The Material Culture of the Jacobites 9781107703933, 9781107041332

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The Material Culture of the Jacobites

The Jacobites, adherents of the exiled King James II of England and VII of Scotland and his descendants, continue to command attention long after the end of realistic Jacobite hopes down to the present. Extraordinarily, the promotion of the Jacobite cause and adherence to it were recorded in a rich and highly miscellaneous store of objects, including medals, portraits, pincushions, glassware and dice-boxes. Interdisciplinary and highly illustrated, this book combines legal and art history to survey the extensive material culture associated with Jacobites and Jacobitism. Neil Guthrie considers the attractions and the risks of making, distributing and possessing ‘things of danger’; their imagery and inscriptions; and their place in a variety of contexts in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Finally, he explores the many complex reasons underlying the long-lasting fascination with the Jacobites.

neil guthrie is a lawyer by profession and has published articles on Jacobite material culture, law and literary history, including ‘Johnson’s Touch-piece and the “Charge of Fame”: Personal and Public Aspects of the Medal in Eighteenth-century Britain’ in The Politics of Samuel Johnson, eds. H. Erskine-Hill and J. C. D. Clark (2012).

The Material Culture of the Jacobites neil guthrie

University Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107041332 © Neil Guthrie 2013 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2013 Printed in the United Kingdom by CPI Group Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication data Guthrie, Neil, 1963– The material culture of the Jacobites / Neil Guthrie. pages cm ISBN 978-1-107-04133-2 (Hardback) 1. Jacobites–History–18th century. 2. Material culture–Great Britain–History–18th century. 3. Material culture–Scotland–History–18th century. 4. Politics and culture–Great Britain–History–18th century. 5. Politics and culture–Scotland–History–18th century. I. Title. DA813.G88 2013 941.07–dc23 2013028558 ISBN 978-1-107-04133-2 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

LOOK LOVE AND FOLLOW Medal, c. 1750 Fine delle reliquie – Fine di tutto giuseppe tomasi di lampedusa, il gattopardo (1960), index entry for chapter 8

Contents

List of illustrations [page viii] Acknowledgments [x] Note on terminology and dates [xiv] List of abbreviations [xvi]

Introduction [1] 1 ‘By things themselves’: the danger of Jacobite material culture [18] 2 ‘Many emblems of sedition and treason’: patterns of Jacobite visual symbolism [41] 3 ‘Their disloyal and wicked inscriptions’: the uses of texts on Jacobite objects [79] 4 ‘Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis’: phases and varieties of Jacobite material culture [111] 5 ‘Those who are fortunate enough to possess pictures and relics’: later uses of Jacobite material culture [143] Notes [167] Bibliography [228] Index [264]

vii

Illustrations

1. Look Love and Follow, c. 1750 (courtesy of A. H. Baldwin & Sons Ltd, London, and Bonhams, London). [page 8] 2. Cuius Est, c. 1710 (copyright the Trustees of the British Museum). [24] 3. A Polish Lady, 1719 (courtesy of the Provost and Fellows of Worcester College, Oxford). [29] 4. Dice-box, c. 1745 (courtesy of the Highland Photographic Archive, Inverness Museum and Art Gallery, High Life Highland). [37] 5. Anamorphic picture of Prince Charles Edward, c. 1745 (courtesy of the Trustees of the West Highland Museum, Fort William). [38] 6. Unica Salus, 1721 (copyright the Trustees of the British Museum). [43] 7. Royal oak print, 1715 (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford). [45] 8. Frontispiece to Eikon Basilike, 1649 (Cambridge University Library). [48] 9. Fan, c. 1715–30 (© Victoria & Albert Museum, London). [65] 10. Sola Luce Fugat, c. 1699 (copyright the Trustees of the British Museum). [72] 11. Inscribed egg, West Africa, c. 1760 (ABDUA 47718, courtesy of the University of Aberdeen). [75] 12. Needle-case, c. 1689–1730 (courtesy of Hampshire County Council Arts and Museums). [99] 13. The Lochiel and Murray-Thriepland ‘Amen’ glasses flanking a glass with an enamelled portrait of Prince Charles Edward (© National Museums Scotland). [101] 14. (a) and (b) Marginalia in John Gay, Fables (Glasgow, n.d.), author’s collection (photograph by Stefanie Moy-Schuster). [106] 15. Pincushion, c. 1746 (ABDUA 17969, courtesy of the University of Aberdeen). [109] 16. David Le Marchand, James Francis Edward, ivory plaque (frame, 29.7 x 25.6 cm; overall, 8.3 x 6.5 cm), c. 1720 (Thomson Collection © Art Gallery of Ontario). [122] viii

List of illustrations

17. Cambric rose cockade, c. 1745 (© National Museums Scotland). [125] 18. Relics of James II and VII, Maria Clementina and the 3rd Earl of Derwentwater, Stonyhurst College, Clitheroe, Lancs (by permission of the Governors of Stonyhurst College). [127] 19. Bear Gates, Traquair (© Country Life). [131] 20. Wax portrait of Prince Charles Edward, c. 1750 (© Victoria & Albert Museum, London). [134] 21. Kalendar with the arms of Cardinal Prince Henry Benedict, before 1788, probably acquired by Queen Victoria (supplied by Royal Collection Trust © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2012). [146] 22. Vincennes porcelain broth bowl and cover, c. 1748–52, probably made for Prince Charles Edward, acquired by Her Majesty The Queen (supplied by Royal Collection Trust © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2012). [147]

ix

Acknowledgments

x

Material from the Stuart Papers in the Royal Archives at Windsor Castle is quoted by the gracious permission of Her Majesty The Queen. I am grateful to Miss Pamela Clark, Registrar of the Royal Archives, and her staff for their kind assistance with this and previous projects. I am also grateful to Daniel Bell of the Picture Library, Royal Collection. Patricia Brückmann started me on the whole Jacobite inquiry, suggested the writing of this book (appropriately, on 10 June 2008, the 320th anniversary of the birth of James Francis Edward), read earlier drafts, suggested much interesting further reading and provided invaluable help and encouragement along the way (a way which goes back to my first year as an undergraduate). I am greatly indebted. Deidre Lynch also read a draft, pointed me in interesting directions on the cultural context of things and provided comments on the MS that I hope have borne fruit here. She also suggested a number of authors whose work has been illuminating: Miguel Tamen, Lynn Festa and Susan Manning in particular. I am very grateful for her willingness to help with my project. My parents have helped as well, both directly and indirectly: my debt to them is immense. My sister Gay Guthrie, art historian and specialist on decorative arts, read earlier drafts and provided helpful comments. Edward Corp, Eveline Cruickshanks, Anne Barbeau Gardiner, Howard Erskine-Hill, Niall MacKenzie and Richard Sharp have been very generous with their knowledge and advice. Jonathan Clark shared a pre-publication draft of his account of the history of Jacobite scholarship. Simon Stern brought to my attention some interesting aspects of the law of things. A research associateship at Trinity College, University of Toronto, offered me library privileges and the opportunity to participate in the life of my undergraduate college, for which (and membership in the Senior Common Room) I am most grateful. Linda Bree of Cambridge University Press and her two anonymous readers made very good recommendations on the manuscript, which I hope I have adequately reflected. (I have borrowed some phrasing here and there from Reader B’s report, with a due sense of acknowledgment.)

Acknowledgments

Linda Bree, Anna Bond, Samantha Richter and Bryony Hall of Cambridge University Press and the copy-editor Hilary Hammond were a pleasure to deal with during the editorial process that brought this book into being. I should also like to thank the following for helpful responses to highly miscellaneous enquiries and general advice: Benjamin Alsop, British Musuem; Robin Alston; Mark Bainbridge, Assistant Librarian, Worcester College, Oxford; Edward Baldwin, A. H. Baldwin & Sons Ltd, London; Peter Barber, British Museum; Jonathan Bell, Things; John Millensted, Bonhams, London; Julian Brooks, Ashmolean Museum; the late Laurence Brown, LVO; Ted Buttrey, Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge; Conrad Brunström, National University of Ireland, Maynooth; Bernard Williams, Christie’s, Edinburgh; Timothy Clayton; Linda Corman, John W. Graham Library, Trinity College, Toronto; Christina Corsiglia, Consulting Curator, Thomson Collection, Art Gallery of Ontario; Jean-Marie Darnis, Monnaie de Paris; William Eisler, Musée cantonal de Vaud, Lausanne; Godfrey Evans, National Museums of Scotland; Linda Rousseau and Pamela Sher, Fan Association of North America; Colin Fraser, Lyon & Turnbull, Edinburgh; Jill Gage, Reference Librarian, Special Collections, Newberry Library, Chicago; Simon Gilmour, Society of Antiquaries of Scotland; Elina Glenday, Tabley House Collection Trust, Knutsford, Cheshire; Jan Graffius, Curator, Stonyhurst College, Clitheroe, Lancashire; Elizabeth Hahn, Librarian, American Numismatic Society, New York; Gail Arnott, Alison J. Carter and Neil Hyman, Hampshire County Council Museums and Archives Service, Winchester; Robin Harris, Badminton House; Marian Hebb, Hebb Sheffer, Toronto; Richard Hewlings; Jack Hinton, Philadelphia Museum of Art; Alan Hobson, field officer, Jacobite Studies Trust; Tim Knox, Sir John Soane’s Museum, London; Janet Larkin, British Museum; Rebecca Lodge, Senior Curatorial Assistant, Chiddingstone Castle; Duncan B. MacGregor; Allan MacInnes, University of Strathclyde; Charles McKean, University of Dundee; the late Jay Macpherson; Jennifer Montagu; Catharine Niven, Senior Curator, Inverness Museum and Art Gallery; Tim Osborne and Victoria Osborne, Delomosne & Son Ltd, North Wraxall, Chippenham, Wilts; Serafina Pennestrì, Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali; Jane Rhodes, Image Resources, Art Gallery of Ontario; Alison Roberts, Senior Curator, European and Early Prehistoric Collections, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford; Chris Rosebrugh; Bruce Royan, Virtual Hamilton Palace Trust; Celia Irvine, Sampson & Horne Antiques, London; Stefanie Moy-Schuster, for photography and technical advice; Sally Sharp, Holborn Direct Mail; Robin Simon, British Art Journal; David Gaimster and Heather Rowland, Society of Antiquaries of London; John

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Acknowledgments

Hughes, Neville Hayman and John Rank, Speechly Bircham LLP, London; Catherine Maxwell Stuart, Traquair House, Innerleithen, Peeblesshire; David Taylor, Blairs Museum, Aberdeen; Adriana Valarezo, The Magazine Antiques, New York; Br Ken Vance, SJ, St Francis Xavier’s Church, Liverpool; Paolo Vian, Director, Manuscript Department, Vatican Library; Felicity Wake; Thomas Holman, Wartski Ltd, London; Amy Wygant, Seventeenth-Century French Studies. I also wish to thank staff of the Libraries and Museums, University of Aberdeen; Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto; Ashmolean Museum, Oxford; Bodleian Library, Oxford; Bonhams, London; British Library, London; British Museum, London; Cambridge University Library; Archival and Special Collections, Library, University of Guelph, Ontario; Inverness Museum and Art Gallery, and High Life Highland; Mills Memorial Library, McMaster University, Hamilton, Ontario; National Archives, Kew; National Galleries of Scotland; National Museums of Scotland; Pontifical Institute of Mediæval Studies, Toronto; Probate Sub-Registry, HM Court Service, York; Library and Archives, Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto; Ryerson Polytechnic University Library, Toronto; Toronto Public Library; John W. Graham Library, Trinity College, University of Toronto; John P. Robarts Library (the inter-library loan department and the staff of the fourth-floor reference desk, in particular), Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library and Gerstein Science Information Centre, University of Toronto; Manuscript Department, Vatican Library (but not the Medagliere); Victoria & Albert Museum, London; E. J. Pratt Library, Victoria College, University of Toronto; and West Highland Museum, Fort William, Inverness-shire. Dropbox (www.dropbox.com) provided an important spur to my productivity, Evernote (www.evernote.com) to my management of information. My thanks as well to the dealers who have helped to educate me and to feed the collecting bug that lies at the heart of this endeavour, including Baldwin’s, London; Bonhams, London; Christopher Eimer, London; Daniel Fearon, New Maldon, Surrey (who also helped with Fig. 1); Grosvenor Prints, London; Sanda Lipton, London; Timothy Millett, London; Morton & Eden, London; Sanders of Oxford; Spink & Son, London; and Timothy Hughes Rare Newspapers, Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Chris Fauske and Rick Kleer allowed me to bring Jacobite material culture to Money, Power and Print: The Third Colloquium on Interdisciplinary Studies of the Financial Revolution in the British Isles, 1688–1776, in St John’s, Newfoundland in June 2008, where I spoke about the Unica Salus medal and two pamphlets as Jacobite responses to the South Sea

Acknowledgments

Bubble. The discussion at that session sparked a number of ideas I have pursued in this study, even though its relation to the financial revolution of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries is only tangential. A version of Chapter 1 was presented to the Eighteenth-Century Group, Trinity College, University of Toronto, on 7 October 2008, and I am grateful for helpful comments from participants on that occasion and afterwards. Portions of Chapters 2 and 3 have appeared previously, and somewhat differently, in 1650–1850: Ideas, Aesthetics and Inquiries in the Early Modern Era, The Georgian Group Journal and The Medal. I am grateful to the editors of these journals (Kevin Cope, Richard Hewlings and Philip Attwood) for being agreeable about a certain amount of recycling in these pages, and for their help with earlier versions. The acknowledgments made in my articles in those journals are hereby reiterated. URLs cited in the pages that follow were accurate as of the time of access but may have changed, the virtual not always being as durable as the material. Errors of fact or judgment are mine alone.

xiii

Note on terminology and dates

xiv

How to refer to historical figures on both sides of the Jacobite divide is, fittingly, something of a treacherous business. Neutrality would not go amiss in this field of inquiry. My own interest in the phenomenon – or, to be more accurate, the phenomena – of Jacobitism – has no particular axe to grind. The viability of the Pretender’s enterprise (at its moments of greatest strength) has in my view been seriously underestimated, but there has, at the same time, been a tendency in certain quarters to find Jacobites under more beds than is strictly warranted. I have no interest in promoting the claims of ‘King Francis II’ – something the Duke of Bavaria himself also appears to have no desire to do. (It is one of the delicious ironies of history that the Jacobite inheritance has devolved on a German, given the pains of the Stuarts to assert their Britishness in contrast to their rather distant cousins from Hanover.) At the same time, however, one ought to chafe against the still too prevalent view of the Jacobite fact as some kind of bizarre, anachronistic aberration, a mere footnote of history. Had Jacobitism been the retrograde irrelevance we have often been told it was, would it not have disappeared from sight by the end of the seventeenth century?1 It is remarkable that the Jacobite idea retained some form of currency a century after the revolution of 1688 – and while traditionalist, its espousal of religious toleration seems in retrospect positively progressive. There were no foregone conclusions in 1688, 1715 or 1745 about who was king and who pretender. And perhaps not even in 1750: it is probably also a mistake to regard Culloden as the end of the Jacobite venture, given the late flowering of its material culture – glassware, medals and prints in particular – in the late 1740s and early 1750s, as will be discussed in Chapter 4 of this book. One of King George III’s daughters made a telling comment: ‘I was ashamed to hear myself called Princess Augusta, and never could persuade myself that I was so, as long as any of the Stuart family were alive; but after the death of Cardinal York [in 1807], I felt myself to be really Princess Augusta.’2 It seems churlish in any event to refer to the son of King James II and VII as just plain ‘James Francis Edward Stuart’; this smacks of ‘Citizen Capet’ and looks like an attempt to gloss over the fact that the exiled

Note on terminology and dates

Stuarts were, at the very least, princes of Great Britain and Ireland – as George III graciously conceded to James Boswell.3 On the other hand, it seems silly to refer to George I and his descendants after 1714 as Elector (or King) of Hanover only. My own preference is to refer to the Pretender (a neutral term, by the bye, if understood in the sense of ‘claimant’ rather than ‘impostor’) by his Christian name, but not to go so far as to call him king and ascribe regnal numbers. ‘Cardinal York’ is traditional and harmless. Numbering is useful for the Hanoverians, given the replication of ‘George’ in both Hanoverian electoral and British royal numbering. ‘Queen Anne’ presents no difficulties in my view (as for many of her contemporaries), although I confess to finding it hard to say ‘King William III’ or ‘Queen Mary II’ – but here again that issue can be fudged somewhat since William was the third Prince of Orange of that name, so ‘William III’ in any event. Jacobite peerage titles are generally indicated in this work as such (e.g., ‘titular Earl of Inverness’ or ‘Earl of Inverness in the Jacobite peerage’), except where the use of a Jacobite title on its own would not confuse or provides a convenient shorthand. Holders of dignities conferred by the Hanoverians are referred to by those titles. Eighteenth-century documents which originate on the Continent may be assumed to be dated according to the New Style; those dated from Britain before the shift to the Gregorian calendar according to the Old. Notes 1 It is refreshing to see Steve Pincus’s characterisation of the adherents of James II and William as two sets of modernisers, albeit with contrasting visions, in 1688: The First Modern Revolution (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2009). 2 J. W. Croker, entry for 10 February 1828, The Croker Papers, 2nd edn, ed. L. J. Jennings (London, 1885), i. 406, cited in J. C. D. Clark, English Society, 1688–1832 (Cambridge University Press, 1985), 161. 3 James Boswell, Boswell: The Applause of the Jury, ed. I. S. Lustig and F. A. Pottle (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1981), 307–8, 310–11.

xv

Abbreviations

Archæological Institute

BM BNJ Corp

Drambuie

Dryden

ECL ER

Farquhar

Forrer

GEC

xvi

Catalogue of the Antiquities, Works of Art and Historical Scottish Relics Exhibited in the Museum of the Archæological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland during their Annual Meeting, held in Edinburgh, July 1856. Edinburgh: Thomas Constable & Co., 1859. Burlington Magazine British Numismatic Journal Edward Corp, The King over the Water: Portraits of the Stuarts in Exile after 1689. Edinburgh: Scottish National Portrait Gallery, 2001. The Drambuie Collection: The Art Collection of the Drambuie Liqueur Company. Edinburgh: Drambuie Liqueur Company, 1995. John Dryden, The Works of John Dryden. 20 volumes. Ed. E. N. Hooker et al. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1956–89. Eighteenth-Century Life The English Reports. 178 volumes. Edinburgh/ London: William Green & Sons/Stevens & Sons, 1900–32. Cases are cited in the customary legal style. Helen Farquhar, ‘Some Portrait-Medals Struck Between 1745 and 1752 for Prince Charles Edward’, BNJ 17 (1923/4), 171–224. Leonard Forrer, Biographical Dictionary of Medallists, Coin-, Gem- and Seal-Engravers, Mint-Masters, &c. 8 volumes. London: Spink & Son, 1904. [George Edward Cokayne], The Complete Peerage of England, Scotland, Ireland, Great Britain and the United Kingdom. 2nd edition. 13 volumes in fourteen, micrographically reduced to six. Ed. the Hon. Vicary Gibbs et al. Stroud: Alan Sutton, 1987 (a reprint of the St Catherine’s Press edition, London, 1910–59).

List of abbreviations

Hawkins

‘Inscriptions’ Kelvin Lelièvre ‘Memorial’

Monod

N&Q Nicholas Nicholson

ODNB OED ‘P&P’

‘A Polish Lady’

Plates

PRO/SP

Edward Hawkins, Medallic Illustrations of the History of Great Britain and Ireland. 2 volumes. Ed. Augustus W. Franks and Herbert A. Grueber. London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1885; reprinted London: Spink & Son, 1978. References are by volume, page and medal number (e.g., i. 651/5). Neil Guthrie, ‘Some Latin Inscriptions on Jacobite Medals’. The Medal 48 (spring 2006), 23–32. Martin Kelvin, Jacobite Legacy. Wigtown: G C Books, 2003. F. J. Lelièvre, ‘Jacobite Glasses and their Inscriptions: Some Interpretations’. Glass Circle 5 (1986), 62–74. Neil Guthrie, ‘The Memorial of the Chevalier de St. George (1726): Ambiguity and Intrigue in the Jacobite Propaganda War’. Review of English Studies 55 (2004), 545–64. Paul Kléber Monod, Jacobitism and the English People, 1688–1788. Cambridge University Press, 1989. Notes & Queries Donald Nicholas, The Portraits of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Maidstone: the author, 1973. Robin Nicholson, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Making of a Myth: A Study in Portraiture, 1720–1892. Lewisburg, Penn./London: Bucknell University Press/ Associated University Presses, 2002. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (online) Oxford English Dictionary (online) Neil Guthrie, ‘Of Princes and Perukes: Jacobite Medals from 1731 to 1741’. The Medal 55 (autumn 2009), 24–34. Neil Guthrie, ‘“A Polish Lady”: The Art of the Jacobite Print’. 1650–1850: Ideas, Aesthetics and Inquiries in the Early Modern Era 14 (2007), 287–312. Companion volume of plates to illustrate Hawkins. London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1904, 1911; reprinted Lawrence, Mass.: Quarterman Publications in association with British Museum Publications, 1979. References are by plate and figure number (e.g., clxvi.2). Public Record Office (now National Archives), State Papers

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xviii

List of abbreviations

PSAS RA/SP SCLE

Seddon

Sharp

Stuart Exhibition

‘Unica Salus’

Woolf

Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Royal Archives, Stuart Papers The Second Centenary Loan Exhibition of Jacobite Relics and Rare Scottish Antiquities. Edinburgh: Scottish National Appeal for Boys’ Clubs, 1946. References are by page and catalogue number. Geoffrey Seddon, The Jacobites and their Drinking Glasses. Woodbridge: Antique Collectors’ Club, 1995. Richard Sharp, The Engraved Record of the Jacobite Movement. Menston/Burlington, Vt.: Scolar Press/ Ashgate Publishing, 1996. References to specific prints are by page and catalogue number. Exhibition of the Royal House of Stuart. Under the Patronage of Her Majesty The Queen. London: New Gallery, 1889. Neil Guthrie, ‘Unica Salus (1721): A Jacobite Medal and its Context’. Georgian Group Journal 15 (2006), 88–120. Noel Woolf, The Medallic Record of the Jacobite Movement. London: Spink & Son, 1988. References to specific medals are by catalogue number alone (e.g., 14:2a); to Woolf’s text, by page number only (e.g., 57).

u Introduction

The Material Culture of the Jacobites builds on the body of work which has catalogued and described Jacobite material culture, in order to make general conclusions about the whole of this physical record in its many forms. The objects produced and acquired by Jacobites certainly illustrate Paul Monod’s point that ‘Jacobitism was not a static ideology’ but instead one that was ‘vibrant, disunified, often contradictory’.1 This is only to be expected of a ‘movement’ that was composed of no single demographic element and which evolved, through many vicissitudes, over the long course of history. Jacobite artefacts have tended to be seen as primarily Scottish (and specifically Highland), in spite of the obvious variety of their sources, images, inscriptions and media – and in spite of the compelling case against this tendency in Murray Pittock’s The Myth of the Jacobite Clans. It is the central contention of this work that while there are some very important unifying themes which underlie Jacobite material culture, there are many variations. The physical record of Jacobitism is coherent but, at the same time, did not (or did not always) result from a hegemonic programme controlled from above. The variations reflect the impetus behind the production of individual objects (official or popular, commercial, home-made), their intended audience and when, where and how they were made. Sentimental nineteenth-century revivalism emphasised romanticised tartanry, but this is by no means an accurate view of the wide variety of physical manifestations of Jacobite sentiment in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. What is meant by ‘Jacobite material culture’? The Jacobites were, of course, the adherents of King James II and VII and his descendants, who asserted the right of the House of Stuart to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland by seniority of birth, to the exclusion of those who had occupied those thrones since 1688. The succession of George, Elector of Hanover, in 1715 displaced fifty-seven heirs who stood ahead of him by virtue of primogeniture but who were, as Roman Catholics, debarred from their inheritance by the will of parliament. After the death of James II and VII in 1701, the legitimist claim was inherited by his son, named James Francis Edward and variously styled in the eighteenth century, depending

1

2

Introduction

on one’s point of view: King James III and VIII; the Pretender, then the Old Pretender, to distinguish him from his elder son Charles Edward; and, more neutrally, the Chevalier de St George. James died in 1766 after a reign – if one can call it that – so far unequalled in length by any British monarch, Victoria and Elizabeth II included. His elder son, Charles Edward (‘Charles III’, the ‘Young Pretender’, the ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ of the rebellion of 1745–6), was a figure who blazed briefly like a shooting star before sinking into a sorry, alcoholic state. He died in 1788, leaving his younger brother Henry Benedict, a cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church, to inherit a claim (as ‘Henry IX’), which he seems to have had no real intention or means to pursue. The line of primogeniture takes one now to the Duke of Bavaria (‘Francis II’ in the legitimist succession), a prince who also has no interest in effecting a Jacobite restoration. Promotion of the Jacobite cause and adherence to it are recorded in a rich and highly miscellaneous store of ‘material culture’. This is a term borrowed from anthropology and archæology, which the Oxford English Dictionary defines as ‘the physical objects, such as tools, domestic articles, or religious objects, which give evidence of the type of culture developed by a society or group’. At least one tool will be discussed in this study, and there will be domestic articles aplenty, as well as many objects with at least a quasi-religious character. These objects are not generally what James Deetz has called ‘small things forgotten’ – the run-of-the-mill artefacts of daily life – being more likely to be invested with symbolic, even talismanic significance, and thus in a different category.2 As Jules Prown has observed, ‘the underlying premise is that objects made or modified by humans, consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, reflect the belief patterns of individuals who made, commissioned, purchased, or used them, and, by extension, the belief patterns of the larger society to which they belonged’.3 As the founder of the Pitt-Rivers Museum in Oxford expressed it, things are ‘the outward signs or symbols of particular ideas of the mind; and the sequence, if any, which we observe to connect them together, is but the outward sign of the succession of ideas in the brain. It is the mind that we study by means of these symbols.’4 The Jacobite mind had ‘particular ideas’ of its own, which find their expression in its images and objects. ‘Material culture’ consists not only of artefacts themselves but also of ‘the study through artefacts of the beliefs – values, ideas, attitudes and assumptions – of a particular community or society at a given time’.5 Or as ‘that segment of man’s physical environment which is purposely shaped by him according to a culturally dictated plan’.6

Introduction

Deetz extends the definition of material culture beyond merely ‘artifacts, the vast universe of objects used by mankind to cope with the physical world, to facilitate social intercourse, and to benefit our state of mind’ to include ‘that sector of the physical environment that we modify through culturally determined behaviour’.7 The objects considered here fall clearly in the category relating to the state of mind of the maker or owner. While cuts of meat and even speech are included in Deetz’s extended realm of material culture, they are beyond the scope of this study – although interventions in the physical environment in the form of building and gardening will be considered in Chapter 4. Material culture does not typically encompass documents, but some readjustment of categories is in order here. Chapter 3 will consider the short texts which are integral parts of engravings, medals, glassware and other pieces; and there will be some treatment of books as physical objects. As two theorists of material culture have suggested, ‘the artefact–document dichotomy is to a great extent artificial; documents are a species of artifact, and some historians, notably paleographers, make use of the document as artifact’.8 There may not be much to differentiate a pamphlet or broadside, as an object, from a print. The law made some distinction between spoken seditious words and seditious messages conveyed by physical media, but none at all amongst printed texts, pictures and three-dimensional objects – all of which could be ‘seditious libels’. My own interest in the physical record of the Jacobites began with the medals. I have tried not to let them dominate the discussion, but this is difficult to do because of their number, variety, marvellous use of image and word, and relatively good documentation. To the extent they are ‘regal forms’ (which is often), medals offer ‘especially rich insights into how a ruler intended his or her image to perform’.9 Like any numismatist, I owe an enormous debt to Edward Hawkins and the editors who published his magisterial Medallic Illustrations of the History of Great Britain and Ireland (1885). Medallic Illustrations is a monument to Victorian industry and scholarship, and is sadly underused by modern historians. Noel Woolf’s specialised catalogue of the Medallic Record of the Jacobite Movement (1988) is indispensable as a practical guide, but its method is not scholarly, its references to source material not all they might be, its conclusions sometimes debatable.10 Richard Sharp’s book on the Engraved Record of the Jacobite Movement (1996) and Edward Corp’s account of painted portraits in King over the Water (2001) (much more than an exhibition catalogue) are likewise indispensable, but without Woolf’s faults – and I have learned much from both authors’ interpretive essays and their kind

3

4

Introduction

responses to my enquiries. Geoffrey Seddon’s work on Jacobite glass has much to say on Jacobite iconography in that and other media. Seddon has also tackled the problem of fakery head on, through a combination of connoisseurship and technical analysis. No modern consideration of Jacobite material culture would be possible without Paul Monod’s Jacobitism and the English People (1989), which includes an important chapter on Jacobite iconography in various media. Murray Pittock has edged ‘towards a theory of Jacobite material culture’ in an article which appeared after this study was written.11 The title of this work departs from some of the earlier works on the material culture in one respect; in referring to ‘the Jacobites’ as opposed to ‘the Jacobite movement’ or even ‘Jacobitism’. The reason for this is that I think these descriptions might suggest greater consistency and more of a programmatic character than is strictly warranted by the sheer variety of expressions of Jacobite sentiment in physical form over a period that stretches from 1688 to 1807 – and beyond. There is much diversity within the Jacobite culture identified in Monod’s groundbreaking book. The persistence of Jacobite themes in art and design well past the ostensible end of the ‘movement’ offers support for Jonathan Clark’s argument that the mentality of the ancien régime lasted far longer into the long eighteenth century than some historians have been prepared to acknowledge, and for the contention that Culloden was by no means seen at the time as the end of the Jacobite story. It is also a mistake to suppose that Jacobitism was itself a monolithic and immutable concept, or to ascribe to its physical record a uniformity of purpose and expression which is not borne out by the diversity of the objects themselves. It is true that there are some basic elements which inform much Jacobite propaganda; for example, a grammar of frequently used symbols such as the rose, the oak, the star, the sun. Images and texts were frequently borrowed from other media, a crosspollination which resulted in medallic inscriptions and engraved portraits being used on glassware and in textiles, painted portraits recycled as prints or miniatures, a cameo (perhaps imaginary) derived from a medal represented in a painted portrait. At the same time, however, one ought not to overstate the consistency of Jacobite material culture. What it meant to be a Jacobite was different in 1688, 1730, 1745 and 1760, and in moments of nostalgic revival long after the death of the last of James II and VII’s direct, legitimate descendants. One of the themes explored in this study is what the anthropologist Igor Kopytoff has called the ‘cultural biography’ or ‘life history’ of things – not just the ‘it-narratives’ of their origins and uses but also of their part in

Introduction

creating what David Lowenthal has called personal and collective legacies.12 The cornerstone of Jacobite identity, both personal and social, was loyalty to the King and the divinely ordained, hereditary succession to the Crown. Jacobite objects served both to promote this identity and to reaffirm it, whether this was an intensely private process on the part of a lone Jacobite in the midst of others who were hostile to the Cause, or as a means of forming a ‘corporate identity’ with like-minded souls through shared recognition and use of such objects.13 Jacobite cultural memory is inextricably connected to what Kevin Sharpe identifies in an earlier period as ‘the legitimation, exercise, representation and perception of authority’.14 Lynn Festa suggests, ‘certain kinds of property become so intrinsic to the person as to be in a sense constitutive’; they not only reflect but also construct ‘the nature of individuals’.15 Another central theme is the fact that the making, distribution, acquisition and possession of Jacobite material culture posed legal risks of varying degrees of seriousness. As Susan Staves observes, ‘to think of property as “things” owned by “persons” may be to miss a more interesting relation in which personhood itself can be constructed out of ownership rights, especially out of what a particular person is privileged or forbidden to own’ – ‘forbidden’ being the operative word in this context.16 For many in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Jacobite adherence was a question of family history. Even though some families produced both Cavaliers and Roundheads or Jacobites and Whigs, political and dynastic allegiances were more often than not hereditary, and a visitor to country houses will discern the thread in family histories – and associated heirlooms – that connects support for Charles I, suffering under the Cromwells, joy at the Restoration, sympathy for James II, tolerance of Anne, longing for James III, support for a latter-day Charles. In Roman Catholic families adherence to the Jacobite cause takes on a confessional dimension and is another facet of resistance to impositions in matters of church and state, of persecution, even martyrdom, in the name of Faith and King. Objects became the ‘symbolic repositories of genealogies and historical events’, an expression of shared experience (here, persecution) and the common bonds of family, clan and creed.17 In Roman Catholic recusant houses like Traquair, Sizergh Castle, Stonor Park or Oxburgh Hall, the Jacobite heirloom or souvenir is as likely to be a relic in the religious sense – a fragment of the body of a Stuart of blessed memory, whether this was Mary of Scotland, Charles the Martyr, James II or Clementina, or an object which had come in contact with them. These objects are, in Kopytoff’s terms, ‘singularised’ or made sacred and distinct

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from ordinary commodities, a process which would not have been limited to those Jacobites who adhered to the Roman church but which is also apparent in the clamour of Protestant supporters for mementos of the Stuarts.18 Jacobitism is often politics of an affective kind, and affectivity – desire, longing, imagining – is embdedded in and indeed articulated through its material culture. On the secular side, Jacobite social identity manifested itself in clubs and societies, many of them secret of necessity but, in times of optimism, more open about their activities. These groups could be formal, like the Cycle Club which met in north Wales in the early years of the eighteenth century and again, in revivalist form, in the 1780s, or the result of more casual gatherings of like-minded individuals, whether this was in an Oxford common room or in the dining room of a neighbour who brought out the Jacobite glassware and punch-bowl when it was safe to do so. The perhaps appropriately quixotic Order of Toboso, which flourished in the 1730s and which appears to have had Masonic connexions, commissioned rings and necklaces for ritual/convivial use by its members.19 Jacobites could form a kind of fifth column in other bodies, like the group of Jacobite London aldermen led William Benn in the 1740s, painted as a group (wearing tartan waistcoats) by Thomas Hudson and reproduced by John Faber in mezzotint, circa 1747.20 At times when the prospects of the Jacobite enterprise seemed favourable, its material culture became a fashionable commodity. This is nowhere more apparent than in the rage for tartan in both female and male dress at the height of the rebellion of ’45 and in white cockades and rosettes (the white rose being an important Jacobite symbol; see Figure 17), pincushions and garters emblazoned with Jacobite mottoes. If Jacobite material culture was frequently used to construct and express a corporate identity – the fellowship of true believers, as it were – it could also function in relation to an often intensely private sense of the individual. The wearer of the closed locket with a portrait of the Stuart claimant, the churchgoer who crossed out ‘George’ in a prayer book and substituted ‘James’, the person who kept a Jacobite medal in a waistcoat pocket all did so as a private expression of loyalty which might never – or not ordinarily – have been communicated to others. And yet the locket could be opened, the prayer said aloud, the medal displayed, when the urge to declare overcame fears of the potential rigours of the law. This is also played out in anamorphic pictures which revealed their subject only when viewed with the aid of a cylindrical mirror (see Figure 5) and in the galleries of Jacobite portraits that were off-limits to all but known sympathisers. A host of particular factors determined how Jacobite material culture contributed to self-fashioning, including national origin, politics, class or

Introduction

other social grouping (e.g. clan), religious confession and sex. These factors sometimes, but did not always, overlap, resulting in a heterogeneous body of supporters for the Pretender’s cause: Roman Catholics, High Churchmen, Episcopalians and also some dissenting Presbyterians in Scotland, Quakers and some other English Dissenters, certain radical Whigs, Celts, Englishmen, women, exiles, dons, City merchants, smugglers, peers and ’prentices, among others. Jacobitism could mean active involvement in bringing about regime change, fairly passive identification with a shared set (or subset) of values, or merely bibulous sentimentality. One could have Jacobite sympathies (like the younger Samuel Johnson, for example) without actively or seriously compassing or imagining the death or even exile of the reigning George. Allan MacInnes adds a national gloss: ‘whereas the English drank for Jacobitism and the Irish dreamt of Jacobitism, the Scots died for Jacobitism’.21 Jacobite objects, too, were produced for a multiplicity of purposes: they could be souvenirs of personal association with a person or event, religious or talismanic objects, pieces intended to promote a subversive political agenda, personal badges of loyalty, secret identifiers to fellow travellers, at times fairly harmless ways of publicly snapping one’s fingers in the face of authority, expressions of clubbability with or without serious political overtones, a private labour of love, a commercial proposition. These purposes could also overlap; while an adherent might treasure a Jacobite medal as a token of the distant king and a kind of charm, it might nevertheless have been necessary to purchase the object from a dealer. As the subject of articles of commerce, Jacobitism has had extraordinary longevity: there are the printsellers and die-sinkers of the eighteenth century, who often catered to both sides of the partisan divide (sometimes with ambiguous stock that could be interpreted as either pro or anti); nineteenth-century reproducers, both honest and otherwise; and the many disseminators of ersatz Jacobite imagery on the bottle and the biscuit tin from the Victorians to the present. The variety and volume of material culture produced by and for Jacobites suggest a further motivation, a sense that the sheer physicality of objects gives them their power, their ability to validate the adherent’s sense of connexion with the Cause and its leader – and thereby to create or affirm a personal identity based on that allegiance. Even when they are not physical tokens of the King himself (handed out by him, worn by him, part of his body), they have a direct impact based on their tactile or pictorial quality, a process encapsulated by the command to ‘look, love and follow’ on the medal of Prince Charles Edward of 1750 (Figure 1).22 The way in which Jacobite objects often operate upon the holder or

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Fig. 1 Look Love and Follow, c. 1750.

beholder is through means that are direct, emotional and non-intellectual. Their ‘existential concreteness’ can be more powerful than the printed or spoken word.23 Why Jacobite material culture specifically? Supporters of William of Orange, Queen Anne and the Hanoverians also produced images and objects designed to promote and display loyalty, but their record is in fact fairly brief when compared to the long time span over which Jacobite material was – indeed still is – produced. The winning side presumably had, after a certain point, less need to get its message across. The orange tree largely disappears from the vocabulary of British material culture with the death of William III, apart from a brief revival at the centenary of the revolution that brought that prince to London (and perhaps it features among the symbols of the Orange Order, founded in 1795). The supporters of William III wore flame-coloured knots in their hats at the time of the assassination plot of 1696, but these too faded rapidly from view; Jacobite white cockades, on the other hand, persisted from the same period until the second half of the eighteenth century.24 The white horse of Hanover appears only from time to time, when seen in contrast to the reiteration of

Introduction

Jacobite emblems and messages for more than a century. Celebration of the Duke of Cumberland’s victory at Culloden was relatively short-lived, although it resulted in medals, prints and porcelain busts of the victor. While Williamite and Hanoverian propaganda is fairly common on medals, glassware and ceramics, the Jacobite equivalents astonish by their level of production, the variety of their iconographic and literary sources, their media and purposes, and their degree of replication. Jacobite propaganda is sometimes strikingly modern in its use of a simple slogan or just a picture: in some ways the closest modern equivalent to the medals is the political badge or bumper sticker (leaving aside the element of secrecy that characterises all Jacobite material culture). Forcefulness of expression is not the only reason to examine Jacobite material culture; the medals executed by the Hamerani brothers and the best of the glassware of the anonymous engravers of the mid eighteenth century are beautiful objects by any standard. Jacobite material culture, especially in its later phases, is to some extent a reflection of the expansion of commerce in the period, which has been charted in a number of important studies.25 Although the rise of consumerism has been regarded as being linked to the decline of feudalism and court culture, the consumption of goods in the early modern period may, in fact, be related to ‘the consumption and representation of authority’ by both the Stuarts and their rivals.26 As Marius Kwint has noted, this was the first great age of ‘commemorative plates, mugs and jugs marking national and family events’.27 One is tempted, for example, to draw an analogy between Jacobite material culture and the prints, medals and ceramics produced in support of Henry Sacheverell, Admiral Vernon, the Duke of Cumberland and John Wilkes, which John Brewer has written about.28 But Jacobite material culture is, or can be, different. It does not merely reflect early modern political ideologies or controversies; its origins and some of its eighteenth-century manifestations are in the holy relics of the Roman Catholic Church (which claimed the allegiance of many, but by no means all Jacobites) and in the talismans or amulets of folk belief. As Barbara M. Benedict observes of the ‘occult objects’ that make up much of the physical record of the period, we cannot assume that new commercial realities ‘banished the mysteriousness of the world and the magical animation of nature in a cold shower of empiricism, secularism, and consumption’.29 Provided we do not get too misty-eyed about it, this occult quality contributes to the romantic glamour to the Stuart cause, which exists in spite (or in part because) of its failures, and which Sir Walter Scott captures perfectly in Waverley. This entirely eluded Dutch William and the early

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Hanoverians: the Sassenachs never could produce figures (beautiful losers, it might be said) like Mary, Queen of Scots, Charles the Martyr or Bonnie Prince Charlie. But perhaps they never wanted to, over time choosing to place less emphasis on royal charisma – in the literal sense of that word, and as discussed by Clifford Geertz in his wonderful essay on monarchs and ritual.30 It is also true that on the one hand the enduring appeal of Jacobitism (in its many phases) has been unjustly neglected, even denigrated, by historians who judge it too much with the benefit of hindsight; but, on the other, that emotion has sometimes clouded the judgment of those wishing to reassess the Jacobite challenge from a more sympathetic perspective. Eirwen Nicholson identifies four problems with the study of Jacobite material culture in what must have been a trenchant paper at the conference on Jacobitism, Scotland and the Enlightenment held at the University of Aberdeen in August 1995, summarised in one page in the Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland.31 The problems: (i) ‘the failure of documentation and authentication’, which has prevented comprehensive and systematic analysis, on historical principles, of the available record of Jacobite material culture; (ii) the predominance of collecting amateurs in a field of study that merits a disciplined, scholarly approach; (iii) ‘the commercial dimension’, which has permitted antiques dealers and auction houses to identify eighteenth-century objects as being ‘of possible Jacobite significance’ where a more critical approach would give rise to doubt; and (iv) curatorial practice, which has permitted nineteenth- and even twentieth-century articles to be displayed with genuine Jacobite pieces, thus perpetuating problems (i) and (iii). There is not much that can be done in these pages about problem (iv) except to note it, but I hope to bring some scholarly rigour to bear on problems (i) through (iii). One does not, at the same time, wish to throw the baby out with the bath-water; there is much material to be found in nineteenth-century works which may lack all the trappings of modern scholarly practice and which sometimes peddle a great deal of nonsense, but which nevertheless provide some interesting and otherwise unrecorded information – even if it requires verification. I am thinking here of the many objects mentioned in the pages of Notes & Queries and the nineteenth-century exhibition catalogues, which often cannot be chased up given the vagueness of the clues provided, but which should not be rejected out of hand for that. References to them in this work may be taken with the appropriate level of caution, and I trust it is clear that I do not make more of their reliability than is appropriate. With Nicholson’s statement that the study of Jacobite images and artefacts

Introduction

needs to be ‘more than a decorative adjunct to “real” Jacobite scholarship’ I could not agree more, material culture often having been used merely to illustrate other points about early modern British history. Material culture can do much more than that. A small example is the physical evidence of the production of the coinlike pieces used in the royal ritual of ‘touching’ for the medical condition scrofula or the ‘king’s evil’. Touch-pieces are usually mentioned in connexion with the Stuart concept of traditionalist, sacral kingship – as indeed they are in Chapter 4 below. The significance of touch-pieces for Jacobites is discussed there, but they are important here for what they can tell us about the state of Stuart finances in the eighteenth century. It is generally assumed that touchpieces were struck for the exiled court in silver only, rather than the traditional gold (apart from two trial specimens noted by Woolf), on account of the slenderness of James Francis Edward’s means.32 Archival research has suggested, however, that the Stuart court’s spending power has been misrepresented; the extent of James’s purse was subject to fluctuations, but the records show that he was, in good times, not as poor as he has been made out to be.33 While the vast majority of Jacobite touch-pieces were in fact made of silver, there are records of a few specimens in gold that have been overlooked in the numismatic literature. Portions of the Stuart Papers which I have reviewed for previous projects contain references to some additional pieces in this metal: Father Lewis Innes of the Scots College in Paris acknowledged receipt of a gold touch-piece in 1735, and there is a receipted account for an order from Hamerani for what appears to be another (‘Medaglina d’oro di quella dispenza Sua Maestà à puoueri ammalati’).34 Among the ‘English Gold new Coins’ offered on the final day of the sale of the numismatic collection of Martin Folkes, former president of the Royal Society, are ‘William and Mary’s two guineas, guinea, and a healing piece of the Chevalier’: yet another specimen of a gold Jacobite touch-piece.35 Other references may lurk elsewhere, and additional physical specimens may yet surface. The examples cited here increase the total count by 150 per cent, even if the number increases only from two to five. ‘Small things forgotten’ can effect a certain reorientation of assumptions. This is certainly the case when one looks at the proliferation of Jacobite objects after the supposedly terminal defeat at Culloden in 1746. Historians have tended to use material culture (if they use it at all) to illustrate events and patterns that are otherwise discernible; but it may be more interesting to regard material culture as the evidence that reveals the patterns – the history itself and not merely the illustration. As Simon

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Schama has observed, things ‘aren’t “reflections” of a broader culture; they constitute it’.36 Further work on Jacobite material culture may therefore serve to dispel myths, reveal larger trends and promote a deeper understanding of the place of the Stuarts and their partisans in early modern Britain and Europe. Identifying areas for further research in Jacobite studies, Paul Monod, Murray Pittock and Daniel Szechi have recently noted that the material culture has not yet received its due, in spite of some significant scholarship in the last twenty years. The material record, they suggest, is important not only because it established means of communication and exchange within local and diasporic groups, and because it allows us to examine Jacobitism’s role in early modern consumer culture, but also because it perpetuated a Jacobite discourse beyond the end of Jacobite politics as an effective option.37

I shall address these themes – and others – in this book. The first chapter considers the legal consequences of making, distributing and possessing seditious material culture. Essential to an understanding of Jacobite material culture is its origin in illegality, its need for secrecy or at least discretion, and the possibility of penalties for the maker, distributor or owner of it. The element of legal risk (in varying degrees, depending on the circumstances and the historical juncture) is therefore common to the cultural biographies of all Jacobite objects. Jacobite material culture could lead to prosecution for treason (a capital offence) or, more commonly, for a misdemeanour resulting in a fine, imprisonment or corporal punishment. Jacobite propagandists faced a considerable bind: to promote their leader’s cause by means of the dissemination of physical objects could result in serious legal penalties, but not to disseminate the legitimist message contributed to the continued frustration of Stuart hopes. This was complicated by the fact that there seems to have been a certain amount of toleration – or at least lack of enforcement – on the part of the authorities in Britain at various times. To make matters worse for promoters of the Cause, this probably also fluctuated in response to an assessment of the actual risk posed by the Stuart claimant at any given point. (There are discernible spikes in prosecution at the time of the risings in 1715 and 1745, for example.) Chapter 2 examines Jacobite images. The chapter discusses the great emphasis that is placed in the material culture of the Jacobites on the visual (whether this is in two dimensions or three), on the sensory or emotional rather than the intellectual. The chapter will also identify some of the general patterns of the imagery, as well some important instances where

Introduction

consistency is lacking. By way of a specific example of the latter, it seems to me that Jacobite medals produced during the exile of the Stuarts in France (1688–1717) reflect the design conventions of the Paris mint and the Académie des Inscriptions et Médailles, and owe a significant debt to French emblem books of the seventeenth century (those of ClaudeFrançois Ménestrier in particular), a subject which has not, to my knowledge, been explored to date. Some Jacobite prints produced in Paris in this period are also clearly derived from continental European emblematic sources. The medals of the later, Roman exile (1717–88) may, in similar fashion, say more about the conventions of the Italian baroque than about any native British cultural tradition. ‘Court’ versus ‘popular’ is useful shorthand for classifying objects (although as I shall suggest the contrast is not always a simplistic one). There are signs here that the court may in fact have lost touch with its intended audience in Britain, after long years of exile in foreign lands. The Stuarts relied on extensive correspondence and regular visitors, but were in many ways cut off from reality in the never-never-land of their Roman palazzo. (The years at Saint-Germain were different: England was not so far away, circumstances were easier and, at least during the lifetime of James II, the Williamite revolution may not have seemed such a sure thing.) The Stuarts were also surrounded by courtiers who did not always promote the best interests of their masters, falling instead into the kind of factional infighting that is probably endemic to communities of exiles. There is a definite sense of ‘we’ll never get out of Casablanca’ that hangs over the Roman years, in particular.38 The isolation of the Stuarts in Rome exacerbated one of their major blind spots: religion. Maria Clementina’s estrangement from the Pretender and flight to a convent in 1726 undid any positive public relations that had been achieved by having Church of England chaplains at the Stuart court in Rome and a Protestant governor for Charles Edward, and efforts at damage control were probably ineffective.39 Charles Edward was astute enough to know how badly his brother’s red hat would be regarded by most Britons; while it turned out to be a very good career move for Henry Benedict, it must have confirmed a sense that the Stuarts were increasingly at odds with the mainstream of their putative subjects. The Jacobite model of kingship was increasingly out of step with modern Britain in other ways. By this I mean the mediæval theory of sacral monarchy in which the king performed a quasi-priestly (if not semidivine) ritualistic function.40 The partisans of the Stuarts called their leader ‘Sacred Majesty’, and meant it. But this was, more and more, a minority

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view. George I, while alien in other respects, may have had the right instinct to refuse to touch for the king’s evil when he arrived from Hanover in 1715. The effects of time and geography are also felt in the material culture produced by the official propagandists of the Stuart court. Again to use medals as an example, those which seem to have resonated most are the ones which spoke directly to Britons and their concerns: the map medals discussed in Chapter 2 reminded people that James cared about the islands depicted, prompting medallic ripostes, a notorious criminal prosecution (described in Chapter 1) and further Jacobite maps; the direct result of a medal of 1731 with the two young Stuart princes seems to have been a medal showing off the seven children of the more progenitive George II; and the Unica Salus medal of 1721 achieved fame because it demonstrated an awareness of Britain’s troubles at the time of the South Sea crisis and savagely criticised the management of the nation.41 One suspects that the ‘correct’ but rather coldly academic emblems and allegories that otherwise dominated the medallic output in the French and Roman years may not have made as much of an impression. To English eyes the idiom was foreign or obsolete, or both. Very different are the products of the native British tradition, the glassware in particular, with their vigorous folk images of fertility and longing. The nature imagery of the glasses is entirely in keeping with that of popular Jacobite verse, which celebrated first James and then Charles as a pastoral ‘lost lover’ and the seasonally reborn king of myth.42 Chapter 3 discusses the use of texts in the material culture of the Jacobites: the nature and sources of the inscriptions, primarily in Latin or English, that appear on prints, medals, glasses, pottery and other objects, often with seeming unconcern for the law; but also the use of cryptic or deceptive texts, and the notable absence of texts on some objects. If the visual image was given primacy in the material culture, it was not to the exclusion of the textual, which often illuminates or adumbrates the pictorial aspects, as in the emblems of the Renaissance. Like Jacobite images, the inscriptions on objects are many and various, reflecting an array of motivations, personal characteristics and responses to events. Among my favourites are marginalia in books owned by Jacobites, an Oxfordshire child’s bold labels on an egg invested with magic, the warlike mottoes cut into sword-blades and a defiant gravestone. The fourth chapter examines some of the different – and sometimes overlapping – reasons that drew people to the Jacobite fold, and some of the varieties of medium with which they expressed their adherence. The objective is not so much the cataloguing of particular types of object as a

Introduction

consideration of larger categories and temporal phases over the time line from 1688 to the end of the eighteenth century. An example of one of the categories is the Jacobite object as relic. This was frequently in the religious sense, for James II and his daughter-in-law were, perhaps improbably, candidates for canonisation and the Stuarts were avid practitioners of the royal ‘touching’ cure for scrofula. A bodily relic of a blessed Stuart, or an object which had come into contact with one, was a physical manifestation of the true king, which made him (like another King) incarnate and really present although otherwise far away. We ought not to underestimate the power of relics for the Jacobites, who could be as much believers as partisans. Even Protestant supporters of the dynasty valued locks of royal hair, pieces of a king’s or prince’s garments, physical souvenirs of visits and battles, objects presented by a royal personage as a token of esteem and remembrance. Gifts from the Pretender, treasured by the recipient and handed down as heirlooms, are also the kind of ‘inalienable possessions’ which the donor managed to keep while giving away, inasmuch as the object continued to represent the king and provide a constant reminder of the bonds of loyalty demanded of his subject.43 The presentation was, then, not so much a gift as a pledge (imbued with ‘magical value’) giving rise to what Marcel Mauss would call a nexum (obligation) or mancipi (legal tie) – here of duty to the king and willingness to assist in his restoration.44 The king was himself bound by obligations once the recipient of the gift performed the compensatory service. This presumably did not involve some Lockean contract between ruler and subject to govern satisfactorily, but instead a subject’s legitimate expectations as to the granting of titles, honours, offices, ecclesiastical preferment and property, most of which the Stuarts were not in a position to deliver in advance of a restoration anyway. They did have a large number of pensioners, however, and continued to create increasingly empty-sounding peerages and other dignities. James also put names forward for Roman Catholic bishoprics in Ireland. The symbolic weight attached to the Pretender’s gift of a portrait or a snuffbox was, of course, feudal in origin: ‘Between chiefs and their vassals, between vassals and their tenants, through such gifts a hierarchy is established. To give is to show one’s superiority, to be more, to be higher in rank, magister.’45 Another category of Jacobite material culture relates to Jacobite club activity, a subset of the clubs and societies (public or secret) which proliferated in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Examples are the Cycle Club, which has been mentioned previously and the material remains of which include medals and jewels. Jacobite social activity also

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centred on the common rooms of Oxford, which afforded a safe place where dons could display seditious pictures and drink treasonable toasts, largely sealed off from public (and government) scrutiny. In the absence of comprehensive documentary evidence of Jacobite clubs and societies, or in the face of either unsympathetic fictionalised accounts or rather fanciful revivalist efforts, the physical record is often the most reliable indicator of group activity. Male Jacobite sociability is recorded in glasses, punch-bowls and snuffboxes, and a very different type of female social activity is reflected in needlework and textiles, jewellery and fans. While many objects with Jacobite meanings were set apart, sacred, singularised (in Kopytoff’s terminology), many were also – or were originally – articles of commerce. Arjun Appadurai has questioned Kopytoff’s dichotomy between the ‘commoditised’ and the ‘singularised’, but it may work in this context. The Jacobite who bought and (in some sense) venerated a print of James probably did see it as thereby removed from the realm of the commodity, and even objects intended for use (glassware, pincushions) were probably regarded as somehow special in spite of their commoditised character.46 Jacobite material culture comes in larger formats as well (furniture, interior decoration, architecture, landscape gardening), and here the impetus seems to have been the creation of Jacobite space, ready for the reception of the legitimate king.47 This could be a relatively private statement within the confines of a room or house, insulated from a hostile world that lacked proper respect for king and possibly also church, or the more ambitious staking of a claim on behalf of the Stuarts through interventions in the landscape, whether in the form of buildings, gardens or monuments. Planting a Scotch pine in an English park was a way of saying ‘Charlie is here, and this land is his.’ The fourth chapter also considers some of the phases of Jacobitism, in order to emphasise the theme that the Jacobite ‘movement’ and its material culture reveal a multiplicity of purposes and expressions over the course of the better part of a century (or longer, in revivalist form), in spite of persistent efforts to confine it to some sort of Celtic/Roman Catholic fringe. The flowering of Jacobite material culture in numerous media (glassware, pottery, medals, prints) in the years between 1746 (often supposed to be the terminal date of the Jacobite cause) and about 1760 is a phenomenon which lends credence to the theory that Jacobitism remained more of a threat (real as well as perceived) after Culloden than much Whiggish history would lead us to believe.48 The chapter concludes with discussion of the eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century revival of interest in

Introduction

Jacobitism, which had manifestations that were both positive (scholarship) and negative (forgery, sentimentality). The final chapter of the book, a coda on the material culture as the archive of a lost cause, examines some of the different impulses behind collecting and curatorial and scholarly interest in Jacobitism from the nineteenth century to the present. The continuing allure of Jacobite objects tells about the psychology and politics of accumulation and display, the ways in which the material culture of the Jacobites is used to serve new imperatives. The history of collections of Jacobitiana reflects in a variety of ways the death of the active cause of the Stuarts, but also its interesting and sometimes surprising afterlife.

17

1 ‘By things themselves’: the danger of

Jacobite material culture

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Two hoards of Jacobite medalets, each ‘upwards of a bushel in quantity’, heavily covered in verdigris but still identifiable, came to light in 1865, one in Smithfield and the other in Clement’s Lane, off Lombard Street, in London.1 The Smithfield hoard was unearthed in the course of excavations for the building of the Metropolitan Railway; that in Clement’s Lane was hidden in a jar, but it is not entirely clear from the account of the discovery whether this too was dug up or else found in some out-of-the-way corner of a cellar. These medalets, neglected for almost a hundred and seventy years, are mute testimony to a number of aspects of the Jacobite propaganda war as waged through the distribution of small objects. The first thing the hoards reveal is the magnitude of the campaign, at least in the late seventeenth century. That the goal was widespread dissemination of the Stuart claimant James’s image in England is apparent from the ‘vast amount’ of pieces in the hoards, which must have numbered in the thousands.2 A similar sense of the scale of this kind of operation is given by the figure of 7,000 medals smuggled by ship to the Kent coast in 1699.3 These numbers may represent the high-water mark of the medallic information campaign, but the scarcity and inconsistency of records preclude greater precision. Secondly, the hoards of medalets suggest the logistical challenges faced by the promoters of the Jacobite cause. The medalets represented in the two hoards were produced by Norbert Roëttiers (1665–1727) at the Paris Mint, so they must have been brought by sea, either to the docklands of London or to the south coast and then carried overland to the metropolis.4 Like the 7,000 medals landed in Kent, the hoards must have been smuggled, perhaps disguised as other cargo (possibly itself contraband). It also appears that something went wrong once the shipment arrived in England, as no one would have gone to the expense and trouble of minting and secretly importing so many pieces, only to have them moulder away in a hiding place for almost two centuries: the whole point was to broadcast the image of the young son of James II and with it the legitimist message. Here things necessarily become mysterious, in the absence of anything but the physical evidence of the two London finds.

