortification et de mathématique, headed by a local military engineer, Léonard Hartman. In 1732, the court in Vienna initiated the creation of a Corps du Génie and a Corps d’Artillerie des Pays-Bas, which remained distinct from their Austrian equivalents until 1772. Called upon in various theaters of war, Low Countries military engineers made maps of Central Europe during the period. From the seventeenth into the early eighteenth century, cultural exchanges between Flanders, northern Italy, and Spain created an intellectual and technological symbiosis between the three centers of the Spanish Empire. Low Countries engineers were appreciated abroad, mainly for their knowledge of water problems and fortifications. The exchange of engineering skills and ideas also influenced aspects of town planning in the Southern Netherlands, Spain, and Spanish America (Lombaerde 2011). As in France, civil engineers, though not so titled, served alongside the military engineers; they were by and large local surveyors, trained within families. A professional corps des Ponts et Chaussées was not created until the end of the eighteenth century. Local surveyors, whose presence as arpenteurs or geometra is recorded as early as the late twelfth century and whose trade was regulated from the mid-fifteenth century, were often employed on infrastructure projects in the service of the governing sovereign, the local communities, the military, or a combination of all three (Wellens 1985; Watelet 1995; Janssens 2006). They also worked with military engineers on boundary limits in preparation for or to accompany treaty negotiations (Van der Haegen, Daelemans, and Van Ermen 1986, 277–90). While military engineers created large- and mediumscale maps and plans that focused on fortifications and artillery sieges, military infrastructure (roads, bridges, engineering works), and battle preparation and commemoration, local surveyors produced another range of large-scale cartography that was used in litigation, estate management, and provincial government administration and infrastructure management (Kain and Baigent 1992, 39–44; Watelet 1995) (fig. 603). Tithe maps and estate maps (of private individuals or religious orders), grounded in earlier practices, provide examples of largescale property mapping from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; the 230 maps (dating from 1593 to 1606) of the estate of Charles (III), duc de Croÿ, by the surveyor Pierre de Bersaques and his sons stand out as

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Fig. 603. JACOBUS THOMAS ROELANTS, MAP OF THE REGION FROM LIERRE TO LOUVAIN, 1734. The map incorporates an image of a civilian geometer-engineer using the triangulation method to determine the meridian line along which the road between the two cities is to be built. Manuscript, ink and watercolor on paper. Size of the original: 42.0 × 27.3 cm. © National Archives of Belgium (Cartes et plans manuscrits, Première Série, inv. No. 207).

an early example of maps used for the collection of feudal dues (Duvosquel 1985–96). Efforts by the various states within the area encompassed by the Southern Netherlands to create maps as administrative tools centered on the problem of land assessment and taxation. Brabant relied on local surveyors (arpenteurs jurés or gesworen paelder, sworn assessors) who were governed by state regulations (established in 1451, revised in 1657 and 1705) to produce cadastres with accompanying maps (Kain and Baigent 1992, 40– 41; Wellens 1985, 44). Yet in the Duchy of Luxembourg and Limbourg, little was done in the way of cadastral mapping; the Austrian empress Maria Theresa ordered the compilation of a cadastre in 1752, but no maps