Criminal offences

The third aspect of the caches of medalets is, in any event, the element of danger. Something must have happened to the receiver of the goods, who was obviously meant to distribute them according to some plan. It would appear that the cargo was deemed simply too hot to handle and had to be hidden until the attention of the authorities could be diverted or had, of its own accord, moved on to other priorities. For reasons unknown, the persons responsible for concealing the two shipments never came back to them. Perhaps death intervened, but it is also certainly possible that either the smugglers or the receivers were arrested for subversive activities before they could return to the medalets. If so, they managed not to disclose the existence of the dangerous cargo from France, which would otherwise have been confiscated, used as evidence and ultimately melted down. All of this is speculation, but there can be no doubt that the two finds have their origin in illegality and fear. These two considerations underlie, to a greater or lesser extent, the production, distribution and use of all Jacobite material culture.

Criminal offences Jacobitism was treasonous, in the sense that it was predicated on the idea of overturning the government and replacing the occupant of the throne with the Stuart claimant. Not all engagement in the Jacobite cause was treasonous in the strictly legal sense, however, and it is worth examining briefly the types of offences which might have been involved, especially as they relate to Jacobite material culture. Jacobite activity was high treason, in the technical sense, where it involved an ‘overt act’ (or acts) which compassed or imagined the sovereign’s death, and where these were carried out ‘maliciously, advisedly and directly’.5 Overt acts of treason included plotting to take the sovereign’s life, inviting a foreign prince to invade the country, assembling troops to imprison or depose the monarch and compelling him or her to yield to demands by force. High treason also encompassed adherence to the sovereign’s enemies, levying war against him or her, fomenting insurrection in order to redress a public grievance (real or pretended), corresponding with the Pretender or persons employed by him, or remitting funds to the Jacobite court.6 The penalties that could be imposed were death (with the possibility of disembowelment beforehand – or, in the case of a woman, being burnt), forfeiture of lands and personal property, or both death and forfeiture. With a sentence of death came attainder, or the loss of legal

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rights, including the ability to inherit and transmit property and dignities, and where applicable the loss of one’s status as a peer of the realm (although by a statute of the reign of Queen Anne, once her elder halfbrother died the consequences of attainder were to apply only to the guilty person and not to his heirs).7 Much of this clearly applies to conspiracies, acts of force and actual rebellion rather than to something relatively innocuous like the distribution or possession of material culture. Adherence to the king’s enemies could, however, be expressed through Jacobite images or objects, and correspondence with the Pretender or his court could easily relate to material culture and involve the remission of funds. An ‘overt act’ for the purposes of making out the offence of treason could be ‘printing treasonable Positions’ or ‘written Words in a sermon or other Writing’ – presumably including the text accompanying a print or the inscription on a medal.8 It appears to have been unclear whether spoken words alone could constitute an overt act of treason, but a leading authority from the reign of George I thought so, since ‘the Compassing or Imagining the King’s Death is the treason, and the Words be the most natural Means of expressing the Imagination of the Heart . . .’9 The imposition of the death penalty for high treason was not some theoretical outcome. James Shepheard or Sheppard (c. 1700–18), a coachpainter’s apprentice, was executed after being convicted, on flimsy evidence, of uttering seditious words sufficient to satisfy the requirements for high treason – and the printsellers who published gallows portraits of him were also prosecuted.10 John Matthews, a 19-year-old, was executed in 1720 for his part in the printing of a Jacobite pamphlet, Vox Populi, Vox Dei.11 The law was no respecter of station: in 1696 Sir John Fenwick was executed for assisting with plans for a French invasion, as well as eight well-born plotters who sought to assassinate William III; the Earl of Derwentwater, Viscount Kenmure and others for their involvement in the ’15; and a further crop of Jacobite lords, including the redoubtable Lovat, in 1746. The last Jacobite executed for treason was Dr Archibald Cameron, who died at Tyburn in 1753. The images of these victims were also disseminated in popular prints, thereby becoming part of an engraved record of Jacobitism that was at once commemorative, political and commercial.12 Treasonous activity could also be prosecuted as a præmunire, a statutory offence which in the Middle Ages (‘long before the reformation in the reign of Henry the eighth . . .’, says Sir William Blackstone) meant asserting or maintaining papal jurisdiction in England but which had, by subsequent

Criminal offences

enactments, been extended to non-ecclesiastical offences.13 Under a statute of William and Mary, it was a præmunire to refuse to swear the oaths of allegiance and supremacy; under a statute of Queen Anne, to ‘assert maliciously and directly, by preaching, teaching, or advised speaking’ that the Pretender had rights to the throne or to deny that Parliament could determine the succession to the crown.14 A præmunire was not punishable by death, but merely by forfeiture of real or personal property, or imprisonment.15 More often than not, however, offences involving Jacobite material culture would have been prosecuted as misdemeanours, for which the penalty might be a fine, time in the pillory, flogging or imprisonment.16 At the trivial end of the spectrum was the punishment meted out to one of the apprentices of the Jacobite journalist Nathaniel Mist, who was obliged to walk ‘around the Four Courts in Westminster-Hall, with a Paper fixed on his Forehead, denoting his Offence . . .’17 It is interesting that the accused was required actually to bear the material record of his crime, which attests to the inherent symbolic power of the physical. Readers of Paul Monod’s Jacobitism and the English People will be familiar with the frequently prosecuted offence of ‘seditious words’, which involved oral statements that were seditious in character.18 The related offence which concerns us more particularly here is that of publishing ‘seditious libels’. ‘Libel’ is ultimately derived from the Latin libellus, a diminutive of liber (book), and obviously extended to seditious written or printed texts.19 There are instances in the eighteenth century of prosecutions involving prints and portraits as well – so ‘libel’ clearly also encompassed images (just as one can be libelled today by a satirical cartoon). Charles Viner, in his General Abridgment of the Law and Equity (1742–[51]), explains that ‘Every Infamous Libel either is in writing, or without writing’ – but by the latter he does not mean oral, for he goes on to say that ‘Without writing, may be by Pictures, as by painting him [the object of the attack] in an Ignominious Manner’.20 Blackstone, writing slightly later, explains that libels ‘taken in their largest and most extensive sense, signify any writings, pictures or the like, of an immoral or illegal tendency . . . made public by either printing, writing, signs, or pictures’.21 The utterance of words tending to advocate the overthrow of established government is obviously somewhat different from the circulation of seditious material in physical form, but the two were essentially the same as a matter of law in the late seventeenth and earlier eighteenth centuries.22 This point is neatly illustrated in a comment from the time of the so-called ‘Rag Plot’ (1754), which revolved around Jacobite verses ‘discovered’ by an

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The danger of Jacobite material culture

Oxford shopkeeper in a bundle of rags (but in all likelihood planted by anti-Jacobites): ‘Oxford is paved with Libels; and the very Stones in the Streets, whenever they open their Lips, speak Treason.’23 Notable is the absence of a requirement, in making out the offence, for malicious intent on the part of the person accused of either publishing a seditious libel or uttering seditious words. For a verdict of guilty, a jury had only to make the factual findings that the libel had been published by the defendant and that it bore the seditious meaning alleged by the prosecution.24 It was therefore enough to make a throw-away comment denigrating George I (frequently as a turnip-growing bumpkin or cuckold) or to propose the health of his rival James without any serious intention to rebel, or to circulate seditious materials without even knowing the import of their content.

Material culture as seditious libel The law recognised that ‘Loose words spoken without relation to any act or project are not treason: but words of persuasion to kill the King are overt acts of treason’. Therefore, unless it could be said that merely having a seditious print on one’s wall or a medal in a waistcoat pocket actually advocated an ‘external’ treasonous act, it is unlikely that simple possession of such objects would result in a charge of treason – although prosecution for a lesser, non-capital offence remained possible.25 There certainly were proceedings on that basis, although not all of them resulted in convictions. A few examples of prosecutions for seditious libels of a Jacobite character will suffice. Many involve the printing of subversive books and pamphlets, like that of Matthews for Vox Populi, Vox Dei. Printed material was one of the key pieces of evidence against a Mr Deacon who was accused in 1746 of ‘assembling and marching modo guerino, in order to depose the King and to set the Pretender on the throne’.26 The court asked, ‘Now what stronger proof can there be that the prisoner joined this army for the purpose mentioned in the indictment, than his causing to be printed and dispersed among the people the Pretender’s manifesto?’ A search of a house in Covent Garden in 1692 for suspected coin-clippers resulted in two women being sent to Newgate for having ‘many of king James new declaration lockt up in [a] trunk, and a parcell of [coin] clippings with them’.27 There were also cases involving paintings and engravings. Francis West was convicted of seditious libel on 12 October 1693 for ‘scattering, selling and exposing the Picture of the Prince of Wales’, having been found with copper plates engraved with James’s

Material culture as seditious libel

portrait and promissory notes from customers undertaking to pay him when the king enjoyed his own again.28 (There is perhaps more of the proselytist than the merchant at work.) A similar case is that of Robert Cotton, who was prosecuted in 1723 for having a painting of the Pretender’s wife Clementina on his wall, and for stating to anyone who visited that it represented the Queen of England. Cotton was acquitted, ‘to the great Surprize of the Lord Chief Justice, and all that heard the case’, given Cotton’s own admissions and the testimony of witnesses.29 Images of the Stuarts were not the only ones that could attract trouble; Emmanuel Bowen, a printseller, was prosecuted in September 1722 for the publication of a print of Francis Atterbury (1662–1732), Bishop of Rochester, who had just been arrested and committed to the Tower for directing a plot to restore James.30 The prelate is shown behind bars, holding a print of Archbishop Laud; below, verses celebrate the ‘Christian Courage’ of Atterbury and compare him to his predecessor, who had ‘Suffer’d Martyrdom’ in 1644. At a very tense time politically, this was inflammatory, to say the least.31 But was it seditious? Only if the elements of the offence are defined with considerable flexibility; since Atterbury had at this point only been charged with high treason but not convicted of any offence, the print was in effect merely expressing sympathy with a person accused, perhaps without any legal basis, of criminal acts for which he was not put on trial for another eight months (although Atterbury was in fact the ringleader of the restoration plot and ultimately found guilty of high treason). So much for the presumption of innocence. Bowen was discharged after five days, but the copper plate for the engraving which was confiscated at the time of his arrest remained in the possession of the authorities. The plate seems to have been retained for quite some time, as Bowen lodged a formal complaint in 1732 (once the bishop was safely dead and, so Bowen thought, the controversy as well), alleging that that government officials were – ten years after the plot’s discovery – improperly profiting from restrikes, one of which was enclosed with Bowen’s letter to the under-secretary of state. It appears that the complaint went nowhere.32 Medals were also ‘things of danger’.33 A famous case arose in 1711, when the Duchess of Gordon presented a Jacobite medal to the Faculty of Advocates, the professional body of the Scottish Bar, for its collection (see Figure 2). The medal depicted James on the obverse, with the legend CVIVS EST (‘whose [image] is this?’); on the reverse a map of the British Isles and REDDITE (‘Render’ or, more colloquially, ‘Give it back’).34 The mottoes allude, of course, to Christ’s parable of the tribute money (‘Whose is this image and superscription? . . . Render therefore unto Cæsar the

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Fig. 2 Cuius Est, c. 1710.

things which are Cæsar’s’).35 An account of the presentation is given in Abel Boyer’s History of the Reign of Queen Anne, Digested into Annals. Year the Tenth (1712). Boyer provides an engraving of the medal, which could itself have given rise to a charge of publishing a seditious libel (Boyer must have felt his aggressively anti-Jacobite stance insulated him from the risk of prosecution). Some of the Faculty of Advocates expressed their opposition to receiving the duchess’s gift, but when the matter was put to a vote it was accepted by 63 to 12. James Dundas, younger of Arniston, was asked by other members of the faculty to convey thanks on their behalf, as he saw fit.36 Dundas expressed in effusive terms the faculty’s gratitude for the ‘medal of Our Sovereign Lord the King’, hoping there would be a future occasion to thank the duchess for a second piece, ‘struck upon the Restoration of the King and Royal Family, and the Finishing Rebellion, Usurping Tyranny and Whiggery’.37 The authorities learned of this, which led to an official inquiry by Sir David Dalrymple, the Lord Advocate (the Crown’s chief law officer in Scotland). The Faculty of Advocates made a damage-controlling declaration that they had in fact rejected the medal, were entirely loyal to Queen Anne and were committed to the Protestant succession.38 The faculty also threatened legal action against the FlyingPost newspaper, which had printed purported minutes of the meeting at which the gift of the medal was debated, although no proceedings were ultimately initiated. Dundas then attempted to publish what Boyer calls ‘a Vindication more traiterous, if possible, than [the Faculty’s] Proceedings about the Medal’, but the printer passed the pamphlet on to the authorities. The pamphlet was suppressed, although copies leaked out, presumably at the instance of the author.39

Material culture as seditious libel

Under pressure from the Elector of Hanover’s resident in England, the government took action. Dalrymple was removed from his position as Lord Advocate on account of incompetence and replaced by Sir James Stewart of Goodtrees. Dundas was prosecuted in the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh for ‘seditious practices’ in accepting the medal on the faculty’s behalf, and for seditious libel in expressing thanks to the duchess and attempting to publish the suppressed pamphlet. The charges were based on Scots case law and legislation, as well as Union sedition statutes. Under Scots law, the alleged offence was ‘leasing-making’ – the uttering of ‘untrue and slanderous statements such as are likely to prejudice the relations between the king and his subjects’.40 The prosecution noted that the offence of seditious libel could be ‘done, perpetrate, and committed, not only by words and writing, and printing, but also by things themselves, as scandalous, seditious, pernicious medals, pictures or the like, with their disloyal and wicked inscriptions’.41 ‘Things themselves’ could be dangerous. This worked both ways: to the extent that objects were a threat to the established order, they were perilous to have and to disseminate. The object turned what would otherwise have been a private thought into something that was real, present and unavoidable. The defence argued that accepting the medal was not seditious in itself, ‘because . . . by no law is the receiving such a medal forbidden . . . any more than the keeping or using a book that maintained that [the Pretender’s right] or any other bad principle’.42 This is interesting because it suggests that mere possession of an object with Jacobite images or texts might not on its own be criminal; it was publication – importing the object, showing it to others, selling it – that attracted liability. As Blackstone wrote of immoral, seditious and other libels, ‘A man . . . may be allowed to keep poisons in his closet, but not to vend them as cordials’.43 But having such a thing could presumably be compromising in other ways, if coupled with seditious words (as it proved for Robert Cotton) or if it led to enquiries about suspicious activities and associates. It was reasonable to assume that those ‘who set up Pictures or Images of the Pretender, or his Adherents, in their Chambers or Closets, no doubt but have his Cause at Heart, and would set him upon the Throne, if it were in their Power’.44 The borderline between possession and publication of a seditious libel might prove to be an uncomfortable one for the accused. It is difficult to see, for example, how the Jacobite pamphlets found locked up in the coin-clippers’ chest could be said to have been ‘published’, even if that was the ultimate – but unfulfilled – intention. Surely they were more like private poisons than public cordials, in Blackstone’s metaphor. This suggests that something

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like mere possession could be criminal in itself (on a legal theory that comes close to strict liability), and setting up pictures a proxy for setting up the Pretender in actual terms.45 It was also argued in Dundas that the images and inscriptions on the medal did not directly assert James’s right to the throne ahead of his half-sister Anne, merely that he was her ‘near relation’, and could not therefore be regarded as subversive. As for the pamphlet, since no more than one copy was printed and it was never published, there was no libel; it was just like ‘speaking in private where nobody hears’.46 It was also argued that the pamphlet could be interpreted ‘in an ironical manner’, as a satire on Jacobitism. Goodtrees answered that the medal was to be interpreted as ‘directly importing . . . and not by inference’ that the Pretender had a better claim to the crown than Queen Anne (reinforced by the use of the motto REDDITE), and while the ‘mere receiving of it may not be criminal; but the pleading for receiving it’ was indeed the publication of seditious libel. As for the pamphlet, the Lord Advocate contended that ‘writing is more than thinking’ and was ‘an ouvert act, and criminal of itself’ under statutes of Charles II and James VI; in having been given to the printer and also having found some public distribution by means of copies, the pamphlet also met the requirement of having been published. The arguments that the pamphlet ought to be read as a satire were summarily dismissed as ‘a sham commentary’.47 The court agreed with the Crown’s counsel: they ‘repelled the haill defences proponed for the pannel’.48 These findings notwithstanding, the government’s case collapsed. Two of the material witnesses on the publication of the pamphlet were members of parliament – one of them the Jacobite George Lockhart of Carnwath, the other Sir David Dalrymple, the ejected lord advocate – who were beyond the court’s power of compulsion and, perhaps, not ideal witnesses for the Crown. Others who could give evidence on the publication of the medal had gone to the country for the June vacation. Goodtrees advised Lord Ilay, the secretary of state, that while an adjournment of the trial was a possibility, it might be better to let the whole matter drop, as ‘unnecessary delays in tryalls cast a great damp on them’.49 String-pulling by Dundas’s father, Lord Arniston, might also have been instrumental in the abandonment of the prosecution. Other Jacobites were not so lucky or so well connected.

Non-criminal consequences The legal consequences of seditious material culture were not confined to criminal proceedings. Thomas Hearne, the cantankerous underkeeper of

Advertising and deception

the Bodleian Library, ran into trouble with the university authorities in 1713, after a complaint had been made about his ‘shewing the Prince of Wales’s Picture in the Anatomy School’ of the library, in his capacity as curator of the antiquities that were housed there.50 Hearne fell back on the plea that he had no idea who was represented: ‘as for the Picture I did not say that ’twas the Pretenders, neither did I know who ’twas designed for’ – to which the vice chancellor replied that Hearne had, in fact, described it as ‘eikon basilike’ (the ‘image of the King’) – which left no doubt as to Hearne’s state of awareness.51 Another excuse was that ‘we have ye Pictures & Medals of so many other Pretenders and usurpers, &c. and yet no Offence taken at them’.52 Hearne failed to heed the warnings of the vice chancellor and others, and the complaints of anti-Jacobites resulted in his being called before the heads of all the colleges. They examined Hearne not on account of the picture but for his praise of Non-Jurors and critical reflections on the Ministry in a recent catalogue of works by Henry Dodwell, published with the latter’s work on Woodward’s shield, De parma equestri Woodwardiana dissertatio (1713). Hearne’s book was suppressed, and in 1716 he lost his place at the Bodleian for refusing to swear the oaths of allegiance.53 Possession of fairly innocuous Jacobite material was probably the least of the black marks against Hearne, but it helped to set in motion a series of disciplinary actions that ultimately caused him to lose his post. Seditious objects could have serious consequences, whether directly or indirectly. Even to be under suspicion of having Jacobite articles was damaging, and not always for the purposes of prosecution. In Fry v. Carne (1725), the Court of King’s Bench decided that Fry could bring an action for slander as a result of Carne’s ‘scandalous words’ that ‘Fry [the plaintiff] had the Pretender’s picture in his room, and I saw him drink his health, and he said that he [the Pretender] had a right to the Crown’.54 Monod suggests that a least some proceedings for seditious words were brought with malicious intent, designed to place an unpopular neighbour in an awkward spot.55 Even to be supposed to possess seditious material could be damaging to one’s reputation. Actually possessing it posed greater risks.

Advertising and deception If the potential legal consequences of seditious words and seditious libels suggest that caution, at the very least, was advisable, it is remarkable that Jacobite material was often openly on display in the shops of London and

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Oxford. ‘Great quantities’ of a paper fan with a portrait of a king and the motto ‘chacun à son tour’ were distributed in England in 1713, while engraved portraits of James’s two young sons were said by a contemporary observer to be ‘everywhere’ in London in 1732–3.56 Plaster casts of a bust of Prince Charles Edward by Jean-Baptiste Lemoyne were readily available in Red Lion Square in London at the time of the Elibank Plot of 1749–50.57 Richard Sharp notes in his work on Jacobite prints the boldness with which printsellers advertised seditious wares in the newspapers of the period.58 A case in point are the advertisements in 1719 announcing the publication of prints of James’s new wife, Princess Maria Clementina Sobieska (1702–35), which depicted her as ‘A Polish Lady’ (see Figure 3).59 Clementina was the granddaughter of the elective King John III Sobieski of Poland, the Christian hero who delivered Vienna from the Turks.60 Her ancestry alone would have made Clementina notable, but in 1719 she had a claim to fame in her own right. As is well known, the princess had been detained on her way from Silesia through the dominions of her cousin, the Emperor Charles VI. The emperor wished to oblige his ally, King George I of Great Britain, by preventing Clementina from reaching her destination in the Papal States, where she was to be married to James. Clementina was spirited away from her detention in Innsbruck by Charles Wogan, the Irish Jacobite adventurer who had identified her as a worthy bride for his sovereign and negotiated the match. The rescue caused a sensation in Europe and gave a much needed fillip to legitimist aspirations.61 In 1719, to refer to Clementina as ‘A Polish Lady’ would have been like saying ‘a Swedish actress’ in 1930 – it could only have been Greta Garbo. The ‘Polish Lady’ prints are well documented in the press. In Nathaniel Mist’s Weekly Journal (a newspaper of distinctly Jacobite tendencies) of 15 August 1719, there appeared the following announcement: Just publish’d, / A curious Print of a Polish Lady, in a Polish Habit, now residing at Rome, finely ingraved after an original Painting; sold by the Print-sellers of London and Westminster.

Similar advertisements were published in the Evening Post, the London Journal and the Post-Boy in the summer and autumn of 1719, the last referring to the subject of the print as ‘a Polish Princess’.62 This, and the detail about her ‘now residing at Rome’, could not make things more obvious. Early in the following year, the Post-Boy of 18–20 February offered a ‘Polish Lady’ print for sale in the following terms (readvertised in the issues for 20–23 February and 3–5 March 1720):

Advertising and deception

Fig. 3 A Polish Lady, 1719.

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The danger of Jacobite material culture Lately imported, / A very fine Print of a Polish Princess now residing at Rome, grav’d at Paris by Du Change, that grav’d the Luxemburg gallery. Sold by the Printsellers of London and Westminster. Price 2s. 6d.

‘Du Change’ is probably Gaspard Duchange (1666–1757), an engraver in his own right and the publisher of two other known prints of Princess Clementina.63 A later notice in the Post-Boy (24–26 March 1720) advertises an engraving of ‘the Princess Sobiesky’, also by Du Change but taken ‘from an Original Painting by Trivisani’ (Francesco Trevisani (1656– 1746)).64 While prosecution was always a possibility for dealers who took few pains to hide the nature of the wares they offered, Sharp suggests that there must have been a certain level of toleration on the part of the authorities. It should be said, however, that law enforcement was probably haphazard at best in the eighteenth century, given the lack of a modern police force.65 Monod also notes the tendency of sympathetic juries to acquit persons accused of seditious offences, which is borne out by the case of Robert Cotton and his picture of Clementina.66 If there was some official toleration, it would have fluctuated in relation to external events, with prosecutions tending to diminish in periods of relative quiescence on the Jacobite front, and to increase in times of discontent and rumoured landings.67 Based on an unsystematic search of legal records, there is a discernible concentration of legal proceedings involving Jacobite material culture from the period of the ’15 to the end of the decade and again, for obvious reasons, in the immediate aftermath of the ’45. The Duke of Newcastle, Secretary of State, issued a warrant at the time of the latter rising for the authorities to apprehend persons responsible for importing ‘Prints of the Eldest Son of the Pretender to His Majesty’s Crown, in order to be dispersed here, for treasonable & seditious Purposes’.68 There would probably also have been an assessment of risk on the part of those enforcing the law; one buyer of a single image of Bonnie Prince Charlie posed much less of a threat to public order than the distribution of seditious libels to a public gathering (for example, at the Lochmaben races of 1714, where Jacobites gave out specimens of the CVIVS EST medal).69 One strategy which was frequently used by the purveyors of Jacobite material culture was deception or evasion. This is entirely in keeping with the coded or veiled nature of Jacobite literature, much of which employs what Howard Erskine-Hill has called a ‘cryptic’ literary idiom – an idiom of necessity, given that publishing Jacobite literature, like producing or possessing the material culture of the Cause, could result in loss of

Defences

employment, property, liberty, even life.70 Studied ambiguity and sometimes counterproductive obliqueness is a feature of much Jacobite pamphleteering, for example.71 This is commonplace in the material culture as well. In a well-known print, for example, a portrait of the Old Pretender is labelled ‘Louis Alexandre de Bourbon Comte de Toulouze Amiral de France’.72 Certain elements of the portrait are in fact taken from an image of that French prince – like the collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece, of which James was not a member – but the likeness is definitely that of the Pretender, derived from the widely circulated portrait by Alexis-Simon Belle (1674–1734).73 The Belle portrait was the basis of a large number of prints, which ensured that the image of James could speak for itself, without a name underneath it or, as in this instance, with a false name. Sharp suggests that the use of a name other than the prince’s real one was a device calculated to frustrate prosecution for seditious libel. This also appears to be the rationale for the medal which was the subject of the case involving Dundas and the Faculty of Advocates or the one struck in 1710 with James’s nameless effigy and the legend COGNOSCUNT ME MEÆ (‘My own know me’).74 Edward Corp suggests that both Giovanni Battista Piranesi and Giuseppe Vasi, engravers whose most important buyers were British grand tourists, deliberately mislabelled views showing the Pretender’s palace, so that what was universally called at the time the Palazzo del Re was identified as the Palazzo Muti, after the family from whom it was rented for the Stuarts. This would have allowed the Jacobite tourist to return home with a souvenir of his sovereign’s residence (and perhaps of an audience inside it) but without a compromising inscription.75 The practice of deception reaches its logical conclusion in images where there is no identifying detail at all; for example, in the prints which show just the face of the Pretender, too well known even to require a mysterious inscription.76

Defences It is questionable, however, whether such stratagems would always have stood up in a court of law, had push come to shove. In the Dundas case, the court refused to accept the argument that ‘As to the pretence, that the medal asserts the prince of Wales’s right to the crown, there is nothing on the medal which directly asserts that right; so that even the corner of the medal could not be the ground of action’.77 On the other hand – and in

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spite of evidence that he had made explicit statements that his portrait of Maria Clementina represented the ‘Queen of England’ – Robert Cotton was acquitted, perhaps on the strength of his other assertions that his accusers could ‘call it whose Picture you please’ and ‘make what you please of it’. A sympathetic jury was also clearly a factor.78 A group of three cases arising from the seditious content of Mist’s Weekly Journal in 1728 illustrate the risk associated with a defence founded on the obliqueness of the message. The cases turned on a piece in Mist’s in which members of the Royal Family were ‘scandalously traduced under borrowed names . . . and at the same time drawing a beautiful character of the Pretender by the name of the young Sophi, and setting forth the tyranny and subjection all Englishmen lay under, by representing us under the name of the Persians’.79 One of those charged was Clerk, who manned the press. The argument that ‘his business was merely to clap down the press’ as directed by his employer, and that Clerk was unaware of both the content of the paper and its seditious character, failed to secure an acquittal. The Chief Justice accepted the Attorney General’s submission that the offence of printing and publishing a seditious libel did not require malice on the part of the accused (unlike the more serious offence of treason). As the Chief Justice observed in one of the other cases arising from the piece in Mist’s, ‘if a servant carries a libel for his master, he certainly is answerable for what he does, though he cannot so much as read or write’.80 Obfuscation was, furthermore, no defence; it was enough to establish that a seditious interpretation of a production was ‘such, as the generality of readers must take it in according to the obvious and natural sense of it’.81 In other words, if most people would have said that something looked seditious in content, it was seditious. An unlabelled, obliquely identified or deliberately mislabelled print or medal would on that basis still be a risky thing to make or to have, if most people looking at it would say that its intent was seditious, even if its content ostensibly was not. Use of pseudonyms would not be effective if the truth could be guessed easily enough: in R. v. Matthews, a reference to the hereditary right of ‘the Chevalier’ was enough to make out the offence.82 As one legal writer put it, ‘it is a ridiculous absurdity to say, that a Writing, which is understood by every the meanest Capacity, cannot possibly be understood by a Judge and Jury’.83 Sometimes this approach seems to have worked, however. The writer of a pamphlet complaining of the concealed Jacobite meaning in an Oxford University almanack observed that the engraver’s clever use of secret symbolism ‘was reckon’d enough to baffle all Prosecutions founded on the most natural Sense of Figures. And no wonder, seeing the Law has

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nothing properly to do with Pictures, concerning which no determinate or certain Rule has ever been laid down by any Legislature’.84 Ultimately it was substance, not form, that mattered to the law; but arguments based on technicalities would often have been the only ones available to Jacobites, who continued to resort to such transparent ploys as being admitted into the presence of the Pretender in a darkened room, so they could later say they had not seen him.85 Two others accused in connexion with the article in the Mist’s Weekly Journal fared rather better than Clerk. One of Mist’s hack writers, called Knell, was convicted of causing the printing of a seditious libel, but was acquitted of having published (distributed) it. Knell and a colleague argued that they had composed the offending piece in separate parts, each being responsible for one column which, when read in isolation, could not have been interpreted as treasonous. The court rejected this: ‘he that is guilty of any one part, must be guilty of the whole’. The Chief Justice agreed, however, with the defence that Knell had not actually published the libel once it was printed. This was something of a hollow legal victory, for while the jury were directed to acquit Knell of the offence of publication, they ought ‘to find him guilty of the printing; and the jury did so’.86 In the case of Mrs Nutt, the owner of the pamphlet shop which sold the offending publication, it was argued that she had, at the time of publication, been ill and bedridden at home, a mile away from her shop and unaware that unlawful material was being distributed on her premises.87 The Chief Justice observed that the owner of a shop is nevertheless responsible at law for what is sold there, but the jury appear to have been unwilling to enter a verdict of guilty, concluding that hers was ‘a hard case’.88 The wellknown printseller Robert Sayer attempted a similar defence to Mrs Nutt’s when he claimed on examination in 1749 that a copy of an engraving of Prince Charles Edward which was found in his shop had been brought there for framing only, and that while he had ‘seen it at the Window of other Print Shops’, he had never sold it himself.89

Cloak and dagger In light of the risks that attended the handling of Jacobite material, its production and dissemination were often secret. This involved underground presses and workshops for material produced in England.90 Paris was (with London) a centre for the making of Jacobite prints – as has been discussed in connexion with the engraved portraits of Clementina that

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were advertised in the London newspapers in 1719 – and while there would have been an open market amongst British exiles and Parisians for Jacobite portraits, many would have been sent to Britain in secret.91 All of the medals struck for the Stuart court that reached British audiences were smuggled (and often in great numbers) because the centres of Jacobite numismatic production were on the Continent. The official Jacobite medallists were, during the French exile, Norbert Roettiers of the Paris Mint; and the Hamerani family of the Papal Mint after the Stuart court’s removal to Rome in 1717 – so the distribution of the medallic record of the Pretender’s cause necessarily relied on a network of spies, smugglers and couriers. The Stuart Papers, which are preserved in the Royal Archives at Windsor Castle, reveal much about the traffic in seditious material culture. Copies of the well-known Unica Salus medal, intended as a Jacobite indictment of the Britain of the South Sea Bubble, were brought to England in batches in 1721–2 by Robert Freebairn, a Jacobite agent, by way of Paris or Rotterdam depending on the circumstances. Some of the pieces were given away as ‘a mark of Benjamins [James’s] favour’, but most were sold in England at a guinea each for examples in silver, 7 shillings for copper or ‘brass’ (bronze, in modern terms), with the proceeds remitted to Rome.92 (The intersection of the ‘commoditised’ and the ‘singularised’, in Kopytoff’s terms.93) Freebairn reported that between September and November 1721 he had sold 23 specimens in silver and 70 in copper, with an unstated number remaining in the hands of the merchant William Dundas. Freebairn also ensured that a few found their way to Oxford, a hotbed of Jacobitism. A further 99 in silver and 200 in ‘brass’ from a new die were sent to England in January 1722.94 Freebairn’s acts exposed him to accusations of treason for correspondence with the Pretender’s adherents and for remitting money to the court (unless the merchant Dundas took care of that), as well as to charges of publishing seditious libels. Freebairn understood the dangers and the need for discretion. This is evident in one of his letters to the Hon. John Hay of Cromlix (1691–1740), titular Earl of Inverness and one of James’s principal advisers: I have enclosed the Cipher with such other papers as I do not care to have about me and delivered them to Mr Dundas who has sent them off before me. The Medalls go in another ship, and the small box I had from your Lady I carry with my self as she Desired.95

Clearly Freebairn did not wish to have too much incriminating evidence – or too many types of it – with him at any one time.

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Jacobite agents went to considerable efforts to avoid detection. There is some evidence that one way to carry and at the same time conceal an identity badge, which could be displayed or hidden depending on the circumstances, was to place a medalet under the tongue. In moments of danger these ‘tongue-pieces’ could be swallowed. Espionage can be an awkward and uncomfortable business.96 One must be cautious, however, about objects supposedly associated with the Jacobite spy world. There is reason, for example, to detect the workings of an overheated imagination in the auctioneer’s description of a Jacobite cabochon emerald and silver ring sold in 2008. Engraved on the underside of the setting, inside the ring, is CR / III / 1766 – that is, ‘Charles III’ and the year he succeeded to his father’s claims. On the strength of the inscription, the piece was described in the auction catalogue as having been used for identification purposes by a member of the Jacobite ‘secret service’. Apparently the wearer would (like Berger the Norwegian with his Resistance ring in Casablanca) show the secret monogram to fellow travellers: This ring was used as a ‘signature’ when travelling with correspondence from Charles. No document could carry a signature or seal as if the bearer was found in possession of such marked papers by government troops he would almost certainly have been sentenced to death. Therefore this ring would accompany the messenger to show they [sic] had originated from Charles and were considered an official document [sic]. This Jacobite secret service provided an invaluable service to Charles who had to keep all his loyal supporters abreast of his plans and movements.97

This strains credence, as it is doubtful that much espionage took place on Charles’s behalf in the later 1760s, when all but the diehards had given up on the Stuarts.98 The ring is more likely to be a sentimental token commemorating the ‘accession’ of Charles on the death of his father, and nothing more. It is also possible that it was made later in the eighteenth century when Jacobitism, a spent force politically, became the subject of nostalgic romantic revivalism. Medals like those smuggled by Freebairn were not the only cargo that made their way from the Continent to Jacobite recipients in Britain. By way of example, James Edgar (the Pretender’s secretary) made arrangements in the summer of 1735 for ‘five little pictures’ – which could be either prints or paintings – to be sent to Scotland as a gift to the Dowager Countess of Stormont from her son, the Jacobite Earl of Dunbar. The pictures were enclosed in ‘two little boxes coverd with wax clothe’ as waterproofing but also perhaps as a means of hiding them from the eyes

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of the customs men.99 A little later, ‘Probus’ (identified as Ralph Smith) wrote to Edgar (addressed as ‘Mr Thorold’), using not only false names to put off the censors but also the partial use of a numeric cypher (which has been decrypted in another hand): I have another favour to beg of you, which is this, the inclosed paper is the size of two pictures on Copper of Their RRHH . . . they are copied but done by a good hand in Rome, perhaps you know him, I entreat you to procure me the pictures of H.M. & The late Queen done on copper of the size of this paper by a good hand. I pray you to send me them by the first safe hand and address them as usual . . . People send far & near for the Pictures of the two Princes and I am much pleased to see with what satisfaction they veiw them & the comparisons they make between our Princes & those of Hannover.100

A ‘safe hand’ was required for the delivery of the commission – and it was clearly thought sufficiently risky to make the arrangements that the request itself needed concealment through the use of cant names and coded writing (a ‘safe hand’ in another sense). The need for discretion dictated not only the distribution of Jacobite objects but also how they were made. Much Jacobite material culture is small in scale, like the tiny portraits of Prince Charles Edward based on the Look Love and Follow medal (see Figure 1 above). Just 0.4 by 0.35 inches (8.5 x 10 mm) in size, these were intended to be set in rings or brooches, and had the obvious advantage of easy concealment.101 ‘Pickle’ the spy wrote in October 1750 that an Irish priest had carried with him from Paris to London (at the time of Charles Edward’s clandestine visit there) ‘a quantity of coloured Glass Seals with the Pretender’s Son’s Effigy, as also small heads made of silver gilt about this bigness [here an example is given in the original] to be set in rings, as also points for watch cases, with the same head, and this motto round “Look, Love, and follow”’.102 Objects like medals, rings, seals, lockets, snuffboxes, painted miniatures, miniature busts and watch-papers (prints designed to fit inside the lid of a pocketwatch) were therefore ideal media for easily hidden images or slogans.103 An interesting example is a dice-box in the collection of the Inverness Museum, which has a double lid and a secret portrait of Charles Edward inside (Figure 4, and illustrated on the cover).104 Another approach was visual trickery, as in the anamorphic portrait of Prince Charles Edward preserved in the West Highland Museum in Fort William. The picture consists of what looks to be an unintelligible smear of curved lines of paint on a board. When a cylindrical mirror, set on a small pedestal, is placed on the board at the correct distance, the lines are reflected in such a way that

Cloak and dagger

Fig. 4 Dice-box, c. 1745.

the portrait of the prince is revealed (Figure 5).105 The whole thing has something of the air of a parlour game to it (like much later Jacobite material), but its origins must also lie in activity that was, of necessity, clandestine. Similar considerations may explain the disguised Jacobite glasses with ostensibly Williamite inscriptions such as ‘The Glorious Memory’ but which also displayed concealed Jacobite symbols and sentiments: on one, a blackbird (‘Blackbird’ being one of the many nicknames used for the Old Pretender) is perched on a branch with a single (Jacobite) rose, about to devour a dragonfly (King George, according to Geoffrey Seddon, ‘a play on George and the Dragon’).106

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Fig. 5 Anamorphic picture of Prince Charles Edward, c. 1745.

The law’s responses to Jacobite material culture reveal interesting conflicts between the overt and the concealed, enforcement and toleration (or, perhaps, merely lack of enforcement), boldness and caution. Jacobite propagandists needed to get their message out, but without exposing

Cloak and dagger

themselves – and the recipients of the message in a physical form – to unnecessary risks. The prospect of death, corporal punishment, the loss of legal rights or the confiscation of property must have had some deterrent effect, although the relationship between potential penalties and personal choice is always difficult to gauge. Judging by the amount of Jacobite material culture which has survived – and there may well be more that has yet to be discovered, like the hoards of medalets – many people in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were prepared to take their chances in the name of the Cause. The recipient or purchaser of seditious material also faced conflicting pressures: the potential legal consequences to be sure, but also a desire to assert loyalty to the Cause, and perhaps to proselytise on its behalf, whatever those consequences. The rank and file may have regarded the legal risks associated with seditious objects as part of the sufferings to be borne by the faithful in the service of the true king; a sense of grievance, persecution and even martyrdom was central to Jacobitism. There were many Jacobites who suffered for their actions, whether this was on the scaffold, to the detriment of their civil rights or through lesser penalties. Part of the allure today of Jacobite material is its association with danger and transgression (provided one does not get carried away with tales of espionage). The revelation of those hoards of medalets in Victorian London must have conveyed, vividly and immediately, the circumstances in which they were concealed – perhaps in haste, with the enforcers of the law not far away. Handling Jacobite objects raises inevitable, thrilling questions: who handled this before me? what risks attended that? how did this thing survive? Sir Fitzroy Maclean conveys this in his account of a discovery of two tiny portraits of Prince Charles Edward, designed to fit inside a watch-case, with these words written by one of Maclean’s ancestors on the faded sheet of paper that enclosed them: ‘Prince Charles Edward 1745 given to my grandfather’s care by another Jacobite gentleman who was afraid to have the portrait found on him.’107 ‘Things themselves’ can tell us much about Jacobitism, in particular its reliance on sensory experience of the physical, which had the advantage of being less ephemeral than spoken or sung words of seditious import, but also the drawback of being more solid for evidentiary purposes in the event of prosecution. Material culture seems to have been perceived by Jacobite publicists as being perhaps more ‘real’ than abstractions expressed in the mind or in print: truth in things reflected truth in kings. Jacobite objects also shed light on the modes of thought and expression of individual adherents, as well as the objectives, opportunities, challenges, risks, results

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and ultimately failures of the Cause itself. The material culture of the partisans of the Stuarts does not merely illustrate the history of a movement as it evolved over a remarkably long period of time; these objects can, perhaps like nothing else, help us to understand what it meant to be a Jacobite.108

2 ‘Many emblems of sedition and treason’:

patterns of Jacobite visual symbolism

Among the lots at a recent sale in Edinburgh was a nineteenth-century ‘Jacobite revival’ glass goblet.1 ‘Revival’ in this context is not necessarily an auctioneer’s polite circumlocution for ‘fake’; while dishonest reproductions and inventions of Jacobite glass certainly exist, there were also manufacturers who produced wares in an openly neo-Jacobite style that made no attempt to practise deception. There will be more to say in its place about forgeries and restitutions as a particular phase of Jacobitism, but what is interesting for the present about this piece of glassware is its profusion of Jacobite symbols. On one side of the goblet there is a star within a garland of oak leaves and the inscription Fiat (‘let it’ – that is, a Stuart restoration – ‘be’), on the other a hand raising a glass beneath the motto ‘The King Across the Water’, surrounded by thistles. The hand with the raised glass and the English inscription strike a false note – Seddon’s book records no eighteenth-century glass which uses this device or the traditional Jacobite toast in this context – but the designer of the goblet clearly relied upon the buying public’s awareness, even in the nineteenth century, of a set or vocabulary of distinctively Jacobite images and texts.2 The texts that appear on Jacobite objects will be discussed in the next chapter. Images must come first, given their primacy in (and as) the material culture of the Jacobites. The Jacobite symbolic grammar has been well described elsewhere, notably by Paul Monod and Geoffrey Seddon.3 As the maker of the revival goblet appreciated, his nineteenth-century customers would have been as aware as were their eighteenth-century predecessors of the typical devices: the star, the sun, the compass, the oak, the rose, the thistle. Many of these were traditional symbols of the Stuarts or were associated with royalty generally. Most of the typical symbols are of a highly traditional nature, as befitted a cause based on hereditary right, but there are some unexpected flashes of a new and modern approach. While there is a recognisable symbolic language associated with the promotion of the Jacobite message, its consistency ought not to be overstated. The six-petalled rose with two buds, said to stand for the Old Pretender and his two sons, is frequently (almost universally) found on Jacobite glassware.4 The rose is, however, almost entirely absent from the numismatic record

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(which was largely produced by the court’s official medallists in France and then Italy), making just one appearance on a British-made commercial piece of about 1750. This is in spite of the close identification of the rose – the white rose in particular – with the Cause: it was the flower worn by Jacobites in buttonholes and pinned to bodices and hats (see the ‘Highlander’ portrait of Prince Charles Edward, for example); accordingly, it appears on many other types of objects, for example a horn for calling cattle inscribed with Highland names and dates from 1688 to 1736.5 Similarly the thistle, which is relatively common on Jacobite glasses, is an unusual design on medals.6 The compass in the form of a starburst, again common on the glassware, is nowhere to be seen in numismatic material culture – although a naturalistic ship’s compass is found on a medal celebrating the escape of Prince Charles Edward after Culloden.7 These motifs are also largely absent from the portrait prints catalogued by Richard Sharp except, in the case of the rose and the thistle, which appear as occasional ornaments in decorative borders.8 Robin Nicholson suggests, in fact, that the glassware draws its imagery from Jacobite oral poetry, and thus represents a decorative tradition that is distinct from that of the painted portraiture of the Stuarts.9 This makes sense, but the glasses also borrow from prints and medals, and they make extensive use of Latin tags and classical allusions. Like so much of Jacobite material culture, they are an amalgam of styles and sources. What may be reflected is a difference between the official productions of the exiled Stuart court and those which originate in indigenous British culture. Monod makes the useful distinction between images and objects with the imprimatur of the court and the often crude popular expressions of Jacobite sentiment in physical form that proliferated from the workshops of commercial or folk makers. There is a wide difference, to be sure, between the naïf Staffordshire pottery mugs with portraits of Prince Charles Edward in Highland costume, flanked by an oversized rose and thistle, and an object like the Unica Salus medal of 1721 (Figure 6), which combines a high level of artistry with complex iconography and allusions to classical literature.10 This distinction between the court and the popular, while useful, may be too simplistic, however. Jacobite glassware, made by commercial makers and closer to the popular end of the material culture spectrum, was nevertheless intended for consumers who had enough Latin, at least of a schoolboy level, to understand its use of classical texts. It is also probably an error to overstate the control of the Jacobite court over the design of the images it commissioned, or the coherence of its vision over the course of a century of production of artefacts. There were obviously some recurring themes and central concepts, but Jacobite propaganda often reflected wider currents of

Hybridity

Fig. 6 Unica Salus, 1721.

artistic output. The numismatic record of the French exile of the Stuarts from 1688 to 1717, for example, reflects to a great degree the conventions of the Paris Mint, the dictates of the Académie des Inscriptions et Médailles and the traditions of the French emblem books of the seventeenth century. After the Stuart court decamped to the Papal States, the Roman baroque takes over – even if there are indications of British involvement in the design of some pieces struck by the Hamerani brothers at the Rome mint. Some general iconographic patterns do emerge, however, from the disjecta membra of Jacobite material culture: the rich, hybrid quality of much of the symbolism; the central place of the image of the king (or a substitute for him); reliance on heraldry, allegory and myth; topical and commemorative images. Jacobite iconography was, entirely appropriately, traditionalist in approach – although with some exceptions, like the strikingly modern map medals of the early decades of the eighteenth century. The difficulty of ambiguous images also needs to be addressed – that is, images which may or may not have been Jacobite in origin, but which were interpreted as such by contemporaries more because of the circumstances of their creation than their actual content. Actual intent not being required in order to establish the publication of a seditious (and criminal) libel, ambiguous images could have attracted serious consequences in any event.

Hybridity A common feature of Jacobite symbols is their hybrid nature, derived as they are from a wide variety of sources and traditions but applied more or

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less coherently to express the legitimist message. An excellent example is the oak – a universal Stuart/Jacobite symbol – which is at once the oak of old England, the badge of Clan Stewart, the tree at Boscobel in which Charles II sought refuge after the Battle of Worcester and a symbol of the restoration of 1660.11 In a withered or ‘stricken’ form, frequently with the motto revirescit (‘it revives, it grows green again, it shoots again’), the oak is a symbol of eventual restoration and regeneration with christological significance.12 The extent to which the oak came to be seen as a specifically Stuart emblem, rather than something generically English, is seen in a number of medals struck in 1689 to celebrate the coronation of William and Mary. They show a dead oak, uprooted or a mere stump, together with a flourishing orange tree, the latter being an obvious reference to the ancestral title and badge of the new ruler. One medal bears the legend PRO GLANDIBVS AVREA POMA (‘For acorns, oranges’) to emphasise the substitution of William’s dynastic symbols for those of the Stuarts.13 A pamphlet of 1716 which expresses support for the Hanoverian succession is entitled A Dialogue between an Oak and an Orange-Tree, the implication being that the two species are incompatible within the same grove.14 The underlying assumption of both the Jacobite and Williamite iconography of trees is that the reign of the good and rightful king brings with it fertility, while the rule of the unjust monarch entails barrenness, famine and death – as on the reverse of the Unica Salus medal, where a withered tree represents the state of Britain groaning under the yoke of Hanoverian captivity. This is old imagery: one element of the London pageant that greeted Elizabeth I on the eve of her coronation was a display of a barren mountain with a sickly tree, contrasted with a green mountain and a flourishing tree, emblems of the nation under an unjust and a just prince respectively.15 Jacobite imagery thus taps into a rich vein of ancient lore connecting the rule of the good king with springtime and fecundity. This is, of course, much older than the Renaissance. The Stuarts, like Æneas, were not only scions and progenitors of a long line of rightful rulers: they were also bearers of the golden bough.16 The oak tree also has scriptural parallels: it is a type (and Jacobite iconography is heavily weighted with Christian typology) of the Tree of the risen Christ, the Cross; and one should bear in mind the parable of the fig tree which is cursed by Jesus in Matthew 21 and Mark 11.17 There are some specific biblical antecedents as well, in a pair of passages that appear on an engraving of 1715, ‘Done from ye Originall of Vaughan after the Murder of King Charles the First’, and of obvious Jacobite tendencies (Figure 7).18 The print depicts a felled and leafless oak on which is written

Hybridity

Fig. 7 Royal oak print, 1715.

‘Jan. 30 1648/9’, the date of Charles’s martyrdom. By the tree lie an overturned crown and a broken sceptre. From the trunk of the oak, three saplings spring, one of which is encircled by another crown. The hand of God issues from a cloud and pours water on the saplings. Just below the cloud, an angel blows a trumpet and holds a banner reading ‘God exalteth ye low Tree & maketh the dry Tree to flourish [.] Ezek: 17.24’. In Ezekiel 17, the prophet illustrates the punishment to be meted out to the rebellious

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house of Jerusalem with an account of a cedar of Lebanon which God causes to wither but which gives the promise of renewal. Below this picture is another bibilical text, this one taken from Job 14:7–9: For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; Yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.

Another version of the print, this one a cruder woodcut, adds a note to the effect that this text is ‘the Chapter for the Day (Tenth of June) appointed by the Rubrick of the Church of England’ – that is, in the Lectionary or table of lessons found in the Book of Common Prayer.19 This date was, of course, the birthday of the Pretender and one of the major festivals of the Jacobite calendar (a springtime feast, it will be noted). Partisans of James would have relished the fact that the lesson for the day was highly susceptible to a Jacobite reading.20 These prints are ‘popular’ rather than ‘court’, but they reflect nevertheless an understanding of Jacobite symbolism and typology that is far from simplistic. The cross-pollination from one medium of Jacobite material culture to another is evident in a portrait of James Drummond (1679–1757), 8th Earl (but for his attainder) and 5th Jacobite Duke of Perth, painted by the Scottish Jacobite artist John Alexander about 1735. The sitter was not out in the ’15 or the ’45, but the portrait is a clear statement of his loyalties. At a focal point on the sitter’s right shoulder and tilted slightly towards the viewer is a fine cameo brooch in black and white with a gold mount, which fastens the peer’s mantle to his cuirass. The cameo bears a portrait of the Jacobite claimant and is derived from medals struck by Norbert Roettiers some decades earlier.21 The cameo may or may not have existed – it could simply be a piece of the artist’s fancy – but it is interesting how the portrait conveys its subversive message through another Jacobite artefact (real or imagined), which in turn relies on an existing body of objects – and on the ability of the person who gazes at the picture to spot the portrait, identify its subject and, in all likelihood, to understand its specific origins.

The image of the king The principal Jacobite image – and the one for which all other Jacobite symbols stand proxy – is that of the true king. The identity of the sovereign and, by extension, who is not the sovereign, is the central pillar of the whole edifice of legitimism.22 It is James (or Charles or Henry) who is, by

The image of the king

the grace of God, the rightful king; he embodies the dynastic claim which no man or parliament may displace. This plays out in the rituals of kingship – only the anointed has the healing touch against scrofula – and in the objects to which he imparts a share of his magic – whether touch-pieces, locks of hair or pieces of fabric.23 Even the image of the king is a thing of power, akin to a crucifix, a religious icon or a medal depicting a patron saint: both the image and the relic, by their sheer materiality, were ‘incarnational’ in the Christian sense, serving not only as a memoria for the instruction of the faithful but also possessing a virtus that acted on the beholder.24 Put another way, their ‘sensuous presence’ is ‘the magic by which objects become values, fetishes, idols and totems’.25 As Robin Nicholson has suggested, the Jacobite presentation of royalty owed much to the portraiture of Elizabeth I and of Louis XIV.26 Another highly influential royal image was the frontispiece to the phenomenally successful Eikon Basilike (1649), the best-selling work of devotion and Royalist propaganda that collected the pious thoughts of the Old Pretender’s grandfather, the royal martyr Charles (Figure 8). The sainted king’s book served as the basis for Imago regis (1692), a similar work recording the sufferings of James II and VII in exile, and gave Thomas Hearne the words to describe the picture which got him into trouble in 1713.27 The frontispiece of the Eikon depicts Charles I praying before an altar surrounded by images of royalty and suffering, with apposite texts on fluttering banners. One of these mottoes, Clarior e tenebris, is found on a Jacobite medalet of 1696, which shows the sun in partial eclipse over a calm sea. The Stuarts and their propagandists had a strong sense of royal identity, both personal and dynastic. This kind of image of the king is, as Nicholson notes, neither (merely) a vehicle of record nor a piece of propaganda.28 It is an icon in the religious sense, a substitute for the real presence (a deliberate choice of words) of the sacred king invested with numinous powers who lies at the heart of Jacobite ideology and who is himself the type of a greater King. The most obvious prototypes of later Stuart material culture were the objects and images produced in earlier Stuart reigns, notably those of Charles I and Charles II. The exile of the Stuarts and their adherents after 1688 was seen by them as a replay of the events of the 1640s and 1650s: a second version of 1660 was to be hoped for. Thus the medals and medalets of the eighteenth century have their origin in the loyalty badges and medals worn or carried by Royalists during the Civil War and the Commonwealth; the popular print was an important means of disseminating the royal image in both periods (and, in the case of the royal oak print discussed in the previous section, could be recycled from reign to reign); the loyalist

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Fig. 8 Frontispiece to Eikon Basilike, 1649.

jewellery of the two periods bears striking similarities; and the strategies of deception and concealment (small objects, hidden objects, anamorphoses) are common to both.29 The commonalities are not merely accidental or due to the fact that medals, prints and small decorative objects were widely used in the early modern period by anyone who had a point to make, whether political, religious or cultural: it is clear that the partisans of the later Stuarts consciously borrowed from the productions of the earlier age. An example from the medallic record is an unrealised obverse for a medal of Prince Charles Edward in 1740, depicting a view of London under a triumphant sun, which is at once an adaptation of his father’s Unica Salus medal of 1721 and also a deliberate echo of Briot’s famous ‘Return to London’ medal, executed in 1633 to mark the arrival of Charles I after his Scottish coronation.30 A sampler of 1759 (not 1659) with verses on ‘Great Charles’, in the collection of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, bears

The image of the king

the stitched title ‘An encomium of that ever Blessed Martyr King Char. the Ist’ and is dedicated ‘to all true Lover’s of CHURCH and MONARCHY’.31 It is not an isolated example. The royal image is central to Jacobite material culture. In the early period after the departure of James II and VII from Britain, the publication on canvas or paper of his portrait with the symbols or labels of kingship was no quixotic act; the new régime must have seemed uncertain, the outcome of the revolutionary experiment unpredictable. As Edward Corp has shown, the artistic patronage of the exiled Stuart court during its sojourn in France and Italy was considerable, reflecting a view that the king was, like the sun on the medals of the period, only temporarily in eclipse but no less regal for that.32 The Jacobite court was not, in the early years, an irrelevance. On a relatively large scale are the painted portraits of members of the royal family, depicted either with the explicit accoutrements of royalty or in a sufficiently grand manner that their exalted status is not in doubt. In the 1694 group portrait of James II and VII, Mary Beatrice and their two children by Pierre Mignard (1612–95), the crown and sceptre on a cushion in the foreground are hardly necessary: this is undoubtedly a royal family of the ancien régime, to whom even an adoring spaniel at the king’s feet pays homage.33 In the 1695 double portrait of James II’s two young children by Nicolas de Largillière (1656–1746), the prince’s Garter insignia are the only outward attributes of royalty. There is a half-hidden inscription on an urn which identifies the pair by their titles, but here again it is the natural dignity and elegance of the subjects, and the young James’s easy control of a greyhound that is nearly as big as he, which tell us that these are no ordinary children, as in Van Dyck’s portraits of their grandfather Charles I, which are no less regal for their ostensible désinvolture.34 Large canvases were not necessarily one-offs: one portrait of James by Belle exists in at least two full-length copies and four in bust.35 Copying portraits of James and Clementina kept Antonio David (1684–1750) so busy in the 1730s that Edward Corp says it is impossible to say how many versions were painted (at least four of James and six of Clementina).36 This has been called the ‘copying mania’ of the Jacobites, although as Robin Nicholson observes, generally under the mistaken impression that all this duplication was so much wasted effort; copies were, in fact, a very effective way of getting the Jacobite message out.37 (And if the picture represented in some way the real presence of the absent king, then replication of the image promoted the ubiquity of a king who in consequence had not just two bodies but many.)38 The Stuart Papers contain numerous references to

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the copying of portraits for Jacobite adherents.39 Miniatures, which were painted on metal, ivory, vellum or card, were an ideal medium for the replication of Stuart portraiture originally in a larger format, and a very large number of examples exist.40 The pencil drawings of Prince Charles Edward from the mid 1730s by Giles Hussey (1710–88) were widely copied.41 Perhaps more importantly, portraits like that of ‘James III’ by Belle (1712) provided the basis for prints produced in different versions and in great quantities for very little money. More than fifty separate portraits of James were engraved between 1689 and 1701, and many of these would have been produced in variant forms – with or without inscriptions, for example.42 Prints obviously had much wider distribution than the original portrait or any of its painted copies.43 Prints in turn provided images for Jacobite objects. The portraits of Charles Edward which appear on the glassware and Staffordshire pottery of the late 1740s and 1750s clearly derive from engravings of the prince and from medallic representations.44 A previously engraved portrait is part of the design of a fan of circa 1745/6 in the Drambuie Collection.45 The iconographic traffic was two-way: an engraving of James, published in 1747, depicts him in an oval cartouche, which rests on a pedestal ornamented with portraits of his sons drawn from two different medals of the 1730s and a central panel based on the reverse of the Unica Salus medal of 1721; and many medallic mottoes are found on Jacobite glasses (although it is sometimes difficult to know which type of object borrows from which).46 The ‘Highlander’ portrait of Prince Charles Edward, attributed to Sir Robert Strange (1725–92), provided the basis for miniatures and larger oils, snuffboxes, glassware and ceramics.47 Jean-Baptiste Lemoyne’s bust of Charles Edward (1746) likewise provided ‘a model for massproduced glass cameos and intaglios, and stamped gilt medallions’.48 The frequency with which Jacobite images were adapted in other media must be indicative of broad distribution, wide recognition and shared understanding. Images were reproduced and adapted because this was an effective means of promotion. The image of the king frequently appeared without an identifying inscription, in part as a means to frustrate prosecution for the publication of seditious libels. There are many Jacobite prints and medals which present nothing but a portrait, like the versions of the ‘Polish Lady’ prints of Maria Clementina which dispense with the descriptive (if somewhat cryptic) text that appears on other versions. Similarly, Clementina’s husband and sons appear without inscriptions in numerous prints.49 A similar approach was taken by Jacobite medallists, who often left out the lettering

The image of the king

one expects to find around numismatic royal portraits, or by John Obrisset (fl. 1705–28) on a tortoiseshell snuffbox with medallic portraits of James and his sister Louise Marie.50 The strategy of using deceptive images at some point began to take on a life of its own, motivated more by a desire for entertainment than to manage legal risks – and in any event, Jacobite propagandists were often just as willing to include descriptive inscriptions as to omit them. Sometimes this resulted from the place of production and of intended distribution. Elaborate French texts accompany, for example, the engraved portraits of James published by Nicolas de Larmessin (c. 1638–94) in the late seventeenth century, which were intended principally for a continental audience that was not concerned about British censorship.51 And yet many pieces which were distributed in Britain bore explicit inscriptions: by way of example, the medalets represented in the two London hoards uncovered in 1865 all bear in plain lettering the legend IAC: WALLIÆ PRINCEPS – ‘James, Prince of Wales’. Inscriptions or no inscriptions, the intent was plain: the central message of the Jacobite enterprise was that the personage represented was the King, even where he is shown without regalia and armorials. By employing nothing but a portrait (or on medals, a double portrait of father and son or husband and consort), the propagandists are laying the central plank of the Jacobite platform, namely legitimacy by virtue of divinely determined primogeniture. This would have been a powerful argument in the seventeenth or eighteenth century. Blackstone calls it a ‘rule, or canon of descent’ that ‘where there are two or more males in equal degree, the eldest only shall inherit’.52 The rule was as ancient as the Old Testament, established in England under William the Conqueror and applicable to the descent of the crown (at least up to 1688) and of the property of both kings and their subjects.53 A strong argument indeed – and clearly not everyone was persuaded by Blackstone’s pains (or those of John Locke in the Two Treatises of Civil Government) to explain the Revolution Settlement as being consistent with ancient constitutional law. At the same time, one gets the distinct sense that Jacobite propaganda may at times have relied too much on the argument from heredity, to the exclusion of others – and too much on the perceived strength of the king’s picture. The concision of the central Jacobite message reaches its height (or, seen another way, its greatest point of reductivity) in the Look Love and Follow medal (1750) of Prince Charles Edward (see Figure 1), as if these three unthinking acts were the sum total of what was necessary to achieve a restoration of the Stuarts to their rightful inheritance. ‘My own know me’ (as another medal has it): the rest just happens.54 To the same

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effect are the verses which accompany an engraving, probably by Strange, of the Amor et Spes Britanniæ medal (1749): THE CHRISTIAN Hero’s Martial Looks here shine, Mixt with the SWEETNESS of the STUART’s Line. Courage with Mercy, Wit with Virtue join’d, A beauteous Person, with more beauteous Mind. How Wise! how Good when Great! when Low how Brave! Who knows to Suffer, Conquer, and to Save. Such GRACE, such VIRTUES, are by Heav’n design’d, To save BRITANNIA, and to BLESS MANKIND.55 The salvation of Britain – of all humanity, indeed – is merely a matter of beholding the semi-divine countenance displayed above these lines. Sadly, the reality must have been something of a disappointment: while Charles Edward dazzled initially, further acquaintance did anything but; and the reality of his courtly and rather dull father was far from the romantic Jemmy of Jacobite song. The unthinking part of ‘look, love and follow’ may be the key: the partisan’s response to what is seen, and in many cases touched, is emotional rather than intellectual, even where there is an inscription to read – and especially where there is not. Jacobite faith in the power of images and objects may have its origin in the faith to which many Jacobites adhered, that of Rome. David Hume’s explanation of ‘the causes of belief’, as understood in Roman Catholic observance, is instructive: We shadow out the objects of our faith, say they, in sensible types and images, and render them more present to us by the immediate presence of these types, than ’tis possible for us to do, merely by an intellectual view and contemplation. Sensible objects have always a greater influence on the fancy than any other; and this influence they readily convey to those ideas, to which they are related, and which they resemble. I shall only infer from these practices, and this reasoning, that the effect of resemblance in inlivening the ideas is very common; and as in every case a resemblance and a present impression must concur, we are abundantly supply’d with experiments to prove the reality of the foregoing principle.

So, while the reliance of Roman Catholics on ‘sensible objects’ as a quickener of devotion is a facet of their ‘strange superstition’, it nevertheless reveals a truth about the operation of the mind.56 This was certainly the case for Roman Catholic emblematists (of whom more below), who held that ‘“things” are better understood than words. Thing-symbols also have a greater emotional impact and the meaning-content of pictures and things can embrace several senses whereas words are fixed lexically’.57

The image of the king

The simplicity of the message was part of its force, but there was also the risk of being too simplistic. Reduction is doubtless required in the small compass of a medal or some other small object, but may be a symptom of more problematic over-reliance on the emotional response encapsulated by the exhortation to ‘look, love and follow’. Jacobite literature and material culture often fail to articulate a positive programme for implementation after a Stuart restoration, merely asserting hereditary right when an actual agenda for reform would perhaps have been more persuasive. It is true that Jacobite polemic bases its case on a long line of grievances – the usurpation of William and then George; the Act of Union; the South Sea Bubble – but usually offers little more than vague assurances that none of this would have happened if the crown had passed as it should have, according to the ‘Old Constitution’. The Unica Salus medal of 1721 (Figure 6), as hardhitting an indictment of Hanoverian Britain as one finds in Jacobite material culture, was not backed up with a positive plan beyond the immediate goal of kicking King George back to Brunswick. The pamphlets issued contemporaneously by the Jacobite court are best described as tepid, concerned with presenting James as a reasonable and moderate paterfamilias, deeply aware of Britain’s woes, but without any concrete solutions to its problems beyond his return – and certainly without a solid political and economic agenda to repair the effects of the South Sea Bubble in that period.58 Another example is a letter of 1741 in which James says that he has had declaration in readiness ‘these many years’, but which ‘there has never as yet been an occasion to publish’, in which he promises to maintain the Church of England, extend civil rights to Dissenters, keep taxes low and not impose ‘forreign Excises’, reign with a free parliament and without the exercise of arbitrary power, and avoid the errors of ‘Former Reigns’ (apparently an admission of earlier Stuart failures). He expresses in his letter the opinion that he has not succeeded only because Britons do not know him: ‘Enfin, Were I known, & were Justice done to my character, it would I am convinced make many alter their present way of thinking, & induce them to concurr heartily in measures for my Restoration’.59 If Britons only looked, they would surely love and follow. Did it not occur to James and his advisers that publishing his views would have been more useful than holding them in reserve? It is more likely to have been a lack of detailed policies (or fears about a hidden agenda of absolutist control and enforced obedience to the Pope) that made practically minded Britons unwilling to rise in rebellion, even when they may have recognised the logical force and sentimental appeal of the Jacobite position as a matter of

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principle. Perhaps the objective was to keep the Jacobite message at a high level of generality so as to speak to a variety of constituencies at once – regional, confessional, socio-economic – without alienating any one of them. If that was the case, then the message was sometimes presented in such general terms as to be less than compelling, as often happens when one tries to be all things to all people. This may reveal a critical weakness of much Jacobite propaganda, material culture included: it appears to be calculated not so much to persuade the undecided as to preach to the already converted. Those who are asked to ‘look, love and follow’ were, more often than not, those who already did all of these things. The importance for them of the objects predicated on this concept was to remind, reaffirm and perhaps reassure by means of an ‘inalienable possession’ (in Annette Weiner’s terms) which symbolised the giver as well as what he expected in return.60 There is no harm in seeking to shore up one’s core support by reinforcing the bonds of loyalty – it is a necessity, in fact, and for the converted themselves the making, distribution, acquisition and possession of Jacobite objects would have been an important means of creating or expressing personal identity based on loyalty and adherence. To appeal, however, to the segment of the population that does not require much convincing of the merits of one’s position without also seeking new recruits can be a fatal error, especially where those who do love are not always prepared to translate that sentiment into action.

Substituted kings The image of an earlier king is frequently used in Jacobite objects as a stand-in for the Stuart claimant of the day. A tangible thing is used to represent the king who is physically absent. It is also another application of typology (modelled on the biblical) to the presentation of the Jacobite message: episodes from earlier Stuart history were seen as prefigurations of current events, in a dynastic cycle of misfortune and restoration. It has been suggested, for example, that the coins of Charles II and James II, which are sometimes found embedded in English glassware of the eighteenth century, are assertions of Jacobite sentiment in a disguised form.61 The Jacobite associations of embedded coins have been questioned by some, but probably in ignorance of an object owned by Prince Charles Edward himself. Part of the travelling canteen made for him by the Edinburgh goldsmith Ebenezer Oliphant (1713–98; of the Jacobite family

Substituted kings

of Gask), abandoned at Culloden and presented by the Duke of Cumberland to the Earl of Albemarle, is a silver quaich with a guinea of the prince’s grandfather James II affixed to the centre of the bowl.62 Charles would have seen his grandfather’s image whenever he drained a tot of whisky (which was often), so it is likely that coins of other Stuart monarchs embedded in drinking vessels have the same purpose. When you drink the king’s health he is there before you. Jacobite supporters would have had the added benefit (not available to public enemy number one in 1745/6) of being able to explain away these coins as merely antiquarian ornaments with no seditious Jacobite intent. Still, one could have chosen George’s coin over James’s. The appearance in the last years of Queen Anne of pieces by the medallist and tortoiseshell-worker John Obrisset with Charles I on one side (drawn from seventeenth-century medals) and Anne on the other serves a similar function: to remind the viewer that Anne’s occupancy of the throne depends on her Stuart blood – and, by implication, that there is another who has a superior claim to that throne on the basis of descent.63 Images of Charles I (on his own, without his granddaughter Anne) continued to be popular in the eighteenth century.64 Representations of the royal martyr dating from the 1640s were in abundance, and would have taken on new relevance in a further period of Stuart eclipse; but there were new commissions as well. Obrisset, for example, also produced a large number of portraits of that king in tortoiseshell and other materials during the reigns of both Anne and George I.65 While portraits of Charles I are not explicitly Jacobite in character, they would have had the greatest appeal to Tories and High Churchmen, many of whom were active in promoting the cause of the royal martyr’s senior heir. One cannot imagine many Whigs being drawn to such objects.66 Images of Queen Anne, which continued to be popular after her death, may also indicate a preference for the Stuarts (including those living on the Continent) over the reigning Hanoverians. The appeal of such objects to a Jacobite must have been that the display of an image of Charles I, unaccompanied by more in the way of explicitly incriminating symbols or texts, would have been proof against charges of seditious intent, in a way that an image of James II might not (especially if it referred to him as king after 1688) and as an image of one of the latter’s Roman Catholic issue certainly would not. A favourite Jacobite emblem of the 1740s was the image of Charles II hiding in the Boscobel oak, used as a stand-in for the Charles Stuart of the 1740s and seen, for example, on an English pottery plate produced at the time of the ’45.67 The Old Pretender and a bird’s-eye view of Boscobel House appear on a silver snuffbox that is

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presumably earlier in date.68 The escape of warlike Stuart princes from the battlefield, aided in each case by an intrepid lady (Jane Lane, Flora Macdonald) was the kind of parallel that appealed to the typological Jacobite mind, which believed (indeed hoped, with respect to a restoration) that history always repeated itself. As indeed it seemed to do. A Protestant cousin had deprived Mary, Queen of Scots of the English throne, an event replayed for James II by William and for his son by George I; and two Stuart monarchs had lost their heads. More positively, James VI had succeeded to the English throne that eluded his mother, Charles II returned in 1660 and, if all went according to plan, a Stuart would be once again be restored to the thrones of his ancestors after exile. The circular cycle of history is a recurrent theme of Jacobite poetry, both popular and literary – what Barrett Kalter has called, in relation to Dryden, the use of strategic alternation ‘between typology, parallelism, chronology, and anachronism, to achieve specific rhetorical effects’.69 With much less sophistication than Dryden’s political verse but with no less effectiveness, there is a strong sense in the material culture as well that ‘we have been through all of this before’.70

Deceptive and recycled images The use of deceptive inscriptions, or no inscriptions at all, on seditious prints or objects was not a watertight defence in the event of prosecution. Jacobite propagandists nevertheless relied heavily on this strategy, out of necessity; it might work, and the alternative was not to transmit the legitimist message at all, which was clearly not helpful. Jacobite use of deceptive images is complicated and was not always motivated by prudence in the face of possible legal consequences. Sharp is doubtless correct to say that the inscription on the portrait of James as ‘Louis Alexandre de Bourbon’ was intended as a protection from prosecution, which was always a real possibility, but it may also be that there was no real expectation that anyone would be taken in by the ruse.71 Indeed, the point may have been to taunt the authorities rather than put them off the scent. This appears to be the point of another print derived from the Belle portrait of James, which bears the legend ‘His Royal Highness George Augustus Prince of Hanover Electoral Prince of Brunswick & Duke of Cambridg [sic] Grandson to ye Most Illustrious Princess Sophia’ – none other than the man who later became King George II. The image was later recycled as the father of George Augustus – that is, King George I. Were

Deceptive and recycled images

these identifications Jacobite jokes at the expense of anyone gullible enough to think that either German George was represented?72 Something similar may have been afoot in the two London altarpiece scandals that erupted (or were engineered) in the early decades of the eighteenth century. The first episode was in 1713–14, when there was a flurry over a new altarpiece of the Last Supper at St Mary Whitechapel, painted by the high-flyer James Fellowes (c. 1690–c. 1760) at the instance of the non-juror Richard Welton, rector of Whitechapel. The painting was said to depict the Pretender as one of the Disciples and White Kennett, the Whiggish Dean (and later Bishop) of Peterborough as Judas Iscariot. The second controversy, which arose in the highly charged atmosphere after the failure of the Atterbury Plot, involved a painting by William Kent (c. 1698–1748) of St Cecilia, which had been installed over the altar of St Clement Danes in 1721 but which caused offence in 1725, when the figure of the saint was identified as a portrait of Clementina and one of the putti possibly as Prince Charles Edward.73 If the two altarpieces did, in fact, represent the contemporary people they were said to, it would seem that the element of disguise was superficial on purpose, intended to provoke rather than to deceive. The prints of Maria Clementina which represent her as a ‘Polish Lady’ (see Figure 3) appear to employ the same strategy, at once seeming to dissemble the identity of their subject but at the same time making it perfectly obvious. There are versions of the mezzotint with the ‘Polish Lady’ inscription and without.74 One explanation for the different types of prints is that the states with no identifying inscription are later in the series, on the theory that once the print-buying public knew what Polish dress looked like and could readily identify the subject of the portrait, even a cryptic caption was no longer necessary. The image itself could be presented on its own, shorn of allegory and all but essential properties. This is plausible, but there is a complication. Edward Corp suggests that the ‘Polish Lady’ may in fact be a recycled image of Princess Louise Marie (1692–1712), the Pretender’s younger sister, used as a hurried substitute for Maria Clementina in the face of sudden demand for her image after the daring escape from Innsbruck, but in the absence of readily available painted or engraved portraits from life. The portrait of Louise Marie, now lost, showed her in ‘mascarade’ – probably a Turkish costume that could pass for Polish.75 It seems likely that an engraved version of this earlier portrait was adapted for use as Maria Clementina. Exigency may also explain an engraved frontispiece used in two works that capitalised on the fame of the Young Pretender in the wake of the ’45, Young Juba: Or, the

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History of the Young Chevalier (1748) and Virtue in Distress: Or, Heroism Display’d (1749), where a portrait of a gentleman appears to have been pressed into service as an image of the prince. The plate has a portrait which is clearly not a likeness of the prince at all, but the verses which appear below are meant to suggest that it is: Few know my Face, tho’ all men do my Fame; Look strictly, & you’ll quickly guess my Name: Through Deserts, Snows & Rain I made my Way, My Life was daily risqu’d to gain the Day! I make no Promises to those that keep none. Judging by the armorials (not royal Stuart) and the inkpots and books which appear below the portrait, this is some literary gentleman pressed into service in the absence of a true image of the prince, with verses added to gloss over the deception.76 Note as well the emphasis on looking strictly as the key to understanding the message and the reference to promises – another way of saying ‘look, love and follow’. Alteration of plates was another common practice in this period, and it served a number of purposes. It was often simply a matter of saving the engraver the time and trouble of preparing a new metal plate from which to make impressions. If clothing and scenery were sufficiently generic, relatively small areas of a portrait – faces, heraldry, orders and inscriptions, typically – could be erased and re-engraved, and the whole plate reprinted as a new subject. This allowed the printshops to respond more rapidly to the pace of current events and changing tastes.77 Engraved propaganda to satisfy demand from both camps makes some particular uses of altered plates. The printsellers often recycled Jacobite images for Hanoverian purposes to satisfy demand on both sides of the succession question – demand which probably swayed back and forth – and presumably also to be seen to be on the right side of the law in the face of potential prosecution. Examples are the images in two prints, both intended to represent Queen Mary Beatrice rocking the young Prince of Wales in a cradle. One of them is clearly intended to dispel rumours that the prince was a supposititious child, smuggled in by means of a warming pan; the other, which adds the figure of a lascivious Father Petre, confessor to James II, has the opposite intent, using satire to propagate doubts about the paternity of the royal baby. The image of the queen and the child in his cradle was later deployed as Queen Anne with the infant Duke of Gloucester, and then again as Queen Caroline with Prince William Augustus – the future victor of Culloden.78 Necessity was another reason, as appears to be the case if the

Deceptive and recycled images

‘Polish Lady’ was originally an image of Princess Louise Marie, rechristened in order to satisfy the sudden demands of the print-buying public in the wake of Clementina’s sensational deliverance.79 Deceptive images of various types may also be a reflection of the taste for disguise and dressing up which came naturally to the Stuarts. Originally this was a matter of diversion: King James V of Scots liked to conceal his identity in order to mix with his subjects, like Haroun al-Raschid in the Arabian Nights.80 Later, it became a matter of need. King Charles II hid in the Boscobel oak after the Battle of Worcester – not quite disguise, but a similar stratagem. Charles Wogan resorted to a disguise when he spirited Princess Maria Clementina away from her detention in Innsbruck while en route to her marriage with James, with Mrs Missett, a Jacobite lady, assuming the character of the Comtesse de Cernes and the princess that of her sister. As one of the legends on a medal celebrating the daring rescue succinctly put it, DECEPTIS CVSTODIBVS – ‘the guards being deceived’.81 Disguise also dictates the form and content of Jacobite material culture. The ‘Polish Lady’ print depicting Clementina in the act of pulling a mask away from her face is a visual reminder of the deception essential to the success of the escape, which was still fresh in the collective memory. Any reader of the Stuart Papers at Windsor Castle will be familiar with the Jacobites’ heavy reliance on coded messages – both in cypher and by the substitution of innocuous words for dangerous ones – as well as the multiplicity of pseudonyms used to refer to the major players in the drama. Clementina’s elder son, Prince Charles Edward, resorted to disguise when he fled after Culloden dressed as Betty Burke, the maid of Flora Macdonald, and in his wanderings in the late 1740s and 1750s.82 The image of the prince in drag appears in prints and on Jacobite glassware.83 It is clear that from quite early on, Jacobite material culture that relied on an element of deception or disguise did so partly as a stratagem to avoid prosecution (or at least detection); but there was also the fun of the game itself. Why else the teasing identification of James as George in the print described previously? Some degree of nose-tweaking appears to have been at work. A later manifestation of the resort to deception leads to somewhat different conclusions. To the extent that one may say that the anamorphic portrait of Prince Charles Edward (Figure 5) has something of the parlour game about it, this may tell us something about its probable date of production – some time in the later 1740s or 1750s – that is different from, say, the 1720s. Many anamorphic pictures are actually very easy to understand even when they are not viewed from

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the particular angle, through the pin-prick in the box or the hole in the wall, or with the cylindrical mirror that makes the distorted image true. One writer has suggested that distorted portrait engravings of Charles I, widely distributed during the Commonwealth, are ‘secret’ pictures, but at least some of these are perfectly identifiable without slanting the image to reveal an undistorted image of the king.84 So how ‘secret’ could they really have been? The point of such pictures, perhaps of all anamorphic pictures, is not so much the mystery of what the image is as the process of making the distortion go away and confirming one’s earlier intuition of what it represented in the first place – a landscape, a figure or a skull (to use the most famous example, from Holbein’s Ambassadors). A relatively insubstantial deception melts away and the true king emerges in all his glory. Jacobite propaganda in material form often works in this way: even if (and that is often a big ‘if’) we cannot be sure who the distinguished-looking gentleman is, we have strong suspicions that it is the Pretender, suspicions easily confirmed on further investigation. The anamorphic portrait of Charles Edward is actually rather difficult to discern without the cylindrical mirror, but here again the game of making the picture appear seems to be more important than the secrecy: a mysterious board with curved streaks of paint might have drawn more attention and raised more questions, in fact, than an ambiguously labelled engraving – and anyone who recognised it as anamorphic would have realised that there was something there to be discovered. An ostensibly ‘secret’ picture may thus be indicative of the freedom with which Jacobitism was displayed in the days that led up to Prince Charles Edward’s march south into England – the period of white cockades and tartan waistcoats – or of the passing of Jacobitism from political project to harmless pastime.

Heraldry Similar to the display of the king’s picture is the assertion of the royal line through dynastic symbols, and it is hardly surprising that these are found on objects produced by and for those with a traditionalist cast of mind. Royal heraldry is frequently employed in Jacobite iconography. By way of example, in an English print dating from some time in the late seventeenth century, four oval portraits of James II, Mary Beatrice and their two children are grouped amidst escutcheons bearing the arms of the king’s

Heraldry

four realms (England, Scotland, Ireland and, in right of the Plantagenets, France), each encircled by the Garter. The portraits of the royal parents are surmounted by crowns, their elder son’s by the Prince of Wales’s ancient badge of three ostrich feathers.85 Any depiction of the three ostrich plumes in the period from 1688 to 1714 was a political statement in itself. It asserted the legitimacy of James Francis Edward and the unbroken right of his father to confer titles, denying the (false) rumour that a miller’s brat had been smuggled into the bedroom of Mary Beatrice in a warming pan and passed off as her own newborn child. Until George I’s adult son was also given the title of Prince of Wales on his father’s accession in 1714, there was no other possible bearer of that dignity but young James of the senior branch, who was frequently depicted with the feather badge.86 The Prince of Wales’s feathers were later applied to Charles Edward, as bearer of that legitimist title, appearing frequently on Jacobite glasses, and nowhere more dashingly than in the swagger portrait of a young Charles Edward (1737–8) painted by Louis-Gabriel Blanchet (1705–72) and now in the National Portrait Gallery, in London, where the prince rests his right hand on a tripleplumed tournament helmet.87 Edward Hawkins suggests that the Stuarts regarded the lion and unicorn which supported the British royal arms as familial emblems to which the later Hanoverian occupiers of the throne were simply not entitled (they were not, by virtue of birth, princes of Great Britain, being descendants of James I and VI only in the female line). This is certainly borne out by the obverse of the Unica Salus medal (Figure 6), where the white, interloping horse from the electoral arms of Hanover tramples both lion and unicorn on their home ground.88 Also derived from heraldry are the floral badges used by British royalty, the rose and the thistle. The very frequent device of the rose as used in Jacobite material culture has divided opinion, however. It is almost always six-petalled, in contrast to the traditional five-petalled rose of heraldry, but whether or not roses and buds on Jacobite glasses represent James and one or both of his sons, as is often asserted, there must be some connexion to the roses of the Plantagenets and Tudors. It was this descent (through Henry VIII’s sister Margaret Tudor, queen of James IV of Scots), after all, which paved the way for the Scottish Stuarts’ inheritance of the English throne in 1603. Jacobite glassware picks up the heraldic theme in its use of the crowned thistle badge of Scotland, the Prince of Wales’s feathers (for Charles Edward now, rather than his father), and a version of the royal arms without Hanoverian elements.89

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Allegorical and mythological figures Closely related to the use of heraldic symbols is the deployment of allegorical figures representing the ancestral realms of the Stuarts. Britannia is the foremost of these. She embodies the central dynastic fact of the union of the English and Scottish crowns – and implicitly states an objection to the union of parliaments which took place under Queen Anne, an intruded ruler, albeit a Stuart and one whom many Jacobites found less objectionable than her elder sister, her brother-in-law or her de facto successor. The Stuarts may also have regarded Britannia as a familial symbol, for her original was, after all, a cousin: Frances (1647–1702), la Belle Stuart, granddaughter of Walter Stuart, 1st Lord Blantyre.90 Britannia appears frequently on Jacobite objects, notably on the Unica Salus medal (Figure 6), where she mourns the state of Britain and her ‘lost lover’ James. In Jacobite iconography, she is Astræa Redux (as Dryden would have said), the personification of the justice that will prevail when the golden age is restored – a theme developed in the fourth, ‘Messianic’ eclogue of Virgil.91 Other medals produced in Rome for the Stuarts depict her in a rather bland continental baroque style.92 Britannia reappears on medals struck by later members of the Roettiers family for Charles Edward in the late 1740s and early 1750s and in the related print of the prince as ‘the Christian Hero’.93 In this tradition as well are native British works which display national personifications and which are indicative of the occasional congruence of ‘court’ and ‘popular’ motifs. On the leaf of a fan of circa 1745 in the Drambuie collection, there are three figures, each placed on an inaccurate map of her homeland: Hibernia with a harp; Anglia, bearing aloft a crown and with the cross of St George on a shield at her feet; and Scotia in Highland bonnet and plaid.94 The three look up adoringly at a portrait of Prince Charles Edward borne by putti. On another fan of roughly the same period, Charles appears in armour, attended by Mars and Bellona (or Minerva) bearing a shield with the head of Medusa. These divinities have, less plausibly, been identified as Cameron of Lochiel and Flora Macdonald, respectively. Fame holds a laurel wreath over the prince’s head. Venus and Cupid are to the left, with Britannia receiving an olive branch from a dove. From above, Jupiter strikes down Envy and Discord with a thunderbolt as other figures, presumably representing the Hanoverians or their supporters, retreat into the background.95 Allegories of time and fortune are also encountered, the implication apparently being that while George may for the moment be triumphant, we

Allegorical and mythological figures

will ultimately witness the return of the true king. This may be the import of a mezzotint of Charles Edward from the 1740s, which has his portrait in an oval cartouche, attended by Father Time with a scythe, a figure of Hope holding an anchor which sinks into the sea (unattached to the ship, which founders in the background), and above, a putto blowing bubbles (one bursting) on which there are crowns.96 The image has its ambiguities: Time’s scythe slices through the rope of Hope’s anchor, which therefore sinks into the waves, like the ship. Whose ship (of state) is it, and whose hope? Is the bubble Prince Charles’s project or that of the Hanoverian dynasty? The fleet being destroyed in the background by the storm could, to judge by the inscribed date ‘d. 6 et 7 Mart. 1744’ (6 and 7 March 1744), be the French or the British navy, both buffeted by the winds on those days. And above all this destruction, the portrait of the prince floats with serene detachment, as if none of these omens of misfortune ultimately matters. Time also appears in the naïve plasterwork of Tackbear Manor in Devon, flanked by figures identified as the Pretender (elegantly dressed, with a crown above him) and George I (naked and pot-bellied, menaced by a hovering flail).97 Father Time points encouragingly in James’s direction. Here the implication is clear that the inevitable cycle of history will sweep away the usurper and permit the return of the Stuarts, whose sojourn at the bottom of the wheel of fortune will one day come to an end. (Presumably the pattern of loss and restoration is meant to stop after this last turn.)98 As a critical commentary on the supposedly Jacobite content of one of the Oxford almanacks put it, the figure of Time ‘has a Scythe in his Hand, being ready to mow and cut down all old Usurpation Acts and Settlements that might be allowed to stand in opposition to the new Restauration Contract’ espoused by the high-flying dons of the university. Parallels are frequently drawn between the Stuarts and classical divinities and heroes. The newborn heir of James II is depicted as the infant Hercules on a medal of 1688; Maria Clementina as the Roman heroine Clœlia on the medal celebrating her escape from Innsbruck; and James and Clementina (somewhat improbably on a personal level, but entirely within baroque convention) as Hercules and Venus on a medal which celebrated their marriage.99 James appears on the obverse of Unica Salus in the armour of a Roman general (Figure 6), and this is not merely a nod to neoclassical proprieties; one is surely meant to think of him as the heir, indeed the embodiment, of the Virgilian virtues of Æneas and Augustus. These two classical worthies were never far from the literate Jacobite mind. Heavy reliance was placed on the Æneid for the portrayal of James (and later his elder son) as the princely support of a defeated and banished

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monarchy, with classical sources used to validate Jacobite ideas about what Dryden calls in his translation of Virgil’s poem ‘a perfect Prince’, the restoration of an earlier golden age and messianic return from exile.100 This was thanks in part to the translations of John Ogilby and later John Dryden, which were respectively royalist and Jacobite in tendency.101 Dryden himself was well aware of the political power of the tangible. This is seen in The Medall (1682), his response to the laudatory piece produced by the supporters of the Whig Earl of Shaftesbury; and in his own manipulation of the plates in the Æneis (1697, a tense time), where, if he was unable to prevent his publisher from altering the hero’s nose to make it look like William III’s, he could choose pointedly non-Williamite dedicatees for individual illustrations (and for his other Virigilian translations).102 The presence of Æneas and Augustus is felt most strongly in the material culture of the Jacobites through its use of classical texts as inscriptions. If James was likened to Æneas, then it was natural to make the comparison between their sons, Charles and Ascanius (legendary ancestor of both Julius Caesar and Brutus, founder of Britain).103 But Charles was compared to Æneas as well, as on a print of the ’45 with the motto multum · ille · iactatus · in · alto · pervenit · in · latium · tandem (‘Much tossed on the sea, he at last reaches Latium’), a paraphrase of the opening lines of Virgil’s epic.104 The phrase Audientor ibo (‘I go with greater daring’), a frequent motto on Jacobite glass, is likewise a Virgilian paraphrase.105 Stuart history, especially from the Civil War, was an epic of its own, a retelling of classical myths of exile, return and a renewed golden age, like Virgil’s poem a tale (it was hoped) of ‘banishment, restoration and succession’.106 It must have seemed to the Jacobites, as they wandered across Europe and beyond, that they were engaged in their own secular drama, reenacting the old epics, the Æneid and the Odyssey in particular. For their royal family, however, Rome sadly proved an Ogygia from whence there was, in the end, no permanent escape to Ithaca.107 Sometimes the allegory is purely dynastic, as on an allegorical fan in the collection of the Victoria & Albert Museum. Against a dark backdrop, there is a progression of dynastic images: Charles II peeping out from the Boscobel oak; Queen Anne ascending into heaven, attended by putti; below her, a lady in black, mourning over crown, sceptre and orb; then a putto pulling back a bold scarlet drapery, above which more putti hover with the royal arms of the Stuarts; the eye is then drawn to an oversized white rose with two buds, which completes the vision of the succession as it ought to have unfolded in 1714 (Figure 9). The fan is dated by the museum from some time between 1715 and 1730. As with objects that depict Anne and her grandfather Charles I, the point is at once to underscore descent from

Topical or commemorative

Fig. 9 Fan, c. 1715–30.

an ancient race of kings but also, surely, to argue that the traditional rules of succession should reapply henceforth.108

Topical or commemorative One recurring theme of the material culture is the commemoration of events. The most obvious example are the medals, the traditional function of which was to mark royal and national milestones, record notable achievements and celebrate great persons. The medallic record of Jacobitism includes pieces to advertise the escape of Maria Clementina from captivity on her way to her marriage with James, the marriage itself and the birth of Prince Charles Edward. Other medals were clearly issued to take advantage of particular turns of events in political and diplomatic affairs, like the peace negotiations of the European powers in 1697, 1710, 1712–13 and 1748, which the Jacobites hoped would result in a diplomatic reshuffle in their favour. Unfortunately for the Stuarts, however, the record of their achievements was rather shorter than the list of their failures, so medallic propaganda often had to fall back on the tried-and-true formula of the image of the Stuart claimant or his heirs.109 Later, the escape of Charles Edward after Culloden in the clothes of the Irish servant-girl Betty Burke was celebrated in prints and on enamel plaques and glassware.110 Another kind of commemoration was that of less happy events (generally in commercial or folk objects), like the gallows prints of James Shepheard

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and the Jacobite rebel lords of the ’15 and the ’45. The execution of Lord Lovat and others in the aftermath of the latter led to numerous memorial pieces, like the two enamel rings made by Ebenezer Oliphant of Gask (maker of Charles Edward’s canteen), which bore the initials k, l, b and d, each surmounted by a coronet, for the Earl of Kilmarnock, Lord Lovat, Lord Balmerino and the Earl of Derwentwater, each of whom suffered the death penalty for his contribution to the Stuart cause.111 Jacobite material culture sometimes needs to be assessed in terms of what it is not, and personal or political satire is, to a surprising extent, in this category. This is in spite of the old truism of political propaganda that it is the attack on one’s rival that aims to win people over, while the presentation of one’s own position in a positive light is directed towards existing supporters. As Herbert M. Atherton noted in his study of British political prints, Jacobite satires are few (although in light of Richard Sharp’s catalogue of the engraved record of Jacobitism, one must question Atherton’s statement that ‘[o]vert Jacobitism is rarely espoused in the prints’).112 It is true that the Jacobites often liked to toast the mole that is said to have caused William III’s fatal riding accident and the horse from which he fell, or to mock George I as a cuckolded, turnip-cultivating, foreign oaf, and Jacobite popular verse is full of unflattering descriptions of the two usurpers.113 There is, however, surprisingly little of this in the material culture. An example is the plaster figure of George I – naked and pot-bellied – at Tackbear Manor, which is hardly complimentary, but there are not many similar depictions.114 The Unica Salus medal was clearly intended as harsh criticism of Hanoverian maladministration as manifested in the South Sea Bubble (Figure 6), but there is nothing else like it in the court-sanctioned medallic record. Even popular, unofficial Jacobite productions exercise remarkable restraint on this score – in a way that anti-Stuart popular prints, playing cards and commercially produced medals (often Dutch, in the case of prints and medals) did not.115 The explanation for this is perhaps the deliberately high moral tone taken in official propaganda which issued from the Jacobite court, although it is somewhat surprising that this restraint should also be reflected in more popular productions in an age that pulled few satirical punches.

The British Isles It should be clear by now that Jacobite symbolism was deeply rooted in tradition, whether that was classical, biblical or historical (or a rich mixture

The British Isles

of these). Jacobite symbolism also had some interesting moments of originality, however. In some ways, Jacobite propaganda can be strikingly direct in a way that seems positively modern. Although Jacobitism has been seen as reactionary and retrograde, the medals, tankards, fans and prints of the Cause are, in fact, the not so distant forerunners of the badges, coffee mugs, T-shirts and posters of election politics in the twenty-first century. The direct approach (whether it is really modern or not) is seen nowhere more clearly than in the map medals which were produced by Norbert Roettiers in the early years of the eighteenth century (see Figure 2). James is, inevitably, on the obverse of these pieces (with the legend CVIVS EST – ‘Whose [image, kingdom] is this?’), but the reverses (with the simple REDDITE – ‘Render, give back’) mark a departure from the usual Jacobite symbols. (The inscriptions are taken from the parable of the tribute money in the New Testament.) The reverses bear a naturalistic representation of the British Isles as a nation state (albeit a decentralised one, with the three capital cities clearly marked by the initial letters L, E and D), as opposed to heraldic symbols of sovereignty or the classical deities found on the medallic output from the Roman exile of the Stuarts. The material – here, the very soil of the Stuart inheritance – is more effective propaganda than some dry abstraction. The accession of the Pretender’s great-grandfather, James VI of Scots, to the English throne in 1603 offered, one would have thought, an opportunity to depict a map of the British Isles, now under one king. The medallists of the first Stuart to rule from London do not appear to have thought of celebrating the union of crowns with such a representation of the two kingdoms, preferring instead to express it in purely heraldic terms.116 Medallic commemoration of the union of the parliaments in 1707 used allegorical figures, armorials and floral badges, but not maps.117 The coinage is invariably heraldic rather than geographical on its reverses, from the accession of James I down to the reign of William IV.118 Even the Protectorate generally used a form of heraldry rather than a more naturalistic representation of dominion over the British Isles.119 This is not to say that maps were unknown in state imagery; they make appearances in the iconography of Elizabeth I and of both sides during the Civil War.120 The world had appeared occasionally on continental and British coins and medals – for example, John Roettiers’s ‘golden’ medal of 1671 celebrating British colonial expansion – as had reduced plans of battlefields (since the 1520s), but these do not offer precise models for the Jacobite map medals, which equate British geography with the Stuart dynastic claim in a way that is new and powerful.121 (And yet deeply

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traditional in its reliance on the physical, the real, the sceptred isle itself.) Another possible prototype for the map medals is the great seal used during the time of the Protectorate, which showed a map of England and Wales, although it is unlikely that the legitimist Stuarts would have been keen to draw parallels between themselves and a regime which had supplanted them for an unhappy interlude.122 It is not in fact until 1688, and the birth of James II and VII’s son, that geographic Britain appears on a medal, when Sir Gabriel Wood (also known by the Latinised form of his surname, ‘Sylvius’), the British ambassador to Denmark, commissioned a cartographic piece in response to a Whitehall directive to British envoys to make public acknowledgment of the royal birth.123 There are two versions of this, probably by George Bower (d. 1689) and both rare (one partly on account of its being made from cracked dies), each with a rising sun to the east of the British Isles, dispersing hail and rain with its beams. The medals bear the legend ILLAS FVGAT RECREAT ISTAS (‘These it disperses, those it refreshes’), a reference to the effect of the sun on the clouds and the royal dominions to the west. The realms are labelled, as on the later pieces by Roettiers. As Peter Barber has shown, the Sylvius medals were announced in London and presented to King James and Queen Mary Beatrice, so they may have been known to Roettiers, the maker of CVIVS EST twenty-odd years later, at least by repute. Like the ambassador’s tribute, the map medals of Roettiers are without the heraldic fussiness and pseudo-classical personifications, but go one step further in paring the Latin inscriptions down to the minimal. The directness of the CVIVS EST medals, in both imagery and inscription, is very modern (Latin aside), but at the same time they are wholly appropriate for a traditionalist prince seeking to remind us, through a forceful biblical parable, of the kingdoms he has lost and his desire to get them back. The depiction of Britain in geographical terms seems to have caught the imagination of its intended audience, to judge by the number of different Jacobite versions which make use of the map design and by the anti-Jacobite pieces which take up theme in order to assert the sovereignty of Anne or George in response to James’s Caesarist pretensions.124 The accession of George I was celebrated with a very fine medal by Georg Vestner (1677–1740) of a giant Hanoverian horse leaping from across a map of northern Europe, from Hanover to Britain.125 A final Hanoverian map medal, returning to the form of the CVIVS EST medals of more than thirty years earlier, was produced in 1745 to mark the retreat of the Jacobite forces back to Scotland.126 Imitation is surely the sincerest sign of effectiveness.

The emblem tradition

The emblem tradition One aspect of the use of symbolism on Jacobite material culture which originated in France in the 1690s and the early years of the following century that seems not to have been considered in any detail is its specific debt to the continental emblem tradition – that is, the highly developed Renaissance system of ‘visual words and verbal pictures’, images expressing moral sentiments with mottoes that complement and explain the symbolism.127 The medal operates in the same way, using its physical characteristics to invite the beholder to consider first one side and then the other, image then text. The first major group of emblematic medals appeared at the time of the Peace of Ryswick, which temporarily brought an end to hostilities between Britain and France in 1697. Although it was probably more in the strategic interests of the Jacobites to continue that war, and to persuade their protector Louis XIV to mount an assault on England that might bring with it the restoration of the Stuarts, the medallic campaign is at pains to show James II, not his rival William III, as the pacifier. The young son of James II appears on the obverse of half a dozen medalets of this period, with various reverses. These include a dove with an olive branch flying over a calm sea and the motto MANSURÆ NVNTIA PACIS (‘The harbinger of a permanent peace’). Other small pieces from this time show the sun rising or shining over the sea and different mottoes. There is also a larger piece, dated 1697, with a reverse of a ship on a stormy sea and the legend IACTATVR NON MERGITVR VNDIS (‘It is tossed but not sunk by the waves’) – an apt depiction of the fortunes of the house of Stuart up to this juncture.128 A later pair, from 1699, have the Stuart heir and emblematic reverses: another rising sun on one, a cornucopia on the other. The sun is a frequent motif on the reverses of these pieces by Roettiers. It is in partial eclipse with the motto CLARIOR E TENEBRIS (‘Brighter from obscurity’). It rises over a calm sea beneath the legend OMNIA FACIT IPSE SERENA (‘He makes all things serene’). It disperses clouds and tiny creatures (of which more anon) accompanied by the text SOLA LVCE FVGAT (‘He disperses them by his light alone’), and clouds with VIRTUS MOX NUBILA PELLET (‘Virtue will soon dispel the clouds’). The symbolism is obvious: James, as represented by the sun, may be in partial eclipse, but this is only temporary (or so the Jacobites hoped), and he still has the power to banish the storms of strife, the darkness of exile and the clouds of error. The sun is an ancient symbol of royal splendour, used as an heraldic badge by Richard II and Edward IV and, of course, as the impresa of

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James’s first cousin once removed, Louis XIV of France, the roi soleil.129 Solar medals also celebrated the restoration in 1660, the eclipse of the Protectorate having come to a happy end.130 Just as the darkness of regicide and republicanism eventually yielded to the restoration of Charles II, so it must have been hoped less than forty years later that the dark days brought about by more recent usurpers would also see a Stuart returned to his rightful place – although it was presumably also hoped that this would not involve the intervening loss of any further royal heads. The sun was also used on small pieces executed by Roettiers or his elder brother James (1663–98) as Williamite medallic propaganda.131 It was natural for the medallist to use solar imagery in relation to any royal personage exercising – or purporting to exercise – sovereignty. The sun was also specifically identified with James, as the solar imagery of Dryden’s Britannia Rediviva (1688), written to celebrate his birth, makes clear: Just on the Day, when the high mounted Sun Did farthest in his Northern Progress run, He bended forward and ev’n stretch’d the Sphere Beyond the limits of the lengthen’d year; To view a Brighter Sun in Britaine Born; That was the Bus’ness of his longest Morn, The Glorious Object seen t’was time to turn. Departing Spring cou’d only stay to shed Her bloomy beauties on the Genial Bed, But left the manly Summer in her sted, With timely Fruit the longing Land to chear, And to fulfill the promise of the year. Betwixt two Seasons comes th’ Auspicious Heir, This Age to blossom, and the next to bear. Born at the moment of the vernal equinox, the infant James is himself ‘a Brighter Sun’ whose birth brings ‘the promise of the year’.132 Louis XIV was not the only sun king, and not for nothing does James have a sunburst on his breastplate on the obverse of the Unica Salus (Figure 6). One likely source for the sun as deployed specifically by Roettiers for James is the work of the celebrated Jesuit emblematist, Claude-François Ménestrier. Judi Loach has described Ménestrier’s theory of the emblem as being based on the premise that ‘since eyes receive any objects presented to them, they are like mirrors, reflecting images onto the soul’.133 She argues that symbolic images were used by Jesuit emblematists like Ménestrier ‘as a

The emblem tradition

means of making their message incarnate within the world in which they served’, an understanding which accorded well with the Jacobites’ reliance on the credo of ‘look, love and follow’ and their use of the image as an immediate manifestation of the king over the water.134 Ménestrier’s Philosophie des images (1682) includes numerous solar devices: Le Soleil dans son Midy. boreæ qvoqve nvbila cedent. Les Vents du Nord luy cederont aussi. Vn Soleil Levant, & des Chauvesouris qui fuyent. vt videtvr non videntvr. Dés qu’on le voit ils disparoissent. Le Soleil dissipant des broüillars. vincit dvm respicit. Il n’a qu’à les voir, pour les vaincre. Le Soleil sortant des broüillars. gratior emergit post nvbila. Il est plus lumineux en sortant des broüillars. Le Soleil entre des broüillars. obstantia nvbila solvet, ou bien dissipabit. Il en sçaura sortir. Il les dissipera.135 The images of the sun from Ménestrier’s emblem book may well have provided Roettiers with a pictorial toolkit for the purposes of Jacobite medallic propaganda. If the legend Clarior e Tenebris on one of the medalets by Roettiers is probably borrowed from the frontispiece to Eikon Basilike, then both its image of the sun and its legend also seem to be derived from Ménestrier, who has an emblem of the sky strewn with stars and the legend CLARIVS IN TENEBRIS (‘Plus clairement dans les tenebres’, as Ménestrier translates).136 As to inscriptions, there are no exact parallels between those on the Jacobite sun medalets and their analogues in Ménestrier’s emblem book, but some close equivalents. If Roettiers did not have enough Latin of his own, presumably those who directed Jacobite propaganda were capable of devising variants. Images of the sun shining through clouds or fog, or over a calm sea, were identified elsewhere in the emblem literature as symbols of ‘Godhead’, ‘Divine prescience’, ‘Divine grace’, ‘Live by virtue’, ‘Safety’, ‘Power of virtue’, ‘Inner nobility’, ‘Virtue wounded’, ‘Christ risen’, ‘Distinguished

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Fig. 10 Sola Luce Fugat, c. 1699.

virtue’, ‘Truth’ – all of which may be associated with an exiled prince claiming divine guidance and a superior claim to rule through virtue as well as right, and with a propensity to drawing messianic parallels.137 While the legends on the Roettiers pieces do not correspond with any of these examples, the images and their meanings are very close, reinforcing the conclusion that the Jacobites’ medallist relied to some extent on the common heritage of the emblem.138 One device in the Ménestrier book in particular bears more detailed treatment, that of the sun and the fleeing creatures, to which the emblematist assigns the legend vt videtvr non videntvr (‘As soon as they see it they disappear’). There is a close parallel in a work of Roettiers, the medalet of 1699 which bears the inscription sola lvce fvgat (Figure 10). The parallel is not in the chosen texts (although they are to the same general effect) but in the images. Edward Hawkins, usually a master of fine detail in his descriptions of medals, suggests that on Roettiers’s piece the sun is banishing tiny demons, but this is incorrect: if one looks closely or with the aid of magnification, it is apparent that the ‘demons’ are in fact tiny bats with large ears and characteristic wings, just as in Ménestrier’s book.139 A similar design, perhaps also derived from Ménestrier, is found in a manuscript now held in the British Library, Proiets pour le Medailler de Louis XIV avec les Desseins de Seb. Le Clerc et des Nottes du Roy, des Ministres et de l’Academie Royale des Inscriptions (c. 1694). One of these designs, which was not executed, depicts the rising sun at the bottom left of the reverse, at the upper right retreating clouds and a flight of owls and other nocturnal birds – a variant on the bats of Ménestrier. Above this

The emblem tradition

scene is the legend FVGIVNT VENIENTE (‘they flee on its coming’).140 Another unexecuted design from the Proiets bears the image of the sun rising over a calm sea with fluffy clouds above and the motto CLARIOR EMERGIT, all highly reminiscent of Roettiers’s reverses and with a legend that is closer to Jacobite examples.141 The designs of Sébastien Le Clerc (1637–1714) may have been known to Roettiers, or both medallists may have relied independently on Ménestrier. Mason Tung’s index of devices gives us one of a bat flying under a bright sun, emblematic of ‘Virtue and glory, follow after’.142 It is hardly surprising that Roettiers looked to the medals of the Sun King for inspiration; as Peter Volz has suggested, the medallic record of the reign of Louis XIV provided a model for the whole of Europe.143 And this numismatic corpus (including unexecuted designs) would have been readily available to Roettiers at the Paris Mint, to which he was attached soon after his departure from England in 1695 and where he served as engraver-general of coins from 1703 until his death in 1727.144 The output of Roettiers for the official series of medals for the French state would have been under the control of the Académie des Inscriptions et Médailles, both in terms of design and of texts. Commissions were also undertaken for patrons other than the French king and state entities, and among these was the Stuart court. The records of the mint list some of the medals produced by the exiled Stuarts, but not all, which raises the question whether the Jacobite series was subject to the same kind of direction by the Académie as was exerted over medals in the official French series.145 Archival work is required on this point, but it is clear that quasiofficial numismatic output for the Stuarts followed the same general patterns as that for the French government, whether or not it was subject to the same level of supervision. This also tends to suggest that while there is definitely a ‘court’ variety of Jacobite material culture, as opposed to popular expressions, the production of court-sanctioned artefacts may reflect the fashions and conventions of available artists and craftsmen as much as they do a coherent vision on the part of the Stuart claimant and his inner circle. The practical result of reliance on the French royal mint may have been to make the emblematic medals produced for the court seem rather un-English, in a way that the map medals did not. It is telling that there are no pro-Hanoverian emblems in response to the solar medalets, but considerable back-and-forth with the medallic maps. It may also be that the Jacobite court was more in tune with the continental understanding of iconography as the vehicle of instruction (indeed, propaganda) rather than as something merely decorative, a divergence from English

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practice, which Alison Saunders has observed in relation to seventeenthcentury tapestries from the two countries.146 Reliance on the emblem books was not confined to those who toiled at the Paris Mint. A number of French prints of a Jacobite character are also heavily emblematic. In one, a portrait of James as a boy, engraved by S. Gantrel after Nicolas de Largillière, the figure is surrounded by four emblematic roundels with Latin mottoes – one of them Ménestrier’s Sola Luce Fugat with the bats fleeing the approaching dawn.147 Wonderfully baroque emblems of royal virtue and suffering, death and salvation/restoration were used to illustrate the oratio delivered at the Roman requiem for James II and were subsequently published.148 Those under the direction of the Académie des Inscriptions et Médailles were not the only ones to think in emblems, which seems instead to have been a natural form of expression for French and Italian propagandists of this period. The engraving of Charles Edward with putti, bubbles and Father Time seems less of what has been called a ‘quirky oddity’ when seen in this context.149 Here again, more work needs to be done on this subject, and it is likely that more of the legends and devices on these medals and prints will be found in the rich emblem literature of the seventeenth and earlier centuries.150 The emblem tradition trickled down to more homely objects too, but minus the Latin texts. These pieces include the depictions of coffins which appear on Jacobite snuffboxes produced in Britain after the defeat of 1746; and the flaming heart, anchor and heart pierced with an arrow, plausibly ‘Jacobite symbols of steadfastness and mourning’, on a silver locket of roughly the same period.151 It is tempting (for once) to agree with an auctioneer’s suggestion that a wine glass of circa 1730 with an engraved sunburst and the motto ‘He shines every where’ may be ‘possibly of Jacobite significance’, given the frequency with which solar imagery was put to the service of the Pretender’s cause.152 A fascinating object which blends European and non-European elements is a carved ostrich egg, probably made by a West African for a Scot, preserved in the Marischal Museum in Aberdeen (Figure 11). The carvings include tulip-trees, which appear to be an African motif; a crowned heart pierced by arrows, which is very much in the European emblematic mould; and the conventional Jacobite thistles, roses and royal monogram. More difficult to explain is the image of a wheatsheaf with birds perched on it – either another African design or a European emblem of harvest and regeneration, or both.153 In any event, the egg is evidence of an interesting meeting between a far-flung Jacobite exile and an African craftsman who produced an object that, for all its physical fragility, is powerful in cross-cultural symbolism.

The eye of the beholder

Fig. 11 Inscribed egg, West Africa, c. 1760.

The eye of the beholder The encoded nature of much Jacobite expression can be difficult to interpret – or even to detect. While the temptation to find a secret meaning should be exercised with some restraint, it is also true that we may miss the Jacobite significations in works of material culture, either because they are divorced from their original context or because we lack the tools to understand that context. There are particular problems in ascertaining whether a Jacobite message is found in material culture that consists of

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interventions in the landscape, for example, since overt symbolism may have been too dangerous to attempt and, even where encrypted, may have been altered by subsequent human acts or the ravages of time. Interpretive difficulties existed even for eighteenth-century observers, as can be seen from reactions to the Oxford almanacks of the early part of the eighteenth century. To a modern observer, the large sheets of the almanack, consisting of a calendar marking university dates and a decorative engraving, and published annually by the university press at Oxford from the 1670s (with one break in 1674), appear to offer innocuous allegories of higher education.154 In the almanack for 1711, for example, Minerva and Apollo stand behind a column; to the left, there is a woman with four small children, one displaying an open book; to the right, a group of figures look out across the sea to a town under siege on the opposite shore; mythological figures ride through the sky in chariots. Could this not merely be some sort of symbolic representation of wisdom, the arts and learning? The writer of a contemporary pamphlet thought not, finding ‘dark Ænigma’s’ of ‘rare Hieroglyphical Genius’ and ‘State-Astrological Skill’ in the design produced for 1712, as well as those for the two preceding years.155 The mother in the 1711 almanack is apparently a ‘poor Revolution widow’ for the pamphleteer, while the figures looking out to sea (more plausibly) anticipate the Pretender’s landing. The hidden agenda of the donnish designers of the plates was, in short, the laying of ‘a French, Jacobite, and High Church Train . . . to blow up the Parliament and Ministry, and with it the Revolution Party and Measures, and in consequence the Protestant Succession, and Religion too’.156 It is interesting that the scenes depicted on these calendars are all borrowed from well-known paintings by Raphael, Titian, Poussin, Pietro da Cortona and others – so the images were clearly not specifically Jacobite in origin. What they say about religion, good government, wisdom and virtue may, however, have been susceptible to translation from that original Italian or French context into a Jacobite mode. The design for 1706 includes, for example, an oak tree with the British royal arms on its trunk. The oak overshadows an orange tree. There are figures beneath the two trees, including Mercury, who indicates the coat of arms to a woman wearing a mural crown. The oak and Mercury are borrowed from a seventeenth-century French allegory of the arms of France; the woman in the original is Minerva.157 But a British, quite possibly Stuart oak and the equally dynastic orange tree as rendered in the almanack could well have seemed politically charged in 1706, just four years after the death of

The eye of the beholder

William III. So the pamphlet writer of 1711 thought, anyway. His interpretation does at times strain credibility, however: can the bull from the Oxford town arms really have been intended as an emblem of the Grand Alliance of European powers opposed to France? But perhaps to doubt a contemporary reading is to betray modern ignorance and to overlook a Jacobite message which would have been obvious enough to a person of the time. Temporal distance may allow a modern observer to view Jacobite material culture with greater objectivity, but also to fail to pick up on nuance, cryptic modes of expression and multiple layers of meaning made necessary by the potential criminal consequences of seditious ideas. ‘Double-edged writing’ and its equivalents in other media were, of necessity, the Jacobite idiom.158 The techniques of the material culture in this regard may, indeed, help us to understand the degree to which the literature of Jacobitism relies on the reader’s awareness of the dual presence of ostensible and hidden meanings. The mode of expression is pervasive. Whatever we may think, the Flying-Post newspaper discerned Jacobite sentiments in the almanack engravings, which it labelled so ‘many Emblems of Sedition and Treason’.159 Thomas Hearne, who would have recognised a high-flying image when he saw one, thought all of this ‘a silly Explanation’, going on to show how the supposedly seditious almanack engraving for 1706 could just as easily be read as a Whig allegory, but he did admit that the effect of the imagery would certainly be to ‘exasperate the Whiggs’.160 Perhaps this is the main point to draw from the controversy over the almanacks in the last years of the reign of Queen Anne: even if a Jacobite meaning was not actually intended to be conveyed, the reputation of the university as a hotbed of Jacobitism at a tense political juncture coloured the interpretation of anything with an Oxonian provenance. Choosing any design, of whatever origin, that featured an oak and an orange tree together was bound to be given a treasonous reading, even if the main point behind the allegory was something else altogether. Sedition to some extent was in the eye of the beholder. The depictor’s motives mattered not, the legal character of a thing being ‘such, as the generality of readers must take it in according to the obvious and natural sense of it’.161 The fact that the Oxford almanacks after 1714 move away from allegories with personifications of possibly suspect abstractions to depictions of individual colleges and their building proposals, with the more neutral figures of founders and donors, suggests that the university authorities themselves saw the need to put controversy behind them, whether or not the earlier almanack designs had been deliberately Jacobite in content.162

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Jacobite imagery has some important recurring themes, but the examples in this chapter serve to show that its use of them is neither simplistic nor uniform. What the Flying-Post called the ‘many Emblems of Sedition and Treason’ (in relation to the Oxford almanacks) rely on a wide variety of sources – biblical, classical, artistic, historical – and these images change in tone and emphasis over time and from medium to medium. As the emblematic medals of the French exile suggest, there was a mixture of preconceived ideas on the part of Jacobite propagandists about what the legitimist enterprise was all about and, at the same time, an opportunistic use of current modes of expression. ‘Court’ versus ‘popular’ is a useful distinction, but should not necessarily be understood as another way of contrasting the sophisticated or complex with the crude; officially produced artefacts were often simple and direct, and mass-market commercial pieces, like the royal oak print, can have multiple layers of meaning of considerable sophistication. The Jacobites’ record of military, diplomatic and political achievement was spotty (to say the least), but their material culture has, for all its rich variety, a unity of vision which results from a common purpose in asserting allegiance and resistance, a shared understanding of kingship and dynastic history, and a recognition of the need to promote the Cause in the face of the potential legal consequences. Jacobite images also had a talismanic, quasi-religious function for the true believer, which may be difficult for us to understand in a secular, modern age. The longevity of Jacobite imagery – still alluring to the Victorian forger and the twentyfirst-century collector – is also a testament to its success, even if the repeated command to ‘look, love and follow’ ultimately failed to effect a Stuart restoration.