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were made. On the other hand, in the small area of the Limburg Kempen (south of Eindhoven, north of Liège), where constant warfare had ravaged the countryside and inhabitants were unable to pay taxes based on outdated land values, local communities organized surveys and maps to petition for reform in the 1760s and 1770s (Kain and Baigent 1992, 42–44; Molemans 1988). As elsewhere in Europe, early modern urban mapping in the Southern Netherlands reflected a desire for the decorative as well as the accurate, whether on the part of the municipality itself or a noble patron. The painter and surveyor Pierre Pourbus produced the “Franc de Bruges,” measuring nearly twelve square meters, to hang in the city council room at the request of the municipality in 1571 (Koeman and Van Egmond 2007, 1252–53). Bird’s-eye views of important towns were published in several sheets, such as that of Brussels, produced at the initiative of Martin de Tailly, “capitaine de Bruxelles” (Brvxella Nobilissima Brabantiæ Civitas, 1640) (Lebeer 1956, 158–63; Danckaert 1989, 31, 35–39). Yet eighteenth-century initiatives for urban mapping did not follow the pattern of other European cities as constant warfare and the terms of the Barrier Treaties following the War of the Spanish Succession continued the fortification of towns or their rebuilding after bombardment, requiring continuous military initiatives. The impetus of either civic pride or commercial incentive was lacking. In this way, the military treatises published in Brussels and Antwerp on architecture and fortification influenced early eighteenth-century urban design, especially invoking the grid plan (Danckaert 1968; Lombaerde 2011). The urban plans published by Brussels printer and mapseller Eugène Henry Fricx as part of his Table des cartes des Pays Bas et des frontieres de France were based on military surveys. Fricx’s Plan de la ville de Brusselles (fig. 604) was the last large-scale plan of this city published by a Flemish printer until the Plan topographique de la ville de Bruxelles et de ses environs (1:5,100) by Louis André Dupuis in 1777, which was constructed from data generated by the Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands. When Joseph II ended the Dutch military presence in 1782, urban fortifications were considered less necessary and their removal in the early nineteenth century began to reshape the urban landscape. Large-scale urban mapping for purposes of celebration or evocation of a historic past waited until the beginning of the nineteenth century. Fricx’s aforementioned Table des cartes des Pays Bas (1704–12) was the first general map of the Southern Provinces, devised on a large scale (ca. 1:115,000) and printed on twenty-four sheets, many of them engraved by Jacques Harrewyn, who had also engraved the illustrations for Fernández de Medrano’s work. Known unofficially as the Carte de Fricx or Carte des Pays Bas, the combined map was based mostly on the surveys and

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manuscript maps of French military engineers and complemented by British and Austrian surveys. Although published initially in French, the map was completed when the Southern Netherlands were under Austrian rule and was published in several editions, both in the Austrian Netherlands and in the neighboring countries. It provided the initial information for many maps of the region produced during the eighteenth century and was still carried by some at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 (Bracke 2012). Compared with the previous period, the eighteenth century was peaceful for the region, which suffered only six years of war on its territory after 1713. The sovereign central government was in Vienna, but the governors general sent to Brussels were generally well chosen and remained in charge for long periods. Prosperity slowly returned and with it the need for intellectuals to have a place to meet and exchange ideas. Under the dynamic and enlightened minister plenipotentiary Charles de Cobenzl, the Société littéraire was created in 1769, becoming the Académie impériale et royale des sciences et belles-lettres de Bruxelles in 1772, with letters patent from Empress Maria Theresa. The new institution was dedicated to matters useful for humanity and industry and encouraged astronomical research with application to geodesy, such as the work of astronomer Nathaniel Pigott. The energy of the academy was matched by general support for a map of the region to be produced under the leadership of Joseph Jean François de Ferraris. A new climate of cartographic openness emerged as well. Discussions surrounding the publication of the Ferraris Survey defeated the idea that maps should be secret, as they had been during the Renaissance, by arguing for greater access and holding that all European military headquarters already owned excellent maps of the Netherlands. Like the Carte des Pays Bas, the Ferraris map was copied many times by foreign editors, some using his name and others not. It provided basic information for many maps in the nineteenth century, including the official topographical maps produced under the auspices of the Dépôt de la Guerre. The year 1780 was crucial for the Southern Provinces, marked by the death of Maria Theresa. Her son, Joseph II, applied his deeply imbued Enlightenment ideas with such eagerness and haste that soon his subjects rebelled. The situation in the Principality of Liège was similar. François-Charles de Velbrück, prince-evêque from 1772 to 1784, also espoused Enlightenment principles and realized many beneficent and altruistic reforms, but his autocratic enlightened despotism encouraged opposition there too. From 1650 to 1780, the cartographic documentation of the Southern Provinces is rich, though less so in Belgium itself, where maps were plundered at each invasion. Many of these maps have been preserved, however, in neighboring countries (Lemoine-Isabeau et  al. 1985).