3 ‘Their disloyal and wicked inscriptions’:

the uses of texts on Jacobite objects

For all the emphasis on the visual in the material record of the Jacobites, text was important too. As Pope put it in his lines on Addison’s Dialogues on Medals: The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And Art reflected images to Art.1 Inscriptions are frequently an integral part of Jacobite material culture, particularly on prints, medals and glassware – to the point where their absence or incompleteness may be cause for remark. This was certainly the case in the eighteenth century, judging by the minuteness of the parsing of inscriptions on medals. The legend on one of these from 1704 led to its being called the ‘protection of Louis XIV’ medal, because it omits France from the list of the Pretender’s titles – in deference, it was said, to his host at the time (even though other medals produced in France during this period are not shy about asserting the Plantagenet claim to the French throne). Likewise the medal which celebrated the betrothal of James and Clementina, where the inscription describing the latter abbreviated her titles with what one would have thought was a standard-form ‘&c.’, presumably included for reasons of concision on a small surface and so as not to repeat the royal titles already set out on the obverse for her husband. The omission was, however, given ‘mysterious’ significance (or so Hawkins says) by Jacobite adherents who seem to have assumed that an ordinary meaning simply could not have been intended.2

No texts In Chapter 1 the use on Jacobite artefacts of inscriptions that were either deceptive (‘Louis Alexandre de Bourbon’ instead of ‘James III’) or ambiguous (‘A Polish Lady’ for Maria Clementina; Figure 3) was discussed, but Jacobite material culture just as often appeared without any identifying text at all: non verbis sed rebus. The possible explanations for this approach are

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various. One is that images without words were intended to communicate a Jacobite message to the illiterate, the urban and rural poor who would have provided much of the cannon-fodder of a Jacobite rising. This explanation is probably true of popular prints and mass-produced items like pottery, which were aimed at a broad audience that would have included the unlettered (although it is probably a mistake to overestimate the rate of illiteracy in preindustrial Britain).3 The material culture commissioned by the court – medals in particular – is, however, predicated on the idea that it would appeal to all classes; otherwise, there would have been no effort to strike large numbers of medals in base metals, as well as in silver and gold. It would not have been difficult to strike versions without Latin tags (or to replace them with English ones), but this was not done. The designers of these pieces seem to have assumed that relatively unsophisticated consumers would have ignored the inscriptions, recognised the portrait on the obverse and responded to other symbols on a purely visual level – a sunburst or a flock of sheep was easy enough to interpret as emblematic of royal splendour and a Christ-like good shepherd by members of a culture steeped in iconography (although it is possible that some of the allegories and emblems on the medals may have been a bit beyond ordinary folk). This would also have been consistent with the practice of Ménestrier, who advocated ‘the dominance of the picture over the motto and the epigram’ in the design of morally instructive emblems.4 As a result, the absence of text on other types of objects may not have been prompted by any great concern for the uneducated Jacobite. Prudence in the face of possible criminal prosecution was obviously a factor, but there must also have been a recognition that a simple portrait or some potent symbol drawn from the repertoire of Jacobite symbolism – the familiar oak, star, sun or rose – could be far more effective than any amount of verbiage. Pictures spoke the proverbial thousand words and would have been, at least where they did not involve easily identifiable portraits, marginally safer if exposed to the scrutiny of the law. It is more likely, in any event, that reducing the risk of prosecution for the publication of seditious libels in the form of what the Dundas case of 1712 called ‘their disloyal and wicked inscriptions’ was the motivation for suppressing words that could compromise the distributor or owner of the object. This would not have offered an airtight defence: if ‘the obvious and natural sense’ of an image or text was of a seditious tendency, then the person who made it available to others was criminally liable – but it was better than nothing as a defensive strategy.5

Latin texts

Latin texts Even though use of no text at all might have been less inculpating or, on the other hand, an English text more readily understood, Jacobite objects make frequent use of Latin tags. As with depictions of the Stuarts as classical gods and heroes, this is indicative of the parallels which Jacobites drew between their own history and that of the Greeks and Romans, as well as the grounding of many of them in ancient literature. Jacobite glassware makes extensive use of Latin mottoes, perhaps surprisingly given its commercial, not courtly, origin. Some texts are largely confined to this particular medium: the famous Fiat (‘May it be’) and Audientor ibo (‘I shall go with greater daring’, apparently adapted from Æneid, vi. 95) appear to be found almost exclusively on glassware.6 From Horace’s Epistles comes the inscription on one glass, Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt (‘They change clime, not heart, who speed across the sea’), obviously intended as a description of James in 1715 or Charles in 1746, or their exiled adherents scattered across the Continent. This is too clever, though – the glass on which it appears is now considered to be a forgery, if one that recognised the classical inclinations of the producers and buyers of genuine Jacobite glassware.7 A similar but genuine thought is expressed on a Chinese export mug with a paraphrase from the opening lines of Virgil’s epic which describes both the porcelain and the prince (Charles Edward) that it celebrates: MULTUM ILLE JACTATUS IN ALT[O] PERVENIT IN LATIUM TANDEM (‘After being tossed about the seas for so long, he reached Latium’s shores at last’).8 DUM SPIRAT SPERO (‘While he breathes, I hope’) on Jacobite jewellery is adapted from the proverbial, entirely first-person dum spiro spero, frequently found (without Jacobite overtones) as a motto in heraldry.9 On the lid of an ebony snuff-mull with silver mounts, dating from the early eighteenth century, are the Stuart arms and Patrem patriae q. principem dii boni reddant incolumen [sic] illustrissimae genti (‘May the gods bring back safe to his illustrious race the father and chief of his country’), which is along the same lines as the exhortations found on glassware: Redeat (‘may he return’), Redi (‘return, come back’), Reddas incolumem (‘restore unharmed’; sometimes, as on the ebony snuff-mull just described, incorrectly given as incolumen).10 Latin texts had a number of advantages for the Jacobite propagandist. The language is often pithier than English, and thus better suited to the physical constraints of small objects, medals or glassware in particular. Perhaps the best examples of this approach are the numerous glasses with

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the simple word Fiat, which means ‘may it come to pass’ – ‘it’, of course, being the return of the king from over the water. Seddon suggests that the use of Fiat may stem from the final verse of Psalm 89 (which laments the defeat of King David, the Lord’s anointed, by his enemies), as rendered in the Vulgate: Benedictus Dominus in æternum. Fiat. Fiat.11 On the map medals discussed in Chapter 2 are the brilliantly concise CVIVS EST on the obverse (‘Whose is this this’ – that is, whose portrait?) and on the map side REDDITE (‘Render’ – give it back), an obvious allusion to the parable of Christ and the tribute money that exhorts us to render unto (Iacobus) Caesar that which is rightfully his (Figure 2).12 Another pithy slogan is Revirescit (‘It grows green again, ‘it shoots again’), which is found in conjunction with a picture of a leafless (oak) tree. The message is, obviously, regeneration and rebirth after a period of drought, pestilence, winter. It was first used on a medal struck for Charles II during the Commonwealth, appears on the reverse of a medal commissioned by the Oak Society in 1750 (with Charles Edward on the obverse) and was reproduced on glassware (occasionally misspelt Revirescet).13 Latin brevity is also on display in objects which use the royal cypher, frequently seen on Jacobite jewellery and snuffboxes – for example, a pendant in the National Museums of Scotland with a crowned JR8 under a crystal.14 Royal initials also appear in embroidered work like the elaborate bed-hangings of 1719, now in the National Museums of Scotland, with their JR and CR monograms for James and Clementina.15 An interesting example, presumably intended to obfuscate a seditious intent, is the widely distributed mezzotint of James as a baby, based on a portrait by Godfrey Kneller (1646–1723). The prince, in an ermine-trimmed robe, lies on a tasselled velvet cushion beneath a canopy. Behind him is an embroidered monogram of a crowned P within laurel branches: for ‘princeps’, surely, although if pressed maybe one could have said it stood for ‘pretender’ or the name of some European royalty called Peter or Paul. (Bolder versions of the print add the words ‘The Prince of Great Britain, &c.’ beneath the image.)16 Some monogrammed objects have royal associations, having been presented by one of the Stuarts to a loyal follower, like the silver knife, fork and spoon given to Murdoch Macleod by Prince Charles Edward on 3 July 1746.17 Sometimes the intent is to be at least somewhat cryptic, as seems to be the case with the mysterious inscription JR 1696 (with an emblem of the Crown of Thorns and Christ’s five wounds) over the door of Pope’s grotto at Twickenham.18 Often enough, however, the inclusion of a crown or usual Stuart symbols made the bearer’s sympathies plain.

Latin texts

Brief Latin quotations could also be used as a form of shorthand; it was not necessary to quote a well-known phrase in full, for a few words might bring to mind a longer passage or an entire episode. A short phrase could therefore be used to suggest a much richer context. As Joseph Addison observed in his Dialogues on medals (1721), although there commending the concision of the ancients over more prolix moderns, ‘You have often the subject of a Volume in a couple of words’.19 This is more sophisticated than the emotive ‘look, love and follow’, the Jacobite message being imprinted here by a more intellectual process of ‘recognise, complete and reflect’. An example of this technique is a medal of 1737 depicting the two sons of Prince James Francis Edward. Prince Charles Edward appears on the obverse with the legend HVNC. SALTEM. EVERSO. IVVENEM – ‘At least permit this youth’. This quotation from Virgil continues with words that do not appear on the medal: succurrere sæclo. In the Loeb translation, the full text reads: ‘. . . at least do not prevent this young prince from succouring a world in ruins!’ – an appropriate sentiment for a medal asserting the auspicious prospects for the Jacobite succession.20 What Edward Hawkins and Noel Woolf do not say is that the prince referred to in the original is Augustus, the personification of the ideal ruler. The lines are taken from the concluding lines of the first book of the Georgics, where Virgil asks for divine help in restoring peace after a period of civil war and the rule of right over wrong – a passage obviously susceptible to a Jacobite interpretation. Without having to spell it out, the medal obliquely expresses a thought which, if stated more explicitly, could certainly have been interpreted as a seditious libel. The literary source also associates the young prince with the themes of exile, a restored golden age and Messianic monarchy that the Jacobites drew from their reading of Virgil. A variant of the line from the medal of 1737, EVERSO MISSUS SUCCURRERE SECLO, appears on the oval of masonry surrounding a portrait of Prince Charles in an engraving by Sir Robert Strange dating from the 1740s.21 It also appears on a glass tumbler with a portrait of Prince Charles Edward (based on the engraving by Strange) and a garland of thistles and roses, preserved in the National Museums of Scotland.22 This version of the text is also inscribed on a fairly common and finely executed medal by Thomas Simon (c. 1623–65), which was distributed to spectators at the coronation of King Charles II in 1661.23 Simon’s medal was known to those who commissioned the medal of the two princes in 1737 – and perhaps also to the designer of the print of the 1740s.24 Surely one is meant to think of the young Prince Charles in the same terms as his royal namesake and great-uncle, and to hope that the new Charles will also be

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happily restored to the throne of his forefathers. Like their cousins the Bourbons, the Stuarts forgot nothing of their dynastic history – and it is probably fair to say that, also like the Bourbons, they learned nothing from it either. The use of classical sources by Jacobite propagandists was generally sure-footed, although there were some occasional lapses. The following examples are drawn primarily from the medals, the most Latinate type of Jacobite material culture. They will show that the use of inscriptions in this medium, at least, was based on considerable learning, demonstrating an awareness of both classical literature and Christian symbolism.

The Cycle Club, 1710 On 10 June 1710 (the Pretender’s birthday) a group of landowners in north Wales founded a sort of Rotary Club for Jacobites, meeting in the houses of members in succession. A medal dated that year was struck by the medallist Norbert Roettiers, probably in connexion with the foundation of the club.25 James appears on the obverse, with the legend DOMINUM. COGNOSCITE. VESTRUM. On the reverse, there is a scene of sheep against a backdrop of presumably Welsh hills and the motto COGNOSCUNT. ME. MEÆ.26 The second of these texts is taken from sacred rather than secular literature: it quotes the parable of Christ the good shepherd in John 10:14, as rendered in the Vulgate. The King James version has it thus: ‘I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine.’ This is the same kind of rhetorical strategy as Cuius est from the map medals (Figure 2) – indeed the two inscriptions appear together on a silver box with a portrait of James – and a later version is, of course, ‘look, love and follow’.27 The medal invites us to see James as a Christ-like leader, known to the faithful although rejected by some, ready to lay down his life for his flock. This is entirely in keeping with the Messianic, quasi-religious theme of Jacobite propaganda, both medallic and in other media, which is founded on the central concept of the sacred king whose legitimacy is derived directly from God.28 A nice example of this is the set of teaspoons formerly at Fingask Castle, which are inscribed with the initials JR, the date 1715 and the motto Moyses Britannicus; like Moses (and like Christ), James will lead the chosen people out of bondage and exile, back to the promised land and to redemption.29 The motto on the obverse conveys a similar thought but relies on a classical source. In the third book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses is the line

Latin texts

‘Actæon ego sum: dominum cognoscite vestrum!’ – ‘I am Actæon! Recognise your own master!’ – a thought the hunter addresses to his hounds.30 At first glance, this is a close parallel of the words of the biblical passage. But these words are what Actæon wishes he could say to the pack but cannot utter because he has been turned into a stag, as a punishment for spying on the goddess Diana while she bathed. The hounds are just about to devour him. The designer of the medal presumably liked the literal meaning of the Latin, and its similarity to the biblical verse, but did he fail to reread the myth found in Ovid? The image of the man eaten by his own dogs is a troubling one, and it may strike a modern observer as unlikely for the purposes of Jacobite propaganda. There is, however, good authority for drawing a parallel between the Ovidian text on the obverse and the Christian one on the other side of the medal. Learned commentary of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance used the myth of Actæon as a type or rough foreshadowing of Christ’s suffering and death, as part of a general attempt to demonstrate the compatibility of classical and Judæo-Christian wisdom, and the yearning of the ancients after the true faith yet to be revealed.31 The Ovidian inscription on the medal is thus a reminder to the Jacobite faithful that by failing to recognise (and promote) James for what he is (their master), they will bring about his destruction – like sinners who crucify Christ anew through their misdeeds. Provided one does not think too closely about the reasons for Actæon’s demise, he may be regarded as a Christ figure and an analogue of the more obvious Christian symbolism on the medal’s reverse. The parallel between Jesus and James is thereby reinforced, the commandment to ‘look, love and follow’ imprinted on the heart and mind of the beholder.

Maria Clementina’s escape from Innsbruck, 1719 Pope Clement XI commissioned a medal in this year to celebrate the rescue of his god-daughter Princess Maria Clementina Sobieska, who had been detained by the Emperor Charles VI with a view to preventing her marriage to James.32 On the obverse is a portrait of Clementina, richly dressed and identified by her Jacobite titles (CLEMENTINA. M. BRITAN. FR. ET. HIB. REGINA). On the reverse, a lady charioteer appears, driving a biga or two-horse chariot (‘at speed’, in Hawkins’s phrase). The woman must be intended to represent the princess, given that she resembles the effigy on the obverse and wears the same pointed diadem. Clementina’s paternal arms (argent a buckler gules), surmounted by a crown, are shown on the side of the car. Tucked behind her in the chariot is an amorino, a fitting

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passenger for a young bride. Behind them is a view of Rome, represented by the Colosseum and Trajan’s Column. In the distance, but impossibly close to inland Rome, a ship sails under a rising sun – presumably on its way to Britain after this new dawn of Jacobite hopes. The general intent must have been to capture the vivacity of the young princess, just 17 years of age and fresh from her adventure, as well as the exhilaration of the moment. Clementina may also represent a Roman goddess; given the hour of Jacobite triumph, Victoria, shown in a biga on many Roman coins, is the most suitable.33 The reverse of the medal bears two inscriptions. The first, FORTVNAM. CAVSAMQVE. SEQVOR (translated by Hawkins as ‘I follow his fortune and his cause’), appears around the inside top edge of the medal and seems to be a simple statement of the Princess’s commitment to her new husband, rather than a quotation from Latin literature. The inscription associated with this event seems to have resonated, for it is found embroidered on an early eighteenth-century damask ‘servet’ or napkin at Dunfermline in Fife.34 Ted Buttrey suggests that a better translation than that offered by Hawkins would be ‘I pursue my fortune and my cause’, a first-person and more assertive rendering which attributes to the princess, not her new husband, both the initiative and the victory. Buttrey notes, furthermore, that Cicero may have been the author in the mind of the designer of the medal, even if the inscription is not a direct quotation, noting that fortuna and causa are used fairly frequently by Cicero, although rarely together. In the oration Post Reditum ad quirites, Cicero lauds Pompey for his support: vos docuit meis consiliis rem publicam esse servatam causamque meam cum communi salute coniunxit hortatusque est, ut auctoritatem senatus, statum civitatis, fortunas civis bene meriti defenderetis

The Loeb translator renders this as follows: he demonstrated to you that it had been by my measures that the republic had been preserved, showed that my cause stood or fell with the welfare of all, and urged you to uphold the authority of the senate, the constitution of the commonwealth, and the fortunes of a meritorious citizen [i.e., Cicero].35

Buttrey observes that Cicero states that his cause and fortune are identical to those of the state, and that the gods are on his side. The oration was delivered upon Cicero’s return, at the invitation of the Roman people, from forced exile after the Catiline conspiracy. If fortunam causamque sequor was in fact intended to echo this passage in Cicero, then one can see why: the point is that, like Cicero, the Stuarts have divine support and will

Latin texts

return by the will of a grateful people to their rightful position of authority after exile.36 The second motto, DECEPTIS. CVSTODIBVS (‘the guards being deceived’), is at the bottom of the medal, in the exergue, above the date MDCCXIX (1719). The legend is an apt description of Clementina’s romantic flight from her captors under the direction of Charles Wogan, the dashing Irish Jacobite who had negotiated her match with James. Deceptis custodibus is also a well-chosen allusion to a heroine from Roman history. Clœlia, a Roman maiden, was given as a hostage to the Etruscan king Lars Porsenna, as part of the peace negotiated between the two nations. She escaped with her companions, but was returned by the Romans as a sign of their good faith. The Etruscans, not to be outdone, gave Clœlia her freedom. The people of Rome erected a statue in Clœlia’s honour on the Via Sacra. The episode is recorded in Livy’s history of Rome, but there the relevant phrase is frustrata custodes (‘eluded the sentinels’ in the Loeb translation).37 The words deceptis custodibus are from the Periochæ, the fourth-century summaries of Livy’s history that invariably accompany the original text. The periocha for the relevant passage in book ii reads as follows: Ex quibus virgo una Clœlia deceptis custodibus per Tiberim ad suos transnavit et cum reddita esset, a Porsenna honorifice remissa equestri statua donata est. One of the hostages, the maiden Clœlia, evaded the sentinels and swam across the Tiber to her people. She was given up to Porsenna, but was restored by him with marks of honour, and was presented with an equestrian statue.38

Did the phrase in the Periochæ sound better to the person responsible for the medal, or was he relying on the summary as a sort of crib for the longer original? It is difficult to say. The circumstances of Clœlia’s escape are not identical to those of Clementina, but the intrepid Roman virgin is a fitting counterpart to the high-spirited Polish princess. The choice of the episode from Livy may also be an oblique commentary on the less than honourable conduct of the modern Roman emperor Charles, whose willingness to imprison his first cousin Clementina, while a guest in his dominions on her way to marry her intended, surely failed to live up to classical standards of honour as exemplified by the Etruscans and Romans. The source material is probably also intended to reinforce the medal’s depiction of Clementina as a true daughter of Rome, both ancient (driving her biga) and modern (model Catholic princess and god-daughter of the Pope). Clementina is worthy of a statue of her own – or at least a medal.

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The episode of Clœlia’s escape is also mentioned in the Æneid, that locus classicus of Jacobite imagery and kingship theory. The Roman maiden is depicted on the shield which Venus gives to Æneas in preparation for his battle against the Etruscans – a battle which asserts his kingship after postTrojan exile. Clœlia appears amidst other heroic Romans as yet unborn, including Romulus, Manlius, Cato, Agrippa, Mark Anthony and, most importantly, Augustus.39 This depiction of the future glories of the race of Æneas inevitably reminds us of another prophetic vision in the Æneid of Rome’s future glory. In book vi the Cumæan Sibyl reveals a vision of the hero’s illustrious progeny, down to Augustus. This line of descent was explicitly compared on a pair of Jacobite medals to the Stuart line stretching back as far as Banquo and out to the crack of doom, familiar from Macbeth.40 The representation of Clementina as Clœlia therefore underscores her place in the pantheon of Roman-Jacobite legitimist worthies, the fitting consort of a prince identified with both Æneas and Augustus.

Unica Salus, 1721 Similar in conception and with an equally firm grasp of the classical source material is this famous medal of 1721 (Figure 6), produced, probably by Ottone Hamerani (1694–1761) or perhaps by his brother Ermenegildo (1685–1744), after the bursting of the South Sea Bubble.41 On the obverse, Prince James appears in profile, elaborately bewigged and heroically armed as an imperial Roman, with a mantle draped over his shoulders and a sunburst – the new Jacobite dawn, again – on his breastplate. Above him is the legend VNICA SALVS, ‘The only safeguard’. Safeguard against what, precisely? When the medal is turned over, the answer is revealed: the reverse shows an allegory of the parlous state of Britain in the early years of Hanoverian rule, described in an eighteenth-century inventory of Jacobite medals as ‘l’Inghilterra abbattuta’.42 Within a small space the medallist elegantly incorporates many of the usual Jacobite symbols, together with the topography of London. There is a scene with the dome of St Paul’s prominently in the background, and ships sailing down the Thames. A distraught Britannia sits in the foreground, weeping for the state of the nation and her ‘lost lover’ James.43 She is seated beneath a withered tree, her helmet and shield with its Union crosses at her feet. Before her a horse (the white one from the electoral arms of Hanover) tramples the English lion and the Scottish unicorn, not without resistance. In the foreground of the reverse of Unica Salus and to the right of the animals, there is a plant with a circle of

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ovate leaves surrounding a flower stalk, which looks like mullein or plantain – in either case, a weed of waste places. Just behind the heraldic contest, a group of half-clothed figures flee the city. There are inscriptions, too. Above the scene of Britain’s woes is the motto QVID. GRAVIVS. CAPTA (‘What fate worse than captivity?’), in the exergue the date MDCCXXI. This second Latin motto is also on the Dunfermline servet mentioned in connexion with the medal celebrating Clementina’s escape, another indication of the penetration of the medallic information campaign.44 More than two decades after the appearance of the medal, its obverse motto was turned back on the Jacobites in Loyalty to our King, The Safety of our Country, an anti-Jacobite pamphlet of 1745, published in London and Dublin with slightly different titles, in which George II is ‘proved to be the Unica Salus of this Nation, and the Protestant Cause’.45 Even though the Latin texts on the medal are pithy, they have rich associations of their own. The motto unica salus is probably adapted from the exhortation of Æneas to the Trojans in the last hours of battle against the Greeks, where he urges them on to the courage of desperation: Una salus victis nullam sperare salutem

‘One chance the vanquished have, to hope for none!’ Or, as Dryden renders it in his translation of the Æneid: Then let us fall, but fall amidst our foes: Despair of life the means of living shows.46 This has Christian overtones too: willingness to die permits both life and salvation. In any event, the lion and the unicorn on the medal are in the same predicament as the all but vanquished Trojans. This is not the most optimistic message that a Jacobite propagandist in Rome could have chosen for the purposes of rallying the troops at home, but it is suitably realistic after the foiled plots, failed uprisings and aborted invasions of the first two decades of the eighteenth century. It accords well with the sentiment expressed by the motto quid gravius capta. Easy assurances would have struck a false note; it was more the time for gritty realism and making the best of what could be regarded as an almost hopeless situation. Britons had reached the point where Virgil’s ‘one safety’ (una salus) is, for the purposes of Jacobite propaganda, reduced to ‘the only safety’ (unica salus) offered by James. While the Cause was down, like the lion and the unicorn, it was not yet out for the count. The effort James is asking his subjects to make verges on

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the last-ditch variety, although it must be remembered that by this point the man Alexander Pope called Dunce the First had occupied the throne for only seven uneasy years. Hindsight ought not to colour too much our judgment of the viability of the Jacobite enterprise. The prospects for the restoration of the Stuarts may not seem promising to us as we look back with the benefit of hindsight, but at the time no conclusions were foregone and it could well have gone otherwise. On the positive side, the Jacobites were able to celebrate the birth of Prince Charles Edward – the hope of the dynasty – on 31 December 1720, and in fact throughout most of 1721 both James and his partisans wrote of the moment as unusually favourable for their struggle, provided French or Spanish aid, and cash, could be secured: ‘it is most Certain that the Confusion there [in Britain] is great, & every thing is ripe for a Change’, James wrote to his half-brother James FitzJames (1670–1734), Duke of Berwick, in August 1721.47 Victory was there to be snatched, if not quite from the jaws of defeat, at least with a sense that further opportunities might not readily present themselves.48 As for quid gravius capta, the classical source is Ovid’s Heroides, specifically the letter in which Hermione laments to Orestes: Quid gravius capta Lacedæmone serva tulissem, si raperet Graias barbara turba nurus? ‘What worse my lot had Lacedæmon been taken and I been made a slave, carried away by the barbarian rout with the daughters of Greece?’49 Hermione here complains to Orestes, her original intended, that she has been forced into marriage with Pyrrhus. Like Britannia on the medal, she pines for her true love. According to the myth, Orestes subsequently regains his bride, kills Pyrrhus and reigns over Arcadia. The parallel between George of Hanover and ancient barbarians would have been obvious, as would those between the modern usurper and his ancient prototype, between James and Orestes, England under legitimist rule and the fabled kingdom of Arcadia. Until things can be put right, the kingdom of Orestes – like Britain on the reverse of the medal – is barren and desolate. As with the epic struggle of Greeks and Trojans, the classical source brings to mind the themes of rightful entitlement, illegitimate intrusion and eventual restitution.

Heir and spare, 1731 A later medal struck by Ottone Hamerani portrays the two sons of the Old Pretender, Charles Edward on the obverse and Henry Benedict on the

Latin texts

reverse, aged 11 and nearly 7 respectively. In the quality of its artistic design and execution, it is of the same order as the two preceding examples, but its use of Latin inscriptions seems slightly less assured. The medal probably celebrates the birthday of the elder of the two brothers.50 The motto on the obverse reads MICAT. INTER. OMNES (‘he shines in the midst of all’). Just below the young prince’s chin is a six-pointed star to illustrate his literal brilliance. A star was said to have appeared at the birth of Prince Charles, as over a more famous Nativity at Bethlehem, which adds a Christian dimension and, again, a note of typical Jacobite quasi-religious Messianism.51 In both cases, the star leads us to the child we are meant to behold, adore and obey (that is, look, love and follow). The star remained a potent Jacobite symbol: it appears on glasses of the mid century and in a post-Culloden engraved portrait of Prince Charles.52 The obverse of the medal of the two princes is reproduced as part of the decorative framework in an engraved portrait of the Old Pretender dating from 1747 (together with the reverse of the Micat inter Omnes medal of 1731, and a large cartouche based on Unica Salus), another example of Jacobite material culture’s tendency to selfallusiveness.53 On the reverse of the medal, Prince Henry Benedict is described as ALTER. AB. ILLO (‘the next after him’), that is, number two in the legitimist succession to the throne. The first text is taken from Horace’s Odes I. xii: Micat inter omnes Iulium sides, velut inter ignes Luna minores ‘As the moon among the lesser lights, so shines the Julian constellation amid all others’.54 Horace here refers to the ‘Julian Star’, a comet which appeared over Rome in 44 bc at the time Octavian staged games in honour of his dead adoptive father Caesar, and which was interpreted as proof of the latter’s deification. The poet sings the praises of Caesar, with whom the prince is thus neatly identified: Charles, like Caesar, will restore order to a troubled nation. We are also presumably intended to regard the two Stuart brothers in terms of the relationship between Caesar and Augustus. Henry/ Octavian is junior to the elder Charles/Julius, but is himself Caesar, and a star of almost equal magnitude. By implication, both are also contrasted with the distant cadet branch headed by King George I – clearly lesser lights whose glory is merely reflected.55 The Horatian ode concludes with an address to Jupiter, in which Augustus is described as the just ruler of the

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whole earth, inferior only to the ruler of the gods.56 The same is true of Charles as heir to his godlike father. As for the words encircling the portrait of Prince Henry, the source is probably Virgil’s fifth Eclogue, where Mopsus calls Menalcas the worthy successor of their fellow shepherd poet Daphnis: fortunate puer, tu nunc eris alter ab illo (‘Happy lad! now you will be next after him’). Again, an apt phrase on a purely literal reading. The Jacobite who directed the design of the medal probably did not mean us to read much further, however, given that Mopsus and Menalcas are discussing a Daphnis who has recently died – not a parallel one would wish to apply too closely to two young princes, both the hope of the Stuart dynasty.57 On some versions of the medal, there is a further legend around the edge: DIE. XXXI. DECEMBR. MDCCXX. EXTVLIT. OS. SACRVM. CŒLO (‘On 31 December 1720 he produced his sacred countenance from Heaven’). The date is Prince Charles Edward’s birthday, and this is significant in light of the Messianic content of the medal: the prince, like Christ, was an end-of-year baby, and is presented, again like Christ, as the bringer of light to solstitial gloom – and of salvation to his oppressed people. As Hawkins notes, the remainder of the legend on the edge of the medal is borrowed from book viii of the Æneid. Hawkins makes no further comment, but turning to Virgil one sees at once why the line is fitting. As Æneas rides out with the other princes of Troy, just before his divine mother presents him with the magic shield and other arms from Vulcan’s forge, the poet offers this comparison: qualis ubi Oceani perfusus Lucifer unda, quem Venus ante alios astrorum diligit ignis, extulit os sacrum cælo tenebrasque resolvit. even as the Morning Star, whom Venus loves above all the stellar fires, when, bathed in Ocean’s wave, he uplifts in heaven his sacred head and melts the darkness.58 By another classical reference to a star, the elder of the two princes is neatly associated (yet again) with the heroic Trojan, in a passage with obvious Christian parallels – the natal star, the baptismal bath, the ascension and victory over darkness. All that is missing at this point is a quotation from the fourth, ‘Messianic’ Eclogue.59 The inscription also reinforces Jacobite use of the dawn to symbolise a happy new beginning for Britain in the form of a Stuart restoration, as on the emblematic solar medals and the medal commemorating Clementina’s escape.60

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After Culloden In what Woolf rightly calls a piece of post-Culloden bravado, a rather crude medal by an unknown maker was issued in 1749.61 On one side, there is a belligerent Highlander; on the other, a Stuart rose and the motto that concerns us here – MEA. RES. AGITUR. There are two possible sources for this line. Hawkins suggests that the legend is adapted from the eighteenth epistle in the first book of Horace, where Lollius is told that nam tua res agitur, paries cum proximus ardet, et neglecta solent incendia sumere vires ‘’Tis your own safety that’s at stake, when your neighbour’s wall is in flames, and fires neglected are wont to gather strength.’62 The Horatian advice became proverbial – Edmund Burke seems to adapt it in Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790), for example – and may therefore have come readily to the mind of the designer of the medal.63 These lines certainly capture the sense of urgency that the medal wishes to convey, and perhaps an Englishman holding the piece is meant to think of Scotland as the neighbouring house that is aflame (at the hands of the Duke of Cumberland, we are to assume), threatening to spread destruction south. The Horatian epistle itself, however, is inapposite: it deals with the pitfalls of the relationship between patron and parasite or courtier, and the passage about a neighbour’s house actually refers to the danger of introducing a ‘pretty boy or dear girl’ into the household of one’s powerful friend. The other possible source is Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis, a satire on the apotheosis (literally, the ‘pumpkinification’) of the emperor Claudius, who is viewed there as a very unlikely candidate for deification. This material is, on the whole, more appropriate to the content of the medal than the lines from Horace. In the Senecan satire, the gods of Olympus are asked by Jove whether Claudius should be admitted to their number, and Hercules is charged with ascertaining biographical details in order to assess the emperor’s candidacy. As the voting proceeds, Hercules observes that his iron is in the fire (‘Hercules enim, qui videret ferrum suum in igne esse . . .’) and says, ‘noli mihi invidere, mea res agitur; deinde tu si quid volueris, in vicem faciam; manus manum lavat’ (‘Don’t go back on me; this is my personal affair. And then if you want anything, I’ll do it in my turn. One hand washes the other.’).64 If Seneca is indeed the source of the line, its appeal for the Jacobite propagandist would have been its appropriateness in referring to the prince’s affairs or business: a Jacobite restoration. Hercules’s iron in the

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fire suggests that Charles was like tempered steel, waiting to be drawn out of the fire again and brandished, weapon-like. As the translator notes, the Latin phrase about the iron in the fire is also to the same effect as the English ‘strike while the iron is hot’, which was what the Jacobites hoped would happen at this juncture through renewed (although, as it turned out, pointless) plotting.65 Or perhaps the medallist wished to suggest that Culloden was not the ultimate setback, the prince having other irons in the fire – perhaps the foreign military assistance that the Jacobites tried so desperately to secure. These readings are consistent with the two mottoes on the obverse of the medal: on the Highlander’s shield, QUIS CONTENDAT MECUM (‘Who can contend with me?’); and surrounding him, NULLUM NON MOVEBO LAPIDEM UT ILLUD ADIPISCAR (‘I will leave no stone unturned to obtain that’). The burlesque of the deification in Seneca’s satire may also be relevant, if King George II is likened to Claudius, and if both are contrasted with the justly deified Augustus (who speaks against the admission of Claudius) and his modern counterpart James.66 On another medal of 1749, cruder still in execution, there are two inscriptions: on the obverse, I WILL AND DARE, which is obvious enough; on the reverse, GRATA. SUPERVENIET. QUÆ. NON. SPERABITUR. HORA – ‘the time will be more welcome the less it is expected’ (or, in the Loeb translation, ‘Welcome will come to you another hour unhoped for’).67 Although Jacobite plots were afoot in this period, the defeat of Prince Charles Edward at Culloden in 1746 would have made the immediate prospect of a further rebellion or invasion very little expected indeed (even if there were other irons in the Jacobite fire). Woolf identifies the source of the quotation as Horace’s Epistles (I. iv. 14), but does not go into further detail. The lines from Horace are not entirely appropriate, however, which suggests that Jacobite publicists may not always have gone back to the sources to check the context of remembered quotations. Horace in this instance writes to cheer up Albius Tibullus, a melancholy friend returned from the wars in Aquitania, but the tone is altogether too light-hearted for the aftermath of Charles’s military disaster in the Highlands, unless the point is to laugh in the face of adversity. While a Jacobite would have been relieved to hear that the prince had, like the poet’s friend, returned safely from battle, Horace’s words to Albius are inappropriate: me pinguem et nitidum bene curata cute vises, cum ridere voles, Epicuri de grege porcum.

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‘As for me, when you want a laugh, you will find me in fine fettle, fat and sleek, a hog from Epicurus’s herd.’ The lines quoted on the medal are immediately preceded in the original, however, by an exhortation which could be read more sombrely to fit the mood of the late 1740s: ‘Inter spem curamque, timores inter et iras omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum’ (‘Amid hopes and cares, amid fears and passions, believe that every day that has dawned is your last’) – a sentiment entirely in keeping with this lowest point in the fortunes of Jacobitism and perhaps urging partisans of the prince on to one last effort.68 The designers of Jacobite medals (and other pieces of material culture which were based on them) generally chose their Latin texts with great care, in an attempt to combine epigrammatic inscriptions from apposite sources with complementary imagery. In the case of the Cycle Club medal, obvious thought has gone into the selection of matching mottoes, both spoken by a master to those in his charge. The interplay between the classical and biblical sources relies on some erudition, and the overall effect is consistent with the Messianic strand of Jacobitism. The medal celebrating Clementina’s escape selects at least one phrase from a source that fleshes out the iconography of the medal, alluding nicely to multiple passages in classical literature in a way that is highly reminiscent of the Renaissance emblem. In doing so, the medal pays a pretty compliment to the princess by comparing her to an intrepid Roman heroine, and also reinforces the portrayal of her husband as a prince in the mould of Æneas and Augustus – and, perhaps, a patriot like Cicero. Unica Salus – arguably the high point of Jacobite medallic art – uses the images and the inscription on the reverse to complement and illustrate the forceful message on the obverse side, again with a felicitous use of Latin literature. The medal of the two young princes is on somewhat less certain ground, but generally of the same order. The two mottoes that describe Prince Charles appear well chosen at first glance, and doubly so when the source material is explored. Prince Henry’s text is less successful; the words for the younger prince are appropriate on a literal reading, but the passage from which they are taken – the discussion of Daphnis in the Eclogues – is not entirely apt. The two medals of 1749 show much less refinement in execution than the others discussed here, which are all objects of considerable elegance. This no doubt reflects the exigencies of the day, when the urgency of communicating the message was at its greatest, finances probably at their most stretched and centralised control of production the weakest – and also the fact that the medals were the work of commercial makers rather

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than that of a court medallist, who was either well versed in the literary numismatic traditions of modern Europe and ancient Rome or at the direction of those who were. But even here, the person responsible for the content of the 1749 medals seems to have paid some heed to the context of the quotations, especially if mea res agitur is derived from Seneca’s Apocolocyntosis. The Horatian source of grata superveniet is less appropriate to the message of the medal on which it appears, suggesting that the quotation may have been used purely opportunistically, either quoted from memory or without great thought about the passage from which it is derived. Woolf suggests that medallic propaganda under Prince Charles tended to rely on straightforward English rather than allusive Latin, as part of a conscious effort to reach a wider, less educated audience.69 This is certainly true of the Look Love and Follow medal of 1750 (Figure 1), which was made by C. N. Roettiers and presumably with the sanction of the Jacobite court, but ‘I Will and Dare’ is the product of a commercial maker, so probably does not represent an attempt by the official propagandists to appeal to those with no Latin. Officially sponsored medals of the late 1740s and 1750s are, with the exception of Look Love and Follow and a later piece which is known only in late eighteenth-century restrikes, in fact uniformly Latinate.70 Among these is a badge of circa 1745 (an excessively rare one, it must be said) which expresses the sentiment EN. TIBI. ME. SCULPTUM. SCULPTUM. IT. POSEAS. IN. ARE. IN. SCULPAS. CORDI. PRECO. VERE. TUO. (‘Behold me engraved for you: as you possess me engraved in brass: so I pray you truly engrave me in your heart’) – a wordy (and not entirely correct) version of the more effective ‘look, love and follow’.71 These pieces demonstrate that popular (as opposed to official) Jacobite medals did not entirely abandon the older, Latinate approach, although they consistently failed to match ‘the aptness of the Device and the propriety of the Legend’ that is evident in the earlier medallic art of the Cause.72 The vernacular of ‘look, love and follow’ may have been the better impulse, however; after the unsophisticated but vigorous (and mostly anti-Jacobite) medals of the period surrounding the ’45, the Jacobite court’s return to the emblematic Latinity of Amor et Spes (‘Love and Hope’) and Revirescit (‘It flourishes again’) may have seemed old-fashioned – or, worse, irrelevant.

Vernacular texts The use of the vernacular in Jacobite material culture really came into its own – ‘look, love and follow’ notwithstanding – in pieces made by those

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outside the control of the official Jacobite propaganda machine.73 Latin (which was probably beyond the average law-enforcement officer, if not a judge) or no text at all would have been safer. This makes use of the vernacular all the more notable. On objects produced in the British Isles this usually involves the English language, although pieces with Scottish, Irish Gaelic or Welsh inscriptions must surely also exist, given the level of support for the Stuarts in the Celtic regions of their realms. Use of these languages would have offered a perfect code for those who spoke them, incomprehensible to those who did not, including English and Lowland Scots enforcers of the anti-Jacobite laws. There is some evidence for ‘Amen’ glasses inscribed with the phonetic Gaelic Slaunt an Rey – properly Slàinte an Rìgh (‘the King’s health’) – although no example is described in Seddon’s definitive book on the subject and it is possible that any such glasses are the products of later, Romantic/sentimental interest in Jacobitism (a subject discussed in the next chapter).74 It is likely in any event that examples of Jacobite inscriptions in Celtic languages exist but have been overlooked through ignorance.75 French is seen occasionally on pieces produced for the British market, for example on a gold seal with a portrait of the Old Pretender which bears the words ‘Vous y serez tant que je vivrai’, the fan with ‘chacun à son tour’ which was discussed in Chapter 1, and a heart-shaped brooch inscribed J’ouvre, said to contain a lock of Charles Edward’s hair and to have been sent by him to Flora Macdonald once he had returned to France.76 Perhaps using French was a means to avoid trouble. Ich Dien (‘I serve’), the ancient German motto of the Prince of Wales, appears with the ostrich-feather badge on a rare piece of glassware and at least one print, but this is more a reflection of heraldic accuracy than multilingualism.77 Objects produced on the Continent with texts in French or other European languages would also occasionally have found their way to Britain, although clearly anything specifically designed for the British market would, for maximum effect, have addressed its audience in English.

Discretion Where English was used, concerns over prosecution for seditious libel meant that the content of the inscription is often oblique. But not always: the import is clear enough on pieces of jewellery with the monogram JR accompanied by the inscription GOD SAVE THE KING or LOVE AND HONOUR; a needle-case with the stitched text GOD BLIS KING IAMES (Figure 12) or a print identifying its subject as JAMES THE 3’ OF

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ENGLAND AND 8’ OF SCOTLAND.78 The risks associated with small objects intended for personal use were quite low, but their users still often preferred to adorn them with texts that were not explicitly treasonous, like DO COME, AWA WHIGS AWA and THE ROSE THATS LIKE THE SNAW on a group of Jacobite rings formerly at Fingask Castle.79 It has been suggested that English Delftware inscribed ‘To the Pious Memory of Queen Anne’ after the accession of the Hanoverians may be similarly Jacobite in tendency.80 There was greater danger with objects meant for company, unless one could be sure of the loyalties of one’s friends, like a Staffordshire mug of circa 1745 which boldly says ‘God Bless Prince C. Stuart’; and a glass (albeit a rare one) with a portrait of Charles Edward identified as CHARLES YE GREAT / BRITTANIAS PRINCE.81 In general, however, the glasses associated with Jacobite clubs tend to employ coded texts or neutral expressions of association, such as ‘Health to all True Blues’.82 It has been asserted that the name ‘Charles’ is spelt out by the initial letters of the names of the flowers engraved on the five surviving glasses of what was presumably a set of six: columbine, honeysuckle, anemone, rose, lily (on the same glass as honeysuckle), [eglantine (?) – the missing glass], stock. The fact that the glasses also bear the names of characters from Orlando Furioso (one of whom is Zerbino, son of the King of Scotland) whose initials seem to spell out the name of the Hazard, a privateer of the ’45 (at one point rechristened the Prince Charles Edward), lends some credence to a theory that might otherwise seem a bit fanciful.83 This kind of acrostic would have been well suited to the Jacobite love of disguise and deception, which reflected both necessity (fear of prosecution) and eighteenthcentury clubbability.

Translations The use of English did not always reflect a purely popular impulse. Inscriptions in English sometimes echoed or translated Latin originals. The word ‘Amen’ on Jacobite glassware (which is discussed at greater length below) may be a deliberate rendering of the Fiat that also appears frequently in this medium. An English rendition of a Latin original may also be present on an ivory snuff-mull with silver mounts and, on the inside, a plumbago portrait of James with the text ‘This is he’.84 These words are from the Bible: they also appear, with the reference ‘I. Sam. xvi. 12’, on a silver snuffbox depicting the Old Pretender in armour and Boscobel House. In that context, the phrase is part of God’s command to Samuel to anoint

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Fig. 12 Needle-case, c. 1689–1730.

David, just before the latter’s victory over Goliath.85 The parallels one is meant to draw between David and James are apparent. ‘This is he’ may also be an anglicised version of hic vir, hic est (‘this is the man, this is he’) from book vi of the Æneid, a line also found

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on a rare Jacobite glass and a medal (also rare) which celebrates the Old Pretender as the new Æneas.86 The man to whom Virgil refers is (as Dryden’s translation renders the immediately following lines) none other than Augustus, promis’d oft, and long foretold, Sent to the Realm that Saturn rul’d of old; Born to restore a better Age of Gold.87 The ivory snuff-mull, while more ‘popular’ than ‘court’ in origin (to use Monod’s terms) comes from an aristocratic collection (that of the Viscount of Arbuthnott), and so it may reflect a sophisticated taste that was fully aware of a doubly allusive text.

Explicit texts While brevity was often the goal, as with a silver and garnet brooch in the form of the figures ‘45’, Jacobite objects, even quite small ones, often have relatively elaborate inscriptions.88 Often the Jacobite content is plain, in spite of the legal risks involved. Jacobite glassware offers many examples. The risks for an engraver on glass were probably greater than for an importer of medals, as it would have been easier to hide single specimens of the latter or even fairly large caches of them; quick concealment of larger and much more delicate objects would have proved difficult. Nor is it likely that the makers of Jacobite glass relied on a period of relative quiescence in terms of official anti-Jacobite activity: the first major phase of Jacobite glass engraving appears to have been in the immediate aftermath of the ’45, when the authorities were very much on the lookout for pockets of resistance and demonstrations of continued allegiance to the Stuarts.89 Once purchased, the glasses could have been kept from unsafe eyes, assuming a Jacobite host could trust his guests, and there is evidence that collections of seditious glasses were kept in special cabinets and reserved for select company.90 One would certainly have needed to take precautions with the type known as ‘Amen’ glasses, which are for modern collectors the most desirable Jacobite variety (Figure 13). It is their bold use of the English language which makes them so highly prized – and so tempting to reproduce, either honestly or with fraudulent intent.91 These glasses display, in whole or in part, the verses of ‘God Save the King’ in its (original) Jacobite form:

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Fig. 13 The Lochiel and Murray-Thriepland ‘Amen’ glasses flanking a glass with an enamelled portrait of Prince Charles Edward.

God Save the King, I pray God Bliss the King, I pray God Save the King Send him Victorious Happy and Glorious

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Soon to Reign over us, God Save the King God Bliss the Prince of Wales, The True-born Prince of Wales, Sent us by Thee. Grant us one Favour more The King for to Restore, As Thou hast done before, The Familie. God Save the Church, I pray, God Bliss the Church, I pray, Pure to remain. Against all Heresie, And Whig’s Hypocrisie, Who strive maliciouslie, Her to defame. God Bliss the Subjects all, And save both great and small In every Station. That will bring home the King, Who hath best right to reign, It is the only thing Can save the Nation.

Amen

There are thirty-five Amen glasses which Geoffrey Seddon accepts as genuine. Variants in wording exist, and some specimens add dedications to the ‘Duke of Albany and York’ (Prince Henry Benedict, not mentioned in the anthem), as well as pious wishes for the increase of the royal family. Some bear tags and toasts associated with particular families.92 Prints also offered opportunities for the use of elaborate texts in English. An engraving by Nathaniel Parr (active 1742–51) of the Old Pretender’s younger sister identifies her with no attempt at dissimulation at all as ‘Mary-Louisa Daughter of King James II. at her Toilett died Aprill 18. 1712. aged 20’.93 Parr’s print was advertised for sale just before the landing of the princess’s nephew in 1745, when rumours of an impending invasion were rampant.94 Louise Marie (as she is more usually called) is seated at a table loaded with objects that symbolise the transitory nature of fame, fortune and human life, including a large book displaying two passages from Ecclesiastes (‘Vanity of vanities . . .,’ 12:8; and ‘To everything there is a season . . .,’ 3:1). Below are lines from Nicholas Rowe’s Ulysses (1706):

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And therefore wer’t [sic] thou bred to virtuous Knowledge And Wisdom planted early in the Soul; ... To bear with accidents, and ev’ry Change Of various Life, to Struggle with Adversity.95 A parallel is thus drawn between the princess’s father and the wandering king of the play. The lines themselves are taken from the opening scene of the play, where (in words not quoted in Parr’s print) Telemachus exhorts Mentor (I.i.1–4): Urge no more my Royal Birth, Urge not the Honours of my Race divine, Call not to my Remembrance what I am, Born of Ulysses, and deriv’d from Jove Mentor replies with the stoical advice which is used in the engraving. Those lines are immediately followed in the play with words which are absent from the print as well, and which would have offered considerable comfort to a Jacobite. In Rowe’s play Telemachus is counselled (I.i.15–19): To wait the Lesiure of the righteous Gods, ’Till they, in their good appointed Hour, Shall bid thy better Days come forth at once, A long and shining Train; ’till thou well pleas’d Shalt bow, and bless thy Fate, and own the Gods are just. The unseen Telemachus in the engraving is thus clearly meant to call James to mind, and inscriptions which are openly sympathetic to his dead sister but perhaps politically neutral, given the passage of time, become explicitly seditious when one opens the source material to page 1 and fills in the missing passages. The interplay between what is quoted from Rowe’s play and what is omitted is what makes the difference. The vernacular included, in Protestant Britain, the biblical – as with ‘This is he’ on Lord Arbuthnott’s snuff-mull. Direct comparisons between the Stuart claimant and Christ are found in many media, including a portrait engraving of James after the painting by Belle.96 The portrait is shown in an oval cartouche, supported by an angel. (James is, as one would expect, on the side of the angels.) From the angel’s hand dangles a ribbon with the words ‘Thou shalt do no Murther’, from the Sixth Commandment; beneath the portrait with its heavenly supporter is a further biblical text: St. Mark Chap. 12. v. 7 This is the Heir; come let us Kill him and the Inheritance shall be ours.

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This is perhaps a bit startling, but it would have been clear to an eighteenthcentury reader that the intention was not to invite the death of the Stuart heir who is depicted. The line from Mark’s gospel is from the parable of the wicked husbandmen, who kill the heir of the lord of the vineyard in order to have his inheritance. The parable continues thus (12:9–10): What shall therefore the lord of the vineyard do? he will come and destroy those husbandmen, and will give the vineyard unto others. And have ye not read this scripture; The stone which the builders rejected is become the head of the corner . . .

The Hanoverians are the wicked husbandmen in this picture, and the Sixth Commandment is invoked for their benefit. The ‘head of the corner’, the cornerstone of the arch in other words, is the rejected, Christ-like Stuart (the ‘others’ to whom the vineyard will be given being, somewhat paradoxically, of the same stock as the original heir).97 On a fan from the ’45 is yet another game of ‘complete the biblical verse’: a dove flying above a gatehouse bears a banner on which is written ‘My House shall be called the House of Prayer’; the remainder we are meant to fill in for ourselves is ‘But you have made it a den of thieves’ – the words Christ says to the moneychangers as he casts them out of the temple.98 With these and many other Jacobite artefacts, the intention seems to be to skate on the thin ice between the direct and the obscure, the legal and the dangerous.

Marginalia A fascinating assertion of Jacobite identity is the addition of text to a piece of personal property, typically through marginalia in books or other annotations. The small and generally private act of writing could make a generic publication an intensely personal expression of loyalty to the Stuarts and thereby create a unique object of material culture with very particular associative value. There are probably many more examples under layers of dust on upper shelves, but a few have come to light. The Stuart exhibition in London in 1889 included a Book of Common Prayer (1744), formerly in the possession of Lady Strange (née Isabella Lumisden; wife of the Jacobite artist Sir Robert Strange), in which the printed names ‘George’ and ‘Frederick’ in the intercessions for the Royal Family are all crossed out and ‘James’ and ‘Charles’ inserted in their place.99 The users of these books could, when the prayers were read aloud in church, follow along up to the point of a textual insertion and then commit a treasonous act, either mentally or sotto voce, by substituting the legitimist equivalent.

Vernacular texts

The same sentiment could have been expressed without the physical alteration of the book, merely by saying or thinking the Stuart name without committing it to paper, but clearly the act of putting this in writing had significance in itself, as a means of physically recording and reinforcing transgression. The possibility that the annotation could be read by someone else was acknowledged and accepted; perhaps the annotator would even have lent a seditious, altered book to a trusted, like-minded friend. The risk of serious consequences was probably not great, but it was clearly important for the annotator to make a statement of allegiance, even if this was private and fairly timid. A secular example of the practice is found in a Scottish edition of John Gay’s Fables. Gay dedicated his verses in 1727 to the young Prince William, the second son of George II (and later the victor at Culloden). John Ogilvy, the eighteenth-century owner of the particular book (whose name is written on the title page) has committed small acts of resistance by altering the volume: the page with Gay’s dedication to ‘His Highness William Duke of Cumberland’ has been neatly cut out (a stub remains); the reference to this page in the table of contents has been inked out and cpr (Carolus Princeps Regens) written in; and the further dedication to Cumberland at the top of Fable 1 has been altered to read ‘To his Royal Highness Charles prince of Wales’ (Figure 14 a and b).100 The book is otherwise unmarked, which seems to emphasise the importance of the changes to Ogilvy. There is no date of publication on the title page of his book, but the online English Short Title Catalogue supplies firm or conjectural dates of editions by its publisher, Alexander M’cKenzie of Glasgow, in 1752, 1755, 1760 and 1761 (in addition to a dated edition of 1750). This suggests that the alterations were made in response to Cumberland’s defeat of the substituted dedicatee in 1746, probably at the earlier end of the range of editions. Chambers’s Book of Days (1864) quotes (ostensibly) equivocal verses written ‘on the fly-leaf of a book which had belonged to a Jacobite partisan’: I love with all my heart The Hanoverian part And for their settlement My conscience gives consent Most glorious is the cause To fight for George’s laws This is my mind and heart Though none should take my part

The Tory party here Most hateful doth appear I ever have denied To be on James’s side To be with such a king Will Britain’s ruin bring In this opinion I Resolve to live and die

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(a)

(b)

Fig. 14 (a) and (b) Marginalia in John Gay, Fables (Glasgow, n.d.).

Read column by column, the ‘serpentine’ or ‘double-faced’ text appears to declare loyalty to the House of Brunswick; if read row by row, it is treasonous – double-faced in a different way. Chambers unfortunately does not say where the annotated book may be found.101 A further example is a copy of A Collection of Loyal Songs, Poems, &c. (1750) in which an eighteenth-century hand has supplied what the printer more prudently left as blanks or asterisks: for example, ‘royal C[harles]!’, ‘The base U [surpe]r’s mercenary Slaves’, ‘Tho’ [Geordie] reigns in [Jamie’]s Stead’, ‘Come here’s a Health to J[ames] the T[hir]d’ – not difficult to do, but seditious in its own small way.102 Heather Jackson questions the assumption that marginalia are always ‘spontaneous, impulsive, uninhibited; that they offer direct access to the reader’s mind; that they are private and therefore trustworthy’, but Jacobite annotations do seem to fit most of these criteria, with the crucial exception of ‘uninhibited’.103 It is, in fact, because the Jacobite annotator’s act was at least to some degree inhibited by the nature of the sentiments expressed, and their possible legal consequences, that it has a private, impulsive and authentic ring to it. The marking or defacement of a printed text in order to express a Jacobite point of view also illustrates the ‘spirit of

Vernacular texts

contradiction’ which Jackson notes elsewhere as one characteristic of annotations in books.104 There must be many more examples than just the handful described here, although to find them would probably involve much dusty searching in country houses and provincial bookshops.

Defiance Soldiers who had Jacobite slogans engraved on their sword-blades felt no such inhibitions, and their mode of expression would have lacked nothing in impulse and authenticity. A small arsenal of these weapons was exhibited in the Culloden bicentenary exhibition in Edinburgh. Typical is a broadsword with a crown on one side of the blade and the inscription ‘For God my country and King James the 8’, on the other a figure of St Andrew and ‘Prosperity to Schotland [sic] and no union’.105 Another has both Latin (‘Jacobus Tertius Magna Britanniae Rex’) and English (‘With this good sword thy cause I will maintain and for thy sake O James will breath each vein’) engraved and gilded on the two sides of the blade, as well as a later inscription (‘Taken at Culloden April ye 16. 1746 by Captain Powell’).106 The defiant motto HAVE AT THEM appears with two crossed guns on the reverse of a badge, probably produced at the time of the ’45 or in its aftermath, with St Andrew and FEAR GOD AND HONOUR THE KING on the obverse.107 Similarly defiant are the names, slogans, devices and coats of arms carved in the walls of cells in Carlisle Castle by imprisoned Jacobites in 1715 and 1746.108 There is some evidence of the chalking of Jacobite slogans on doors during the period of the ’45, for example in Richard Graves’s novel The Spiritual Quixote, a form of annotation that was clearly intended to be more public, if less permanent, than the alteration of a prayer book or book of verses.109 English mottoes were not confined to books and warlike objects. There are slogans on ribbons and garters which chart the ups and downs of the Jacobite cause from the landing of Charles Edward in 1745 to his departure the following year: Come let us with one heart agree To pray that God may bless P.C. Our Prince is brave, Our cause is just, in God alone we put our trust God bless the Prince who had long since a right to the crown Then we will fight in armour bright to pull usurpers down The Glorious at last Triumphant Prince Charles

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Come let us with one heart unite to bless the Prince for whom we fight When you see this Remember me110 Commemorative pieces, including pincushions (see Figure 15) and jewellery, that name the Jacobites executed after the defeat of 1746 are common.111 There is biographical evidence to suggest that the inscription on a monument in the churchyard of St Laurence, Upton, near Slough (and Windsor) in Berkshire is a statement of Jacobitism, at once coded and defiant: Here lies the Body of Sarah Bramstone of Eton, Spinster, a person who dared to be just in the Reign of George the Second Obiit Jany ye 30th 1765 ætat. 77112 Are there also tombstones engraved with white roses? A re-examination of both the inscriptions and the iconography of the monuments of known and suspected Jacobites could prove fruitful.113 A more fragile annotated object was found in the course of renovations to the deanery at Bampton in Oxfordshire some time in the nineteenth century. In a deal box was a Jacobite pincushion with the names of the victims of 1746, together with a hen’s egg. On the egg are written the words ‘God Bless King James III’. The box is also said to have contained a paper with this childish warning: I put this in with a designe not to oppen itt till King James comes to the crowne, and I will cape my word itt is a hen’s egge, and some of Martha Frederick’s haire and her Mother’s haire in this Box. I will for ever stick to my principles. I will ever honour my King as long as I live. Martha Frederick.

On the back of the paper is the direction ‘Do not open this peaper for fere of yr. eyes, for it will blind you’; and on the lid of the box, ‘It is a forfit to open this box, for it is congering [i.e., conjuring] in it and will eat out yr. eyes’.114 The box and its contents were said to have been preserved in the Ashmolean Museum, but there appears to be no record of them there.115 The degree of detail in their description lends an air of authenticity, however. The things themselves (wherever they are now) and their making were clearly of enormous significance to young Martha Frederick, and her egg is invested with magic. Childish acts can be as bold as any sword-blade inscription.

Vernacular texts

Fig. 15 Pincushion, c. 1746.

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Retrospective The Union was one of the main historical events regarded by partisans of the Stuarts as symptomatic of everything that was wrong with modern Britain, but not the only one. In the decoration of a china punch-bowl of the mid eighteenth century depicting Prince Charles Edward in a Highland bonnet and tartan coat, there are ribbons with two mottoes: ‘Right to him that suffers worst’ (which suggests a date after 1746) and, interestingly, ‘A speedy restoration and down with the Rump’, a reference to the Roundhead parliament of 1649–53 but used on the bowl as a symbol of Whiggery and Hanoverian usurpation.116 ‘Down with the Rump’ was a popular Jacobite toast and also appears on a glass tumbler, a Staffordshire mug, a pair of garters and pincushions of roughly the same period as the punchbowl.117 Not for nothing did Jacobites ask God when they sang their version of the national anthem to ‘Grant us one Favour more / The King for to restore / As thou hast done before, / The Familie’. History was everpresent for the Stuarts and their partisans, and is reflected in both their images and the texts which so often accompanied them. The words found on Jacobite artefacts are spoken in many different voices. There is the assured classicism of the finest of the medals and the glasses, as well as some less elegant articulations. Vernacular expressions range from the homespun to the sophisticated, the sacred to the secular. There is direct and pointed exhortation (Fiat, Reddite, ‘Down with the Rump!’) but also the considerable elaboration of Jacobite themes on the ‘Amen’ glasses. The inscriptions found in Jacobite engravings can be pithy or more developed, often with hidden layers of meaning (as in Parr’s print of Princess Louise-Marie). Some texts are meant to be seen by just one pair of eyes, while others are public declarations. Explicit Jacobite messages reflect a variety of factors: use of the inscribed object that was confined to one individual or a small, private audience; production beyond the territorial reach of English or Scottish law; a calculated risk that the propaganda value of publicity would outweigh the legal consequences; or, in the heady days of 1745, confidence that victory was at hand. The tone can be pugnacious or quietistic, inspirational or elegiac, depending on the date, origin and function of the object. Just as the visual symbols used to decorate Jacobite objects suggest that expressions of Jacobite sentiment are many and various, so too do the inscriptions they bear, even if they always express the unifying themes of allegiance and resistance.

4 ‘Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis’:

phases and varieties of Jacobite material culture

The proverbial Latin tag chosen for the title for this chapter (‘The times change and we change in them’) is found on a Jacobite glass – but with ‘mudantur’ incorrectly in place of both ‘mutantur’ and ‘mutamur’.1 This suggests that the glass engraver worked from someone else’s instructions but without necessarily understanding the texts he etched on the surface of the glass. That aside, the sentiment that is expressed nicely captures the theme of adaptation and change that characterises much of the material culture produced by and for Jacobites over the course of the years after 1688, reflecting the flow and ebb of Jacobite prospects. The inscription reflects the themes of this chapter: the various starting points for involvement in the Cause, and its transformations over more than a century of near and not so near attempts to achieve a Stuart restoration. The chapter should serve to demonstrate that Jacobitism was never simple, never monolithic and certainly not centrally controlled; even if its adherents operated with a certain set of shared assumptions, they came at it from different directions and often for different purposes which intersected but did not necessarily coincide. Jacobite sentiment was one of a number of other, sometimes overlapping, manifestations of opposition in the long eighteenth century, and this may, in part, explain the hybridity of its imagery. Another important aspect of Jacobite material culture is its frequently religious or talismanic character, although at the same time there could be a commercial dimension to its production, distribution and acquisition. The cultural biography of things is, equally, that of the people who made and owned them, and it is worth considering the apparent absence of folk pieces, the various ‘constructions’ of Jacobitism along gender lines and the Scottish dimension. There were varieties of medium as well, not confined to relatively small objects: Jacobite partisanship found its expression in building, décor and landscape gardening. In very different ways, material culture was an immediate part of the lives of the various people who were drawn to the Jacobite cause over its surprisingly long and by no means straight historical course. It is also important to consider the mutation of Jacobite material culture in response to the realisation that a Stuart restoration was an increasingly forlorn and

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ultimately a lost cause, which is not as easy to fix on the timeline as one might think; and then there is the related problem of fakery, which arises only once Jacobitism has ceased to be a political project and been turned into an industry. The overarching themes which emerge are, first, the different but not always mutually exclusive motivations that find their expression, in one way or another, in the ‘movement’; and, secondly, the mutability of both Jacobitism and its material culture over the long course of history. A sense of the distinct phases of Jacobite history in material form is provided by the medallic record. James II commissioned Norbert Roettiers to strike his first major series of Jacobite medals, a ‘new usage’ intended to influence the powers of Europe in the peace negotiations at Ryswick in 1697; the same strategy was employed later during the peace talks at Gertruydenberg in 1710, then Utrecht in 1712.2 Production also charted the fortunes of the various Jacobite expeditions, notably the attempted invasion of Scotland in 1708 and the rising of 1715. The late 1710s and early 1720s were a fruitful period: after the defeats of 1715 and 1718 came a series encouraging events in the form of Clementina’s dramatic betrothal journey, her marriage to James, the birth of Charles Edward and the opportunity afforded by financial chaos in Britain as a result of the South Sea Bubble. Failure to capitalise on that crisis and the discovery of the Atterbury Plot in 1722 led to a long fallow period in medallic production, which ended in the 1730s as attention shifted to the two young Stuart princes, who offered renewed hope for the restoration of the dynasty.3 Then, obviously, the flurry of activity on all fronts during the ’45 – and an interesting renewal in the years after the supposedly crushing defeat at Culloden. By the time of James’s death in 1766, however, Jacobitism had ceased to be a viable political force, and the representations of the new claimant are relatively sparse, in a way perfunctory and increasingly in the category of interesting but largely irrelevant curiosities. There was, in fact, no medal to mark either the death of James or the succession of Charles. There was some attempt to celebrate Charles’s marriage to Princess Louisa of Stolberg-Gedern in 1772 – there was a matrimonial medal of indifferent quality and engraved portraits depicting her as ‘A Princess of Stolberg’ (no doubt consciously imitating the cryptic portraits of the mother-in-law she never met, the ‘Polish Lady’ of better days) – but it was all by this point merely a sideshow.4 This is seen in an illustration to the Westminster Magazine (September 1773), where an oval portrait of Louisa, identified as ‘The Consort of the Chevalier Stuart, Commonly called the Pretender’, has beneath it two elegantly dressed ladies who gaze out towards a ship

Intersections

sailing away from a cloud, from which a hand dangles, surely mockingly, a crown on a ribbon or string.5

Intersections Related to the theme of temporal change are the various impulses that continued to draw people to the Cause and to the production of objects which asserted loyalty and resistance. Jacobite resistance intersected with other forms of opposition in early modern Britain, although how this is reflected in material culture needs further exploration. One point of departure might be a silver plaid brooch with an abstract Celtic design on its outward side and an intriguing inscription scratched somewhat crudely on the back: D MC G and the date 1678, presumably in the hand of the piece’s original owner. The initials stand for Duncan McGregor (or MacGregor), from whom the piece has been transmitted by descent to his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson, also called Duncan MacGregor. The use of initials is significant, for to have spelled out the surname in full would have been criminal at various times in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The MacGregor clan were notorious for lawlessness and had been subject to severe penalties in consequence: in 1603 they were forbidden to use their traditional family name, to bear arms other than a blunted knife at meals, or to congregate in groups larger than four clansmen. While the Crown was the source of the interdictions, the king’s principal agents in Scotland, the Campbells, were regarded as instrumental in their enforcement. The ban was re-enacted in 1643, prompting the MacGregors to rally to Montrose and the royalist party – once again in opposition to their traditional Campbell foes. Charles II lifted the prohibition in 1661; William revived it in 1693. It was not finally removed until 1775. While the making of the inscription on the back of the brooch was not itself an act in defiance of the interdict in 1678, just being a MacGregor was risky in any period, and as the piece was transmitted from father to son during times when the proscription of the MacGregor surname was in force, it became an endangered object. The suppression of family and clan identity was one form of authority imposed on Scots in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, but there were others. A variety of forces that emerged and evolved over time were sources of resistance: the dominance of the Campbells under the Duke of Argyll, the Revolution Settlement, the Whigs, the imposition of

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Presbyterianism as the state church, the Union or the Hanoverians. A MacGregor might have been pushed towards the fold of Jacobitism as a result of related but not necessarily contingent grievances, and this sense of interconnected opposition impulses must also inform the material culture of the period – the plaid brooch, for example.6 Clan loyalty was but one factor which intersected with Jacobitism. Confessional allegiance loomed large: a Roman Catholic, High Tory or Scottish Episcopalian was likely to be Jacobite in sympathies; and the movement drew support from Dissenters in England who fell outside the pale of Williamite religious toleration, as well as from some Presbyterians who opposed the newly established church in Scotland. Jacobitism also served as a proxy for those who opposed the Union on commercial or nationalistic rather than specifically dynastic grounds, for example those resentful of the failure of the Darien scheme, the imposition of the Excise or the Malt Tax, or the execution of smugglers that led to the Porteous riots of 1736.7 Economic as much as dynastic considerations appear to underlie the slogan ‘Prosperity to Schotland and no union’ found on Scottish rebel swords.8 The Jacobite cause also served as a lightning rod for groups with no sustained interest in a Stuart restoration, like the weavers and Newcastle keelmen who engaged in anti-Hanoverian displays as part of larger disputes about wages and working conditions.9 And there must have been many who, like Alexander Pope (especially in his early work), displayed some sympathy for aspects of the Jacobite cause – the principle of hereditary succession or a favourable disposition to the Roman church, for example – but who nevertheless may have had reservations about the Stuarts personally (Anne generally excepted) or lacked the inclination to disrupt the relative peace of British life through armed rebellion.10 The Jacobite creed had not only its true believers and vehement deniers, but also those who were agnostic or selective in their response to it. This ‘mixed baggage’ of reasons to espouse the Pretender’s cause undermines – or at least complicates – the notion of a cohesive Jacobite ‘culture’ or ideology with a simplistic, uniform and immediately recognisable material record.11 There may, for example, be a Jacobite sub-text to objects which are not explicitly Jacobite in character, like the medals, glassware and prints that circulated during the Sacheverell controversy of 1709–10, or the prints, Delftware dishes and other items expressing opposition to the Excise.12 The presence of a print of Sacheverell over Moll Hackabout’s bed in plate 3 of the Harlot’s Progress (1732) suggests that it may have symbolic value that reaches beyond the specifics of the ‘Church in Danger’ crisis that erupted more than twenty years before the scene depicted; it may well have Jacobite overtones.13

Sacred objects

Concealing an overt Jacobite message could be have been prudent in the face of potential legal penalties. While one ought to avoid over-enthusiasm in identifying Jacobite supporters, an eye that is both informed and critical may be able to discern Jacobite sentiments where they are, perforce, expressed cryptically or reflect other, associated purposes. Blindness to these purposes hinders our understanding of the place of Jacobitism in the larger context of eighteenth-century Britain, as well as its intersections with a variety of personal, social and temporal factors, which are themselves varieties and phases of Jacobitism.

Sacred objects Another important aspect of Jacobite adherence is the quasi- or overtly religious dimension. The Stuarts were consistently portrayed as numinous, sacred, even semi-divine figures, and the objects associated with them frequently have a ritualistic or talismanic element. The most obvious example is the touch-piece used in the traditional royal ‘cure’ for scrofula, a disease also known as ‘the king’s evil’. The ability of the kings of France and England to effect a remission of the malady through the royal touch was held to be hereditary – and the perception of efficacy was helped by the fact that the symptoms of the disease, an inflammation of the lymph nodes, are intermittent. Henry VIII and Elizabeth I modified the ancient touching rite but did not discontinue the practice; even the Duke of Monmouth, though but an illegitimate pretender, attempted it in order to establish the validity of his claim. ‘Touching’ was enthusiastically carried out by the exiled Stuarts and also by Queen Anne, but not by William, Mary or the Georges – who presumably thought it popish (although the touching rite remained in English in the Prayer Book until 1732, in Latin until 1759).14 A few more words can usefully be said about touch-pieces, the coinlike objects used in the ceremony. The design of the touch-piece was traditional, being derived from the ‘angel’ coin first minted in the reign of Edward IV. The angel depicted the Archangel Michael on one side, with (from the reign of Charles II) the motto SOLI DEO GRATIA (‘To God alone the glory’); on the reverse, a ship in full sail with the king’s name and titles in abbreviated form. As propaganda, touch-pieces were useful in asserting the Stuart claimant’s right to the titles listed on the reverse of the piece but, in sticking to the traditional design, were not used as a vehicle for specifically Jacobite imagery (although Jacobite medals and prints do compare the fortunes of the Stuart claimants to a ship tossed

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by the waves).15 More importantly, the pieces and the rite of touching itself reinforced the identity of the Stuarts as sacred kings in a long and unbroken line of inheritance. Only the true king could work the minor miracle and ‘Henry IX’ was the last British king (de jure or de facto) to attempt it.16 The touch-piece the sufferer took away from the ceremony was invariably pierced for suspension on a ribbon or chain and, worn on the person, became a constant reminder of both the royal cure and the royal healer. The Stuart Papers are full of orders for touch-pieces, usually struck in batches of fifty, and the numbers distributed by the exiled Stuarts must be in the thousands.17 James Francis Edward touched during his brief sojourn in Scotland in 1716.18 The propaganda value of the rite was exploited in A Letter from a Gentleman at Rome, to his Friend in London (1721), which noted that the cure had been ‘effected this Summer in Rome and its Neighbourhood’ by a practitioner who is not (but need not be) named.19 This was a ritual which reinforced the dynastic claim of the heirs of James II – ‘a holy Inheritance unto this Day’ – its very performance pointing up the fact that the Hanoverians would not – or, more to the point, could not – do it.20 Many Jacobites were Roman Catholics, and the preservation of articles associated with royal personages takes on religious importance in light of both the quasi-sacerdotal character of legitimist kingship and the specific claims to sainthood made on behalf of certain of the Stuarts. Relics could, in technical terms, be of the first class (the bodily remains of the sanctified person), the second (articles that belonged to the holy one) or the third (third-party articles which have come into contact with a relic of the first class).21 Although their success rate in terms of achieving canonisation was not good, the Stuarts had offered a number of candidates. The cause of Mary, Queen of Scots (great-great-grandmother of the Old Pretender), who might be characterised as a martyr for her faith, was promoted by Robert Southwell (himself later canonised). Pieces associated with her, especially her needlework, abound in Roman Catholic houses and she offered an earlier exemplar of the martyred Stuart monarch.22 Country houses all over Britain claim to possess samples of her needlework and other objects of the second class; her body was enshrined in Westminster Abbey by her son.23 Charles, King and Martyr, enjoys the anomalous position of being the only person recognised as a saint by the Church of England since the Reformation. Relics of his blood and hair, and secondary objects associated with him, are plentiful.24 Perhaps less probably, James II was mooted as a possibility for sainthood – obviously not on the basis of his early life as a Restoration libertine, but

Sacred objects

as the patient sufferer of his last years in exile, which were spent in the performance of acts of devotion and charity. Miraculous cures were attributed to him soon after his death.25 Although most of James II’s bodily remains were destroyed by French revolutionaries in 1794, his entrails had been preserved separately and are now divided between the church at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, near Paris, and Stonyhurst College in Lancashire (whence they came from the English Jesuit college at Saint-Omer). (See Figure 18.) The king’s brain, originally housed at the Scots College in Paris, also escaped the sans-culottes and the Communards and was rediscovered in 1883, but has since disappeared from sight. Other bodily relics made their way back to Britain when Roman Catholic emancipation allowed Scots and English foundations on the Continent to relocate, and are to be found today distributed amongst Ushaw College, Durham; Sizergh Castle in Cumberland; Stonyhurst; and Downside Abbey, Somerset. Chiddingstone Castle in Kent has what may or may not be James II’s heart, in a silver heart-shaped reliquary with a crown on it, and a reliquary (embellished with a crowned heart) containing his ‘Blood, Hair and Garter’.26 The exiled king’s tomb was ‘almost stript’ of its velvet cover by devotees seeking relics.27 Some additional purported relics recently surfaced on eBay.28 ‘Posthumous vicissitudes’, indeed. Although to modern eyes her piety appears to be bigoted and rather morbid, the Old Pretender’s wife, Maria Clementina, was also the subject of an active campaign for canonisation in the years following her death, when her husband sent out locks of her hair to favoured followers and expressed interest in news of miracles that would advance her ‘cause’ (in the technical sense of the formal process under canon law for the recognition of her sanctity). Her funeral rites occasioned a minor industry for Roman publishers of elaborately illustrated volumes and there was an English-language Account of the Funeral Ceremonies Perform’d at Rome, for the late Princess Clementina Sobieski (1735). The Stuart Papers contain numerous requests for copies of the Italian publications on the part of Jacobites in Britain.29 A certificate attesting to a miracle at Clementina’s intervention was prepared even as late as 1771, presumably for Cardinal York; his mother’s personal cause for canonisation was not yet dead, even if hope for the Jacobite cause was faint by this point.30 It might be stretching the boundaries of ‘material culture’ to mention the human remains of proposed Stuart saints, but in a sense body parts and blood-soaked pieces of linen ceased to be merely that and were given a new significance as objects of religious devotion. The holy person’s cause for sainthood was thus inextricably bound up with the political cause of the

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Stuarts (albeit to its detriment amongst many of their putative Protestant subjects). The human is objectified, emphasising the centrality of the physical body in Christian doctrine.31 In the Jacobite context, a parallel may be drawn between the Real Presence of Christ through the Mass and the real presence of the absent Stuart king through relics of his person. The communion of the Jacobite faithful was as much social as sacerdotal, the union of like-minded believers intent (often in secret, like early Christians, and with a sense of the ceremonial) on feeling the physical presence of a distant, yet ever-present, king. The containers for these relics – gilt bronze urns for James II’s entrails, the heart-shaped box at Chiddingstone (if it contains the genuine article) – are also manifestations of Jacobite material culture of a Roman Catholic variety, as relics of the third class which had come into contact with the saintly and which were venerated by the faithful. The mania for relics of one sort or another was not confined to Roman Catholics. Protestant Jacobites were also keen to possess physical remains of the Stuarts and articles which had been worn by them or passed through their hands. This is exemplified in the profusion of pieces of Garter ribbons, locks of hair, scraps of tartan and trinkets associated with James or Charles that one finds in old family collections in England and Scotland.32 That urge lacks specifically devotional aspects, but nevertheless retains something of the mediæval.33 The most highly prized mementos are the tokens of esteem given to an adherent by James or Charles or Henry.34 Handed down from generation to generation, these are gifts that confer obligations, inalienable possessions that determine familial identity and, ideally, demand service to the cause of the original donor or his descendants.35 A second kind of memento is that of a significant place or event, for example the miscellaneous articles picked up (or said to have been picked up) from the field after the battle of Culloden.36 The desire to possess this type of object may be motivated by a sense of connexion with the person or place that is more or less secular in nature (‘I was there with the Prince on the battlefield’ or ‘Even though I wasn’t there, I understand the suffering of the Prince and his followers by virtue of touching this object’), but it may clearly also have religious overtones. Even for many Protestants, the person of the sovereign retained a sacred dimension, as Samuel Johnson’s life-long preservation of the touch-piece given him by Queen Anne suggests.37 The locks of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair preserved in country-house collections are, like the religious relics of the earlier Stuarts, in their own way material culture, even if their raw material is merely hair: by virtue of being cut, mounted or enclosed, and preserved,

Sacred objects

they too become cultural and political objects, tokens of loyalty and association. They were, for adherents of the Cause, a way to make the absent king physically present in his rightful domain, if only in small measure. Being able to touch a part of the king brought him home to people – and might literally restore him to his own again. It is possible that some pious frauds were committed and that some of these pieces are, in fact, fakes – or, as Robin Nicholson suggests, merely old objects given Jacobite provenances by the enthusiasm and sentimentality of nineteenth-century revivalists – but it is also clear that the Stuarts recognised the value of giving personal tokens to their adherents and that adherents would jealously have guarded articles which had come into contact with their hero.38 It is difficult to know what to make, however, of objects like a china punch-bowl, said by family tradition to have been broken by Charles Edward during the flight from Culloden, in a drunken tussle with a host who urged an early night.39 But just because it is probable that many of these ‘relics’ are not what they purport to be, we ought not to assume that they are all inventions. Objects with unimpeachable, documented provenances were displayed by the National Museum of Antiquities of Scotland in June 1985, in an exhibition entitled ‘“I Am Come Home”: Treasures of Prince Charles Edward Stuart’.40 Of these objects George Dalgleish concludes that one should perhaps be ‘wary of indulging in the prevalent academic phenomenon of dismissing all items supposedly associated with Prince Charles Edward as being merely products of an overactive romantic imagination’.41 An example that combines elements of the personal memento with Roman Catholic devotion is found in a letter from Lady Margaretta Paston Alberty, sister of the Earl of Yarmouth, who wrote to James on 24 May 1721 about a gift she had received from his mother, Queen Mary Beatrice: She did grace me by sending me by father Andrea Nugent an Irish Capusin the Pictur of your Magesty with the Picture of the Royal Princese your Sister which I conserve by me with the highest Ueneratione as Sacred Relique of the famely of Stwards . . .42

Lady Margaretta’s conservation of Stuart ‘relics’ (as the nineteenth-century curators also loved to call them) combines both the zeal of the souvenir hunter with Counter-Reformation piety. Protestant Jacobites would not have expressed their loyalty in quite this way, but the power of the king as a sacred figure cut across confessional lines to a greater degree than may be apparent in a more sceptical age. Martyrdom was one of the tropes of Jacobitism and of Stuart dynastic history more generally, and this theme is reflected in the material culture.

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The lines of Jane Barker, who followed James II and Mary Beatrice into exile at Saint-Germain, suggest that it was not just the Stuarts who were worthy of sainthood, but also their adherents: What have we done, good God what have we done? That on our heads this punishment is thrown, Our King’s a saint, and we are martyrs all . . .43 Many artefacts reflect this view of the Jacobite supporter as martyr. An object likely to have been made in the years immediately following the defeat at Culloden is a pincushion, of cream-coloured satin with blue silk tassels at each corner, preserved in the Marischal Museum at the University of Aberdeen (see Figure 15).44 Printed on the centre of the cushion is a circle with a double rose and the text MART: FOR: K: & COU: 1746 (‘Martyred for King and Country, 1746’), around which are printed in concentric circles the names of executed rebels (including some, like Lords Derwentwater, who were executed in the aftermath of the ’15). The design appears to be based on an engraving attributed to Sir Robert Strange of a rose with the same central text and the names of the dead in small circles on the petals, by tradition an admission ticket to a post-Culloden Jacobite club.45 Mourning rings also commemorated the executed Jacobite lords.46 Snuffboxes with coffins on them may have the same function or refer more generally to the death of Jacobite hopes.47 Here again, Jacobite objects adopt a consciously religious mode that probably appealed to both Roman Catholics and Anglicans.

Commercial and home production If much Jacobite material culture had a sacred quality (‘singularised’, to use Kopytoff’s word), then it could also be the subject of commerce. Although there appears to have been no trade in bodily relics, there was a lively entrepreneurial approach to medals, prints, jewellery, pottery and glass, predicated in part on the notion that the consumption of goods could reinforce the ‘consumption and representation of authority’.48 Although medals were used as presentation pieces, sent from the exiled court at Rome to favoured partisans, they were also brought to Britain for sale to the Pretender’s supporters. As the correspondence between the Stuart court and its agent Freebairn indicates, there was an arrangement for the distribution of the Unica Salus medal with the merchant Dundas in London, who took the risk of receiving the dangerous goods, promoting

Commercial and home production

them to the extent he felt safe in doing and thereby spreading the message through commerce. It is probable that Dundas (a Scot, by the sound of it) was a Jacobite himself and there is evidence that certain printsellers were more likely than others to stock seditious engravings. This probably says as much about their political affiliation as it does about their customer base.49 There is some evidence of the use of Jacobite imagery in the medium of the shop or inn sign.50 Public houses called the Rose and Crown, the Royal Oak, or the King’s Head could have offered opportunities for signage of Jacobite tendencies and a place for those with them to meet and drink seditious healths. On the other hand, it is also apparent that some dealers were merely opportunistic, catering to Jacobites and non-Jacobites with wares that would appeal to each segment of the buying public. John Obrisset was versatile: he produced works in metal, horn and tortoiseshell that depicted Charles I, Queen Anne, James and his sister Louise Marie, George I – the buyer could take his pick based on political allegiance. Another Huguenot craftsman, David Le Marchand (1674–1726), has been called ‘a Whig craftsman in ivory’, which certainly reflects the commissions he received in London after about 1699.51 The portrait plaques by or attributed to him in his earlier, Edinburgh years (1696–c. 1699) include, however, a number of leading Jacobite nobles, as well as James II and VII, and James Francis Edward (as a naked child on the lid of a counter-box, circa 1696).52 In the Thomson Collection at the Art Gallery of Ontario is a portrait of James, also attributed to Le Marchand, circa 1720, in which the Stuart claimant wears the insignia of the Order of the Thistle (Figure 16).53 Fashioning a portrait of a Jacobite supporter need not have presented legal problems, but to undertake a representation of James II or his son would have involved at least two criminal offences: there was the making and selling of the image itself, but the artist would also have needed to obtain a medallic or engraved portrait of the Stuart subject, not having access to the man himself, thereby assisting in the publication of a seditious libel. Le Marchand’s portraits of James II and the box lid with his son are both unsigned, perhaps out of prudence, and presumably both patron and artist would have exercised some caution in proposing or accepting a potentially dangerous commission. Separate product lines for Jacobites and government supporters were not always required. Merchants – as well as poets and pamphleteers – employed the technique of ambiguous images. It has been suggested that some of the satirical prints published in 1745–6 can be read as either proor anti-Jacobite – partly to permit the same article to appeal to both camps

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Fig. 16 David Le Marchand (1674–1726), James Francis Edward, ivory plaque (frame, 29.7 x 25.6 cm; over-all, 8.3 x 6.5 cm), c. 1720.

Commercial and home production

and also to afford the seller or buyer some kind of defence in the event of prosecution. Good examples are the portraits of Charles Edward in the dress of Betty Burke, a ruse which facilitated his escape from the government forces after Culloden.54 A Whig could interpret the representation of the prince as an attack on his virility, a reminder of an ignominious defeat and an exit that was both hasty and laughable. To a Jacobite, it was Cumberland and his men who looked ridiculous for having fallen for such a transparent ploy; Charles Edward had lived to fight another day – hence the replication of the image on Jacobite glassware. The disguise was, moreover, a reminder of previous happy escapes in Stuart history: Charles II seeking refuge in the Boscobel oak and Maria Clementina fooling her captors at Innsbruck in 1719. Something similar might have been afoot with English Delftware plates of the late seventeenth century, on which a regal, bewigged figure may represent Charles II, James II or William III, and a lady labelled qm (‘Queen Mary’) either Mary II or James II’s consort Mary Beatrice. Perhaps the maker’s intent was to let the buyer decide which royal personage was depicted and to make his or her own conclusions about the succession question, after the manner of John Byrom’s epigram: God bless the King, – I mean the Faith’s Defender; God bless – no Harm in blessing – the Pretender! But who Pretender is, or who is King – God bless us all! that’s quite another Thing.55 This is an example of what has been called by Howard Erskine-Hill the ‘twofold vision’ of eighteenth-century literature, which could hold ‘the two communities [Jacobite and Whig] and two claims simultaneously in the mind’; and by Niall MacKenzie the ‘double-edged writing . . . produced in a politically polarized environment, which might, depending on selective but plausible readings, cut either way’.56 The period’s ‘twofold vision’ could either be a kind of willful blindness or the convenient obfuscation of a dangerous belief. A crude rendition of Byrom’s verses appears on a salt-glazed pottery mug of about 1745 in the Bower Collection at Chiddingstone Castle, a piece clearly aimed at the lower end of the market.57 Robin Nicholson has suggested, however, that Jacobite material culture was essentially an élite product that catered to literate, sophisticated and mostly urban taste – the glasses and medals being cases in point.58 Murray Pittock agrees, arguing that lower-class Jacobites expressed their loyalties in the form of songs and poems rather than objects.59 This is true to an extent, but underestimates

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the broader appeal of cheap medals in base metals, inexpensive prints and broadsides, pottery at the low end of the range and ephemeral pieces of material culture such as tartan ribbons and white paper roses. Pittock surely overstates the case that ‘Jacobite material culture was the antithesis of the exchange of the public sphere because it was a proscribed culture’.60 On the subject of prints, Eirwen Nicholson has cautioned, however, that ‘popular’ prints may have been produced in smaller runs, at higher prices and for a more restricted audience than has generally been suggested in the literature.61 This caution notwithstanding, it is relatively clear that cruder woodcuts and many of the gallows prints of executed rebels were intended for an unsophisticated audience.62 There is also a large body of broadside ballads, many of which were overtly Jacobite in sentiment and clearly printed for the street; and there is some evidence for the existence of Jacobite playing cards, which would have appealed to sympathisers of all classes.63 As Kwint points out, the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries saw the proliferation in plebeian households, as never before, of ‘commemorative plates, mugs and jugs marking national and family events’.64 It is difficult, however, to assess the penetration of commercial goods in the countryside through provincial merchants, markets, fairs and pedlars. If it is true that the Jacobite pincushions which proliferated in the 1740s were woven in France, then the commercial networks which took them to markets outside London must have been extensive.65 There must also have been the production of homespun Jacobitiana; a Scottish cowherd’s calling horn with a Jacobite rose cannot be an isolated case.66 In the author’s collection is a George II halfpenny with all engraving effaced and crudely scratched in its place ‘God Blless [sic] Prince Charles’ (on the reverse, ‘down with rump 1748’). Relatively primitive objects from poorer households might not be reflected in extant records such as probate lists, explaining in part the preponderance of more sophisticated pieces. It could also be that the record of the working-class Jacobite material culture has tended not to survive simply because it was cheaply made, not intended to last, more likely to be knocked about and of less interest to collectors until relatively recently; as Thomas Schlereth points out, ‘more artifacts survive from the upper and middle classes than from the lower classes’.67 One type of Jacobite folk object with planned obsolescence was the effigy of George I that Jacobite mobs regularly condemned to the flames in the early years of the eighteenth century.68 This raises the question of the scale of production of Jacobite material culture, but without an easy way of answering it. The evidence of the

Masculine and feminine

London medalet hoards, and a figure of 7,000 which Paul Monod has found for a smuggler’s medallic cargo (perhaps at the peak of activity on this front) suggests that there was, at least on some occasions, mass production of a preindustrial kind.69 Documentary evidence is unfortunately sparse. If Eirwen Nicholson is correct in suggesting that the runs of popular prints were more often in the hundreds than the thousands, then there were nevertheless instances of very large production of some engravings – like Hogarth’s phenomenally successful portrait of Lord Lovat, probably purchased by Jacobites as well as anti-Jacobites, which sold well into the thousands. Pittock cites very large numbers for the print runs of pamphlets and Mist’s Weekly Journal.70 Other objects were unique or made in small quantities. But perhaps the best indicator is the relative frequency with which one encounters Jacobitiana today (even if we ought to dismiss some of this material as fake).

Masculine and feminine Social class is not the only lens through which to examine the material culture; gender provides another. Some types of Jacobite material culture would have appealed to both sexes, pictures and prints being perhaps the most obvious. Small boxes with portraits or emblems on their lids or sides could have found a home either with men, as receptacles for snuff or comfits, or with women – for the same reasons, but also for patches, pins or cosmetics. Both men and women expressed their allegiance in the form of articles of dress, for example the white rose cockade (Figure 17), garters with Jacobite slogans or the tartan which became the fashion at the height

Fig. 17 Cambric rose cockade, c. 1745.

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of the ’45, both north and south of the Tweed.71 A muslin cuff, embroidered in silk with ‘God save King James VIII’, could have been worn by a man or woman.72 The main users (but perhaps not purchasers) of Jacobite glassware and Chinese export punch-bowls, on the other hand, would have been men (of the middle and upper classes), reflecting larger patterns of male sociability in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries.73 Surviving sets of matched Jacobite glasses are rare, but reflect patterns of subversive sociability.74 Such a group of like-minded men may be depicted in a painting of circa 1740 by Herman van der Mijn (1684–1741), in which one of the company holds a glass (with what have been identified as star-shaped reflections) over a blue and white china bowl – perhaps containing water, to symbolise the king across the seas.75 Another particularly masculine expression of Jacobitism is found on Jacobite swords with bellicose inscriptions. Medal collecting was primarily a male pursuit, interest in Jacobite pieces being an offshoot of gentlemanly collecting of the medals (coins) of antiquity. Here again, the uses of material culture were various: while some Jacobite sympathisers would have housed collections of medals in a special-purpose cabinet, others would have carried a single specimen as a ‘pocket-piece’, a symbolic reminder of allegiance to the Stuarts and something of a talisman or good-luck charm. There was female interest in medals, too, however, especially where a piece was pierced for suspension, whether this was a touch-piece from the royal healing ceremony or an ordinary commemorative medal worn on a ribbon as an article of personal adornment. Some Jacobite artefacts are purely feminine in origin, reflecting a particularly female strain of Jacobitism.76 The ‘jewellery of treason’ is well documented.77 There is also a considerable body of needlework with Jacobite texts or symbols (Figure 12), and doubtless many more examples have mouldered away in damp cupboards.78 The making of these was a labour of love for the Stuarts and would have afforded the stitcher the opportunity to meditate on the vicissitudes of kings. The fan was another feminine accoutrement which lent itself to the display of Jacobite slogans and emblems (Figure 9) – and presumably also to their concealment in the presence of unsympathetic company, either by turning the Jacobite design inward, towards the bearer, or simply by closing the fan with a snap. There are a number of surviving examples of Jacobite fans, but the medium was not a sturdy one given that its materials (paper, silk, bird or animal skin) were fragile. The cheap fans printed on paper that were produced in the greatest numbers are the least likely to survive.79

Masculine and feminine

Fig. 18 Relics of James II and VII, Maria Clementina and the 3rd Earl of Derwentwater, Stonyhurst College, Clitheroe, Lancs.

Of related interest are the pincushions which appear to have been widely sold in Scotland and the north of England. Probably woven in France, they bore mottoes like ‘God Preserve P.C. [Prince Charles] And Down With The Rump’. Others, produced in the wake of the execution of the rebel lords in 1746 and discussed earlier in this chapter, bear the names of victims of the repression that followed both the ’15 and the ’45, in concentric circles round a central white rose (Figure 17). The names of peers and generals appear on one side, officers and gentlemen on the other. These small objects and the wearing of tartan prompted calls for official action in Manchester in the 1740s, provoking the raillery of a Jacobite: As for your pincushion makers, I think they should be rigorously chastised and their works publicly burned, let the pretty misses cry as loud as they will. It is a monstrous shame that such an ancient necessary appendage to the ladies’ toilet should be thus Jacobitised and transformed from its primitive use into a variegated tool of fashion and sedition.80

The pincushions evoke small gatherings at the dressing-table, rainy afternoons and long evenings, and either solitude or a form of sociability very different from that of the more boisterous male club. This is the world of someone like Jane Barker, the novelist and writer of melancholy poems of Jacobite exile. (Did the patchwork screen of her imagination, which

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provided the title of her best-known work, include some stitchery of Jacobite themes?)81 A distinctly feminine strain of Jacobitism is also found in non-material culture like the ‘lost lover’ or aisling poetry that represents the Stuart claimant in erotic terms, as the absent beloved.82 Not for nothing did anti-Jacobite writers in the eighteenth century identify women (prostitutes in particular) as particularly susceptible to the Jacobite message, in an attempt to emphasise its supposedly sentimental and irrational qualities.83 Henry Fielding notes in the Jacobite’s Journal the important rôle of women in Jacobitism: ‘Women we have in great Numbers among us, who are as learned in the Knowledge of our Mysteries, and as active in the Celebration of our Rites, as any of the Male Species’.84 The presence of small objects with Jacobite content in places as various as male drinks cupboards and female sewing boxes may help us to understand the extent of Jacobite sentiment in households across the British Isles. These objects also help to remind us that Jacobite material culture was not always set aside for veneration or other special purposes but was also used as part of daily life. Through the cultural biographies of such pieces we have a glimpse of the lives of the people who made and handled them – people who were in large measure not the leaders of the ‘movement’ but its rank and file, and who acted out their adherence to the Stuarts largely in private life and among circles of intimates. Although all artefacts housed in the modern display case or recorded in the exhibition catalogue lose something of their vitality in being wrenched from their original context, Jacobite articles that were used in everyday life may retain greater power and immediacy than more elaborate and formal pieces. Homely objects provide deeper insight, perhaps, into the uses of memory and the ways in which memory is written into materiality than more elaborate productions intended from the outset for the cabinet.85

Within doors and without The interior decoration of Jacobite houses offered opportunities for displays of loyalty. Busts of Charles Edward were not always made in miniature, as bibelots, but also in larger format for display as furniture. There are the life-sized busts in plaster, bronze and marble by Lemoyne which date from the mid 1740s, and one in carved and painted wood at Dalmeny House, near Edinburgh, which thrusts out of an oval frame mounted on the wall.86 A room itself could have a hidden meaning, like that at Lullingstone Castle, with a rose on the ceiling and this motto:

Within doors and without

Kentish True Blue Take this for a Token That what is said here Under the Rose is spoken. The rose is the traditional flower of secrecy (sub rosa) but is also the Jacobite rose, here too a secret symbol. The decoration emphasises the use of the room for a particular purpose and for the gathering of a particular group. As Monod has suggested, Jacobite material culture – especially the glassware – is intimately connected to Jacobite clubs and societies, to patterns of social behaviour, whether this was in an urban or rural setting, but in either case in domestic space and behind closed doors.87 Hewlings notes the Jacobite associations of the thistles, roses, oak leaves, Prince of Wales’s feathers and robes of estate in the interiors of the Earl of Burlington’s Chiswick House.88 Jacobite meanings have also been identified in more elaborate plasterwork – for example, Mars standing victorious over a crown, Union Jack and timid lion amidst the martial trophies in the saloon at the House of Dun in Angus; or the dragon on the staircase of Viscount Fairfax’s town house in York – but these interpretations are perhaps less persuasive.89 Jane Clark detects in the iconography of decorative schemes at Holkham, Chiswick, Stourhead, Euston Hall, Badminton and West Wycombe the traces of a Jacobite message.90 This would, she observes, necessarily have been a cryptic exercise, but she suggests that There are, however, certain iconographical indications of Stuart loyalty which can, in some cases, be backed up by documentary evidence. The themes of rape, release of oppressed or unjustly detained captives, benevolent and magnanimous conquerors and the search for secret knowledge recur in many forms of Royalist symbolism.91

A reappraisal of ceilings and other decorative elements based on the Æneid might be in order.92 A greater understanding of Jacobite decorative schemes and the place of objects within them, rather than in a museum cabinet, will help us to recognise attempts by partisans to create for themselves a personal Jacobite space, a microcosm of Britain under a Stuart restoration, impressed with the symbols of its king – and, when necessary, sealed off from the king’s enemies. The use of interiors for the making of Jacobite statements was not confined to static display; it could also involve more active engagement with domestic space. One Jacobite host, Sir Philip Grey-Egerton, kept glassware with engraved Stuart symbols in a special portable cabinet at

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Oulton Park, which was placed on the dining-room table and opened ‘with some ceremony’ in the presence of the trusted few, to reveal the glasses and a ‘tabernacle’ portrait of Prince Charles Edward in armour.93 A similar ‘ritual induction’ was conducted by Mary Caesar, who revealed to her guests the Jacobite portraits and hangings in a special room at her house in Hertfordshire.94 On a more modest scale, a Jacobite lady could have exposed her seditious pincushions, patch-boxes and articles of dress to her circle of friends. Serious collectors of medals would have kept them in cabinets or boxes: these also afforded opportunities for concealment and revelation.95 Out of doors there is Jacobite symbolism as well, and it is well to remember that ‘material culture’ includes modifications of the landscape, whether through building or gardening.96 Monod suggests that the presence of Scotch pines in English gardens in the eighteenth century was a rarity and a secret Jacobite identifier; Pittock notes that they are, as ‘Charlie trees’, a feature of the parks of English Catholic estates.97 Michael Charlesworth has argued persuasively that the obelisk erected by the Earl of Strafford in memory of Queen Anne is also a coded message of Jacobite adherence: its inscription attests to Strafford’s record of service to the Queen and as ‘Regent’ to her unnamed ‘Successor’ – a post the earl filled not on behalf of George but James.98 Clark has not convinced everyone of the Masonic–Jacobite content of the architectural and landscape-gardening projects of Burlington and some of his contemporaries – a possibly Masonic octagonal motif may not necessarily be proof of committed Jacobitism – but Hewlings persuasively interprets the design of the house and gardens at Chiswick as an assertion of ‘ancient virtue’ and good government on behalf of an exiled king.99 It appears to be just a ‘tourist guide’s legend’, however, that the Parks Road gate of Trinity College, Oxford, will remain locked until a Stuart regains the throne, on the basis of its being opened at least once, for Edward VII while Prince of Wales (although it remains possible that this represented backsliding from earlier firmness).100 The Bear Gates (so called after the ursine supporters of the arms of the Stuarts of Traquair) at Traquair House in Peeblesshire, erected in 1738 but shut (it is said) since the failure of the ’45, may therefore offer a more authentic example of Jacobitism concealed in the features of gardens and parks (Figure 19).101 Even if such gestures were not made in the high Tory air of Oxford, others may not have been too circumspect to make Jacobite interventions in the landscape. Historians of buildings and gardens need to be alert to coded expressions of Jacobite sympathies, while exercising due care not to read too

Scottish

Fig. 19 Bear Gates, Traquair.

much into too little.102 Remodelling and destruction of architectural elements, changes in taste and changes in the landscape may also have effaced Jacobite messages which were originally more obvious – and we in the twenty-first century may simply fail to recognise the encrypted symbols that remain. For their creators and the initiates who understood the code, there are indications that Britain was being marked, physically, as Stuart territory in defiance of its actual possessors.

Scottish A very important theme in Jacobite imagery is, of course, the Scots ancestry and identity of the Stuarts. And yet the choice of the words ‘of course’ in this context should not be taken as suggesting that Scottishness was a constant motif of the material culture. To be sure, Prince Charles Edward and his supporters are endlessly represented in Highland dress on glassware and pottery, in prints, paintings and other media.103 There was also the use of the thistle and the wearing of Scottish clothes – tartan waistcoats and sashes, Highland bonnets – as a mark of adherence in the heady days of the ’45. And yet the fashion for tartan in the mid 1740s is more an English than a Scottish phenomenon; the wearing of tartan was not then a political statement in Scotland, but in England it obviously was.

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The reliance on Scottish symbols was so great that it has contributed to the mistaken assumption that all Jacobites were Scots and all Scots Jacobites, as Murray Pittock discusses in The Myth of the Jacobite Clans (1995).104 As a matter of history, the emphasis on the Scottish identity of the Stuarts is largely absent before the 1740s. Objects made in Scotland for Scots audiences tend to stress James’s identity as the eighth king of Scots of his name, in part to express objections to the much resented Act of Union of 1707. The Pretender’s ancient Scottish lineage is the subject of two medals design by Dr Alexander Pitcairn (a Scot) and executed by Norbert Roettiers. But the thistle is absent in any meaningful way from the medallic record of Jacobitism, and representations of the Scottish floral badge on glassware date, in all likelihood, from the 1740s or after.105 The allegorical figure of Scotia makes appearances, but often with representations of her sister realms. In fact, Jacobite propaganda dating from before the 1740s is more likely to represent Britannia – who stands for the whole island, not just England – as on the Unica Salus medal of 1721 (Figure 6). James’s decision to wear and to permit others to wear the insignia of the Garter and the Thistle together also suggests a desire to be seen as neither solely Scottish nor solely English, but British (if in a devolved, pre-Union way). James’s hereditary claims, the foundation of the entire Jacobite enterprise, were after all as much dependent on his descent from the Tudors and Plantagenets as from Walter the Steward, Robert the Bruce and Duncan. Scottish symbols were used for Scottish purposes, like a proposed coinage of 1708 ‘for our Kingdome of Scotland’, but the overall presentation of the royal image up to the 1740s was supranational.106 James is usually depicted according to the template set by Louis XIV for early eighteenth-century European rulers, with periwig, mantle, armour and orders. While the Order of the Thistle was used for portraits destined for Scots or Scotland, Highland dress or even a hint of tartan is absent from representations of the Old Pretender. The adoption of Scottish symbolism is therefore to large extent the remaking of the image of Jacobitism in the 1740s. If a precise date for this shift can be fixed, then it may well be the Duke of Perth’s presentation of suits of Highland clothes to Prince Charles Edward and his brother in 1740. Prince Charles Edward wore his with great éclat at balls in Rome and Paris – and again during the ’45.107 There seems to have been a conscious decision to associate the young and attractive Jacobite heir with the romance and glamour of the warlike clansmen, which (as Robin Nicholson observes) was largely abandoned after 1746 when he is once again represented as a typical continental European prince – although the image of

After 1746

Charles Edward as a Highlander returned with a vengeance in the Romantic revival towards the end of the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth.108

After 1746 The changing presentation of the Scottish aspects of the Stuart claim raises the question when Jacobite objects ceased to be what Philip Attwood has called ‘the concrete expressions of a seemingly attainable future’, and became instead merely commemorative of recent events and ultimately a means to recreate a more distant past.109 The answer to that question must have varied from person to person and from object to object. A few examples will illustrate this. A still active form of Jacobitism is evident from a china punch-bowl in the British Museum, which bears the date 1746 and which depicts Charles Edward with a crown, pistols and a shield, with the mottoes audientor ibo and all or none.110 From roughly the same period is the Marischal Museum’s pincushion commemorating the victims of 1746 (Figure 15), which by contrast somehow seems passive, already nostalgic. These are very different again from, say, the wax portrait of Charles Edward, formerly in the collection of Lady Charlotte Schreiber and now in the Victoria & Albert Museum, which shows him as a young man with long hair, a tartan cap with ostrich plumes, a gold-laced coat with a lace collar and a bow of ribbon at the neck, a plaid and the top of a dirk just above the truncation of the bust (Figure 20).111 The Schreiber Catalogue assigns a date somewhere in the mid eighteenth century, but it looks later stylistically – so more nostalgic than promotional, even though dating from just within the Young Pretender’s lifetime. The prince is beginning to be merely decorative by this point (except in real life), although an image of him may have appealed to those who still clung to the increasingly forlorn hope of his return. Clearly in the same vein as the wax portrait are glass-paste cameos of Charles Edward, produced in large quantities by James Tassie (1735–99); it should come as no surprise that it was possible to advertise these openly in the 1790s.112 The anamorphic pictures of Charles Edward (Figure 5) and the dice-box in the Inverness Museum that conceals his portrait (Figure 4) may also be evidence of the shift, at the point when Jacobitism started to be a more of a pastime than a political agenda – something one played at in the parlour or with the port after dinner, but not a proposition with potentially serious consequences, either political or legal. The final element of the exhortation to ‘look, love

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Fig. 20 Wax portrait of Prince Charles Edward, c. 1750.

and follow’ became merely a fashion, with no thought of the bold deeds expected of and often enough actually performed by Jacobites in earlier decades. It is difficult to be precise about when this shift occurred, for a number of reasons. First, there has been the tendency of historians to assume that Culloden was the irreversible terminal point of the Jacobite enterprise – if indeed it is thought to have had any real prospects at all. This view has been challenged by the newer wave of Jacobite studies, which has questioned the Whig view of history that Jacobitism never had any realistic chance of success in achieving a Stuart restoration. Another difficulty is assigning dates to the material culture of the middle years of the eighteenth century. It was formerly assumed, for example, that Jacobite glass, with all its distinctive imagery, must date from the period between Prince Charles Edward’s birth and the ’45. The predominant view (leaving aside the fakes for the moment) is now that these pieces are mostly from the period after Culloden, from the later 1740s to as late as the 1770s, on the basis of correspondence and tradesmen’s invoices.113 This would accord with the evidence of a positive renaissance of Jacobite material culture in all media after the defeat at Culloden – a reflection of the ‘strange Spirit of Jacobitism, indeed of Infatuation’ which ‘discovered itself at the latter End of the Year 1747’ and which prompted Henry Fielding’s satirical Jacobite’s Journal of 1747–8.114 A dead letter would not have required a response. Medals are a good barometer of Jacobite activity. There appears to be some correspondence between the number of new designs commissioned

After 1746

by the Jacobite court and the movement’s diplomatic and military efforts throughout the eighteenth century – and possibly even its viability as perceived by both its propagandists and their intended audience. Demand for medals did not dry up in the sometimes long periods between new designs; the Stuart Papers indicate that medals from old dies – often decades old – continued to be produced.115 The frequency of entirely new commissions is still probably an accurate indicator of the Jacobite movement’s vigour, real as well as apparent. The numbers of individual medals actually produced would offer an even clearer picture, but cannot be ascertained from available records with any degree of certainty. (The assessments in Hawkins of the rarity or commonness of individual medals are helpful, but can provide only general guidance.) The late seventeenth century and the early years of the eighteenth, when the Jacobite enterprise was probably at it most vigorous, saw the greatest number of different designs at the instance of the court-in-exile, as is evident from the output of Roettiers during the French exile of James. The fallow period for new medals in the 1720s – Unica Salus (1721) was the last medal to bear the effigy of James and no medal was struck in honour of Prince Henry Benedict’s birth in 1725 – must reflect the sense of discouragement and malaise that resulted from three successive failures in a short space of time: the ’15, the ’19 and the Atterbury Plot.116 There was a similar period in the 1730s, when Jacobite hopes were severely checked by the unwillingness of France (or at least its chief minister, Cardinal de Fleury) to promote the Stuart claim. The period surrounding the ’45 is somewhat anomalous; while many medals relating to the succession question were produced, they all appear to be the work of commercial makers. Presumably Charles Edward was more intent on the military campaign than on numismatic propaganda, while his father and his advisers held their fire in Rome. The majority of these medals are anti-Jacobite, but here too the number of designs and the level of production reflect the renewed strength of Jacobitism as a political and military force. After the ’45 there was a flurry of activity in medallic production from about 1748 to about 1752 – hardly reflective of a movement which had been dealt its death-blow.117 It is more difficult to say how the executors of Martin Folkes, former president of the Royal Society and noted numismatist, judged the market in consigning a number of Jacobite coins, medals and touch-pieces for public sale, along with his British and classical pieces, in 1756. The auction catalogue is careful to refer to the Stuarts who succeeded James II by neutral names: ‘the Chevalier’, ‘Princess Sobieski’, ‘the two young Chevaliers’. Did the buying public by this point regard these medallic

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remains as things of at least some danger or just as antiquarian curiosities?118 Jacobite print-making, far from slowing down in production after the defeat of April 1746, continued to present the image of Charles Edward as the dashing and warlike adventurer who had escaped and was presumed to be ready to fight another day. It is, in fact, in the post-Culloden period that some of the finest engravings of the prince were produced. The popularity of post-Culloden prints of Charles Edward was increased by crossmarketing with adulatory biographies: an etching of Charles Edward in Highland dress was included without charge in the last number of the serialised edition of Ascanius or, The Young Adventurer in 1746.119 The display of one of these later prints of Charles Edward in the Bachelors’ Common Room at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, caused a scandal in 1754 – and this may be evidence not so much of Jacobitism as one of the university’s lost causes as of a still-active movement.120 The revival of official medallic output after Culloden (by younger members of the Roettiers family) and the flourishing trade in Jacobite prints in the later 1740s and the 1750s lend support to the thesis that the years after that defeat – in spite of the tendency of many historians to see it as the point of no return for the Cause – actually saw something of a renewal or, indeed, a continuation of Jacobite hopes and initiatives, with 1759 as a more accurate date than 1746 for the effective termination of the movement.121 Seen in this light, Charles Edward’s conversion to Anglicanism, which occurred during a clandestine visit to London in 1750, may be less of the desperate, ‘too little, too late’ manœuvre it is usually assumed to be.122 The emblematic designs launched in this period, with Britannia looking out to sea and the motto AMOR ET SPES (‘Love and hope’) or a stricken oak and REVIRESCIT (‘It flourishes again’), may nevertheless have been too much of a throwback to an older idiom (perhaps already outdated to early eighteenthcentury Britons), thereby pointing up the widening gap between the Jacobite model of sacred kingship and the political realities of midGeorgian Britain.

Remakes, fakes and honest mistakes A further shift in the emphasis of Jacobite material culture came later in the eighteenth century, as the Cause came to be regarded through the eyes of the collector and the antiquary.