Fig. 604. EUGÈNE HENRY FRICX, PLAN DE LA VILLE DE BRUSSELLES, VILLE NOBLE, 1712. Sheet number 60 from Fricx’s Carte des Pays Bas. The city is shown in plan, with major monuments depicted three-dimensionally, and the environs topographically. Street names are written in Flem-

ish, but the legend for monuments and squares is in French. Engraved by Jacques-Gérard Harrewyn. Size of original: 50.2 × 59.6 cm. Image copyright Royal Library of Belgium, Brussels (Cartes et plans, II 63.204 [60] D).

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From about 1750, topographical maps of the entire country were drawn in France, Austria, and the Austrian Netherlands. At about the same time, military strategy shifted slowly from siege warfare to battle maneuvers in the open field. While Fernández de Medrano and Vauban advised engineers to possess good maps of towns and their surroundings in the seventeenth century, by the nineteenth century, Napoleon was able to prepare for his campaign with a veritable sea of large-scale topographical maps (ca. 1:50,000) showing the extent and nature of the terrain. C l a i r e L e mo in e-Isabeau See also: Austrian Monarchy; Ferraris Survey of the Austrian Netherlands B i bliogra p hy Barrios Gutiérrez, Juan. 1983. “La Real y Militar Academia de los Países Bajos.” Revista de Historia Militar 54:19–35. Bracke, Wouter. 2007. “La production cartographique de Guillaume Flamen.” In Mélanges offerts à Hossam Elkhadem par ses amis et ses élèves, ed. Frank Daelemans et al., 329–51. Brussels: Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique/Archief- en Bibliotheekwezen in België. ———. 2012. “Eugène-Henri Fricx en de Spaanse Successieoorlog: Une affaire de cartes.” In Quotidiana: Huldealbum Dr. Frank Daelemans, 2 vols., ed. Ria Jansen-Sieben, Marc Libert, and André Vanrie, 1:197–224. Brussels: Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique/ Archief- en Bibliotheekwezen in België. Cámara, Alicia, ed. 2005. Los ingenieros militares de la monarquía hispánica en los siglos XVII y XVIII. Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa, Asociación Española de Amigos de los Castillos, Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica. Dainville, François de. 1956. Cartes anciennes de l’Église de France: Historique, répertoire, guide d’usage. Paris: J. Vrin. Danckaert, Lisette. 1968. Plans et vues de dix-neuf villes belges. Brussels: Bibliothèque Albert Ier. ———. 1989. Bruxelles: Cinq siècles de cartographie. Tielt: Lannoo; Knokke: Mappamundi. Duvosquel, Jean-Marie. 1985–96. Albums de Croÿ, 26 vols. (grand in-4o). Brussels: Crédit Communal de Belgique. Essen, Léon van der, ed. 1919. Atlas de géographie historique de la Belgique, fasc. 5, Carte X: La Belgique en 1786 (Les Pays-Bas autrichiens). Brussels and Paris: Librairie Nationale d’Art et d’Histoire; G. Van Oest. ———, ed. 1927. Atlas de géographie historique de la Belgique, fasc. 4, Carte VIII–IX: La Belgique au XVIIe siècle (1648–1713). Brussels and Paris: Librairie Nationale d’Art et d’Histoire; G. Van Oest. Galland Seguela, Martine. 2008. Les ingénieurs militaires espagnols de 1710 à 1803: Étude prosopographique et sociale d’un corps d’élite. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez. Haegen, H. van der, Frank Daelemans, and Eduard van Ermen. 1986. Oude kaarten en plattegronden: Bronnen voor de historische geografie van de Zuidelijke Nederlanden (16de–18de eeuw) = Cartes et plans anciens: Sources pour la géographie historique des PaysBas méridionaux (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles). Brussels: Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique. Hucher, Nicolas Bernard d’. 