Remakes, fakes and honest mistakes

Mention has been made of the difficulties in dating certain objects of Jacobite interest. In the field of medals, this is compounded by the habit of the Jacobite court of ordering restrikes from old dies – sometimes from many years before. In the late 1730s, for example, the medal depicting Maria Clementina’s escape from Innsbruck clearly remained popular and was restruck on a number of occasions.123 Numismatic dealers today will invariably give the date of any of these medals as 1719, which is fair enough if it refers to the date of the event depicted and the design, perhaps less so if it is meant to indicate the date the object itself was made. The dates of prints can also be difficult to ascertain with precision, given the ability to make multiple images from a single plate – and the possibility that old plates may not always have been destroyed. Many other objects can be assigned a date only on the basis of circumstantial evidence or on stylistic grounds (and that is also unreliable, especially when dealing with recycling of imagery, deliberate archaism or provincial pieces which may reflect tastes long out of fashion in London or Paris). Jacobite glassware presents its own challenges. First, the numismatic aspects. In 1828, Matthew Young (1771–1837), a London coin dealer, bought the dies for a number of Jacobite coins and medals from ‘a Mr Cox’, who had acquired them from a descendant of the medallist Norbert Roettiers.124 Young made a number of pieces, but his intent was not fraudulent: production was in limited numbers, ‘for the gratification of collectors’.125 He struck sixty specimens of the 60-shilling piece which had been ordered by the Scottish parliament in 1686 for James VII but never produced, as well as a Scottish crown and guinea designed for his successor in 1716, and a medal on the ‘abdication’ of James II and VII from a cracked, unfinished die. After defacing the dies Young deposited them in the British Museum, which indicates the absence of fraulent intent.126 He also realised the design commemorating the birth of Prince Charles Edward in 1720 that was submitted by Roettiers but rejected in favour of the proposal by Ermenegildo Hamerani.127 It is clear from specimens of the rejected but restruck Roettiers piece that the two dies used for the remake had rusted, resulting in a lightly pitted surface – further evidence that Young was not out to deceive anyone as to the date of production.128 Young’s efforts were not ‘an unmixed blessing’, however, as he combined dies for the English obverses and Scottish reverses of the Jacobite coinage. He also struck a unique piece which is a composite of two known medals, with James and CVIVS EST on one side and the reverse from the Cycle Club medal of 1710 on the other, which knowledgeable collectors would have recognised as an invention of

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Young’s.129 In a similar spirit are the sheets of banknotes pulled from a copper plate designed by Sir Robert Strange and jettisoned in the flight from Culloden Moor. The plate was found circa 1835 in marshy ground about forty miles south of the battlefield, at the west end of Loch Laggan, and was later acquired by Ewen Macpherson of Cluny. In 1928, Sir David Young Cameron made ‘a small number’ of impressions from the plate, which was then given to the West Highland Museum in Fort William.130 This is not to say that all remakes were honest in intention; there has been some suggestion, for example, that eighteenth-century forgers may have produced fake tokens of the Civil War, presumably calculated to deceive collectors.131 Matthew Young may be seen as part of the nascent Jacobite revival of the nineteenth century, a phenomenon which took a number of forms. One of these was the Romantic, of which the principal driving force was Sir Walter Scott and one of the most important manifestations the visit of the tartan-clad George IV to Edinburgh in 1822, organised by Scott. James Macpherson, Robert Burns and James Hogg also played a part in this transformation, for better or worse. The Romantic revival of Jacobitism has been criticised as a distortion of history, in part because it promoted the sentimental but inaccurate view that the Cause was gallant and glamorous but doomed to failure from the outset. As Pittock has memorably described it, by the end of the eighteenth century Jacobitism was ‘castrated by sentiment . . . politically mute and socially fashionable’.132 The time was ripe for blatant imposters like the Allen brothers, who appeared in Edinburgh during the royal visit, claiming to be the ‘Sobieski Stuarts’, legitimate grandsons of Charles and Louisa.133 The Romantic revival paved the way for the saccharine portrayal of Jacobitism in Victorian art and its more debased progeny in the ‘branded goods’ of the whisky distiller, the biscuit maker and the liqueur producer, which has been admirably discussed by Robin Nicholson (fittingly, during his tenure as curator of the Drambuie Liqueur Company’s collection of Jacobitiana and Scottish art).134 This debasement, as much as the teleological world-view of historians like Lord Macaulay, has contributed to the view, now rightly questioned, that Jacobitism was never taken seriously and never capable of achieving its objectives. Young’s restitutions may well have been prompted by the Romantic renewal of interest in Jacobitism, but are arguably free from Romantic distortion: in one sense, he sought to draw attention to the physical record of Jacobitism and to show what the cause might well have achieved; even if coinage for a restored king remained unexecuted until Young acquired the

Remakes, fakes and honest mistakes

dies for it, the Jacobites were sufficiently pragmatic to be thinking about the nuts and bolts of putting James on the throne of his ancestors.135 Seen in this light, Young may be less in the spirit of Scott than of Anthony Aufrere, the editor of the Lockhart Papers (1817). Aufrere was the husband of Matilda Lockhart, the great-granddaughter of George Lockhart of Carnwath (1681?–1731), one of the principal agents of the Old Pretender in Scotland in the first decades of the eighteenth century.136 On the death of her brother Charles, Count Lockhart (an officer in the Austrian army), in 1802 Matilda inherited a trunkful of family papers related to Jacobite activity from 1702 to 1730 and during the ’45. Aufrere intended to publish the papers when they came into his possession through his wife, but his ‘journey to and detention of eleven years in France, and application to family arrangements upon [his] return to England in 1814, combined to delay their preparation for the press’.137 In spite of the passage of time, Aufrere still thought it prudent to refer to James Francis Edward on the title page of the work only as ‘the Son of King James the Second’ (although this is, in itself, an implicit refutation of the story of the warming pan put out by the Stuarts’ enemies).138 Aufrere’s purpose is clear: he saw it as his ‘duty as an Editor’ to be ‘instrumental in giving publicity to documents of no inconsiderable importance to our historical literature’ and which could finally be presented with scholarly objectivity and political neutrality.139 Somewhat unusually for an editor of the long eighteenth century, he also took seriously Carnwath’s instructions with respect to editorial practice: ‘if ever they [the papers sealed up in the trunk] be published I expresslie require that it be exactly, whout adding or impairing, conform to the originall manuscripts’.140 The epigraph on Aufrere’s title page is, fittingly, Celebrare domestica facta (‘sing of deeds at home’).141 Aufrere’s edition of the Lockhart family’s papers is not, strictly speaking, part of the material culture of Jacobitism, but it shows that not all early nineteenth-century interest in the Stuarts was a flight of Romantic fantasy. The Lockhart Papers may have prompted a short-lived royal commission appointed to examine the Stuart Papers (which had been acquired in various batches for the royal collection at Windsor between circa 1788 and 1817) to recommend in 1827 that a complete account of titles and honours bestowed by the Stuarts in exile ought to be compiled on the basis of evidence in the Papers.142 Other scholars were also turning their attention to the dynastic archive, which was used by James Johnstone in Memoirs of the Rebellion in 1745 and 1746 (1820, 1821), James Browne in A History of the Highlands and of the Highland Clans (1835–8), John Hulbert Glover for a selection of letters (1847), Lord Stanhope in his The

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Forty-five (1851) and Robert F. Williams in Memoirs and Correspondence of Francis Atterbury . . . Compiled chiefly from the Atterbury and Stuart Papers (1869).143 Young’s restrikes (or, rather, first strikings of previously unexecuted designs) are another reflection of this more positive nineteenth-century impulse to reconsider Jacobitism as a matter of historical fact, with a degree of objectivity which has not always been a characteristic of much subsequent historiography. If Young’s purpose was not to deceive anyone, then others have felt no such scruples. Hugh Cheape has suggested that a great many Jacobite ‘relics’ were specially created, or given new identities, by Scottish families who brought them to Edinburgh to show King George IV in 1822. Robin Nicholson agrees there was the ‘manufacture of commemorative objects’ with a view to creating a ‘bogus past’ for the Royal visit, but thinks that the bulk of the production of Jacobite works of art bearing the portrait of Charles Edward occurred either in the eighteenth century, with a major phase from 1746 to 1758 and a second from 1770–95; or else in the Victorian period.144 Nicholson includes within this glass, ceramics, paintings and works on paper, white cockades and ribbons. This should not, however, call into question the authenticity of the whole of the record of Jacobite material culture. It is clear enough (in spite of the frequent absence of precise information and, as has been discussed, the Stuart court’s habit of continuing to strike new medallic specimens from old designs) that prints and medals were produced throughout the entire period of Jacobite activity, starting in 1688. And there is a large body of material which refers to or represents the Old Pretender and which may be assigned on stylistic or other grounds to the first half of his long ‘reign’. Caution should, however, still be our watch-word when considering the physical record of Jacobitism. Nowhere is this more necessary than in the field of Jacobite glass, which has been particularly bedevilled by fakery. It must be said that not all modern glass with Jacobite engraving is fraudulent in intent: glasses were produced in an overtly revivalist style in the late nineteenth century, using new glass but old motifs.145 The best forgers used a different technique, tricking out old pieces of glass with specious Jacobite inscriptions and emblems. As Robin Nicholson has noted, Jacobite glass largely emerged (ostensibly from dusty cupboards) only in the nineteenth century, and he points outs that only two specimens were included in the Stuart exhibition of 1889.146 A dose of scepticism is therefore probably in order. Peter Francis took this one step further, suggesting in 1994 that the authenticity of all Jacobite glass is questionable.147 Francis adduced considerable

Remakes, fakes and honest mistakes

evidence that Irish ‘Volunteer’ and Williamite glass purporting to date from the late eighteenth century is the work of Francis Tieze (1842–1932), a Bohemian glass-worker who settled in Dublin, but his doubts about Jacobite glassware arise from the purely circumstantial: the suspicious coincidence in the late nineteenth century of discoveries of engraved glasses in those dusty cupboards and the rise of a rather quixotic form of political neo-Jacobitism in the late nineteenth century.148 Francis presented his theory about Jacobite glassware as a provocative and untested afterthought, but it nevertheless had dramatic effect: later that year, the Victoria & Albert Museum withdrew its entire display of Jacobite glasses from public view.149 The pendulum now appears to have swung back, perhaps to a point of equilibrium. A symposium was held at the Victoria & Albert Museum in November 1996 under the auspices of the Glass Circle.150 Peter Francis presented a paper in which he maintained his scepticism, but it appears that wholesale rejection of Jacobite glass is too extreme a position in the face of the available evidence. Seddon’s objective and systematic assessment of known examples of Jacobite glassware has provided a sound basis for the weeding out of fakes and the attribution of genuine pieces to nine specific (if anonymous) makers, based on stylistic and technical grounds. Others (including Francis himself) have pointed to documentary evidence of commissions and usage of glassware with Jacobite designs and slogans in the 1750s, but also as late as the 1780s – in any event well before the nineteenth century.151 As the organisers of the 1996 symposium concluded, the result of the debate was to shake scholars, curators and collectors ‘out of the complacency which allowed us to accept almost anything smelling of roses as being of “possible Jacobite significance”’ – as the antiques dealers and auctioneers sometimes unfortunately continue to say.152 In the category of honest mistake are the many miscellaneous scraps of clothing and other small objects which sentimentality and unreliable family tradition have turned into relics of James or Charles – although this is not to say that all such objects are necessarily spurious. There is contemporary evidence that when Charles Edward was at Holyrood in September 1745, the Scottish ladies who paid him court ‘busied themselves in procuring locks of his hair, miniature portraits of his person and ribbons in which he was represented as a “Highland Laddie”’.153 It is not at all farfetched to suppose that the Stuarts recognised the value of small personal tokens to their supporters, as the large number of examples with verifiable or plausible provenances would suggest. Another probably honest mistake

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is the portrait of a youth in Polish costume, which was long identified as Charles Edward in the dress of his mother’s country. The picture originally belonged to the wonderfully named Clementina Jacobina Sobieska Macdonald, a god-daughter of the Old Pretender and a distant relation of Charles Edward’s helper Flora. It was exhibited at the Stuart exhibition in London in 1889 and given to the National Portrait Gallery in 1922.154 Helen Farquhar, who examined the portrait ‘in a good light’, was convinced by the pedigree but admitted that ‘the likeness is less convincing than one could wish’ and indeed ‘not very resembling’ when considered in relation to other portraits of the prince. This led her to conclude that it may not have been painted from life and possibly as part of some scheme to propose the prince for the elective throne of Poland once occupied by his great Sobieski ancestor.155 Donald Nicholas is less charitable, finding the provenance unsatisfactory and the identification wholly unconvincing.156 The National Portrait Gallery’s catalogue has demoted the work to ‘unknown subject’.157 The so-called ‘Polish’ portrait of Charles Edward is a nice illustration of the process by which an object with no apparent Jacobite significance was, either through fraud or credulity, invested with a fictitious Stuart identity and a reasonably plausible pedigree in the nineteenth century, and then, in a more critical age, questioned and eventually rejected. Sometimes this process has been too drastic (as in the case of the Victoria & Albert’s display of glass), but has in general brought a necessary relegation of the more dubious pieces to the storeroom in yet another phase in the history of Jacobitism through its (ostensible) material manifestation. Various impulses brought people to Jacobitism when it was, at least to some extent, a viable political option, finding equally varied expression in physical form. As the Cause mutated from an active project to a site of nostalgia, and then of historical inquiry, different perspectives also came into play, whether those of the forger, the credulous victim, the sentimental revivalist, the sceptical academic. Times change, and we in them – and therefore also the uses that are made of the material record of the past. The major collections and exhibitions of Jacobite material culture from the late eighteenth century to the present day which are the subject of the next chapter continue this story, reflecting changing attitudes to Jacobitism as a cultural and historical phenomenon and also illustrating the multiplicity of purposes behind the accumulation and display of its material culture in the years after the end of its realistic political aspirations.

5 ‘Those who are fortunate enough to possess

pictures and relics’: later uses of Jacobite material culture In the prefatory note to the catalogue of the Stuart exhibition held at the New Gallery in Regent Street, London, in 1889, the organisers thanked all ‘those who are fortunate enough to possess pictures and relics relating to a most interesting period in the history of these kingdoms’, and who responded to the request for loans with objects that ranged from the sublime (Van Dyck’s triple portrait of Charles I, which came from Queen Victoria) to the homely (‘Clasp with a Tree, worked in hair by Flora Macdonald’, from Major General John Macdonald).1 The exhibition itself reveals much about the politics, even the psychology, that informs the acquisition and display of Jacobite material culture long after the Cause’s last moment of possible efficacy. The motives for the acquiring and exhibiting Jacobitiana changed over the course of the eighteenth century and into the early nineteenth. What is interesting is not so much who did this, but why. Material culture that began as symbols of seditious intent later softened into an expression of passive resistance; with the death throes of the active phase of Jacobitism some time early in the second half of the eighteenth century, Jacobite things became first memorials, then objects of nostalgia and finally the focus of Romanticism and sentimentality as the century drew to a close. The nineteenth century saw the rise of the serious collector of Jacobite material culture, whose motivations were highly various. On the one hand, someone who seeks to accumulate a comprehensive range of related artefacts may view them with greater detachment, as the records of an historical phenomenon – as opposed to the adherent, who might have a number of Jacobite objects, or just a few, but who treasures them as tokens of an active leader and a viable and perhaps sacred cause. As Jane Stevenson suggests, the antiquarian impulse usually begins when the active phase is over: it is impossible for something to be of antiquarian interest, and dangerous . . . Antiquarianism, with its focus on numinous, associational objects, is, for all its concern to evoke the living spirit of the past, irretrievably concerned with what is dead. More subtly still, the antiquarian may be seen attempting to inject embalming fluid into a live subject.2

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The rise of the systematic collection of Jacobitiana and its public exhibition occurred either once the ‘movement’ that occasioned it no longer posed any real threat (and thus no legal risk to the collector-exhibitor) or, perhaps, as part of the very process by which the winning side rendered its opposition harmless: as Stanley Idzerda has said, ‘immure a political symbol in a museum and it becomes merely art’.3 In David Lowenthal’s formulation, something that was once ‘part of a living entity’ ends up ‘as a fragment sundered from context’, ‘denatured’ through display.4 Jules David Prown takes a slightly different view, suggesting (like David Hume before him) that the material culture of the past has a truth and immediacy which words and abstractions can fail to convey: To identify with people from the past or from other places empathetically through the senses is clearly a different way of engaging them than abstractly though the reading of written words. Instead of our minds making intellectual contact with their minds, our senses make affective contact with their sensory experience.5

One need only repeat the mantra of the Jacobite propagandists to see how closely this accords with their own understanding of the workings of the human mind and heart: ‘look, love and follow’. Clearly some collectors in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries were prompted by forces other than the cataloguing mania of the antiquary or the desire to inject a final dose of embalming fluid into the body of something that was once both vigorous and dangerous. Antiquarian and affective impulses are not always at variance, in any case; the antiquary’s engagement with objects is, as Susan Manning suggests, often motivated by ‘private pleasure’ (at the expense of a wider perspective that might lend itself to scientific principles, disciplinarity or utility).6 She cites an old definition of ‘antiquary’: ‘one that affects and blindly doats, on Relicks, Ruins, old Customs, Phrases and Fashions’ and notes that antiquarianism can be ‘politically charged’, readily acquiring ‘the taint of Jacobitism or the “secret allurement” of Catholicism’ when these remained suspect if not actually subversive.7 Francis Skeet’s interest in the Jacobite relics of his adopted daughter Maria Widdrington (of whom more below) combined both antiquarianism and participation in the rather comic-opera neo-Jacobite movement that arose in the last years of the nineteenth century – so we see both the dedicated collector and the true believer. Rosemary Hill has suggested that at ‘the heart of the romantic antiquary’s enterprise [is] the recreation of the self through the arrangement of objects’, which certainly seems to apply in Skeet’s case, although perhaps one would say ‘creation’ as much as ‘recreation’.8

The spectre of the ancien régime

Some broad themes emerge, suggesting how the material record of the Jacobites – or indeed of any historical phenomenon – is refashioned for reasons and objectives which may have only so much to do with the original goals of its makers, distributors and possessors. Idiosyncratic personal psychology is often at work, with Jacobite ideology used as a prop for personal identity; or Jacobite culture is pressed into the service of political ends which are not always closely connected to a Stuart restoration.

The spectre of the ancien régime The most important collection of Jacobite objects is that belonging to the Queen, in part because of the (oblique) dynastic provenance of many of the pieces, but also because of what the Royal Collection says about attitudes to the House of Stuart on the part of those who displaced it – and for whom the rivalries of the eighteenth century lingered far longer than for most. King George III, who presumably felt sufficiently confident of his right to the throne, was famously generous in providing his cousin Cardinal York with a pension as compensation for the loss of his ecclesiastical estates at the hands of Napoleon. In gratitude for the pension and for friendly visits from George’s sons (and perhaps in recognition of the effective end of the Stuart project at his death), Henry Benedict bequeathed to the Prince Regent some important jewels, insignia of orders and heirlooms including a mediæval book of hours that had belonged to the Sobieskis.9 That insatiable collector made his own significant acquisitions after his succession as George IV, foremost among them the Stuart Papers, the Stuart sapphire (now in the Imperial State Crown) and a second, magnificent book of hours once belonging to the house of Sobieski. The king also bought numerous prints and portraits of the Stuarts. Queen Victoria and her son Edward VII added to the royal Jacobite collection, although on a much more modest scale than George IV and partly through gifts from subjects (Figure 21). Most of the Jacobite medals in the Royal Collection were acquired in the Victorian era. Queen Mary, the consort of King George V, was a more active purchaser and also commissioned a typescript catalogue of the royal Stuart collection. Among the accessions during her lifetime was a double portrait by Belle of James, depicted as an angel, leading his sister Louise-Marie (1699), which had been discovered in a Tangiers hotel and earlier rejected for the collection under Edward VII.10 Queen Elizabeth, subsequently the Queen Mother,

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Fig. 21 Kalendar with the arms of Cardinal Prince Henry Benedict, before 1788, probably acquired by Queen Victoria.

also made important purchases, in part because of personal interest in her Jacobite Lyon and anti-Jacobite Bowes ancestors. The present Queen has continued the tradition of adding pieces with Stuart associations, including a Vincennes porcelain basin, cover and stand

The spectre of the ancien régime

Fig. 22 Vincennes porcelain broth bowl and cover, c. 1748–52, probably made for Prince Charles Edward, acquired by Her Majesty The Queen.

with the arms of ‘James III and VIII’ (c. 1748–52) (Figure 22) and the twin portraits of Charles Edward and Henry Benedict by Blanchet which are now on public view at the Palace of Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh.11 Many of the Jacobite pieces (including some of dubious origin) were kept in a special Stuart Room at Windsor Castle. The room itself was destroyed in the fire of 1992, but happily its contents had previously been dismantled and moved to a location that the flames did not reach.12 Kathryn Barron has suggested that the evolution of the royal collection of Stuart portraits and objects began out of late-Georgian sympathy for the royal family’s exiled cousins and metamorphosed into (literally) Victorian sentimentality. According to Barron, Queen Mary’s interest in the Stuarts reflected a desire to uphold the monarchy and its record in the dark days of war and a twentieth-century succession crisis, as well as an appreciation of the historical development of the British monarchy. The present reign has seen a modern approach to curatorial and custodial practice.13 But surely there has also been an unstated containment strategy at work and, particularly in the early days, a dose of Stevenson’s ‘embalming fluid’. To quote again the remark of George III’s daughter, Princess Augusta: ‘I was ashamed to hear myself called Princess Augusta, and never could

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persuade myself that I was so, as long as any of the Stuart family were alive; but after the death of Cardinal York [in 1807], I felt myself to be really Princess Augusta.’14 Cardinal York’s death brought with it a transfer of Jacobite material culture of the highest order and set in train a programme to acquire more, not always for aesthetic or antiquarian reasons. George IV may have wished, in securing the Stuart Papers, to keep the most significant record of the Jacobite fact, as well as potentially embarrassing references to the Hanoverians, from the eyes of the curious. Access to the papers was limited in the early years: Robert Watson (1746?–1838), who had sold part of the archive to the king and who wished to write a history of the Stuarts, was turned away.15 A plaque placed on the wall of the church at Saint-Germain by Queen Victoria to indicate the tomb of James II pointedly calls him ‘the last Stuart King of England’.16 The acquisition of material culture associated with the rival dynasty may have been at least partly the result of an urge to render political symbols merely art (in Idzerda’s phrase) or, even more trivially, curios that could be locked in a cabinet or put, literally and figuratively, on the shelf.17 As Edward Corp has observed, however, the public presence at Holyrood today of Blanchet’s portraits of the Stuart brothers reflects ‘an acceptable consensus’ on their place in the history of Britain and the monarchy, without the need to invoke ‘the partisan loyalties of the eighteenth century’, which is an altogether positive development.18

Victorian antiquarianism If the royal family’s collecting of Jacobitiana reflects unique personal and dynastic imperatives, then Victorian antiquarian interest in the material remains of Jacobitism more squarely reflects the death of the Cause. The dry-as-dust world of the antiquary is nowhere better seen than in the great assemblage of ‘multifarious relics’ exhibited under the patronage of the Prince Consort as part of the annual meeting of the Archæological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland in Edinburgh in 1856.19 The catalogue produced some years later suggests on the title page that this took place in the institute’s museum, but the preface makes it clear that this was no permanent institution, given ‘the ephemeral nature of the Museum, combined for a special occasion and speedily dispersed’.20 The objects were all loans from private collections, including those of distinguished scholars and Scottish grandees. The displays included much that is outside the scope of this work, including antiquities, British, Irish and

Victorian antiquarianism

otherwise; mediæval pieces; seals, coins and medals of all periods; clocks and watches; paintings, drawings, ‘Fictile Ware’ and casts; embroideries, tapestry, costume, ancient furniture and miscellaneous objects. But a large number were associated with the Stuarts: ‘Relics and Portraits, more especially of Mary Queen of Scots, comprising many of the highest interest and authenticity, with Relics of the later members of that royal race, towards whose calamities Scottish hearts have ever kindled with loyal sympathies, which no lapse of time can extinguish.’21 Albert Way, the editor of the catalogue, does make an admission, however, on the point of authenticity and ‘the difficulty of verifying traditional statements’: ‘It were too much to hope that, in the endeavour to classify and describe faithfully a series so extensive and miscellaneous, researches, however laborious, should have availed to invest each object with its true interest as a link in the chain of historical or archæological evidence.’22 Provenances, where known, are given as fully as possible in the catalogue and unverified family tradition identified as ‘said to be’ or ‘stated to be’. It is frustrating, however, that some of the descriptions of objects in the 1856 exhibition are so vague as to be largely useless in determining authorship, provenance or authenticity, providing little beyond a bare description of the object and the lender: Miniature PORTRAIT of the Old Chevalier. (mr. charles tucker, f.s.a.) Original copper-plate, a PORTRAIT of the Old Chevalier. (mr. james

johnston.) An enamelled WATCH, stated to have been given by Prince Charles Edward to Flora Macdonald. (mr. edward huie, edinburgh.) An ETUI, or bodkin-case, of silver chased, said to have belonged to Prince Charles Edward. (mr. james drummond, r.s.a.)23

There is more than a whiff of the ‘stultifying’ antiquarianism that Robin Nicholson finds in some aspects of nineteenth-century interest in Jacobitism, as well as the attendant problem of ‘documentation and authentication’ which Eirwen Nicholson has identified as endemic to the study of Jacobite material culture.24 In some ways, however, one ought not to judge too harshly. To give the Victorians their due, the 1856 exhibition represents that spirit of overinclusiveness which one finds in the pages of Notes & Queries or the highly miscellaneous display cases of the Pitt-Rivers Museum in Oxford. The impetus behind such endeavours may have been more to accumulate than to sort (and reject), but amidst the dross there is gold – perhaps

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discoverable only through the process of gathering and sifting. The urge to accumulate is an aspect of the spirit of nineteenth-century comprehensiveness which resulted in Hawkins’s Medallic Illustrations, the Victoria & Albert Museum, the work of the Historical Manuscripts Commission, Chaloner-Smith’s British Mezzotinto Portraits and the index of personal satires in the British Museum, the Oxford English Dictionary, the Victoria county histories, the Dictionary of National Biography, Encyclopædia Britannica and Cockayne’s Complete Peerage, among other works. Accumulation also reflects the urge to reconstruct. One possible consequence of the exhibition (or, like it, a symptom of wider currents at the time) was renewed interest in the historical documentation of Jacobite history. The Times published extracts from the Stuart Papers related to Prince Charles Edward in 1864, and in 1869 the Historical Manuscripts Commission (later the Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts, now part of the National Archives) was established by royal warrant. The commission’s objectives included the publication of collections of manuscripts ‘which tended to the elucidation of History, and the illustration of Constitutional Law, Science and Literature’, although the commissioners did not publish their work on the Stuart Papers until 1902.25 Sadly work has not advanced since 1923, when the preface to the seventh volume of documents (to 31 December 1718) noted that the Great War had interrupted printing in 1915 and that ‘the alleged necessity for rigorous public economy’ required further work on the project to be ‘suspended indefinitely’.26 Victorian interest in Jacobitism had its negative aspects, not the least of which was its preference for quantity over authenticity, documentation and quality, but it nevertheless laid the foundations for more systematic analysis and usefully stimulated interest in manuscript evidence.

Patriotic or nationalist Scottish interest in the record of Jacobite material culture reflects the renascent nationalism – rehabilitated and decoupled from Jacobitism – which emerged in the later eighteenth century and received royal sanction in George IV’s visit to Edinburgh in 1822 (well described, in relation to the objects assembled for it by Robin Nicholson and Murray Pittock) and later in Queen Victoria’s purchase of Balmoral.27 Many local collections in Scotland reflect this nationalist trend, with strong elements of antiquarianism: for example, the representative collections of the Marischal Museum

Patriotic or nationalist

at the University of Aberdeen (see Figures 11 and 15), the Inverness Museum and Art Gallery (see Figure 4), and the West Highland Museum in Fort William (see Figure 5), which seek to provide a physical record of Scottish history. There does not appear to have been the grinding of any particular ideological axe in the accumulation of their collections; this is old-fashioned local history at work, albeit local history that reflects the vigour of the Jacobite fact in the north-east of Scotland and in the Highlands. Jacobitism is here but in another curatorial chapter, if a particularly colourful one.28 A somewhat different focus is detectible in two major exhibitions in the first half of the twentieth century, which continued in the antiquarian vein but also with a more overt patriotic or nationalist character (in a nonsecessionist sense). The first of these explicitly nationalist exhibitions was the Scottish Exhibition of History, Art and Industry held in 1911, which consisted of a group of purpose-built ‘palaces’ clustered in the Kelvingrove district of Glasgow.29 The Palace of History, modelled on Falkland Palace, housed an encyclopædic array of artefacts covering every aspect of Scots history: historical portraits, silver and jewellery, material related to Scotland’s links with France and Sweden, pieces associated with Burns and Scott, trade tokens, beggars’ badges, weaponry, domestic articles and agricultural implements, relics of Scottish explorers, locks and keys, prehistoric finds, curling stones and golf clubs, early pianos and episcopal seals – to take a random sample from the table of contents to the twovolume catalogue.30 If the other ‘palaces’ (Industry, Fine Arts, Machinery) were as dense with display, then to do justice to the exhibition in its entirety (replete with a replica of a Highland village, a concert hall and various sideshows) would have been an exhausting business. Scattered throughout the Palace of History were objects associated with Jacobitism, notably (and not surprisingly) in the galleries devoted to portraits, miniatures and prints, where there were numerous representations of the Old Pretender and his family, ‘Jacobite leaders’ and ‘Jacobite ladies’.31 There were also specific sections of Jacobite interest: a good representation of Jacobite medals in the numismatic section, with a subsection of Culloden medals; Jacobite literature; Stuart and Jacobite ‘relics’; and ‘Historic Glass Ware (Jacobite)’.32 If the catalogue descriptions from the 1856 exhibition in Edinburgh leave something to be desired, the 1911 catalogue reaches new depths of obscurity. For most of the portraits, one is given the name of the subject and maybe some biographical details, the name of the lender and nothing more. There is usually no mention of the artist or the provenance, except in a few cases where there is some

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romantic story. An entry like ‘An unusual portrait of the Prince [i.e., Charles Edward]’ merely says ‘you had to be there’.33 Particular areas of strength (at least in terms of numbers of objects; quality is impossible to assess) included the gallery of Jacobite glass, where there were sixty-two specimens labelled as Jacobite or possibly Jacobite, mostly of typical format (rose and two buds, ‘Fiat’ or ‘Audientor ibo’).34 This is ten times more than at the Stuart Exhibition in London in 1889 (discussed below), perhaps lending credence to the theory that the forgers began in earnest in the late nineteenth century. One feels more confident about the authenticity of the wide range of Jacobite literature, which included pamphlets from various seditious and pro-government presses, manuscript narratives of the ’15 and the ’45, the ‘novels’ of the late 1740s and early 1750s based on the flight of Charles Edward from Scotland, sermons, accounts of trials and dying speeches of condemned rebels.35 Inevitably there was also what Hugh Cheape has called ‘the “relics” element’.36 From a descendant of the Oliphants of Gask came this: Case of Relics of prince charles edward stuart. Containing his Highland bonnet and brogues, the white cockade, Garter, spurs, crucifix, autograph letter, and portrait as a child.37

One John F. Paterson lent a ‘small whisky bottle, out of which Prince Charles Edward is said to have had a dram at Culloden House’.38 It must be said, however, that there is otherwise a relative absence of the bits of ribbon and fragments of tartan that filled the cases in 1856 and 1889 – the tartan at the Palace of History was, with the exception of a plaid ‘said to have been worn by Prince Charles Edward’, assembled with a view to illustrating the history of textiles and dress rather than the romantic tale of the Stuarts.39 History is the thrust, in fact, of the 1911 exhibition, which was motivated by ‘the belief, shared by many, that the time had fully arrived when Scottish history should be placed on a different plane from that which had hitherto occupied in the education of the rising generation of Scottish children, as well as in the teaching of the subject in our higher schools and colleges’.40 One aim of the exhibition was to raise sufficient funds to endow a chair of Scottish history and literature at Glasgow’s university and to ‘bring together in one Exhibition building as complete an exposition of Scottish historical subjects as possible’.41 For all the deficiencies of its catalogue, the exhibition seeks to place the Jacobite era in its larger historical context – a positive development. Thirty-odd years later, the Second Centenary Loan Exhibition, held in Edinburgh, commemorated Culloden, although the exhibition ran from 31 August to 30 September 1946, rather than some time nearer the battle’s actual date of 16 April. The exhibition was held it the parish hall of Pugin’s

Patriotic or nationalist

gothic Tolbooth St John’s, formerly the Gaelic-speaking Highland church in Edinburgh (now prosaically named ‘The Hub’ and used by the Edinburgh Festival). As at the 1859 exhibition in Edinburgh, the objects on display almost a century later in the same city were a mixture of general Scottish antiquities and specifically Jacobite pieces. The primary objective of the exhibition was, in fact, charitable; it was held in aid of the Scottish National Appeal for Boys’ Clubs, with a strong dash of post-war patriotism: ‘Scotland gave bravely in the War: please help us by doing so again’ runs the pitch for donations in the catalogue.42 There were royal loans, as well as pieces from noble and old Jacobite families. Also, the predictable array of miscellaneous, undocumented bits and pieces: Ring with a piece of Prince James’ Hair. Lent by Col. and Mrs Stirling of Kippendavie. Circular Box containing a Fragment of Tartan. Lent by Rev. J. J. Antrobus. Said to be a piece of Drummond Tartan worn by the Prince as a compliment to the Duke of Perth. Piece of Garter Riband worn by Prince Charles. Lent by miss urquhart.43

And some larger ones: Tartan Coat and Wig. Lent by the Hon. mrs lindsay carnegie. Worn by Prince Charles during the Rebellion of 1745. Highland Costume. Lent by the Earl of Strathmore and kinghorne. Costume of Coat and Breeches, with braidings and fringes, as worn by a youth in the early 18th Century, stated to have been left by the Old Pretender (Prince James) at Glamis during the Rising of 1715. Tartan Coat and Trews. Lent by Scottish national naval and military museum. (In Culloden Room.) Tartan costume, middle of 17th Century; buttons, silver, bearing the Stuart rose of identical design to stamp used by Prince Charles Edward. Stated to have been worn by Prince Charles Edward at the battle of Culloden and acquired by Colonel August Earle, Judge Advocate in Scotland in 1745, from a lady in whose house she affirmed they had been left by the Prince.44

Like the Glasgow exhibition of 1911, the Culloden bicentenary exhibition seeks to use Jacobite material culture for patriotic (even imperial) and nationalist ends. This is not nationalism in the separatist sense, but is

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nevertheless strongly Scottish – again, at the expense of Jacobitism’s many non-Scots aspects. Nationalism in Scotland has evolved considerably since 1946, but what secessionist Scottish nationalists now make of Jacobite material culture is difficult to judge.45 The Scottish National Party appears to wish to retain Elizabeth as Queen of independent Scots, so there may be no necessary opposition to the monarchical principle, but to the extent that there is a republican strain in the movement for separation from the United Kingdom, Jacobitism and its physical record must seem feudal and retrograde, and the Duke of Bavaria alien indeed.46 One also suspects that there would be a tendency amongst all present-day nationalists to emphasise the purely Scottish aspects of the Jacobite experience, possibly unduly, whatever their views on the succession question.47

Neo-Jacobite The origins and purposes of the Exhibition of the Royal House of Stuart, held at the New Gallery in London in 1889, were different from those of its predecessor in Edinburgh in 1856, although both are indicative of the nineteenth-century spirit of antiquarian accumulation. An additional impetus for the 1889 exhibition lay in the neo-Jacobite revival of the late nineteenth century, which centred round the shadowy Order of the White Rose. The order purported to be a continuation of the original Cycle Club, which met in succession at the houses of its north Welsh members and which certainly existed at various points in the eighteenth century. The material culture of the Cycle Club appears to include the well-known medal of circa 1710, and from the later eighteenth century some circular engraved membership lists, a minute book and a jewel of 1780 identifying Lady Watkins Wynn as ‘Lady Patroness’. The later pieces are probably revivalist rather than original Jacobite (the jewel states that the body over which Lady Watkins Wynn presided was ‘Instituted June ye 10th, 1780’).48 After that, things get more than a bit murky – there are no references to records for the intervening years. One source, of questionable reliability, says the Cycle was ‘refounded’ in 1724, then again (as the Order of the White Rose) in 1886, in 1929 as the Order of the White Rose 1929 Cycle and again in 1963 as the Cycle Club – Order of the White Rose.49 The issue is obviously continuity, it being doubtful that there was in fact any between the various incarnations of the Cycle (possibly including its manifestations at the beginning and end of the 1700s). The 1886 ‘revival’ is attributable to

Neo-Jacobite

Bertram Ashburnham (1840–1913), 5th Earl of Ashburnham, who in that year circulated a pamphlet soliciting Jacobite supporters.50 Amongst those who responded was Melville Henry Massue (1868–1921), the soi-disant Marquis de Ruvigny et Raineval, author of a Legitimist Kalendar (1894) and the useful but not always accurate Jacobite Peerage (1904).51 The ‘marquis’ later broke away from the order in 1888 to form the Legitimist Jacobite League, on the grounds that the White Rose was more sentimentally Jacobite than actively and politically so, although it is said that he maintained friendly relations with Lord Ashburnham.52 Pittock associates the neo-Jacobites of the late Victorian period with the Symbolist rejection of materialism and democracy, the Oxford Movement and its cult of Charles the Martyr, and the mysticism of the ‘Celtic twilight’: ‘they formed a complex analogy with the past, which justified present withdrawal from the world in terms of a remote past in which it had been possible to participate, before “the family of artists” were “scorned by a nation of shopkeepers”’.53 Allan MacInnes is more blunt: he calls them covert fascists.54 We are, in any event, in the dubious world of Baron Corvo and Montague Summers. Ashburnham, secretly involved in the councils of the Order of the White Rose, secured the patronage of Queen Victoria for the 1889 exhibition of Stuart portraits and memorabilia at the New Gallery, as its president. Apparently many of those who attended the private view of the exhibition sported white roses in their buttonholes.55 The Queen is said, however, to have exacted some sort of revenge for having been inveigled into a compromising position by snubbing Henry Jenner, the notorious neo-Jacobite who had organised the exhibition.56 The order’s chief focus after the exhibition was to lay a wreath on the statue of King Charles I at Charing Cross every year on 30 January, seek the restoration of the solemn commemoration of that date to the Book of Common Prayer after its suppression in 1858, and issue various unheeded tracts and proclamations.57 The exhibition itself followed the general format of that in Edinburgh twenty-three years earlier, in offering a mixture of portraits and ‘relics’. The overall composition of the collected materials is not explicitly Jacobite: there is as much relating to Mary, Queen of Scots and her descendants down to Charles II and to James II and his successors – although clearly the emphasis is on the legitimacy of Stuart descent and Mary (by rights Queen of England, it would have been argued) was presented as a kind of Jacobite avant la lettre. The catalogue gives the later Stuarts their de jure regnal numbers which, although convenient now as shorthand, would in 1898 have been mildly provocative in an exhibition under the patronage of Queen Victoria, the senior descendant of the Electress Sophia of Hanover.

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The Queen herself lent a number of pieces to the exhibition, including the numerous portraits and miniatures, as well as various mementos and association pieces.58 Another royal lender was the wife of the Queen’s youngest son, Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany (a title with deliberate Stuart and Jacobite echoes), who was, like his mother, interested in his Stuart ancestry.59 Other loans came from Scottish magnates, English peers, scholarly collectors and old Jacobite families. There was in both the 1856 exhibition and the 1889 exhibition a desire to provide a comprehensive record of the Stuart dynasty in portraits, medals and other objects. Both exhibitions contained a large selection of association pieces, many with good provenances but doubtless some of questionable authenticity. There is also some overlap between the two exhibitions. Although the Archæological Institute catalogue entries are not always very informative, it is in the Stuart Exhibition that one really sees what Robin Nicholson has called the ‘depressing panoply of undifferentiated locks of hair and pieces of tartan’.60 This is particularly evident in the section of the exhibition devoted to ‘personal relics’ of the Stuarts and Flora Macdonald: a piece of prince charles edward’s kilt. (Lent by alexander farquharson, esq.) POCKET-BOOK, worked by Flora Macdonald. (Lent by the hon. mrs. maxwell-scott.) CHINA CUPS AND SAUCERS, formerly belonging to Flora Macdonald. (Lent by e. cockburn, esq.) GOLD RING containing hair of Prince Charles Edward. (Lent by mrs. arthur henfrey.) SPECTACLES of Cardinal York (Henry IX.) in original case. (Lent by mrs. c. markham.)61

These objects are indicative, in their own way, of renewed desire for the real presence of the Stuarts and the view that history is rendered uniquely vivid by its physical record, although with greater concern for that thrill than for the authenticity of the pieces themselves. As with fragments of the True Cross, some of these may, in fact, be the genuine article – but at first blush one is doubtful about all of them. The main difference between the exhibitions of 1856 and 1889 lay in the puposes of their promoters: in 1856 the driving force was pure antiquarianism; in 1889 this was yoked in the service of neo-Jacobitism. Here we see the

Neo-Jacobite

‘accumulative, associative and paratactic activities’ of antiquarianism, which permit an approach to ‘juxtaposed “things” from which imagination might construe both authorized and illegitimate pasts’.62 Nicholson also sees in the 1889 array a ‘wishful credulity’ in both the sacredness of Stuart kingship and the provenance of the objects exhibited, as part of a larger ‘reaction against the materialistic and machine-age culture of late nineteenth-century Victorianism’.63 It is clear that the point of the whole exhibition at the New Gallery was not merely to revive historical interest in the house of Stuart; the ultimate objective was a Stuart restoration and to bring the Jacobite fact and the modern succession to the Stuart claim to the attention of the British public through the immediacy of Jacobitism’s physical remains. The goal was nothing less than the actual restoration of the senior descendant of the dynasty. This is apparent in some of the catalogue entries, which go beyond mere references to the Jacobite claimants by their legitimist titles. In a description of a portrait of Queen Mary Beatrice is the tendentious comment ‘James III., by some called the “Old Pretender,” and the “Chevalier de St. George”’; in an entry on a portrait of Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans (daughter of Charles I) an account is given of the descent of the Jacobite succession after the death of Cardinal York through the descendants of Henrietta to ‘Mary Theresa Henrietta Dorothea, wife of Prince Ludwig of Bavaria, son of the Regent Luitpold, the present Heiress of Line of King Charles I’.64 As Miguel Tamen has observed in the context of museums, the impulse here is not principally to preserve or to collect, but to provide ‘retrospective justifications’ – and to proselytise in the interests of ‘Queen Mary IV and III’ (or ‘III and II’, depending on what one makes of the legitimacy of Elizabeth I).65 The neo-Jacobite movement has decided fin-de-siècle overtones, but it survived into the twentieth century and provided continued impetus for the accumulation of Jacobite objects, notably in the Widdrington collection. Miss Maria Widdrington was presumably a member of the notable Northumberland Jacobite family of that name and her collection must have come to her in part by inheritance. The collection was brought to the attention of the public by Major Francis Skeet (1869–1943), her relation and eventual adoptive father. He published two volumes in limited editions on handmade paper, bound in maroon (buckram for the first volume (1930); ‘rexine’ for the second (1938)) and embossed in gold with the arms of Cardinal York.66 Skeet’s involvement in neo-Jacobite political activity looks rather farcical now, but he was serious about placing King Rupert of Bavaria on the British throne. Skeet’s purpose in publicising the Widdrington collection may be divined from his inscriptions in one set of the two volumes:

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To Pamela Mackintosh from the author, an acknowledgment of the honour of receiving a visit from one from Moy Hall. Fear God, Honour the King Francis Skeet Xmas 1940 To Pamela Mackintosh From Francis Skeet an English Jacobite to a Highland one Xmas and New Year 1940–4167

These dedications suggest that Skeet used his publications as a means of identifying fellow travellers and exhorting them to ‘look, love and follow’. Skeet represents a phase of Jacobite activity which has had remarkable longevity, even if its record of material culture is (perhaps fortunately) slender. In 1938 he wrote that the Order of the White Rose, encountered in connexion with the 1889 exhibition, was ‘happily blooming afresh’ in the form of the ‘1929 Cycle’. This new incarnation published photogravures of a circular White Rose members’ list (c. 1815, according to Skeet) and member’s button, as well as its own modern badge.68 Here we enter what has been called the ‘knightly twilight’ of bogus titles and pseudo-chivalry, represented by groups such as the so-called ‘Order of the Crown of Stuart’. It is surely correct to conclude that ‘interest in the House of Stuart and the history of the Jacobite cause can well do without them’ – although the phenomenon of these ephemeral societies is interesting (in its own way) as evidence of the continuing appeal of legitimist ideas and the power of Jacobite symbols, if at the outer reaches of political reality.69 They have, however, proved a hindrance in the past to putting Jacobite scholarship on a more respectable and professional footing, in leading others to assume that Jacobite studies are inherently partisan, trivial and unscholarly, best left to amateurs and cranks. Skeet’s two privately printed volumes describe the Widdrington collection, which consisted of some manuscript material not found in the Stuart Papers at Windsor, paintings and engravings, medals and touch-pieces, books and pamphlets (from the eighteenth century but also including later, secondary literature on the Stuarts). The origins of the collection are not

Personal or psychological

entirely apparent from Skeet’s catalogues, but one has the distinct sense that Skeet added significantly to a previously existing family collection and that Miss Widdrington was, to a large extent, a passive participant in her adoptive father’s bigger enterprise of promoting Jacobitism as a viable political alternative in the modern world: an enterprise which failed on two counts, there having been no restoration and the collection appearing to have been dispersed during the lifetime of Skeet’s ward.70 Skeet clearly used the objects in the collections to construct an identity for himself that was ideological, familial and social; and one has the somewhat uncomfortable sense that Miss Widdrington’s importance to him may have been as much material as personal. .

Personal or psychological Skeet was, then, like his predecessors in the eighteenth century in his reliance on the physical manifestation of Jacobite adherence as a means of constructing a sense both of self and of belonging to something larger – although it must be said that there is something unattractive about him and the Stuart exhibition that is absent in the eighteenth-century version of all of this. What was once intimate, personal and quasi-religious has become pathological. This tendency is persistent. In the case of William Hamilton (1811–63), the 11th Duke of Hamilton and 8th of Brandon, who amassed a princely collection of Jacobite and other objects at Hamilton Palace in Lanarkshire (demolished in the 1920s), the point appears to have been to assert dynastic and personal importance.71 The duke may have collected out of interest in his family’s history: the Hamiltons, as descendants of James II of Scots, were heirs presumptive to the Scottish throne in the sixteenth century, on the strength of which both the Jacobite 3rd duke and his successor the 10th asserted a claim to the British throne superior to that of the house of Hanover.72 The purpose of amassing Jacobite objects may simply have been a desire to enrich even further the magnificent collections at Hamilton Palace with pieces of suitable splendour and impeccable provenance, but there also seems to have been an intent to illustrate the ducal pedigree, underscore royal pretensions and, perhaps, gratify the ego of a nobleman who thought himself the equal of kings. Dynastic and personal anxieties, rather than ambitions, seem to underlie the collecting of Prince Frederick Victor Duleep Singh (1868–1926), son of Duleep Singh (1838–93), the deposed Maharajah of Lahore. The

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maharajah converted to Christianity, settled in England and became a favourite of Queen Victoria (to whom he presented the Koh-i-noor diamond) and Prince Albert. Prince Frederick Victor, his third son, was an ardent monarchist (he hung a portrait of Cromwell upside-down at Blo’Norton, his house in Norfolk), an antiquarian and a collector of Jacobitiana.73 The prince’s collection of Jacobite portraits and artefacts was presented by his sisters to the Inverness Museum in 1926. These consist of a wide variety of objects, paintings, miniatures, prints and documents of good quality, but there is some tat as well: coloured photogravures, a piece of tartan (acquired from the Sobieski Stuarts, which should set the alarm bells ringing), locks of hair.74 Without engaging in too much amateur psychology, one is tempted to say that Prince Frederick felt a particular affinity for the Stuarts, a deposed and exiled royal family like his own – and also that his collecting interests were shaped by the spirit of Abbotsford, Balmoral and the neo-Jacobites of the later nineteenth century.75 Less obviously neurotic was William M. MacBean, who gave a large collection of Jacobitiana to the library of the University of Aberdeen in 1919. MacBean was a native of Nairn who emigrated to the United States, where he made a fortune on Wall Street and began to collect. Originally his intention was to donate his collection to an American university, but on the strength of a lecture by Sir George Adam Smith, principal of Aberdeen, during World War I, MacBean decided to benefit that university instead, receiving an honorary doctorate of laws in recognition of his gift. The collection consists of some 3,350 books; a thousand pamphlets, sermons and articles; 1,580 loose prints; more than a hundred broadsides; ‘a few’ manuscripts; and almost two thousand topographical photographs.76 The prints, a mixture of both eighteenth- and nineteenth-century pieces, have been digitised on an excellent website entitled ‘The Drawn Sword’; the printed books, pamphlets and manuscripts are catalogued in the university library’s online catalogues.77 MacBean is a good example of the Scottish emigrant who prospered in America but who, like many sons of Scotia, wished to emphasise his origins and, by enriching her public collections, express his gratitude to his native land – like Andrew Carnegie, if on a more modest scale. The purpose was, then, antiquarian and nationalistic, reflecting a desire to record the history of eastern Scotland, with its strong traditions of royalism, episcopacy and Jacobite sympathies. But was there also an element of the emigrant’s rosecoloured nostalgia in MacBean’s amassing of Jacobitiana, a romanticising construction of a Scottish and personal past that was rather different from his own origins in Nairn?

The rise of professional scholarship

No account of the psychological undercurrents of Jacobite collecting could omit Denys Eyre Bower (1905–77) of Chiddingstone Castle in Kent. He was a bank clerk turned antiques dealer, notorious in his lifetime for accidentally shooting himself and his girlfriend, a pretended countess who was in reality the daughter of a Peckham bus driver. Bower spent four years in Wormwood Scrubs as a result. When not in prison, he combined an eye for a bargain with a carefree attitude to credit in his pursuit of a wide array of objects in four main fields of interest: Japan, ancient Egypt, Buddhism, Stuart and Jacobite. The Jacobite pieces include portraits and miniatures, significant holdings of glassware, snuffboxes, medals, pamphlets and manuscripts.78 There is also the supposed relic of the heart of James II in its heart-shaped silver container, which was discussed earlier in this book, but which is absent from the new Chiddingstone guidebook – presumably on account of doubts about its authenticity. Bower’s reasons for collecting Jacobitiana were unusual. He may have been drawn to Jacobite material as a native of Derbyshire, which is rich in associations with the ’45. Bower was also a Buddhist – which prompted his important acquisitions of Japanese art – and is said to have believed that he was the reincarnation of Bonnie Prince Charlie. The accumulation of objects appears, then, to have been part of the construction and reconstruction of personal identity, in this instance by a bank clerk with a vivid imagination who saw countesses in South London girls, a prince in himself. These collectors – a duke, an Indian prince, a successful emigrant, a true English eccentric – in some ways responded to Jacobite objects as had the Jacobites themselves, in two cases as expressions of exile and return, and in all as exercises in self-fashioning – but absent are the social, corporate or semi-religious aspects which had given the material culture its meaning in the period when Jacobitism remained a political force. Here the urge to collect seems to be purely a matter of individual psychology, with no emphasis on the communal – and little on the actual promotion of the Stuart claim.

The rise of professional scholarship There is a hint of the obsessive in the collecting and cataloguing activity of Noel Woolf (1911–2001), the great twentieth-century acquirer and recorder of Jacobite medals. This may be the same kind of pathological response to Jacobite material culture that is evident in Skeet or Bower – although in Woolf’s case it may be no more than the relatively mild

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compulsiveness of any serious collector. Woolf is a good example, in any event, of the enthusiastic amateur whom Eirwen Nicholson has deprecated as an impediment to more rigorous scholarship on Jacobitism. Certainly Woolf’s method in compiling The Medallic Record of the Jacobite Movement (1988) leaves something to be desired from an academic perspective: his use and citation of sources is vague, his approach to copyright cavalier, his book not without small errors.79 The Medallic Record is, in some ways, what Nicholson has identified as ‘the product of amateurism in the negative sense’, lacking a basis in scholarly training and aimed primarily at other collectors.80 It is, nevertheless, essential reading for any student of British historical medals or of Jacobitism, and the new scholarship that has arisen partly as a reaction to this kind of hobbyism has also depended on it (and the Victorian antiquarians to a lesser extent) for raw materials. Woolf may represent the high-water mark of amateur interest in Jacobite material culture in the last century, roughly corresponding with the new generation of scholars – Paul Monod, Eveline Cruickshanks and Howard Erskine-Hill, amongst others – who have applied scholarly method to the study of Jacobitism as a matter of culture and history. On the positive side, The Medallic Record of the Jacobite Movement identifies a number of medals which escaped the notice of Hawkins, and Woolf’s connoisseurship enabled what appear to be some sound judgments on the dating of certain pieces. As such, it is a good example of the valuable contribution that can be made by an enthusiastic and knowledgeable amateur (Geoffrey Seddon, a retired doctor and writer on Jacobite glass, is another), provided its limitations are acknowledged. There are, however, some less happy examples and Jacobite studies are not yet entirely free from the charge of amateurism in the negative sense. By way of contrast there is the Jacobite collection of the University of Guelph in south-western Ontario, Canada, which reflects the increasing professionalism of Jacobite studies since the latter part of the twentieth century. The university has been collecting Scottish and Jacobite material in earnest since 1965, when an interdepartmental committee on Scottish studies was formed. Funding came in 1975 from the Macdonald Stewart Foundation and later from the Scottish Studies Foundation, the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Grier Family Scottish Studies Fund.81 There is, of course, a certain irony in a place called Guelph becoming a centre for the study of Jacobitism (‘Guelph’ being derived from the name of the progenitor of the house of Hanover over a millennium ago, and used as an alternative dynastic name

The future?

in the nineteenth century), but at least this part of Canada was settled by Scots in the nineteenth century. The university’s Jacobite collection (the largest in North America) is, for the present, confined to printed books, pamphlets and manuscripts – so, strictly speaking, does not fall within the usual confines of ‘material culture’, unless one wishes to treat print materials as objects rather than solely as texts.82 The point in mentioning the collection here is that it reflects a new strand of collecting interest in Jacobitism: that of professional scholarship, with perhaps a tinge of twentieth-century Scottish nationalism. With or without the nationalist aspect, Jacobite studies have become the subject of serious academic endeavour since the 1980s, tilting the balance away from the dominance of amateurs and collectors.83

The future? The final collection considered in this chapter, that of the Drambuie Liqueur Company, is indicative of the continuing, but perhaps weakening, hold that Jacobitism exerts over the modern imagination. According to the official history, the recipe for the liqueur was ‘the gift of the Prince’ to Captain John MacKinnon of Skye, the ancestor of the current proprietors of the marque, on his flight from Culloden in 1746. Whether a warlike young prince carries with him on such occasions the list of ingredients for an after-dinner drink is open to question – but, given what we know of Prince Charles Edward’s fondness for the bottle, perhaps there is no reason to doubt the story. In any event, the Scottish and Jacobite associations of the product have been central to its promotion. The Drambuie marketing strategy continues to include the image of Charles Edward – although the presentation of the prince on the corporate website now has an air of Hollywood to it, at times more Braveheart than Bonnie Prince Charlie.84 From the 1980s onwards Duncan MacKinnon and his brother Malcolm amassed a significant corporate collection of Scottish and Jacobite art and artefacts, including what is probably the finest collection of Jacobite glass in terms of quantity, variety and quality.85 The impetus behind this accumulation seems to have been a desire to form a representative sample of Scottish pictorial and decorative art, as well as to emphasise the traditional Jacobite origins of the liqueur – both as a matter of corporate identity and for the purposes of marketing. Selected pieces toured the United States in 2003–5, taking in Palm Beach, Florida; Savannah, Georgia; Lexington, Kentucky; Albany, New York; Winterthur, Pennsylvania; Richmond,

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Virginia; and Memphis, Tennessee (a city with its own claimant to kingly status). The objects presented, all of outstanding quality, included a number of pieces of Jacobite glass, engravings, original letters and other documents, a Culloden fan, medals, miniatures, and a newly rediscovered copy (probably dating from the eighteenth century) of the lost portrait of Charles Edward (1747) by Louis Tocqué (1696–1772).86 Changes in fashion and demographics brought harder times to Drambuie in the late twentieth century, and the MacKinnon brothers ceded managerial control to a chief executive officer from outside the family. Part of the cost-cutting exercise undertaken by the new management of the firm was to dispose of the non-Jacobite Scottish items in the collection, resulting in a two-day sale at Lyon & Turnbull of Edinburgh in January 2006. On the block were nineteenth- and twentieth-century Scottish paintings and drawings, Wemyss-ware pigs, glass, silver, jewellery, ships’ models, Victorian stuffed fish, works of decorative art, furniture and books.87 At the time of that sale, the fate of the Jacobite pieces in the Drambuie collection was unknown, although it was widely assumed that they too would end up in the saleroom. Was the North American tour an attempt to flog the collection? Yes, although apparently not for commercial purposes, for there were efforts behind the scenes to secure a sale or loan to a public institution. This led to the announcement that the collection would go on display, in parts, at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery and the National Trust for Scotland’s interpretation centre at Culloden, on ‘long-term’ loan.88 For now, at least, the collection is publicly accessible. One cannot rule out, however, the possibility that all will be dispersed at the behest of the company’s bean-counters or an eventual purchaser of the business. This would be a great shame (except for individual collectors, who would probably be more than willing to pay a premium for a Drambuie provenance, given the quality and cohesiveness of the collection). Those who are ‘fortunate enough to possess pictures and relics’ of the Stuarts have found themselves in that position through a variety of causes. Very often it is through descent from an ancestor who was more or less actively involved in the dynastic struggles of the eighteenth century, although sometimes perfectly ordinary objects from this period have been invested by optimistic romantics with pedigrees that are highly doubtful or wholly without merit. Some of the ‘fortunate’ arrived at that state through the industry and ingenuity of professional forgers of Jacobite material, which says much about the appeal of the genuine article and the willingness of the dishonest

The future?

to fabricate the material record for illegitimate purposes. The spirit of accumulation can also reflect a deliberate or semi-deliberate attempt to historicise the later Stuarts, either as an exercise in antiquarian classification (whether we see that as negative or positive) or as part of a subconscious desire to contain and control the presentation of the Jacobite fact. In the 1889 exhibition and the activity of Francis Skeet there is the opposite impulse: to use the record of the material culture as a reminder that the Stuarts ruled ‘just two centuries ago’ and that their heir-of-line was available in the wings (if, in the end, not particularly interested in heeding the call).89 The past is not, or does not seem to be, a foreign country to the extent that we adopt (and adapt) it to satisfy our own interests, suit our own purposes and fulfil our own needs. These are some of the uses of history, which help us to fashion personal and social identity in much the same way as the Jacobites did more than two hundred and fifty years ago. The religious or semi-religious dimension has probably given way to the personal/psychological, but nationalist and even the political impulses have retained a surprising currency. More recent manifestations of the collecting urge have, to a certain extent, charted the fortunes of Jacobite studies themselves, from domination by often knowledgeable but nevertheless amateur enthusiasts to a more serious footing as a field of professional academic endeavour. The recent experience of the Jacobite artefacts in the Drambuie collection shows, perhaps, that the sentimentalised portrayal of the Stuarts by the Victorians has begun to lose its sway, which is no bad thing – but perhaps also that Jacobitism now occupies an uneasy place in the public consciousness. The Drambuie Company can probably rely less and less on public awareness of the Prince and the ’45 as a means of differentiating its product from those of its competitors; what was once a potent symbol may, in time, become meaningless to the consumers of alcoholic drinks through the process by which ‘relics succumb to attrition of meaning as well as substance’.90 The end of relics: the end of everything.91 To return to a question posed in the introduction to this book, why Jacobite material culture in particular – and why not its Williamite and Hanoverian equivalents? In part the answer is our preference for underdogs and losers; the winning side is inevitably a bit boring, and its material culture with it. Another part of it is the star quality of the Stuarts – flawed, admittedly, but perhaps all the more attractive for that. And we must not forget that Jacobite objects were treasonous (or at least seditious), transgressive, things of danger. Fear of the rigours of the law dictated to a very large extent their design, format, content, production, distribution,

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acquisition and use. The auctioneers know that this perilous aura, whether genuine or enhanced by hype, still manages to sell: the Jacobite ‘spy ring’ discussed in Chapter 1 made more than four times the top end of the estimate for this very reason. Part of the allure is also the physical record itself, in its variety and copiousness. The range of Jacobite material culture created during the active phase of the Stuart quest to regain the throne is nothing short of astonishing, in terms not only of the multiplicity of objects through which a Jacobite message was expressed – grand portraits and naïve representations, gravestones and garters, medals and glasses, swords, carved and inscribed eggs, souvenirs and holy relics, tiny objects for concealment, obelisks in formal gardens, pincushions and annotated books – but also in the varying motivations of those who disseminated those messages and responded to them. It has been one of the objectives of this study to show that the messages themselves were various, depending on their source, an estimation of legal risk, the intended audience, the medium of transmission and where they fall on the Jacobite timeline running from 1688 to the later eighteenth century. What is no less remarkable is that the physical record of the Jacobites has continued to command our attention long after the end of realistic Jacobite hopes, from the closing years of the eighteenth century to the present, although its hold over the public consciousness may be diminishing. The reasons for this continuing fascination have themselves evolved over time, and are almost as various as those in an earlier age, when the disparate beholders of the rich array of Jacobite material culture were exhorted by it to look, love and follow.

Notes

Introduction 1 Monod, 92. 2 James Deetz, In Small Things Forgotten: The Archaeology of Early American Life (New York: Anchor Books, 1977). 3 Jules David Prown, ‘Mind in Matter: An Introduction to Material Culture Theory and Method’, in Art as Evidence: Writings on Art and Material Culture (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2001), 70. 4 Lieutenant General Augustus Henry Lane-Fox Pitt-Rivers, ‘On the Evolution of Culture’, in ‘The Evolution of Culture’ and Other Essays, ed. J. L. Myres (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1906), 23. 5 Prown, Art as Evidence 70. 6 Deetz, In Small Things Forgotten, 1. 7 Ibid., 24. See also Susan M. Pearce, ‘Museum Objects’, in Interpreting Objects and Collections, ed. Susan M. Pearce (London and New York: Routledge, 1994), 9; Ian Woodward, Understanding Material Culture (Los Angeles and London: Sage, 2007), 14. 8 Steven Lubar and W. David Kingery, ‘Introduction’, in History from Things: Essays on Material Culture, ed. Steven Lubar and W. David Kingery (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), ix. 9 Kevin Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy: Authority and Image in Sixteenthcentury England (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2009), 46 (also 32, 47, 152–6, 404–10). 10 It is to be hoped that the projected second edition of Woolf’s book will correct errors and reflect new information: see Michael Sharp, Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Medals, Royal Stuart Society paper 74 (London, 2008), 18; P.J.P.M., ‘Michael Sharp, 1940–2012’, Numismatic Circular 120:2 (October 2012), 87. 11 Murray Pittock, ‘Treacherous Objects: Towards a Theory of Jacobite Material Culture’, Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 34:1 (2011), 39–63. 12 Igor Kopytoff, ‘The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process’, in The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. Arjun Appadurai (Cambridge University Press, 1986), 64–91; David Lowenthal, The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History (New York: Viking, 1996), 31–54, 55–87. See also David Lowenthal, The Past Is a Foreign Country

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13

14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21 22

23 24 25

26 27

(Cambridge University Press, 1985), 197–200 (memory and identity); Mark Blackwell, ‘Introduction: The It-Narrative and Eighteenth-century Thing Theory’, in The Secret Life of Things: Animals, Objects, and It-Narratives in Eighteenth-Century England (Lewisburg, Penn.: Bucknell University Press, 2007), 12 (and 9–14 generally). See Lynn Festa, ‘Personal Effects: Wigs and Possessive Individualism in the Long Eighteenth Century’, ECL 29:2 (spring 2005), 59, 68, 82–3. See also Lowenthal, Past is a Foreign Country,, 60–2. Compare Chloe Wigston Smith, ‘Clothes without Bodies: Objects, Humans, and the Marketplace in EighteenthCentury It-Narratives and Trade Cards’, Eighteenth-Century Fiction 23:2 (2010/11), 347–80. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 12 (also 11–15 generally). Festa, ‘Person, Animal, Thing’, 5; also 13, 33. Susan Staves, ‘Chattel Property and the Construction of Englishness, 1660– 1800’, Law and History Review 12:1 (spring 1994), 123; also 153. Annette B. Weiner, Inalienable Possessions: The Paradox of Keeping while Giving (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 33. Kopytoff, ‘Cultural Biography of Things’, 73–83. Steve Murdoch, ‘Tilting at Windmills: The Order del Toboso as a Jacobite Social Network’, in Loyalty and Identity: Jacobites at Home and Abroad, ed. Paul Monod et al. (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 243–64. Sharp, 217 (nos. 710–11). Hudson’s painting was presented to the Goldsmiths’ Company. Allan I. MacInnes, ‘Jacobitism in Scotland: Episodic Cause or National Movement?’, Scottish Historical Review 86:2, no. 222 (October 2007), 230. The medal also provided Monod with the title for his chapter on Jacobite iconography in Jacobitism and the English People (1989), and one for the exhibition curated by Richard Sharp at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery in 1995. Lowenthal, Past is a Foreign Country, 244–5; also 238–49, on relics generally. Dorothy H. Somerville, The King of Hearts: Charles Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1962), 118–19. See Neil McKendrick et al., eds., The Birth of a Consumer Society: The Commercialization of Eighteenth-Century England (London: Europa Publications, 1982); John Brewer and Roy Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods (London and New York: Routledge, 1993); The Consumption of Culture 1600– 1800. Image, Object, Text, ed. Ann Bermingham and John Brewer (London and New York: Routledge, 1995); Mark Overton et al., eds., Production and Consumption in English Households, 1600–1750 (London and New York: Routledge, 2004); and below, Chapter 4, note 64. Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 28 (and 27–32 generally). Marius Kwint, ‘The Physical Past’, in Material Memories, ed. Marius Kwint et al. (Oxford: Berg, 1999), 5.

Notes to pages 9–12 28 See John Brewer, ‘Clubs, Commercialization and Politics’, in McKendrick et al., eds., Birth of a Consumer Society, 231–62. 29 Barbara M. Benedict, ‘The Spirit of Things’, in Blackwell, ed., Secret Life of Things, 19, 20. 30 Clifford Geertz, ‘Centers, Kings, and Charisma: Reflections on the Symbolics of Power’, in Local Knowledge: Further Essays on Interpretive Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 121–46; and below, note 40. 31 Eirwen E. C. Nicholson, ‘Images and Artefacts: The Material Culture of Jacobitism in Scotland and England, 1688–1788’, PSAS 125 (1995), 1200. For methodologies for the study of material culture, see R. Elliot et al., ‘Towards a Material History Methodology’, in Pearce, ed., Interpreting Objects and Collections, 109–24; and in the same volume, Pearce, ‘Thinking about Things’, 125– 32, and Jules Prown, ‘Mind in Matter: An Introduction to Material Culture Theory and Method’, 133–8 (also in Prown, Art as Evidence, 69–95). 32 Helen Farquhar, ‘Royal Charities. Part IV. – Conclusion of Touchpieces for the King’s Evil. Anne and the Stuart Princes’, BNJ 15 (1919/20), 171; J. K. R. Murray, ‘The Jacobite Silver Touchpieces’, Seaby Coin & Medal Bulletin 651 (1952), 446– 8; Woolf, 77; Woolf, The Sovereign Remedy: Touch-Pieces and the King’s Evil (Manchester: British Association of Numismatic Societies, 1990), 25. 33 Edward T. Corp and Jacqueline Sanson, eds., La Cour des Stuarts à SaintGermain-en-Laye au temps de Louis XIV (Paris Réseau des Musées Nationaux,, 1992); Edward T. Corp, ‘La Maison du Roi à Saint-Germain-en-Laye (1689– 1718)’, in L’autre exil: les Jacobites en France au début du XVIIIe siècle ([Montpellier]: Presses du Languedoc, 1993), 55–78; Edward Gregg, ‘The Financial Vicissitudes of James III in Rome’, in The Stuart Court in Rome: The Legacy of Exile, ed. Edward T. Corp (Farnham and Burlington, Vt.: Ashgate, 2003), 65–83. Edward T. Corp, A Court in Exile: The Stuarts in France, 1689–1718 (Cambridge University Press, 2004), 104–35; Edward T. Corp, The Jacobites in Italy, 1719–1766: A Royal Court in Permanent Exile (Cambridge University Press, 2011). 34 Woolf, 77; Woolf, Sovereign Remedy, 25; RA/SP 179/136 (Innes to James, 30 May 1735); RA/SP 221/117 (receipted account, 31 March 1740). 35 Coins, Medals, and Medallions in Gold, Silver, and Brass, of the Learned and Ingenious Martin Folkes, Esq ([London], [1756]), 22. Other Jacobite touchpieces are listed, 12, with ‘English Silver Coins’ on day three of the sale, suggesting that the ‘healing piece’ on day five was not silver mixed in with the gold. See also William Eisler, ‘The Construction of the Image of Martin Folkes (1690–1754), Part I’, The Medal 58 (spring 2011), 4–29, and ‘Part II’, The Medal 59 (autumn 2011), 4–16. 36 Simon Schama, ‘The Thing Is . . .’, Financial Times, 23–24 January 2010, Life & Arts section, 1. 37 P. Monod, M. Pittock and D. Szechi, ‘Introduction: Loyalty and Identity’, in Monod et al., eds., Loyalty and Identity, 6.

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Notes to pages 13–15 38 The Casablanca joke is Pat Brückmann’s; and see also her ‘“Audientor ibo”: Jacobite Propaganda and Material Culture’, paper presented at the 33rd annual meeting of the American Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies, Boulder, Colorado, 4 April 2002. 39 See ‘Memorial’. 40 See, in particular, J. Neville Figgis, The Divine Right of Kings, 2nd edn (Cambridge University Press, 1922), 17–37, 137–76; Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieval Political Theology (Princeton University Press, 1952); C. A. Bouman, Sacring and Crowning: The Development of the Latin Ritual for the Anointing of Kings and the Coronation of an Emperor before the Eleventh Century (Groningen and Djakarta: J. B. Wolters, 1957); Marc Bloch, The Royal Touch: Sacred Monarchy and Scrofula in England and France, trans. J. E. Anderson (London/Montreal: Routledge & Kegan Paul/ McGill-Queens University Press, 1973), 28–48, 108–50, 262–74; Marc Fumaroli, ‘Sacerdoce et office civil: la monarchie selon Louis XIV’, in Les Monarchies, ed. Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie (Paris : Presses Universitaires de France, 1986), 101–14; La Royauté sacrée dans le monde chrétien, ed. Alan Boureau and Claudio-Sergio Ingerflom (Paris: Editions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 1992); Paul K. Monod, The Power of Kings (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1999); J. C. D. Clark, ‘The Re-Enchantment of the World? Religion and Monarchy in Eighteenth-Century Europe’, in Monarchy and Religion: The Transformation of Royal Culture in Eighteenth-Century Europe, ed. M. Schaich (Oxford University Press for the German Historical Institute, London, 2007), 41–75. And of course, Sir James Frazer’s Golden Bough, abridged edn (London: Macmillan, 1963), and The Magical Origin of Kings (London, Macmillan, 1920). 41 On medallic back-and-forth in this period, see Sir Mark Jones, ‘Medals of Riposte and Repartee’, History Today 31:1 (January 1981), 49–50. 42 Monod, 62–9; Murray Pittock, ‘Rights of Nature: The Ideal Images of Jacobite Ruralism’, British Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 13:2 (autumn 1990), 223–37. 43 See Weiner, Inalienable Possessions, 6–8. Also Alexandra Walsham, ‘Skeletons in the Cupboard: Relics after the English Reformation’, Past & Present supplement 5 (2010), 121–43. 44 Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. W. D. Halls (London: Routledge, 1990), 48–53, 61–2. See also Sharon Kettering, ‘Gift-Giving and Patronage in Early Modern France’, French History 2:2 (1988), 131–51; Natalie Zemon Davis, The Gift in Sixteenth-Century France (Oxford University Press, 2000), 56–72 (esp. 62–3 on patronage), 87–9, 154–66; Patricia Brückmann, ‘“Without any Letter”: Some History outside the Library’, Recusant History 30:1 (May 2010), 62–3; Linda Zionkowski, ‘Clarissa and the Hazards of the Gift’, Eighteenth-Century Ficiton 23:3 (2011), 471–94.

Notes to pages 15–18

45 Mauss, Gift, 74 (and 74–7 generally). Mauss, Gift, 76 suggests that the shift away from ‘archaic’ conceptions of morality and solidarity occurred in precisely the period under discussion here: ‘One can almost date – since Mandeville’s Fable of the Bees [1724] – the triumph of the notion of individual interest’. 46 Arjun Appadurai, ‘Introduction: Commodities and the Politics of Things’, in Social Life of Things, 17. 47 Lisa McClain discusses the creation of Roman Catholic space in interiors (often, but not always through decoration and furnishings) and outdoors (although not by means of permanent interventions) in ‘Without Church, Cathedral or Shrine: The Search for Religious Space among Catholics in England, 1559–1625’, Sixteenth Century Journal 33:2 (2002), 381–99. 48 For some account of ‘Whig’ historiography, see J. C. D. Clark, English Society, 1688–1832: Ideology, Social Structure and Political Practice during the Ancien Régime (Cambridge University Press, 1985), 8–14; Murray G. H. Pittock, The Myth of the Jacobite Clans (Edinburgh University Press, 1995), 4–5; Allan I. MacInnes, ‘Jacobitism in Scotland: Episodic Cause or National Movement?’, Scottish Historical Review 86:2, no. 222 (October 2007), 226; J. C. D. Clark, ‘The Many Restorations of King James: A Short History of Scholarship on Jacobitism, 1688–2006’, in Monod et al., eds., Loyalty and Identity, 28–9, 37–40. Examples of the Whiggish approach include Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation, 1707– 1837 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992), where Jacobites are conspicuous by their absence; Evan Gottlieb, Feeling British: Sympathy and National Identity in Scottish and English Writing, 1707–1832 (Lewisburg, Penn.: Bucknell University Press, 2007), where they are ignored until we get to Sir Walter Scott’s fictional accounts of them; and Patrick Dillon, The Last Revolution: 1688 and the Creation of the Modern World (London: Jonathan Cape, 2006).

1 The danger of Jacobite material culture 1 Hawkins, ii. 193–4/501–3; Proceedings of the Numismatic Society (18 May 1865), Numismatic Chronicle 2 series 5 (1865), 14; ‘Proceedings of the Association’, 26 April 1871, Journal of the British Archaeological Association 27 (1871), 385; Woolf, 45. For a Jacobite hoard of a different type (gold coins dating from 1700 to 1745, apparently hidden in ‘haste and fear’ in the panelling of a guest bedroom occupied by Colonel Francis Townley during the ’45), see ‘Hidden Coins at Gawthorpe Hall, Lancashire’, The Numismatist 2:7 (July 1890), 73–4, quoted in Harrington E. Manville, Encyclopædia of British Numismatics, ii. 2 (London: A. H. Baldwin & Sons and Spink & Son, 1997), 936. 2 ‘Proccedings of the Association’, 385. Unfortunately no more precise sense of numbers is given. 3 Paul Monod, ‘Dangerous Merchandise: Smuggling, Jacobitism, and Commercial Culture in Southeast England, 1690–1760’, Journal of British Studies 30 (1991), 161.

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4 For brief records of the production of the medalets for the Stuart court, see Le Journal de la Monnaie des Médailles 1697–1726, ed. F. Mazerolle, Gazette Numismatique Française 1 (1897), 345 (nos. 10–13). 5 See, for example, An act for enlarging the time for taking the oath of abjuration, 1 Ann. stat. 2, c. 17, III (1701), which made it high treason to hinder the Protestant succession by these means. See also Pittock, ‘Treacherous Objects’, 41–4 on the deliberate elision of sedition and treason by the authorities; John Barrell, Imagining the King’s Death: Figurative Treason, Fantasies of Regicide 1793–1796 (Oxford University Press, 2000), 30–44, 130–7, 354–7. 6 William Hawkins, A Treatise of the Pleas of the Crown, 2 vols. (London, 1716– 21), i. 35–8; An act against corresponding with their Majesties enemies, 3 & 4 W. &. M. c. 13 (1691); An act against corresponding with the late King James and his adherents, 9 Wm III c. 1 (1697); An act for the attainder of the pretended prince of Wales of high treason, 13 Wm III c. 3 (1701); An act to prevent all traiterous correspondence with her Majesty’s enemies, 3 & 4 Ann. c. 14 (1704); An act to make it high treason to hold correspondence with the sons of the pretender to his Majesty’s crown, 17 Geo. II c. 39 (1744). 7 Sir William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, 4 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1765–9), iv. 94–8, 373–8 and ii. 251–7; An Act for improving the Union of the two kingdoms, 7 Ann. c. 21 (1708); R. P. Gadd, Peerage Law (Bristol: ISCA Publishing, 1985), 115–20; J. M. Beattie, Crime and the Courts in England, 1660–1800 (Princeton University Press, 1986), 451–6. 8 Hawkins, Treatise of the Pleas of the Crown, 38. 9 Ibid., 38–9; also 38–41 generally. Compare Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 79–81. 10 Sharp, 201–2 (nos. 638–40); Monod, 121–2. 11 R. v. Matthews (1719), 15 How. St. Tr. 1323. The fact that both Matthews and Shepherd were minors did not protect them from the death penalty: Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 23–4. 12 Sharp, 142–3 (nos. 354–6), 149–50 (nos. 385–7), 153–4 (nos. 399–400), 157 (no. 410), 168 (nos. 469–72), 173 (no. 493), 174–7 (nos. 494–513), 183 (nos. 590–2), 196 (nos. 604–7), 201 (nos. 638–40), 211 (no. 688), 212 (no. 688), 212 (no. 691), 213 (nos. 694–6), 215–17 (nos. 700–9); T. Clayton, The English Print, 1688–1802 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1997), 76, 78. 13 Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 114 (and 102–18 generally); OED. The name of the offence is derived from the opening words of the writ served on the accused (præmunire facias, ‘cause [so-and-so] to be warned’ – i.e., of the requirement to appear in court to answer to the charges). 14 Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 116; An Act for the securing of her Majesty’s person and government, and of the succession to the crown of Great Britain in the Protestant line, 6 Ann. c. 7 (1707). 15 Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 117.

Notes to pages 21–23

16 Beattie, Crime and the Courts, 456–61, 464–8; Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 370; Monod, 234. 17 Craftsman, 28 June 1729, cited in Herbert M. Atherton, Political Prints in the Age of Hogarth: A Study on the Ideographic Representation of Politics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), 74. 18 Monod, 233–66. See also Nicholas Rogers, ‘Riot and Popular Jacobitism in Early Hanoverian England’, in Ideology and Conspiracy: Aspects of Jacobitism, 1689–1759, ed. Eveline Cruickshanks and Howard Erskine-Hill (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1982), 70–88; Nicholas Rogers, Crowds, Culture, and Politics in Georgian Britain (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 50–7; David Cressy, Dangerous Talk: Scandalous, Seditious, and Treasonable Speech in Pre-modern England (Oxford University Press, 2010), 39–43, 227–43. 19 OED, ‘libel’, n. The modern law of defamation retains the distinction between slander (oral) and libel (written or printed): see P. Milmo and W. V. H. Rogers, eds., Gatley on Libel and Slander, 11th edn (London: Sweet & Maxwell, 2008), at para. 3.6. Seditious libel remains criminal (para. 24.1). 20 C. Viner, A General Abridgment of Law and Equity, 24 vols (1742-[51]), xv. 85 (emphasis in original). See also 87 (libel does not include oral statements). 21 Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 150. 22 Sir William Holdsworth, A History of English Law, 17 vols. (London: Methuen, 1925–72), xv. 339 (and 345–7 generally). 23 [Thomas Bray], Mr. Boots’s Apology for the Conduct of the late H–gh S—f (1754), cited in Elaine Chalus, ‘The Rag Plot: The Politics of Influence in Oxford, 1754’, in Women and Urban Life in Eighteenth-century Britain: ‘On the Town’, ed. R. Sweet and P. Lane (Burlington, Vt.: Ashgate, 2003), 43. 24 Holdsworth, History of English Law, xv. 342–5; Barrell, Imagining the King’s Death, 348–54. The guilty verdict then went to the Court of King’s Bench, where a judge alone determined the question of law whether a crime had been committed and, if so, passed sentence. The defendant could make a motion in arrest of judgment, on a plea that the paper (or what have you) was not a libel or to mitigate or excuse the libel. 25 Charnock’s case (1696), 2 Salk. 631, 91 ER 533 at 533, 534. 26 R. v. Deacon (1746), Fost. 10, 168 ER 6. See also Thomas Hearne, Remarks and Collections, 11 vols., ed. C. E. Doble et al. (Oxford: Clarendon Press for the Oxford History Society, 1884–1918), iv. 152 (Standfast, a Bristol apothecary, taken up for possession of a Jacobite picture and held for six months in Newgate, but later acquitted); Louise Lippincott, Selling Art in Georgian London: The Rise of Arthur Pond (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1983), 115. 27 Narcissus Luttrell, A Brief Relation of State Affairs from September 1687 to April 1714, 6 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1867), ii. 610. 28 Proceedings of the Old Bailey, www.oldbaileyonline.org, record t16931012–54. 29 Abel Boyer et al., The Political State of Great Britain, 60 vols. (London, 1711– 60), xxv. 184–6; Richard Sharp, ‘“Our Common Mother, the Church of

173

174

Notes to pages 23–26

30 31

32 33 34 35 36

37 38

39 40

41 42 43 44 45

England”: Nonjurors, High Churchmen, and the Evidence of Subscription Lists’, in Loyalty and Identity: Jacobites at Home and Abroad, ed. Paul Monod et al. (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 174. Sharp, 130–1; Clayton, English Print, 78. Sharp, 130 (no. 286). See also Eveline Cruickshanks and Howard Erskine-Hill, The Atterbury Plot (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004); G. V. Bennett, The Tory Crisis in Church and State, 1688–1730: The Career of Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974). Sharp, 130–1; Atherton, Political Prints, 72–3. The phrase is Miguel Tamen’s: see Friends of Interpretable Objects (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2001), 78–86. Hawkins, ii. 312–13/133; Woolf, 62 (and 20:1b, 23:1). See Matt. 22:20–1, Mark 12:16–17; Luke 20:24–5. For further discussion of biblical sources, see Chapter 3. Dundas was the eldest son of Robert Dundas of Arniston (d. 1726), Lord Arniston: see ODNB, ‘Dundas, Robert’; G. W. T. Omond, The Arniston Memoirs (Edinburgh: David Douglas, 1887). Abel Boyer, History of the Reign of Queen Anne, Digested into Annals. Year the Tenth (London, 1712), 204–5. Hawkins does not list the medal as being in the collection of the Faculty of Advocates, one of the collections in his survey (ii. 312/133); Woolf, 62, states that ‘no record now exists of the actual medal’. Boyer, History of the Reign of Queen Anne, 212. OED, ‘leasing’, sense c. The elements and consequences of treason under Scots and English law were aligned by a Union statute: see Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 377; An Act for improving the Union, 7 Ann. c. 21 (1708). See also Barrell, Imagining the King’s Death, 268–9; and MacInnes, ‘Jacobitism in Scotland’, 241, on the ‘foisting’ of English treason law on Scotland. ‘Proceedings against Mr. James Dundas, for Leasing-making and Sedition’ (1712), 15 How. St. Tr. 715 (‘Dundas’) at 721. Ibid. at 725. Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 152. A Letter from a Parishioner of St. Clement Danes (London, 1725), 14 (italics in the original). For other treasonous offences, like counterfeiting the coin of the realm, intent was presumed from possession of physical objects: Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, iv. 88, 90. This comes close to strict liability or what has been called a theory of ‘objective criminality’: see, in relation to theft, George P. Fletcher, ‘The Metamorphosis of Larceny’ (1976), 89:3 Harv. L. Rev. 469 at 476–81, 502. (I am indebted to Simon Stern, Faculty of Law, University of Toronto, for this reference.) See R. v. Jones (1703), 1 Salk. 379 (Q.B.), 91 ER 330 (also at 6 Mod. 105, 87 ER 863; 2 Ld Raym. 1013, 92 ER 174); R. v.

Notes to pages 26–28

46 47

48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58 59 60 61

62

Grantham (1709), 11 Mod. 222 (Q.B.), 88 ER 1003; R. v. Bryan (1730), 2 Str. 866 (K.B.), 93 ER 902; Hawkins, i. 188; and Tamen on liability attaching to things, Friends of Interpretable Objects, 78–86. Dundas at 725, 726. Ibid. at 726, 727. See also The Scotch Medal Decipher’d, and The New HereditaryRight Men Display’d (London, 1711); Scotch-Loyalty Exemplify’d (London, [1711]); A Welcome to the Medal (Oxford, 1711); A Speech for Mr. D—sse Younger of Arnistown (London, 1711); D. Defoe, Review 55 (31 July 1711) and 57 (4 August 1711); ‘The Old Medal New Struck or The Wh—gs at their witts end’ ([London, 1711]); The Medal: or, A Full and Impartial Account of the late Proceedings of the Dean and Faculty of Advocates in Scotland (London, 1712); Predictions for the Year, 1712 (London, 1712), 9; Hearne, Remarks and Collections, iii. 199, 353; Maximillian E. Novak, Daniel Defoe: Master of Fictions (Oxford University Press, 2001), 393 (attributes The Scotch Medal to Defoe); Niall MacKenzie, ‘Doubleedged Writing in the Eighteenth Century’, in Literary Milieux: Essays in Text and Context Presented to Howard Erskine-Hill, ed. David Womersley and Richard McCabe (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2008), 141–68. Dundas at 727. Quoted in Omond, Arniston Memoirs, 54. Hearne, Remarks and Collections, iv. 92; also 113–14. Ibid., 92, 113. Ibid., 114. Ibid., 115–31; ODNB, ‘Hearne, Thomas’ and ‘Dodwell, Henry’. 8 Mod. 283, 88 ER 201. Monod, 234–5. Sharp, 57. Woolf, 112, 115; Nicholson, 82–3. Nicholas, 32–3 reproduces what may be one of these busts (coloured wax, 4 3/4 inches high). Johnson and Boswell saw ‘a head of Prince Charles in Paris plaster’ during their visit to Coirechatachan on 7 September 1773: see Boswell’s Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson, LL.D., ed. F. A. Pottle and C. Bennett (New York: Viking Press, 1936), 121. Sharp, 61. See ‘Polish Lady’. See Patricia C. Brückmann, ‘“Men, Women and Poles”: Richardson and the Romance of a Stuart Princess’, ECL 27:3 (2003), 31–52; and ‘Memorial’. Sir John Gilbert, ed., Narratives of the Detention, Liberation and Marriage of Maria Clementina Stuart (Dublin: Joseph Dollard, 1894; reprinted Shannon: Irish University Press, 1970); Peggy Miller, A Wife for the Pretender (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1965); Gernot O. Gürtler, ‘Deceptis Custodibus’ or Liberty Lost – Liberty Regained, Royal Stuart Society paper 35 (London, 1990). Evening Post, 11–13 August and 1–3 September 1719; London Journal, 11 August 1719; Post-Boy, 6–8 August, 18–20 August, 1–3 September, 8–10

175

176

Notes to pages 30–31

63

64 65 66 67

68 69 70

71 72 73

74

75

76 77

September, 15–17 September, 22–24 September, 29 September–1 October, 6–8 October, 13–15 October 1719. The newspapers had recently featured advertisements for a book entitled Passionate Love-Letters between a Polish Princess and a certain Chevalier (London, 1719), ostensibly the correspondence of James and Clementina: see Evening Post, 14–16, 21–23, 23–25 July 1719; Post-Boy, 14–16, 16–18, 18–21 July 1719. See Sharp, 106 (nos. 182–3). Sharp notes that the price for the Post-Boy’s print is high for a portrait in this period, suggesting its rarity or the expected level of demand, or both (e-mail to the author, 29 January 2006). For the Trevisani portraits of Clementina, see Corp, 56, 59, 60, 108. Prints after Trevisani: Sharp, 106–7 (nos. 181–7; none by Du Change). Sharp, 57, 61. See also Nicholson, 27, 83. For the available methods of enforcement, see Beattie, Crime and the Courts, 35–73. Monod, 247. Ibid., 244–6, observing such a fluctuation in relation to prosecutions for seditious words. See also Paul Monod, ‘The Jacobite Press and English Censorship, 1689–95’, in Eveline Cruickshanks and Edward Corp, eds., The Stuart Court in Exile and the Jacobites (London and Rio Grande, Ohio: Hambledon Press, 1995), 125–42. PRO/SP (Domestic), Geo. II, Entry Book 84 (warrants), cited in Atherton, Political Prints, 76–7. Hawkins, ii. 313/133. Howard Erskine-Hill, ‘Literature and the Jacobite Cause’, Modern Language Studies 9:3 (autumn 1979), 18; Howard Erskine-Hill, ‘Twofold Vision in Eighteenth-Century Writing’, English Literary History 64 (1997), 916. See ‘Memorial’. Sharp, 97. Sharp, 97 (no. 140); George Clarke Print Collection, XVII:141 at www.prints. worc.ox.ac.uk. See also Niall MacKenzie, Charles XII of Sweden and the Jacobites, Royal Stuart Society paper 62 (London, 2002), for the use of the Swedish king as a proxy for Prince Charles Edward. There was a series of these medals: see Woolf, 20:1a–c; 23:1a–b; 24:1; 26:1a and 2b; 28:3; 62–3; and Chapter 2. The variant COGNOSCVNT MEI ME appears on a portrait engraving of Prince James dated 1704 and on Jacobite glassware: see Seddon, 111; Sharp, 90 (no. 118.ii–iv); Nicholson, 26, 29. See also ‘Unica Salus’ and ‘Inscriptions’. Edward Corp, ‘The Location of the Stuart Court in Rome: The Palazzo del Re’, in Monod et al., eds., Loyalty and Identity, 195–9; Edward T. Corp, The Stuarts in Italy, 1719–1766: A Royal Court in Permanent Exile (Cambridge University Press, 2011), 36–58. See, for example, Sharp, 17, 93 (no. 128); 94 (no. 130); 64, 96 (nos. 136–8); 22, 107 (no. 187); 23, 111 (nos. 202–3, 204.i); 112 (no. 208). Dundas at 725.

Notes to pages 32–35

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

86 87 88 89 90 91

92 93 94

95 96

Boyer, Political State, xxv. 184–5. R. v. Clerk (1728), 1 Barn. K.B. 304, 94 ER 207 (‘Clerk’, cited to ER). R. v. Nutt (1728), 1 Barn. K.B. 306 at 307, 94 ER 208 (‘Nutt’ cited to ER) at 208. Clerk at 207. 15 How St. Tr. 1323. Viner, xv. 87. The Oxford Almanack of 1712, Explain’d (London, 1711), 5. PRO/SP 85/15 f237, cited in Jane Clark, ‘Lord Burlington’s Agents’, in Lord Burlington – The Man and his Politics: Questions of Loyalty, ed. Edward Corp (Lewiston, NY, Queenston, Ont. and Lampeter: Edwin Mellen Press, 1998), 182. R. v. Knell (1728), 1 Barn. K.B. 305 at 306, 94 ER 207 at 208. R. v. Knell; Nutt at 208. Nutt at 209. PRO/SP II 36/111/169–70, cited in Sharp, 115. See Monod, ‘Jacobite Press and English Censorship’, 125–42. Sharp, 43, 57. For distribution of medals of the Stuarts to their adherents, see, for example, RA/SP 152/46 (James to Bishop Atterbury, 12 March 1732), 150/ 181 (record of letters sent by James Edgar (Robert Arbuthnot, 12 March 1732)), 201/103 (Edgar to Robert Freebairn, 23 October 1737), 202/40 (Freebairn to Edgar, 18 November 1737), 211/165 (gifts of medals, December 1738?), 211/166 (gifts of medals, December 1738), 211/167 (gifts of medals, undated), 226/77 (Edgar to Lord John Drummond, 25 September 1740), 227/ 123 (Edgar to Lord John, 29 October 1740), 229/125 (Edgar to Lord John, 29 December 1740), 233/126 (James to Father G. Lascaris, 17 June 1741). RA/SP 57/135 (James Hamilton to Francis Kennedy, 4 February 1722). See Introduction above. RA/SP 54/134 (Robert Freebairn to the Hon. John Hay of Cromlix, tit. Earl of Inverness, 28 August 1721), 54/144 (Freebairn to Inverness, 2 September 1721), 54/166 (Freebairn to Inverness, 18 September 1721), 55/113 (Freebairn to Inverness, 16 November 1721), 56/15 (Inverness to Freebairn, 2 December 1721), 56/23 (Freebairn to Inverness, 4 December 1721), 56/41 (Inverness to Freebairn, 9 December 1721), 56/56 (Freebairn to Inverness, 14 December 1721), 56/120 (Inverness to Freebairn, 30 December 1721), 57/17 (James Hamilton to Francis Kennedy, 8 January 1722), 57/76 (Inverness to Freebairn, 20 January 1722). RA/SP 54/134 (28 August 1721). David McFarlan, ‘Prince Charles “Tongue” Pieces’, Numismatic Circular 87:1 (January 1979), 13–14. See also Monod, 77; John Callow, King in Exile. James II: Warrior, King and Saint, 1689–1701 (Stroud: Alan Sutton, 2004), 362 (seditious texts and the king’s hair hidden inside buttons and shirt studs). For a Jacobite password and its explanation, see ABDUA 18168, www.abdn.ac. uk/virtualmuseum/ (‘Rob Gib’s Contract’); Charles Louis Klose, Memoirs of

177

178

Notes to pages 35–36

97 98

99

100 101

102

103

Prince Charles Stuart, (Count of Albany,) Commonly called the Young Pretender; with Notices of the Rebellion in 1745, 2 vols. (London: Henry Colburn, 1845), ii. 349–50; ‘A Strichen Man’, ‘The House of Gib’, N&Q, 5 series 1 (30 May 1874), 435; Donald Nicholas, The Young Adventurer: The Wanderings of Prince Charles Edward Stuart in Scotland and England in the Years 1745–6 (London: Batchworth Press, 1949), 173; Mairi Robinson, Concise Scots Dictionary (Edinburgh University Press, 1999), 567. Lyon & Turnbull, Scottish Silver Sale, Edinburgh, 13 February 2008, lot 19. See Chapter 4, below. Compare the rings worn in the 1720s and 1730s by members of the Jacobite (and probably Masonic) Order of Toboso, which bore the motto ‘To a Fair Meeting on the Green’: Murdoch, ‘Tilting at Windmills’, 244–5; Corp, Stuarts in Italy, 324. RA/SP 181/56 (Edgar to George Waters, 28 July 1735). For other portraits making their way to various points in Britain and Europe in this period, see RA/SP 150/81 (Edgar’s list of letters, entry for 1 March 1732 (‘impressions of the Intaglio of The Princes head’); 180/47 (Edgar to Edmund Bingley, 15 June 1735), 181/152 (Bingley to Edgar, 4 July 1735), 181/156 (Edgar to Bingley, 20 July 1735), 182/13 (Edgar to Marquis de Villefranche, 17 August 1735), 182/14 (Edgar to Andrew Cockburn, 17 August 1735), 200/1 (James to Owen O’Rourke, 9 August 1737), 211/65 (Edgar to George Waters, 27 November 1738), 211/38 (Edgar to Gen. MacDonnell, 12 December 1738), 212/78 (accounts for 1730–8: ‘Per Ritratti del Principe’, 1737, 116 scudi 68 giulii); 219/122 (Edgar to Robert Arbuthnot, 6 January 1740), 220/138 (Edgar to Lord Sempill, 18 February 1740), 220/140 (Edgar to Waters, 18 February 1740), 221/141 (Edgar to Waters, 18 February 1740), 222/97 (Edgar to Waters, 17 March 1740), 224/187 (Edgar to Charles Smith, 7 July 1740), 225/7 (James to Comte de Béthune, 19 July 1740), 225/70 (Edgar to Smith, 28 July 1740), 226/87 (Lord James Drummond to Edgar, 17 September 1740), 228/145 (Edgar to Arbuthnot, 17 November 1740; 229/70 (Edgar to Smith, 16 December 1740), 229/124 (Edgar to Arbuthnot, 29 December 1740); 232/40 (Edgar to William Hay of Drumellier, 22 April 1741), 232/66 (Edgar to William Hay, 29 April 1741), 232/117 (Edgar to William Hay, 14 May 1741), 233/103 (Edgar to Waters, 15 June 1741). RA/SP 202/107 (30 November 1737). Hawkins, ii. 601/253; Woolf, 60:2; Rosalind K. Marshall, ed., Dynasty: The Royal House of Stewart (Edinburgh: National Galleries of Scotland and National Museums of Scotland, 1990), 113 (fig. 149). Quoted in Andrew Lang, Pickle the Spy or, The Incognito of Prince Charles (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1897), 110. See also Proceedings of the British Numismatic Society, BNJ 44 (1974), 93 (uniface medal for watch-case, in lead); Woolf, 113 (no. 60:1; watch-case medal, in white metal). Farquhar, 197 (snuffbox with concealed portrait of James); Therle Hughes and Bernard Hughes, English Painted Enamels (Feltham: Spring Books, 1967),

Notes to pages 36–37

60 and pl. 27 (snuffbox depicting courting couple on outside lid, gentleman sporting white cockade; portrait of Charles Edward inside); PSAS 101 (1968/ 9), 296 (snuffbox with a hidden enamel portrait of Charles Edward); PSAS 54 (1919/20), 213 (wax bust of Prince Charles Edward, 4 1/8 inches tall); Sharp, 121 (no. 247) (watch-paper of Prince Charles Edward, after Strange; image 41 mm in diameter); Sharp, 33, 176 (no. 502) (watch-paper of Lord Lovat, after Hogarth; 42 mm in diameter); Sharp, 180 (no. 525) (watch-paper of Flora Macdonald). See also Nicholas, 10–11 (cravat pin with portrait of Charles Edward), 12 (cameo portrait of Charles Edward under filigree lid), 26–7 (portraits of Charles Edward in boxes with double lids), 46–7 (ring and seal with portrait of Charles Edward); Christie’s, Glasgow, Fingask Castle, Rait, by Perth, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday 26, 27 and 28 April 1993 at 10.30 a.m. Each Day (Glasgow, 1993), lot 927 (snuffbox with concealed portrait of Charles Edward), 950 (locket with hair of Charles Edward); Kelvin, 116–18, 142–4, 145–60. 104 Inverness Museum and Art Gallery, accession 1945.009 (information provided by Catharine Niven, Senior Curator). 105 Illustrated in Nicholas, 44–5; see also Anamorphoses (Cologne, 1975), cat. 21. An anamorphosis of Charles Edward was displayed in the Stuart exhibition in London in 1889: see Stuart Exhibition, 231 (cat. 1130); Christie’s, Fingask Castle, lot 4; www.christies.com/LotFinder. See also Robert Chambers, ed., Chambers’s Book of Days: A Miscellany of Popular Antiquities in Connection with the Calendar including Anecdote, Biography, & History, Curiosities of Literature and Oddities of Human Life and Character, 2 vols. (London and Edinburgh: W. & R. Chambers, 1864), ii. 234 (18 August); and correspondence on ‘A Jacobite Contrivance’ in N&Q 5 series 8 (no. 200) (27 October 1877), 328; 5 series 8 (no. 202) (10 November 1877), 375; 5 series. 8 (no. 209) (29 December 1877), 516; and 5 series 9 (no. 214) (2 February 1878), 95. Albert Hartshorne, Old English Glasses: An Account of Glass Drinking Vessels in England, from Early Times to the End of the Eighteenth Century (London and New York: Edward Arnold, 1897) records a ‘distorted’ portrait, said to be of Prince Charles Edward, in oil on canvas at Tabley Old Hall, Knutsford, Cheshire. The only distorted portrait still in the Tabley collection is that of Charles II, so it is likely that Hartshorne’s was misidentified. I am grateful to Elina Glenday of the Tabley House Collection Trust for information about the portrait. 106 Grant R. Francis, Old English Drinking Glasses: Their Chronology and Sequence (London: Herbert Jenkins, 1926), 171–2, and ‘Disguised Jacobite Glasses’, BM 69:403 (October 1936), 174–6; Seddon, 135. For ‘Blackbird’, originally used in a Jacobite song dating from the early years of the eighteenth century, see James Hogg, ed., The Jacobite Relics of Scotland, 2nd series (Paisley: Alex. Gardner, 1874), 68 (song xxxii); William H. Grattan Flood, A History of Irish Music, 4th edn (Dublin, Belfast, Cork and Waterford:

179

180

Notes to pages 39–44 Browne & Nolan., 1927), 244; Tomoko Hanakazi, ‘A New Parliament of Birds: Aesop, Fiction, and Jacobite Rhetoric’, Eighteenth-Century Studies 27:2 (1993/ 4), 245–7; Murray Pittock, Poetry and Politics in Eighteenth-Century Britain and Ireland (Cambridge University Press, 1994), 48; Andrew Carpenter, Verse in English from Eighteenth-Century Ireland (Cork University Press, 1998), 126. For a Bristol delft punch-bowl depicting a blackbird, thought to have been used by a Jacobite club in Basingstoke, see F. J. Baigent and J. E. Millard, A History of the Ancient Town and Manor of Basingstoke (Basingstoke: C. J. Jacob, 1889), 565–6. I am grateful to Alison J. Carter, Senior Keeper of Art and Design, Historic Dress and Textiles, Hampshire County Council Museums and Archives Service, Winchester, for this information. 107 Sir Fitzroy Maclean of Dunconnel, Bt, ‘Foreword’, Christie’s Scotland, The Jacobites and their Adversaries, Glasgow, Wednesday 12 June 1996 at 2.30 p.m. (Glasgow: Christies Scotland, 1996), 6. 108 See Jules David Prown, ‘The Truth of Material Culture: History or Fiction’, in Prown, Art as Evidence, 233. Compare Carl Knappett, Thinking through Material Culture: An Interdisciplinary Approach (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005), 3.

2 Patterns of Jacobite visual symbolism 1 Lot 355, Bonhams, Edinburgh, 27 August 2008. 2 See also Nicholson, 149 n. 48, on the ‘over-contrivance’ which he detects in fraudulent pieces. 3 See Monod, 70–92; Seddon, 95–103. 4 Seddon, 95–6, 177–84. 5 Sharp, 29, 116 (nos. 220–1); Woolf, 61:1; SCLE, 16 (cat. 79). 6 Seddon, 100–1, 111, 144, 147, 148, 151, 153, 154; Woolf, 28:7, 61:2 (thistle). An intertwined rose and thistle appear on an anti-Jacobite piece of 1708: Woolf, 21:4. 7 Seddon, 103–4, 141, 145, 149; Woolf, 58:1. 8 See, for example, Sharp, 105 (nos. 178–9), 107 (nos. 184–5), 116 (no. 221), 121 (no. 253). 9 Nicholson, 73–4. 10 Monod, 72–8. Arnold R. Mountford, The Illustrated Guide to Staffordshire Saltglazed Stoneware (New York and Washington, D.C.: Praeger, 1971), 60 (pl. 175). A similar toddy cup was exhibited in Edinburgh in 1946: see SCLE, 35 (cat. 228). 11 Badge of Clan Stewart: see Frank Adam, The Clans, Septs, and Regiments of the Scottish Highlands, 8th edn, rev. Sir Thomas Innes of Learney (Edinburgh and London: Johnston & Bacon, 1975), 543. The imagery applied to Charles II himself was equally hybrid: see Gerard Reedy, SJ, ‘Mystical Politics: The Imagery of Charles II’s Coronation’, in Studies in Change and Revolution: Aspects of English Intellectual History, 1640–1800 (Menston: Scolar Press 1972), 19–42.

Notes to pages 44–46

12 See, for example, Murray G. H. Pittock, The Invention of Scotland: The Stuart Identity and the Scottish Identity, 1638 to the Present (London and New York: Routledge, 1991), 41–3, 66–9; Murray G. H. Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics in Eighteenth-Century Britain and Ireland (Cambridge University Press, 1994), 17–18, 28–9, 34, 45, 50, 64–5, 92–9, 110–14; Seddon, 98, 108–9; Murray G. H. Pittock, ‘Classical Code in the Age of Burlington’, in Corp, ed., Lord Burlington, 137–47; Laura Lunger Knoppers, ‘Reviving the Martyr King: Charles I as a Jacobite Icon’, in The Royal Image: Representations of Charles I, ed. Thomas N. Corns (Cambridge University Press, 1999), 275–7; Nicholson, 63–4, 88; Eirwen E. C. Nicholson, ‘“Revirescit”: The Exilic Origins of the Stuart Oak Motif’, in Corp, ed., Stuart Court in Rome, 25–48; Michael Bath, Emblems for a Queen: The Needlework of Mary Queen of Scots (London: Archetype Publications, 2008), 60–5. See also Hawkins, i. 453–4/38, 475–6/83–4, 651/5–6, 655/14, 668–9/39; Woolf, 14:5a, 62:1, 70:1. 13 Hawkins, i. 651/5–6 (no. 6 is the ‘oranges for acorns’ medal), 668–9/39, 685/68, 686/69. For an orange tree on its own, see i. 639–40/65, 641/67, 671/42–3, 681/ 60, 682–3/63. See also Eirwen E. C. Nicholson, ‘The Oak v. the Orange: Emblematizing Dynastic Union and Conflict, 1600–1796’, in Anglo-Dutch Relations in the Field of the Emblem, ed. B. Westeweel (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 227–52. 14 (London, 1716). British Library catalogue T. 1771(5), Bodleian 22862 e. 48. 15 For a description of the pageant, see Geertz, ‘Centers, Kings, and Charisma’, 125–9. 16 Monod, 65–6; Pittock, ‘Rights of Nature’, 223–37; Pittock, Invention of Scotland, 41–3, 66–9; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 9–58. See also Ronald Hutton, The Rise and Fall of Merry England: The Ritual Year, 1400–1700 (Oxford University Press, 1994). 17 Monod, 72–3. 18 The print is included in an extra-illustrated 60-volume set of Lord Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion, the text of which is based largely on editions of 1707 (Oxford) and 1837 (London), formerly in the Sutherland collection and now in the Ashmolean Museum. (I am grateful to Dr Julian Brooks, Print Room Supervisor in the Department of Western Art at the Ashmolean, for information about the extra-illustrated set.) 19 Knoppers, ‘Reviving the Martyr King’, 275–7 (reproduction of woodcut version, 276; also in the collection of the Ashmolean). Knoppers notes that the lesson for 30 January was, fortuitously or providentially, an account of the Passion (Matthew 27, in fact). See also Lois Potter, ‘The Royal Martyr in the Restoration: National Grief and National Sin’, in Corns, ed., Royal Image, 246; Nicholson, ‘Oak v. the Orange’, 236–7 discusses and reproduces yet another version, this one the frontispiece to Anthony Sadler, The Loyall Mourner. Sheweing the Murder of King Charles the First (London, 1660), but does not discuss the 1715 version.

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Notes to pages 46–48 20 See also ‘Unica Salus’, which argues that the parables of trees from Ezekiel and the New Testament have a mercantile context which may inform our reading of the withered oak on the medal of 1721, struck in response to the South Sea Bubble. 21 Rosalind K. Marshall and George R. Dalgleish, eds., The Art of Jewellery in Scotland (Edinburgh: HMSO for the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, 1991), 50 (no. 37); Diana Scarisbrick, Portrait Jewels: Opulence and Intimacy from the Medici to the Romanovs (London: Thames & Hudson, 2011), 170–1 (fig. 181). The cameo is possibly a portrait of James II rather than his son: see Woolf, 15:3 to 15:5; but 23:1 and 24:1 also offer fairly close parallels. The painting is at Traquair House in Peeblesshire: Traquair (Norwich, 2008), 19. 22 See Monod, 73–80, on the themes of lineage and sovereignty. See also Bruce Lenman, ‘The Exiled Stuarts and the Precious Symbols of Sovereignty’, ECL 25 (spring 2001), 185–200. 23 See Introduction, notes 30, 40; and Chapter 4. 24 See Jean-Claude Schmitt, ‘Les Reliques et les images’, in Les Reliques: objets, cultes, symboles, ed. Edina Bozóky and Anne-Marie Helvétius (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), 145–59. Perhaps the vaunted healing power of the Stuart claimant is the object of the gentle satire of Pier Leone Ghezzi’s caricature of James with his physician, Monsieur de la Rose, c. 1720–30, which prominently features a vessel containing what is either a medicament offered by the doctor or a sample of bodily fluid drawn from the royal person: see Sotheby Parke Bernet & Co., One Hundred and Fifty-two Caricature Drawings by Pier Leone Ghezzi (London, 1979), 82–3 (lot 141). 25 Bill Brown, ‘Thing Theory’, Critical Inquiry 28:1 (autumn 2001), 5. 26 Nicholson, 17–18, 20, 28. 27 See Francis F. Madan, A New Bibliography of the Eikon Basilike (Oxford University Press for the Oxford Bibliographical Society, 1950); Andrew Lacey, The Cult of Charles the Martyr (Woodbridge and Rochester, NY: Boydell & Brewer, 2003), 78–94, 213–14 (and 213–35 generally). 28 Nicholson, 31. 29 For some examples of pieces commemorating Charles I, see Hawkins, i. 340– 71/187–261; Helen Farquhar, ‘Portraiture of the Stuarts on the Royalist Badges’, BNJ 2 (1903), 243–90; Andrew Sharp, ‘Notes on Stuart Jewellery’, PSAS 57 (1922/3), 226–32, 241; Francis, Old English Drinking Glasses, 153 (glass depicting Charles I and motto memoria in eterna, first quarter of eighteenth century); Marshall, ed., Dynasty, 71; Nicholson, 23; Stephen Lloyd, Portrait Miniatures from Scottish Private Collections (Edinburgh: Scottish National Portrait Gallery, 2006), 68 (cat. 10) (memorial rings); Robin Hildyard, English Pottery, 1620–1840 (London: V&A Publications, 2005), 111 (dish with Charles I and his children, 1653); Kirstin Aschengreen Piacenti and Sir John Boardman, Ancient and Modern Gems and Jewels in the Collection of Her Majesty The Queen (London: Royal Collection Publications, 2008), 198–9

Notes to pages 48–50

30

31

32 33 34 35 36

37

38

39

40

(no. 288; seventeenth-century locket with hair of Charles I, inserted in 1813 when his body exhumed); Scarisbrick, Portrait Jewels, 180, 183 (fig. 191). See ‘P and P’. A similar view of London appears on the catafalque prepared for James II in Rome in 1702: see John Moore, ‘Obsequies for James II in S. Lorenzo in Lucina, Rome’, in Triumphs of the Defeated: Early Modern Festivals and Messages of Legitimacy, ed. Peter Davidson and Jill Bepler (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag im Komission, 2007), 120, 147 (fig. 10). Reproduced in Lacey, Cult of Charles the Martyr, 233. See also lot 93, The Sampson and Horne Collection: Defining the British Vernacular, Bonhams, London, 28 April 2010 (oval needlework portrait of Charles I, c. 1720). Corp, Court in Exile, 180–214; Corp, Stuarts in Italy. Corp, 36 (fig. 6). Corp, 39 (fig. 11). Corp, 44–50, 106–7. Corp, 70. See also W. G. Blaikie Murdoch, ‘Antonio David: A Contribution to Stuart Iconography’, BM 56:325 (April 1930), 203–4; F. J. B. Watson, ‘Two Venetian Portraits of the Young Pretender: Rosalba Carriera and Francesco Guardi’, BM 111:795 (June 1969), 333–7. Sir Michael Levey, The Later Italian Pictures in the Collection of Her Majesty the Queen (London: Phaidon Press, 1964), 25; Nicholson, 19. On the copying of portraits, see also Fabienne Camus, ‘Alexis-Simon Belle (1674–1734): peintre de Jacques III et des Jacobites’, Revue de la Bibliothèque Nationale 46 (1992/3), 54–6 (and in Corp, ed., L’autre exil, 185–6); Drambuie, 12, 44; Nicholson, 25–6, 27–8, 39, 47, 54, 58, 76–8, 82, 130–6; Edward Corp, ‘The Portraits of the Stuarts and their Courtiers’, in Court in Exile, 180–201, Corp, Stuarts in Italy, 96–120, 277–306, 373–7. As Natalie Zemon Davis notes, copying manuscripts was, in the Middle Ages at least, a ‘meritorious and godly act’: see Gift in Sixteenth-Century France, 75. See also Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 29, 40, 78, 389 (replication and commodification of royal image). See, for example, RA/SP 202/143 (James to O’Rourke, 6 December 1737). The portraits may have been by Rosalba Carriera or Jean-Etienne Liotard: see Nicholson, 30; Corp, 74. See also 202/148 (O’Rourke to James, 7 December 1737), 203/18 (James to O’Rourke, 13 December 1737), 202/56 (James to O’Rourke, 20 December 1737). See the discussion of copies in W. G. Blaikie Murdoch, ‘An Authentic Miniature of the Last King James’, BM 61:354 (September 1932), 132–3; SCLE, 24 (cat. 167); Nicholas, 4–5, 8–9; Marshall and Dalgleish, eds., Art of Jewellery in Scotland, 51 (cat. 38b); Robert Bayne-Powell, Catalogue of Portrait Miniatures in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge (Cambridge University Press, 1985), no. 3811; Graham Reynolds, English Portrait Miniatures, rev. edn (Cambridge University Press, 1988), 93; Richard Walker, The Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Century Miniatures in the Collection of Her Majesty The Queen

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Notes to pages 50–52

41

42 43

44

45 46

47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

(Cambridge University Press, 1992), 40 (fig. 82), 50 (fig. 98), 51 (figs. 100, 101), 66 (fig. 128), 72 (fig. 139); Corp, 74, 83; Lloyd, Portrait Miniatures, 44–5 (cat. 43), 74 (cat. 26), 76 (cat. 30), 79–80 (cat. 38), 82–3 (cats. 45B, 45D, 45E, 45F). Nicholas, 12–15; John Kerslake, Early Georgian Portraits, 2 vols. (London: HMSO, 1977), 42 (four originals listed, plus two ‘derivatives’); John Ingamells, A Dictionary of British and Irish Travellers in Italy, 1701–1800 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1997), 539–40; Jonathan Shackleton, A Portrait of Giles Hussey (n.p., 1999), 42–8 (identifies twelve portraits of Prince Charles and two apparent copies, the earliest dated 1734); Edward T. Corp, The King over the Water: Portraits of the Stuarts in Exile after 1689 (Edinburgh: Scottish National Portrait Gallery, 2001), 82, 96 (dated to the mid 1730s); Nicholson, 54–6, 131; James Lees-Milne, Ancient as the Hills: Diaries, 1973–1974 (London: John Murray, 1997), 155. Nicholson, 25; Sharp, 81–91 (nos. 67–122). For versions of the Belle portrait, see Sharp, 92–8 (nos. 128–46). Evidence of print runs is scanty, but 300 impressions for a first run seems to have been typical: Nicholson, 42, 70. Seddon, 125, 128–30, 132–3; Sharp, 223–4 (nos. 747–50); Mountford, Illustrated Guide to Salt-glazed Staffordshire Stoneware, 60 (pl. 175); Bernard Rackham, Early Staffordshire Pottery (London: Faber & Faber, 1951), 32 (pl. 72B). Drambuie, 10 (pl. 2). Francis, ‘Jacobite Drinking Glasses’, 247–83; Lelièvre; Seddon, 104–17, 159. Peter Francis has questioned the relationship between medals and engraved portraits – see ‘Franz Tieze (1842–1932) and the Re-invention of History on Glass’, BM 136:1094 (May 1994), 302 – but Nicholson, 104 finds these arguments unconvincing. T. Cann Hughes, ‘Jacobite Swords’, N&Q 9 series 2 (8 October 1898), 288 suggests that James’s portrait was engraved on swords. Nicholson, 71–3; also 69–71, 102–6. Diana Scarisbrick, ‘Jewellery of Treason’, Country Life 182:10 (10 March 1988), 128; SCLE, 24 (cat. 169; seal with head of James in a heart). Among the many examples are Sharp, 93 (no. 128.iii), 112 (208), 123–4 (no. 260). Robin Fedden, ‘John Obrisset: A Notable Huguenot Craftsman’, Connoisseur 180: 723 (May 1972), 14 (fig. 3). Sharp, 83 (no. 80). Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, ii. 214. Ibid., i. 194–5 and 203–11, ii. 214–16. Woolf, 60:1. Author’s collection. The engraving of the medal is reproduced, without the verses, in Woolf, 112; the medal is Hawkins, ii. 601/251–2 and Woolf, 59:1–2. There are other Jacobite verses to the same effect, which suggest that the ‘majesty of presence’ was seen as being on its own sufficient: see Monod,

Notes to pages 52–55

56

57

58

59 60

61 62

63 64 65

70–1; Nicholson, 30–1; Sharp, 118–19 (nos. 232–4), 120 (nos. 239–40); A Collection of Loyal Songs, Poems &c. ([Raglan Castle], 1750), 7 (‘Hail glorious youth! the wonder of our age’). David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, 3 vols. (London, 1739–40), i. 178, 177. See also Canons and Decrees of the Council of Trent, ed. and trans. Revd H. J. Schroeder, OP (St Louis, Missouri and London: B. Herder Book Co., 1941), 216 (‘the honor which is shown them [images] is referred to the prototypes which they represent’), 484 (‘sed quoniam honos, qui eis exhibitur, refertur ad prototypa, quae illae repraesentant’). I am grateful to Deidre Lynch and Patricia Brückmann respectively for these references. G. Richard Dimler, SJ, ‘Jakob Masen’s Imago Figurata: From Theory to Practice’, in Studies in the Jesuit Emblem (New York: AMS Press, 2007), 104, on the underpinnings of the emblem theory of Jakob Masen (1606–81). See also Brückmann, ‘“Without any Letter”’, 60, 64–5. See The Kings most gracious Declaration to all his loving Subjects of what Rank and Degree soever ([London], 1720); A Letter from an English Traveller at Rome to his Father, of the 6th of May 1721. O.S. ([London?], [1721]); and ‘Unica Salus’. See also Franck Lessay, ‘Les Déclarations de Jacques II en exil’, in Corp, ed., L’autre exil, 43–52. RA/SP 232/161 (James to (James?) Erskine of Grange, 25 May 1741). See also 232/160 (draft, 24 May 1741), 232/162 (copy, 25 May 1741). For Annette Weiner (and Marcel Mauss) on the theory of the gift, see the Introduction. In Miguel Tamen’s terminology, one needs to be a friend of the object – or at least able to understand how a friend would see it – in order for it to be interpretable: Friends of Interpretable Objects, 2–4, 137–8. Francis, ‘Jacobite Drinking Glasses’, 279–82. See also Knoppers, ‘Reviving the Martyr King’, 263–87. SCLE, 52 (no. 325). The Jacobite associations of embedded coins are questioned in Hartshorne, Old English Glasses, 237, 259; and by Seddon, 136. Compare Francis, Old English Drinking Glasses, 203–6. On the canteen, see PSAS 115 (1985), 458–9; George R. Dalgleish and Dallas Mechan, ‘I Am Come Home’: Treasures of Prince Charles Edward Stuart (Edinburgh: National Museum of Antiquities of Scotland, 1985). Woolf, 28:4, 28:5, 28:6; Michael Sharp, ‘Some Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Pieces’, BNJ 65 (1995), 226 (no. 5). See above, notes 29 and 31. Philip A. S. Phillips, John Obrisset (London: B. T. Batsford, 1931), 59–61; G. Bernard Hughes, ‘Obrisset and the Horn Snuff Box’, Country Life 147:3806 (12 February 1970), 359. Obrisset also made pieces in the early eighteenth century which depicted James II: see Phillips, Obrisset, 61. See also Helen Farquhar, ‘A Series of Portrait Plaques Struck in Stuart Times, Technically Called Shells or Clichés’, BNJ 16 (1921/2), 240–2 (Obrisset), 246 (possible restrikes of portraits of earlier Stuarts on metal shells for ‘James III’).