1755–65. Leçons mathématiques, a l’usage de l’Academie militaire et civile aux Pays-Bas. 3 parts. Brussels: Chez Jean Leonard. Janssens, Luc. 2006. “Kaarten op bestelling: De beroepsgroep der land- en edificiemeters in het hertogdom Brabant en de Landen van Overmaas (1680–1795).” PhD diss., Katholieke Universiteit Leuven. Kain, Roger J. P., and Elizabeth Baigent. 1992. The Cadastral Map in the Service of the State: A History of Property Mapping. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Koeman, Cornelis, and Marco van Egmond. 2007. “Surveying and Official Mapping in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1670.” In HC 3:1246–95. Koeman, Cornelis, et al. 2007. “Commercial Cartography and Map Production in the Low Countries, 1500–ca. 1672.” In HC 3:1296–1383. Lebeer, Louis. 1956. “Recherches relatives au plan de Bruxelles de 1640 et 1748, dit plan de Tailly.” Annales de la Société Royale d’Archéologie de Bruxelles 48:157–200. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire. 1984. Les militaires et la cartographie des Pays-Bas méridionaux et de la Principauté de Liège à la fin du XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Musée Royale de l’Armée. Lemoine-Isabeau, Claire, et al. 1985. Cartographie belge dans les collections espagnoles XVIe au XVIIIe siècle. Brussels: Crédit Communal. Lombaerde, Piet. 2011. “Castrametatio and the Grid in the Spanish Habsburg World: Contributions from the Low Countries, 1550– 1750.” In Early Modern Urbanism and the Grid: Town Planning in the Low Countries in International Context, Exchanges in Theory and Practice, 1550–1800, ed. Piet Lombaerde and Charles van den Heuvel, 129–60. Turnhout: Brepols. Molemans, Jos. 1988. “Achtergronden van het ontstaan van het 18deeeuwse kadaster in de Limburgse Kempen.” In Erschliessung und Auswertung Historischer Landkarten = Ontsluiting en gebruik van historische landkaarten, ed. Hanns Peter Neuheuser, 223–53. Cologne: Rheinland-Verlag. Rodríguez Villa, Antonio. 1882. Noticia biográfica de Don Sebastian Fernandez de Medrano. Madrid: Manuel G. Hernandez. Schonaerts, Roger, and Jean Mosselmans. 1976. Les géomètresarpenteurs du XVIe au XVIIIe siécle dans nos provinces. Brussels: Bibliothèque Royale Albert Ier. Watelet, Marcel, ed. 1995. Le terrain des ingénieurs: La cartographie routière en Wallonie au XVIIIe siècle. Namur: MET; Brussels: Racine. Wellens, Robert. 1985. “Documents relatifs aux géomètres-arpenteurs des Pays-Bas conservés aux Archives générales du Royaume à Bruxelles (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles).” In Het archiefwezen in België na de Tweede Wereldoorlog, by Carlos Wyffels, Robert Wellens, and Ernest Persoons, 43–64. Brussels: Algemeen Rijksarchief en Rijksarchief in den Provincien.

New France. New France (Nouvelle France) refers to the territories in North America claimed by France under the Ancien Régime; it was the name given by Giovanni da Verrazzano to the interior of the continent along whose coast he explored (Lestringant and Pelletier 2007, 1463). These territorial holdings corresponded neither to contemporary notions of nation and frontier, nor even to the nineteenth-century concept of colony. In reality, the borders of New France were the object of constant warfare and negotiation, both with the Amerindian peoples, whose only choice was to tolerate the European presence, and with England and Spain, the other European presences in that region. At its greatest extent between 1699 and 1713, New France encompassed a territory covering about one third of North America, including French Canada (Quebec, Trois-Rivières, Montreal, and the Pays d’En-Haut, or the Upper Country around the Great Lakes), Acadia (modern-day New Brunswick and Nova Scotia), a portion of the coast of Hudson Bay, the island of Newfoundland,

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New France

Fig. 605. CLAUDE BERNOU (ATTRIBUTED), “CARTE DE L’AMERIQUE SEPTENTRIONALE ET PARTIE DE LA MERIDIONALE,” CA. 1681. As