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Notes to pages 55–57 66 For example, the silver boxes depicting a naked Charles I, floating above a table bearing symbols of royalty: see Eric Delieb, Silver Boxes, rev. edn (Woodbridge: Antique Collectors’ Club, 2002), 70–1; also lot 67 at Bonhams, ‘Fine Silver and Objects of Vertu’ London, 2 July 2008. See also Scarisbrick, 128 (eighteenthcentury rings with portraits of Charles I, some concealed); Christopher Eimer, ‘An Engraved Jacobite Relic’, Seaby Coin and Medal Buletin 783 (November 1983), 281–2, 284; Woolf, 37:3 (tokens with Charles I on one side and the inscription REMEMBER; on the other, two clasped hands, the date of James and Clementina’s marriage in 1719 and the word UNITED); Delieb, Silver Boxes, 43 (box with verre églomisé panel depicting Charles I, c. 1700); Sophia Dicks, The King’s Blood: Relics of King Charles I (London: Wartski, 2010). 67 F. H. Garner and Michael Archer, English Delftware, 2nd edn (London: Faber & Faber, 1972), 42 (pl. 79A); Seddon, 79 (wine-glass); Delieb, Silver Boxes, 73–4 (silver boxes, one with inset oak panel, c. 1700); Bonhams, Stobhall: The Property of Viscount Strathallan. Wednesday 2 May 2012 at 11 a.m., Edinburgh (London, 2012), lot 93 (eighteenth-century Boscobel snuffbox with the motto sacra iovi quercvs). 68 Stuart Exhibition, 103 (cat. 505). 69 Barrett Kalter, Modern Antiques: The Material Past in England, 1660–1780 (Lewisburg, Penn.: Bucknell University Press, 2012), 68. 70 Hence the tendency of earlier Stuarts to pop up at interesting times: the return of the exiled James I of Scots and his triumph over a usurping regent is the subject of Memoirs Relating to the Restoration of King James I of Scotland (London, 1716); while Henry, Prince of Wales, was celebrated in A True Account of the Most Triumphant and Royal Grandeur, at the Solemnization of the Baptism of His Royal Highness, Henry Prince of Scotland . . . in the year 1603 (Edinburgh, 1745). On the cycle of history in Jacobite popular poetry, see Monod, 49–54; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 9–29. 71 Sharp, 67–8, 94 (no. 128b). 72 George Somes Layard, Catalogue Raisonné of Engraved British Portraits from Altered Plates, ed. H. M. Latham (London: Philip Alland & Co., 1927), 71 (no. 65); Sharp, 67, 94 (no. 128b). An engraving of Clementina, based on the portrait by Trevisani, was later altered to depict Queen Charlotte, the wife of George III, which may be a Hanoverian retort: Layard, Catalogue Raisonné, 115 (no. 104); Sharp, 107 (no. 183.iii). 73 For an account of the altarpiece controversies (primarily the later one), see J. Wickham Legg, English Church Life from the Restoration to the Tractarian Movement Considered in Some of its Neglected or Forgotten Features (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1914), 129–32; Paul Monod, ‘Painters and Party Politics in England, 1714–1760’, Eighteenth-Century Studies 26:3 (1993), 372, 374; Eirwen E. C. Nicholson, ‘The St Clement Danes Altarpiece and the Iconography of Post-Revolution England’, in Samuel Johnson in Historical Context, ed. J. C. D. Clark and Howard Erskine-Hill (Basingstoke: Palgrave

Notes to pages 57–60

74 75 76

77

78 79

80

81

82

83 84

Macmillan, 2002), 55–76. See also Richard Sharp, ‘The Religious and Political Character of St Clement Danes’, in the same volume, 44–54; Sharp, 40, 218–19 (no. 714, an engraving of the Whitechapel altarpiece). For Hogarth’s burlesque of Kent’s altarpiece, see Ronald Paulson, Hogarth’s Graphic Works, 3rd edn (London: Thames & Hudson, 1989), 56–57 (no. 63). The St Clement Danes altarpiece was destroyed by a bomb in 1940. The Whitechapel altarpiece survives, in modified form, in St Alban’s Abbey. Sharp, 105 (no. 179; no inscription); George Clarke Print Collection, Worcester College, XVII:141 (print 215; with inscription). RA/SP 46/57A (Prince James to W. Dicconson, 14 April 1720), 46/112 (Dicconson to Prince James, 6 May 1720). See also ‘Polish Lady’. Young Juba: Or, the History of the Young Chevalier, from his Birth, to his Escape from Scotland, after the Battle of Culloden (London, 1748); Virtue in Distress: Or, Heroism Display’d (London, 1749); Sharp, 118–19 (nos. 232–4). See George Somes Layard, The Headless Horseman. Pierre Lombart’s Engraving: Charles or Cromwell? (London: Philip Allan & Co., 1922); George Somes Layard, Suppressed Plates: Wood Engravings, &c. Together with other Curiosities Germane thereto, Being an Account of Certain Matters Peculiarly Alluring to the Collector (London: Adam & Charles Black, 1907), 192–244; Layard, Catalogue Raisonné; Craig Hartley and Catharine MacLeod, ‘Suppositions Prints’, Print Quarterly 6 (1989), 49–54. Layard, Catalogue Raisonné, 80 (no. 74); Hartley and MacLeod, ‘Suppositions Prints’, 49–54; Sharp, 53, 81 (no. 67), 82 (no. 71), 93 (no. 128). See also the mezzotint in the MacBean Collection at the University of Aberdeen, labelled ‘Princess Sobieski’ but pulled from a much older plate of a Lelyesque beauty of the Restoration: MacBean Collection, B2–276, www. abdn.ac.uk/diss/heritage/mac_single.php?macid=B2_276 See ODNB; and, of course, Sir Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake and Tales of a Grandfather (where the novelist says that James V was only doing as his father, James IV, had done before him). Hawkins, ii. 444/49; Woolf, 36:1. See also Lucien Bély, ‘L’incognito des princes: l’exemple de Jacques III’, Revue de la Bibliothèque Nationale (1992/3), 40–3 (and in Corp, ed., L’autre exil, 183–4). Frank McLynn, Charles Edward Stuart: A Tragedy in Many Acts (London and New York: Routledge, 1988), 280–6, 306, 382, 378–94, 397–9, 421, 432, 450, 494–5; Niall MacKenzie, ‘“Dougal MacCullony, I am Glad to See Thee!”: Gaelic Etymology, Jacobite Culture, and “Exodus Politics”’, Scottish Studies Review 2:2 (autumn 2001), 29–60; Niall MacKenzie, ‘The “Poetical Performance” Between John Roy Stewart and Lord Lovat (1736)’, Éigse 34 (2004), 132–3; Niall MacKenzie, ‘Eliza Haywood in a “Scrutinising Age”’, Age of Johnson 16 (2005), 183–8. Drambuie, 26, 45 (pl. 15); Seddon, 133–5; Sharp, 115–16 (nos. 218–19). Jurgis Baltrušaitis, Anamorphic Art, trans. W. J. Strachan (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1977), 28–9 and the portrait of Charles reproduced there as fig. 20;

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Notes to pages 61–62

85 86

87

88 89 90

91

92

93 94 95

Fred Leeman, Anamorphosen: Een spel met waarneming, schijn en werlijkheid (Cologne: Landshoff, 1975), 135 and plates 129–30; Anamorphoses: Chasse à travers les collections du musée (Cologne: M. DuMont Schauberg), pl. 2. See also Sheila O’Connell, The Popular Print in England, 1550–1850 (London: British Museum Publications, 1997), 38–40. Sharp, 8, 210 (no. 684). See also Sharp, 14, 77 (no. 44); 16, 94 (no. 132). See a medal of 1688 by George Bower, on which the young Stuart heir is portrayed as the infant Hercules, strangling the serpents who threaten his cradle, on the reverse the feather badge within a prince’s diadem and the legend FVLTA. TRIBVS. METVENDA. CORONA (‘A coronet triply supported is to be reverenced’): Hawkins, i. 628/48; Woolf, 3:10. For prints with the badge, see Sharp, 5, 85–6 (nos. 89–95), 86–7 (nos. 96–8), 89 (no. 115), 90 (no. 118), 91 (no. 122), 121 (no. 247); Marshall, ed., Dynasty, 99. Seddon, 102, 109, 110, 145, 146, 155; Corp, 77 (fig. 67). See also Corp, 64 (fig. 49); Nicholson, third colour plate after page 64 (Charles Edward by Antonio David, c. 1725). Hawkins, ii. 454/63; Woolf, 40:1. Seddon, 110–2, 104, 109, 110. Frances rejected the advances of Charles II, who directed John Roettiers to use her as the model for the figure of Britannia on the medal celebrating the Peace of Breda in 1667 and, probably, for the coinage of 1672. She married another Stuart cousin, the 3rd Duke of Richmond and Lennox. See GEC, ii. 183–4, vii. 594–6, x. 833; Hawkins, i. 535–8; Samuel Pepys, Diary, 11 vols., ed. R. Latham and W. Matthews (London/Berkeley: Harper Collins/University of California Press, 2000), viii. 83, 119 and 121. Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 62–3, 89–90; Murray Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, in Culture and Society in Britain, 1660–1800, ed. Jeremy Black (Manchester University Press, 1997), 133–4; Pittock, Jacobitism, 71–2. Woolf, 38:2; Forrer, vi. 707. Nicholson, 60, notes that Hamerani represents the royal couple in modern dress; Roettiers was more traditional in using classical garb. The Roettiers design was rejected in favour of that by Hamerani, not being executed, in fact, until it was restruck from old, rusty dies by the numismatic dealer Matthew Young in the early nineteenth century as an antiquarian curiosity (not as a fraud): see Chapter 4. Woolf, 59:1 and 2, 64:1, 65:1; Woolf, 112 (the print). Drambuie, 10, 44 (pl. 2). British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, registration no. 1891,0713.144 (Schreiber English 106, Schreiber 3 mounted). The identification of the figures is from the British Museum catalogue description. Hélène Alexander, in ‘The Prince and the Fan’, Bulletin of the Fan Association of North America 6:2 (1987), 8–15, illustrates three specimens of the fan (British Museum, formerly collection of Lady Charlotte Schreiber; National Museums of Scotland; West Highland Museum, Inverness; there is another in the

Notes to pages 63–64

96

97 98

99

100

Victoria & Albert Museum) but questions the identification of two of the figures as Lochiel and Flora Macdonald. See also Hugh Cheape, ‘The Culture and Material Culture of Jacobitism’, in Jacobitism and the ’45, ed. Michael Lynch (London: Historical Association Committee for Scotland and the Historical Association, 1995), 41; Sharp, 221–2 (nos. 731–2). Another fan, in the Bristol Collection at Ickworth, Sussex, also depicts Charles amidst a crowd of deities: see Alexander, ‘Prince and the Fan’, 16–19. See also Sharp, 116 (no. 221) (print of the time of the ’45, with Anglia, Scotia and a portrait of Charles Edward). Sharp, 114 (no. 215). The image may be based on an engraved portrait of Rear Admiral Thomas Matthews (1676–1751): Sharp, ibid. See also the mezzotint of James as a child, blowing bubbles: Sharp, 87 (no. 97). A. de C. Glubb, ‘Tackbear Manor’, Devon & Cornwall Notes & Queries 14 (1926), 29–30 and plate facing 29; www.tackbear.co.uk/index.htm. See Sharp, 104 (no. 176; Louise Marie with symbols of vanitas), 104–5 (Clementina with Father Time); ‘Polish Lady’, 290, 293, 297–8, 298; and Chapter 3. Hawkins, i. 628/48, ii. 444/49, ii. 445/51; Woolf, 3:10, 36:1, 37:2. Likening a royal personage to Hercules was a medallic commonplace: see, for example, Marie Veillon, ‘Un Portrait du roi: le portrait dans la France du seizième siècle’, The Medal 48 (spring 2006), 19, in relation to Henri IV (James’s greatgrandfather). See also Erik De Jong, ‘“Netherlandish Hesperides”: Garden Art in the Period of William and Mary 1650–1702’, Journal of Garden History 8:2–3 (April–September 1988), 31–2 (fountains at Het Loo, Zorgvliet and Heemsteede depicting William III as the infant Hercules). The victor of Culloden was later depicted as Hercules: see Hawkins, ii. 613/278; Woolf, 55:2. See also Reedy, Studies in Change and Revolution, 26–8. The Sixth Book of the Æneis, lines 1079–81, in Dryden, v. 564. See also the poet’s Dedication, ibid., v. 288. Jacobite reliance on classical models is well documented. See, in particular, Paul J. Korshin, Typologies in England, 1650– 1820 (Princeton University Press, 1982) 146–50; Thomas Fujimura, ‘Dryden’s Virgil: Translation as Autobiography’, Studies in Philology 80:1 (1983), 67–83; Stephen Zwicker, Politics and Language in Dryden’s Poetry (Princeton University Press, 1984); Stephen Zwicker and David Bywaters, ‘Politics and Translation: The English Tacitus of 1698’, Huntington Library Quarterly 52:3 (1989), 319–46; Kirk Combe, ‘Clandestine Protest against William III in Dryden’s Translations of Juvenal and Persius’, Modern Philology 87:1 (1989), 36–50; Monod, 80–5; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 9–16, 27–8, 38–43, 66, 69–70, 76, 91–2, 94–119; J. C. D. Clark, Samuel Johnson: Literature, Religion and English Cultural Politics from the Restoration to Romanticism (Cambridge University Press, 1994), 47–58; Richard Hewlings, ‘Chiswick House and Gardens: Appearance and Meaning’, in Lord Burlington: Architecture, Art and Life, ed. Toby Barnard and Jane Clark (London and Rio

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101

102 103 104 105 106 107

108 109 110

111 112 113

Grande, Ohio: Hambledon Press, 1995), 1–149; Murray Pittock, ‘The Æneid in the Age of Burlington: A Jacobite Text?’, in Barnard and Clark, eds., Lord Burlington, 231–49; Howard Erskine-Hill, Poetry and the Realm of Politics: Shakespeare to Dryden (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 171–251; Philip Ayres, Classical Culture and the Idea of Rome in Eighteenth-Century England (Cambridge University Press, 1997); Pittock, ‘Classical Jacobite Code’, 137– 47; Seddon, 110, 113, 116, 117, 212–15; Christopher D’Addario, Exile and Journey in Seventeenth-Century Literature (Cambridge University Press, 2007), 124–48; MacInnes, ‘Jacobitism in Scotland’, 243. For Jacobite themes in Dryden, see Zwicker, Politics and Language, 177–205; James Anderson Winn, John Dryden and his World (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1987), 439–40, 444, 446, 448–9, 456–60, 473, 484, 486–9; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 94–107; Howard Erskine-Hill, Poetry of Opposition and Revolution: Dryden to Wordsworth (Oxford University Press, 1996), 17–54. Zwicker, Politics and Language, 190–6; Winn, Dryden and his World, 484; Dryden, v. 872. See Ascanius, or The Young Adventurer (London, 1746), with a frontispiece of Charles Edward also sold separately (Sharp, 120 (nos. 243–4)). Sharp, 116 (no. 221). Lelièvre, 71–2. Dryden, v. 871. Prince Charles Edward was likened to another mythological hero, Perseus the gorgon slayer this time, by virtue of the head of Medusa which decorates the Highland targe probably presented to him by the Duke of Perth in 1740. A shield with a similar motif is found in the foreground of Sir Robert Strange’s engraving of the prince (1745). See Dalgleish and Mechan, ‘I Am Come Home’, 8–9, 17; Sharp, 59, 114–15 (no. 216). See Hawkins, ii. 383/232–3; Woolf, 28:4, 28:5, 28:6. Hawkins, ii. 192–5/500–5, 312/133, 314/135–6, 600–1/251–2; Woolf, 14:1– 14:5b, 23:1a–b, 26:1–2, 59:1–2. Sharp, 115–16 (nos. 218–19); Bernard Rackham, Catalogue of Porcelain, Earthenware, Enamels and Glass Collected by Charles Schreiber, Esq. M.P. and the Lady Charlotte Schreiber and presented to the Museum in 1884, 3 vols. (London: Victoria & Albert Museum, 1924–30), iii. 19 (no. 32, from Hamilton Palace; another specimen is in the Vyberberg Museum, The Hague); Godfrey Evans, ‘The Acquisition of Stuart Silver and other Relics by the Dukes of Hamilton’, in Corp, ed., Stuart Court in Rome, 144–5; Seddon, 133–4. SCLE, 29 (cat. 194). See also the Jacobite pincushions discussed in Chapter 3. Atherton, Political Prints, 117. For Jacobite toasts to the ‘little gentleman in velvet’ and the horse Sorrel, see T. B. C., ‘New High Church Turn’d Old Presbyterian’, N&Q 3 series 9

Notes to pages 66–67

114

115

116 117 118 119 120

121

(31 March 1866), 258; for satires of William III and the Georges generally, see Monod, 57–62. For satirical popular poetry, see Monod, 54–62; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 59–93. John Roettiers was, according to legend, turned out of the Mint in London for depicting a satyr’s face at the back of William III’s head on the halfpenny: see H. A. Kennedy, ‘Routier’s Halfpence’, N&Q 3 series 10 (24 November 1866), 414, citing London Magazine (June 1737), 309. See also Forrer, v. 163 and 172; Helen Farquhar, ‘Concerning Some Roettiers Dies’, Numismatic Chronicle 17 (1917), 130–1, 157. George I appears with horns on an ivory snuff-mull with the monogram I.R.8 (‘King James VIII’) and medallions with heads of the Duke of Ormonde, the Earl of Mar and ‘Sobiesky’: Stuart Exhibition, 222 (cat. 1083). Antony Griffiths, The Print in Stuart Britain, 1603–1689 (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1998), 300–2 (cats. 209–10); Sharp, 81 (no. 70), 82 (no. 72.i, 72.ii); Nicholas Hughes Willshire, A Descriptive Catalogue of Playing and Other Cards in the British Museum (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1876), 274–7 (satires of James II); Hawkins, i. 631–3/53–6), 631–3/53–6, 643– 4/71–2, 639/65, 649–50/3–4, 654/13; Woolf, 2:1–2, 4:1, 7:1–4, 10:10; Noel Woolf, ‘An Unpublished Satirical Medallet of James III and its Relationship to Three Other Medallets’, The Medal 4 (1980), 4; Philip Attwood, ‘“Honi Soit Qui Bon Y Pense”: Medals as Vehicles of Antipathy’, The Medal 54 (spring 2009), 4–34. Hawkins, i. 187/1, 187/2. Ibid., ii. 295–300/107–18. Sir Charles Oman, The Coinage of England (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1931), pls. 32–6, 38–43. Ibid., pls. 37–8. Hawkins, i. 154–5/129–30; Sir Roy Strong, Gloriana: The Portraits of Queen Elizabeth I (London: Thames & Hudson, 1987), 121–2, 135–42; Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 382–4; Lois Potter, Secret Rites and Secret Writing: Royalist Literature, 1641–1660 (Cambridge University Press, 1989), 164 (engraved frontispiece to The Papers which Passed at Newcastle . . . (1649), with Charles I and a globe with a map of the British Isles); Alan Young, ed., assisted by Beert Verstraete, The English Emblem Tradition, vol. iii, Emblematic Flag Devices of the English Civil Wars, 1642–1660 (University of Toronto Press, 1995), 52 (no. 0098.0). Hawkins, i. 546/203; Peter Barber, ‘Necessary and Ornamental: Map Use under the Later Stuarts’, ECL 14 (1990), 15; Peter Barber, ‘Maps and Monarchs in Europe 1550–1800’, in Royal and Republican Sovereignty in Early Modern Europe, ed. R. Oresko et al. (Cambridge University Press, 1997), 121–2; Peter Barber, ‘Beyond Geography: Globes on Medals, 1440–1998’, Der Globusfreund 47/48 (1999), 53–88. Barber suggests in ‘Necessary and Ornamental’, 4, that seditious Jacobite content was included in the decorative

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122

123

124

125 126

127

128

cartouches, dedications and, occasionally, portraiture which adorned maps in the 1690s. Barber, ‘Necessary and Ornamental’, 15; Barber, ‘Maps and Monarchs’, 77. The map motif was also used for the great seal of the ‘Court of Common Bench’ in 1648: see George Vertue, Medals, Coins, Great-Seals, Impressions . . . of Thomas Simon, 2nd edn (London, 1780), 3–5 and pls. ii, vi. Hawkins, i.629/49–50; Woolf, 1:4a and b; Barber, ‘Maps and Monarchs’, 77; Barber, ‘A Tercentennial Tale: Sir Gabriel Sylvius’s Medal Commemorating the Old Pretender’s Birth’, The Medal 13 (autumn 1988), 33–8. A broadside of 1711 called ‘The Medal New Struck’ included a design for an imaginary medal with Queen Anne and a map of the British Isles, with the mottoes MEUM EST (‘It is mine’) and DEFENDAM (‘I shall defend it’); while an actual piece satirising James’s ambitions appeared with his profile and the legend NIHIL EFFICIENS (‘Accomplishing nothing’), on the reverse the British Isles and BIS VENIT VIDIT NON VICIT FLENSQVE RECESSIT (‘Twice he came, he saw, he did not conquer, and he retired in tears’) – an allusion to the failed Jacobite expeditions of 1708 and 1715. See Woolf, 20:1a–c, 23:1a–b, 26:1a–b, 28:7, 32:1, 38:1; Sharp, Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Medals, 7, 12. See also Woolf 28:3 (obverse of Cuius Est medal, but not map reverse). ‘The Old Medal New Struck or The Wh—gs at their witts end’ ([London, 1711]); Woolf, 32:1; Hawkins, ii. 381/231, 422/5, 436/35. Hawkins, ii. 609/270; Woolf, 53:3. Towards the end of the Jacobite enterprise the Amor et Spes Britanniæ medal and print, described previously in this chapter, show Britannia with two shields, one with Union crosses and the other with a map of the islands which Charles had failed to regain for his father. See (for starters; the literature on the emblem is enormous and everexpanding) Michael Bath, Speaking Pictures: English Emblem Books and Renaissance Culture (London: Longman, 1994); Michael Bath, Renaissance Decorative Painting in Scotland (Edinburgh: National Museums of Scotland Publishing, 2003), 29–103; Alison Saunders and Peter Davidson, eds., Visual Words and Verbal Pictures: Essays in Honour of Michael Bath (Glasgow University Press, 2005), in particular Peter Davidson, ‘Decoding Scotland: A Sketch for a Professional Biography of Michael Bath’, xix–xxvi; Peter M. Daly, ‘The Emblem in Material Culture’, in Companion to Emblem Studies, ed. Peter M. Daly (New York: AMS Press, 2008), 411–56; Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 360–1 (noting that one should not underestimate the reach of the emblem into popular culture of the sixteenth century). Nicholson, 29 alludes briefly to emblems but without reference to the historical tradition. See also Richard F. W. Kroll, The Material World (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), 175–9. A ship tossed by a storm appears in the background of seventeenth-century prints of Charles I: see Farquhar, ‘Portraiture of the Stuarts’, 268–9; and see 270 for some other emblematic devices on badges of Charles I. The ship of

Notes to pages 70–71

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130 131 132

133 134 135

136

state (an ancient symbol) is found on a number of medals of Charles I and James II: Hawkins, i. 256/41, 285/97, 291/106, 506/144; ii. 149–50/411–12. See also Mason Tung, Impresa Index to the Collections of Paradin, Giovio, Simeoni, Pittoni, Ruscelli, Contile, Camilli, Capaccio, Bargagli, and Typotius (New York: AMS Press, 2006), no. 0292, 0399, 0485, 0500, 0507, 0907, 1410, 1638, 1639, 1653, 1825; Mark Jones, A Catalogue of the French Medals in the British Museum, 2 vols. (London: British Museum Publications, 1988), ii. 90–1 (nos. 48–9). See also Guy de Tervarent, Attributs et symboles dans l’art profane (Geneva: Librairie E. Droz, 1958), 282 (ship as emblem of hope). James’s great-great-grandmother Mary, Queen of Scots, also used a device of a ship in a tempestuous sea on jettons and in embroidery: Bath, Emblems for a Queen, 31–2, 66, 149. J. H. and R. V. Pinches, Royal Heraldry of England (London: Heraldry Today, 1974), 61, 62, 114. For one example of a solar devise of Louis XIV which is very similar to the Jacobite medals of this period, see the engraving of the ‘Devise du Roy’, coloured in watercolour and gouache by Henri Gissey and Jacques Bailly, in the king’s personal copy of C. Perrault, Courses de testes et de bagues faites par le roy . . . (Paris, 1670), Bibliothèque Municipale de Versailles, Res. grand folio A.21.a.M, cited in Nicolas Milovanovic and Alexandre Maral, ed., Louis XIV: L’homme et le roi (Paris: Skira Flammarion, 2009), 161 (cat. 27). Hawkins, i. 452–4/37–41, 458/49, 476/84; Plates, lxii.3. See also Reedy, Studies in Change and Revolution, 28–30. Hawkins, i. 672/45, 691/92, 704–05/11–13; ii. 4–5/158–9, 89/308. Britannia Rediviva, lines 5–18, in Dryden, iii. 210. See also Anne Barbeau Gardiner, ‘Dryden’s Britannia Rediviva: Interpreting the Signs of the Times in June 1688’, Huntington Library Quarterly 48 (1985), 257–84. Medals of James II with solar imagery: Hawkins, i. 610/16, 621/36; Plates, lxiii.15. The star that is said to have appeared at the birth of Charles Edward on 31 December 1720 was used in similar fashion to liken the event to that of another solstitial baby – Christ – on the Micat inter Omnes medal and in other media: see Chapter 3 below; ‘Inscriptions’, 27–8; and Eisler, ‘Construction of the Image of Martin Folkes, Part I’, 10–12, and ‘Part II’, 4–16. Judi Loach, ‘Menestrier’s Emblem Theory’, Emblematica 2:2 (fall 1987), 318. Judi Loach, ‘Body and Soul: A Transfer of Theological Terminology into the Aesthetic Realm’, Emblematica 12 (2002), 59. Claude-François Ménestrier, Philosophie des images. Composée d’un ample Recueil de Devises, & du Jugement de tous les Ouvrages qui ont êtés faits sur cette Matière (Paris, 1682), 32, 65, 82, 97, 99. Ibid., 178. See also images of the moon with inscriptions referring to light amidst darkness: 228, 250, 277. See also Tung, Impresa Index, no. 0091 (the sun shining through clouds, with the motto PREMITVR NON OPPRIMITVR (‘Pressed but not oppressed’), a device of Alessandro de’ Medici). For French medallic examples, Jones, Catalogue of the French Medals, i. 154–6 (nos. 137– 40); i. 204–6 (nos. 200–03); ii. 104–5, 107 (nos. 67–8).

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137 Tung, Impresa Index, nos. 0235, 0463, 0659, 0774, 1142, 1148, 1149, 1298, 1386, 1482, 1767, 1796. 138 Roettiers’s emblematic tendencies are also seen in the rebus of a rock with seaweed which he (and others of his family before and after him) used as a signature on medals (either from the French rocher or the Dutch rots – ‘rock’ in either case – the family being originally from Flanders but domiciled in France): see Farquhar, 185–6. 139 Hawkins, ii. 204/519. 140 Josèphe Jacquiot, Médailles et jetons de Louis XIV d’après le manuscript de Londres Add. 31.908, 2 vols. (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale/Librairie C. Klincksiek, 1968), 680 (pl. 135, fig. 7). See also Add. MS 31,908 fo. 17, reproduced in Jacquiot, plate facing 126. 141 Jacquiot, Médailles et jetons, 687 (pl. 136, fig. 4). 142 Tung, Impresa Index, 1797. 143 P. Volz, ‘Introduction’ to Jean-Paul Divo, Les Médailles de Louis XIV (Zurich: Spink & Son Numismatics, 1982), 6. See, for example, Jones, Catalogue of the French Medals, ii. 210–11 (no. 217); ii. 222–3 (no. 237). See also Tervarent, Attributs et symboles 355 (sun as symbol of truth). 144 Forrer, v. 183. 145 Journal de la Monnaie des Médailles, ed. Mazerolle, 345 (nos. 10–13), 354 (no. 68), 360 (nos. 106, 109); 2 (1898), 259 (nos. 434–6). The pieces represented are Hawkins, ii. 194/503, ii. 193/501, ii. 195/504, ii. 315/139, ii. 204/519, ii. 201/515, ii. 312/133, 314/135–6; Woolf, 14:5, 14:3, 14:2, 14:4, 17:1 or 17:2, 15:1, 15:5, 23:1, 26:1, 26:2. (Woolf dates 26:1 and 26:2 to 1712–13, but the Journal indicates that they were produced in 1710.) There is evidence that James and his advisers directed the design of proposed coinage for Scotland (see Bodleian Library, Carte MS 180 fo. 484r (May 1708)), but this would presumably not have been something over which the Académie would attempt to exert control, given the fairly rigid conventions of currency and its close association with the personal sovereignty of the ruler. 146 Alison Saunders, ‘Emblems to Tapestries and Tapestries to Emblems: Contrasting Practice in England and France’, Seventeenth-Century French Studies 21 (1999), 247–59. 147 Sharp, 6, 89–90 (no. 116); also 9, 137 (no. 316). The other three roundels in no. 116 depict the infant Hercules strangling a serpent, with the motto Ipse genus virtute probat; and two scenes of what appear to be the finding of Moses with Votis et numine fausto and Inde salus populi. In no. 316, which depicts James’s bastard half-brother, the Duke of Berwick; a lily in a garden, Angues arcebit ab hortus; a lion and leopard fighting, Nec proderit astus; a harp, Comonit et excitat iras; a flaming sword, Metum poenamque rebellibus infert. See also Sharp, 76 (nos. 38, 40), 90–1 (nos. 118–21), 192 (no. 584). 148 See Geoffrey Scott, OSB, Sacredness of Majesty: The English Benedictines and the Cult of James II (London: Royal Stuart Society, 1984), 1, 9 and fig. 1, 3;

Notes to pages 74–76

149 150

151

152

153

154 155

John E. Moore, ‘Obsequies for James II in S. Lorenzo in Lucina, Rome’, in Triumphs of the Defeated: Early Modern Festivals and Messages of Legitimacy, ed. Peter Davidson and Jill Bepler (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag in Komission, 2007), 103–48. The emblems include an ark, an oak snapped in two under a sun emerging from clouds, the sun dispelling clouds, waves breaking on a rocky coast and a panorama of London under a sunburst. Nicholson, 50–2. This in spite of Eirwen E. C. Nicholson, ‘English Political Prints ca. 1640– ca. 1830: The Potential for Emblematic Research and the Failures of Print Scholarship’, in Deviceful Settings: The English Renaissance Emblem and its Contexts, ed. Michael Bath and Daniel Russell (New York: AMS Press, 1999), 139–65. Nicholson’s article mentions the Oxford almanacks but does not discuss Jacobite prints specifically. SCLE, 20 (cat. 140), 14 (cat. 62). For heart-shaped reliquaries containing remains of relics associated with Charles I and James II, see H. Syer Cuming, ‘On a Douglas Heart in the Possession of the Rt. Hon. The Lord Boston’, Journal of the British Archæological Association 25 (1868), 39. See also Arthur Mesham, ‘Jacobite Relics’, N&Q 5 series 7 (24 March 1883), 226–7 (small brass box, with mallet or hammer surmounted by a crown and flanked by two flaming hearts, each inscribed with the initials J. R., all within a scroll of thistle-leaves, and on the box’s bottom another mallet and crown device). Bonhams, Important English & Dutch Glass: The Collection of A.C. Hubbard, Jr. Wednesday 30 November 2011, New Bond Street London (London, 2011), lot 62. ‘He’ might also refer to God, or to both God and secular king. The egg is discussed at some length in Peter Davidson, The Universal Baroque (Manchester University Press, 2007), 180–2. Davidson links the wheatsheaf to a French emblem book and an emblem celebrating the martyred Mary, Queen of Scots. See also G. Richard Dimler, SJ, ‘The Egg as Emblem: The Genesis and Structure of Stengel’s Ova Paschalia’, in Studies in the Jesuit Emblem (New York: AMS Press, 2007), 217–47. Helen Mary Petter, The Oxford Almanacks (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), 8–9, 42–51. The Oxford Almanack of 1712, Explain’d: Or the Emblems of it Unriddl’d. With some Prefatory Account of the Emblems of the Two Preceding Years (London, 1711), 3. See also The Oxford Almanack Explained. The Reverse (London, 1706) (identifies Jacobite content); A Vindication of the Oxford Almanack against a Scandalous Libel called the Oxford Almanack Explained (London, 1706) (refutation of the previous, but largely avoiding the Jacobite issue); An Explanation of the Design of the Oxford Almanack for the Year 1711 (London, 1711) (allegory of the ‘auspicious Government’ of Queen Anne). Joseph Addison notes the Jacobitical tendencies of the almanacks in Freeholder 15 (10 February 1716): see The Freeholder, ed. James Leheny (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), 106. See also Nicholson, ‘English Political Prints’, 145.

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156 157 158 159 160

The Oxford Almanack of 1712, Explain’d, 6. Petter, Oxford Almanacks, 43–4. MacKenzie, ‘Double-edged Writing in the Eighteenth Century’, 141–68. Flying-Post, 17–19 January 1719. Hearne, Remarks and Collections, i. 205, 56. William King, a later Oxford Jacobite, satirised the Whig tendency to find crypto-Jacobite meanings where none existed: ‘One of the principal coffee-houses in the Highstreet is called James’s coffee-house. Can anything be more flagrantly jacobitical?’ (cited in Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 140). 161 R. v. Clerk (1728), 1 Barn. K.B. 304 at 305, 94 ER 207 at 207. 162 In spite of the overtly Jacobite oration made by Dr William King at the opening of the Radcliffe Camera in 1749, the engraving in the almanack for 1751 which depicts that event is apolitical: see Petter, Oxford Almanacks, 13.

3 The uses of texts on Jacobite objects 1 Alexander Pope, Minor Poems, ed. N. Ault, completed by J. Butt, vol. vi in the Twickenham Edition (New Haven, Ct.: Yale University Press, 1954), 204. 2 Hawkins, ii. 271/71, 446/52. 3 On literacy rates (and the difficulty of calculating them), see David Cressy, ‘Literacy in Context: Meaning and Measurement in Early Modern England’, in Brewer and Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods, 305–19. 4 G. Richard Dimler, SJ, ‘Jesuit Emblem Books: A Selective Overview of Research Past and Present’, in Studies in the Jesuit Emblem, 25–6; see also 28, 44, 50–1. Dimler notes elsewhere in the same volume the movement of Jesuit emblematists away from this approach to the ‘expansion of the subscriptio [explanatory text]’: ‘Conclusion’, 388. 5 R. v. Dundas (1712), How St. Tr. 710 at 721; R. v. Clerk (1728), 1 Barn. K.B. 304, 94 ER 207 at 207. 6 Lelièvre, 71–2; Seddon, 113. See also A. Hartshorne, ‘Jacobite Wine-Glasses’, N&Q 7 series 11 (3 January 1891), 8. There is a punch-bowl in the British Museum with a portrait of Charles Edward, the motto audientor ibo and the date 1749, but it appears to be unique: see Antony Ray, English Delftware Pottery (London: Faber & Faber, 1968), 125. See also David R. M. Stuart, ‘Jacobite Drinking Glasses’, BM 138:1122 (September 1996), 607 (glass with Veniet felicior ætas (‘A happier time will come’), from Lucan’s Pharsalia, viii. 869 – a book about civil war and the eventual victory of Cæsar); and Seddon, 110–11 (glasses with Turno tempus erit (‘For Turnus there shall be a time’), from Æneid, x. 503, and generally interpreted as a warning to the Duke of Cumberland). 7 Lelièvre, 73; Seddon, 113, 126. 8 David Sanctuary Howard, ‘Chinese Porcelain of the Jacobites – I’, Country Life 153:3944 (25 January 1973), 244. This text also appears in an engraving of Charles Edward, probably dating from the time of the ’45: Sharp, 116 (no. 221).

Notes to pages 81–82

9

10 11

12

13 14

15 16

17

18

Bonhams, Fine British and European Glass and Paperweights, 15 June 2011 (London, 2011), lot 36 (glass with the crowned cypher JR8 and the inscription (from Horace, Epistles I.xi.27) CÆLUM NON ANIMUM MUTANT QUI TRANS MARE CURRUNT (‘They change their skies not their spirit who travel the seas’)). R. B. K. Stevenson, ‘Jacobite Rings’, PSAS 80 (1946/7), 127, 129–30; also 153; James Fairbairn, Fairbairn’s Crests of the Leading Families in Great Britain and Ireland, 2 vols. in one, revised edition (New York: L. Butters & J. MacLaren, 1911), 595. SCLE, 47 (cat. 310); Lelièvre, 70, 74; Seddon, 107, 108, 110. Seddon, 105–6 (where he also suggests that Fiat was used interchangeably on glassware with ‘Amen’ (which is how Psalm 89 ends in the King James version (‘Amen and Amen’): the Amen glasses will be discussed below). Use of Redi (‘return, come back’), Redeat (‘may he return’) and Reddite (‘restore, render’) is similar in effect: see Lelièvre, 73–4; Seddon, 106–9. Matthew 22:20–1, Mark 12:16–17, Luke 20:24–5 (‘And he saith unto them, Whose is this image and superscription . . . Render therefore unto Cæsar . . .’). One of these medals has REDDITE IGITVR (‘Render then’): Hawkins, ii. 314/ 135, Woolf, 26:1 and 26:2. On crowns of Charles II there is the legend REDDITE QVÆ CÆSARIS CÆSARI & CT. POST (with a sun and cloud) and its English rendition RENDER TO CÆSAR THE THINGS WHICH ARE CÆSARS: see H. A. Seaby and P. A. Rayner, The English Silver Coinage from 1649, 4th edn (London: Seaby, 1974), 41. See also Seddon, 106. Hawkins, i. 453–4/38–9, ii. 655/259; Woolf, 62:1; Lelièvre, 73–4; Seddon, 108– 9; Nicholson, ‘“Revirescit”’, 25–48; and Chapter 2 of the present volume. Marshall and Dalgleish, eds., Art of Jewellery in Scotland, 49 (cat. 36c); see also a cypher ring, 50 (cat. 38a); PSAS 22 (1887/8), 109–10 (sleeve-link); PSAS 61 (1926/7), 161 (snuffbox dated 1729); PSAS 68 (1934/5), 323 (ring). www.artfund.org/artwork/1735/jacobite-bed-hangings; Cheape, ‘Culture and Material Culture of Jacobitism’, 35–6. Sharp, 81–2 (no. 71(i)–(iii)). Yet another version has been altered in the plate to read ‘William Augustus second Son to his Royall Highness George Prince of Wales . . .’: Sharp, 82 (no. 71(iv)). The knife, fork and spoon were inscribed shortly after the date of the gift with ‘Ex Dono / C.P.R. / July 3d /1746’. See G. R. Dalgleish, ‘The Silver, Knife, Fork and Spoon Given by Prince Charles Edward Stuart to Murdoch Macleod, 3 July 1746’, PSAS 118 (1988), 291–300. See Maynard Mack, The Garden and the City: Retirement and Politics in the Later Poetry of Pope, 1731–1743 (University of Toronto Press, 1969), 64 (pl. 24), 287–8; Monod, 289. The date is that of an aborted landing by James II in England and of a foiled plot (not authorised by the king) on the life of William III. Anthony Beckles Willson has a more prosaic explanation, however: he thinks that ‘JR’ stands for John Rogers, the wheelwright who

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19

20

21 22

23 24

25 26

27

28

29 30

owned the adjoining parcel of land and who died in 1696: ‘Alexander Pope’s Grotto in Twickenham’, Garden History 26:1 (summer 1998), 54–5. The monogram JF surmounted by a coronet, a rose and a thistle on a Chinese export-ware plate, dated 1764, apparently stands for James Francis (i.e., James Francis Edward Stuart, the Old Pretender): Sanctuary Howard, 244 (it is suggested there that the date commemorates the fiftieth anniversary of James’s ‘accession’, but this is incorrect: James II died in 1701). Joseph Addison, Dialogues upon the Usefulness of Ancient Medals in Miscellaneous Works, 2 vols., ed. A. C. Guthkelch (London: G. Bell & Sons, 1914), ii. 385. See also John Dunton, The Medal: Or, a Loyal Essay upon King George’s Picture (London, [c. 1715]), 6–9. Hawkins, ii. 493/35; Woolf, 90 (no. 47:1); Virgil, Georgics, i. 500 in Eclogues, Georgics, Æneid I–VI, trans. H. R. Fairclough, rev. G. P. Goold (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999), 134–5 (i. 500). See Sharp, 114–15 (no. 216); Nicholson, 60–1, 68–71. Lelièvre, 70; Seddon, 116, 117, 128, 131; Nicholson, 105. Lelièvre suggests that the initials C.P.R. which follow the line from Virgil, stand for Carolus princeps redeat, completing the poet’s opening with ‘may Prince Charles come back’. This is possible, but it is more likely that the R stands for regens, the prince having been named regent by his father. Hawkins, i. 472–3/76. RA/SP 229/30 (James Edgar to Francis Sempill of Beltrees, titular 2nd Lord Sempill, 8 December 1740, quoting 229/31 (undated account of the medal’s design by Sir Thomas Sheridan)). Hawkins, ii. 380–1/229; Woolf, 64 (no. 24:1). The motto on the reverse is also found on Jacobite glassware and a silver box; and the variant Cognoscunt mei me in a number of portrait engravings of James. See Lelièvre, 73; Seddon, 111; Sharp, 90 (no. 118.ii), 94 (no. 130.i); Nicholson, 26, 29; Seddon, 111. Glendining & Co., The Noël Woolf Collection of Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Medals and Stuart Touchpieces (London: Glendining & Co., 1992), 15 (lot 107, oval portrait plaque of James set in lid of silver box and contained by a band inscribed COGNOSCVNT ME MEÆ and CVIVS EST; now in the collection of the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, accession no. M.7–1992). See Korshin, Typologies in England, 107–8, 117–18; Monod, 70–3; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 21; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 131; Jonathan Rogers, ‘“We Saw a New Created Day”: Restoration Revisions of Civil War Apocalypse’, in The English Civil Wars in the Literary Imagination, ed. C. J. Summers and T.-L. Pebworth (University of Missouri Press, 1999), 186–201; Lacey, Cult of King Charles the Martyr. Christie’s, Fingask Castle, lot 916. Metamorphoses, iii. 230 in Ovid in Six Volumes, trans. F. J. Miller, rev. G. P. Goold (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1977), i. 140–1.

Notes to pages 85–90 31 See, for example, William D. Reynolds, ‘The “Ovidius Moralizatus” of Petrus Berchorius: An Introduction and Translation’, Ph.D dissertation, University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign) (1971), 8–26, 183–7; Ovide moralisé en prose (Texte du quinzième siècle), ed. C. de Boer (Amsterdam: North Holland Publishing Co., 1954), 116; Robert Levine, ‘Exploiting Ovid: Medieval Allegorizations of the Metamorphoses’, Medioevo Romanzo 14 (1989), 197–213. 32 Hawkins, ii. 444/49; Woolf, 78 (no. 36:1). See also Brückmann, ‘“Men, Women and Poles”’, 31–52; and ‘Memorial’. 33 See S. W. Stevenson, A Dictionary of Roman Coins, rev. edn (London, 1889), 129, 698, 713, 865. 34 Ebenezer Henderson, The Annals of Dunfermline and Vicinity (Glasgow, 1879), 401–2. 35 Cicero, Post Reditum ad quirites, vii. 16, in The Speeches, trans. N. H. Watts (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press 1961), 120–1. 36 I am entirely indebted to Professor Ted Buttrey of the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, for this reading of the first motto, provided by e-mail, 25 October and 8 November 2003. See also Niall MacKenzie and T. V. Buttrey, ‘The Meaning of “Fortunam Causamque Sequor”’, Royal Stuart Review (2005), 1–5. 37 Livy, 13 vols., trans. B. O. Foster (London/Cambridge, Mass.: William Heinemann/Harvard University Press, 1939), i. 260–3. 38 Ibid., i. 436–7. 39 Virgil, Æneid, viii. 626–731 in Æneid VII–XII, Appendix Vergiliana, trans. H. R. Fairclough, rev. G. P. Goold (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000), 104–13. Clœlia is mentioned in viii. 651 (pp. 104–5). 40 See the pair designed by Archibald Pitcairn, circa 1712, one with a reference to the vision of Banquo’s issue in Macbeth, 4.1 (adapted from Æneid, ix. 446–9), the other with the Sybil’s vision (Æneid, vi. 972–4). See Hawkins, i. 612/21, ii. 314–15/137; Woolf, 66–7 (nos. 27:1 and 2). 41 Hawkins, ii. 454/63. The content of the medal is discussed in greater detail in ‘Unica Salus’. 42 Lista delle diverse medaglie con l’impronti dello Loro Maestà e delle Loro AA. RR., RA/SP 151/179 (1 March 1732). 43 For James as lost lover, see Monod, 64–8. 44 Henderson, 401–2. 45 Loyalty to our King, The Safety of our Country, against all Popish Emissaries and Pretenders; And His Most Sacred Majesty King George the Second Proved to be, from the Laws of God, Reason, and True Religion, the Unica Salus of this Nation, and the Protestant Cause. Seriously address’d to the Perusal and impartial Judgment of every Honest Briton (London, 1745); Loyalty to our King . . . of every Honest Hibernian and the Militia of the City of Dublin (Dublin, 1745). 46 Æneid, ii. 354 in Eclogues, Georgics, Æneid I–VI, 340–1; Dryden, v. 393. 47 RA/SP, 54/75 (3 August 1721).

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48 A similar approach is taken in the medal of 1749, with the motto GRATA. SUPERVENIET. QVÆ. NON. SPERABITUR. HORA, discussed below. 49 Ovid, Heroides and Amores, trans. G. Showerman (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1963), 98–9. 50 Hawkins, ii. 492–3/34; Woolf, 87 (no. 43:1); Nicholson, 59. The medal dates from the end of 1731: see RA/SP 150/203 (receipted account of O. Hamerani 5 January 1732); and ‘P and P’. 51 An Authentic Account of the Conduct of the Young Chevalier, 1st (?) edn (London, 1749), 10; An Authentic Account of the Conduct of the Young Chevalier, 2nd edn (London, 1749), 7; An Authentick Account of the Whole Conduct of the Young Chevalier, 3rd edn (London, 1749), 10; Lang, Pickle the Spy, 12; Nicholson, 37–8. The parallel between the birth of Charles and that of Christ was drawn explicitly at the time: see the letter from George Lansdowne to Prince James on the royal birth, Stuart Papers 50/100, cited in McLynn, Charles Edward Stuart, 561 (n. 16). 52 Seddon, 98–9; Sharp, 50 (no. 227.iii). 53 Sharp, 100 (no. 158). 54 Odes, I. xii. 46–8 in The Odes and Epodes, trans. C. E. Bennett (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960), 38–9. Sides is a misprint for sidus; ‘star’ is therefore a better translation than ‘constellation’ (I am indebted to Professor Buttrey for noting this and for his comments by e-mail of 5 June 2004 on the inscriptions discussed in this section). 55 King George II or his partisans replied to the medal of the two Jacobite princes with a larger one depicting his two sons and five daughters: see Hawkins, ii. 500–1/47; Woolf, 87 (no. 44:1); Nicholson, 59. 56 Odes, I. xii. 57–60, in Odes and Epodes, 39 (te minor latum reget æquus orbem: / tu gravi curru quaties Olympum, / tu parum castis inimica mittes / fulmina lucis). 57 Eclogues, v. 49 in Eclogues, Georgics, Æneid I–VI, 56–7. Perhaps the reference earlier in the eclogue to the springing thistle (carduus . . . surgit) appealed to a Scot: see v. 39, in Eclogues, Georgics, Æneid I–VI, 56–7. For thistles on Jacobite medals, see Woolf, 115 (no. 61:2), 119 (no. 63:1). 58 Æneid, viii. 589–91 in Æneid VII–XII, 100–1. 59 For typological interpretations of kingship in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, see Korshin, Typologies in England, 107–8, 117–18; Howard ErskineHill, ‘Literature and the Jacobite Cause: Was there a Rhetoric of Jacobitism?’, in Cruickshanks and Erskine-Hill, eds., Ideology and Conspiracy; Monod, 70–3; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 9–58. For parallels drawn in the seventeenth century between the works of Virgil, the second coming of Christ and the Restoration of 1660, see Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 21; Rogers, ‘“We Saw a New Created Day”’, 186–201. 60 See Woolf, 5, 46, 47, 53, 78; Monod, 78; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 61, 112; Murray Pittock, ‘Jacobite Culture’, in 1745: Charles Edward Stuart and the

Notes to pages 93–96

61 62

63 64

65 66

67 68 69 70

71

Jacobites, ed. Robert C. Woosnam-Savage (Edinburgh: HMSO, 1995), 76; ‘Unica Salus’; and ‘P and P’. Hawkins, ii. 655/358; Woolf, 114 (no. 61:1 a, b). Horace, Epistles, I. xviii. 84–5, in Satires, Epistles and ‘Ars Poetica’, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough (London/New York: William Heinemann/G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1932), 374–5. Edmund Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France, ed. L. G. Mitchell (Oxford University Press, 1993), 9. The Satire of Seneca on the Apotheosis of Claudius commonly called the APOKOΛOKYNTΩΣIΣ, ed. and trans. A. P. Ball (New York/London: Columbia University Press/Macmillan, 1902), 124, 144. Ibid., 204. Lord Bolingbroke quotes a line about turnips from the Apocolocyntosis in his essay on kingship (bad kingship in particular), The Idea of a Patriot King: see Henry St John, 1st Viscount Bolingbroke, Political Writings, ed. D. Armitage (Cambridge University Press, 1997), 226: cum sit e re publica esse aliquem, qui cum Romulo possit ferventia rapa vorare; compare Satire of Seneca, 124 (‘and it is for the public interest that there be some one who can join Romulus in “eating of boiling-hot turnips”. . . ’). In Jacobite propaganda, King George I was portrayed as the rustic cultivator of turnips, a country bumpkin from Hanover: see ‘I am a Turnip-Hoer’ (1714?), Douce Ballads 4 (24a), and ‘The Turnip Song: A Georgick’ (1715?), Douce Ballads 4 (24b) (also MS Rawl. Poet. 207 (109, 110)), Bodleian Library, Oxford, both available at www.bodley.ox.ac.uk/ ballads. One John Spencer was found guilty on 22 February 1722 of uttering seditious words, having declared in a tavern the month before that ‘King George had no Business here, but where the Turnips grows [sic]’, expressing his hope for the return of the Pretender and the Duke of Ormonde: see Proceedings of the Old Bailey, ref. t17270222–76 at www.oldbaileyonline.org. Woolf, 115 (no. 61:2); Satires, Epistles and ‘Ars Poetica’, 276–7. Satires, Epistles and ‘Ars Poetica’, 276–7. Woolf, [iv]. Latin: Woolf, 58:1, 59:1–2, 62:1, 63:1, 65:1, 67:1, 71:1, 73:1–2. English: 60:1 (look love and follow), 64:1 (prince charles edward stuart; reverse has semper armis nunc et industria (‘Always with arms and now with diligence’)). Plates, clxvi.2; Farquhar, 203; Woolf, 49:3. The Latin should probably read En tibi me sculptum ut possides in ære insculpas cordi precor vere tuo. The badge, unknown to Edward Hawkins, subsequently entered the collection of the British Museum; there are other specimens in the Dennis Eyre Bower collection at Chiddingstone Castle, Kent – see Chiddingstone Castle: A Treasure in the Garden of England (Trustees of the Denys Eyre Bower Bequest, [2009]), 17. See also [W. J. Webster], ‘Inedited Coins: A Relic of the Rising of ’45’, Numismatic Circular 7 (1898/9), 3531.

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72 Addison, Miscellaneous Works, ii. 391. 73 And specimens of ‘Look, Love and Follow’ appear to be ‘excessively rare’: Noël Woolf, 20 (lot 165). 74 Arnold Fleming, Scottish and Jacobite Glass (Glasgow: Jackson, Son & Co., 1938), 168; Ian Finlay, Scottish Crafts (London/New York: George G. Harrap & Co./Chanticleer Press, 1948), 111 – but there are no details in either of these works of where such glasses may be seen. There is also some evidence that Gaelic-speaking Jacobites named their weapons, although it is unclear whether names were ever inscribed on the pieces themselves: see The Poetry of Badenoch, ed. and trans. Revd Thomas Sinton (Inverness: Northern Counties Publishing Co., 1906), 85, 405 (‘Tha meirg air nighinn Thearlaich’ (‘There is rust on the daughter of Charles [Edward]’, identified by Sinton as the poet’s gun). I am grateful to Niall MacKenzie for the references to Finlay and Sinton and for his help with the Gaelic language. 75 On ignorance of Celtic languages, see Éamonn Ó Ciardha, Ireland and the Jacobite Cause, 1688–1766 (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2002), 41–51. 76 SCLE, 24 (cat. 169); Helen Farquhar, ‘Locket and Brooch Given by Prince Charles Edward to Flora Macdonald, now the Property of the Exhibitor’s Sister, Mrs. John Ponsonby’, BNJ 3 (1906), 404–6. 77 Seddon, 83. See also Sharp, 86 (no. 93). 78 PSAS 22 (1887/8), 109–10 (sleeve-link); Sharp, ‘Notes on Stuart Jewellery’, 239 (neck slide); R. B. K. Stevenson, 128 (ring); needle-case, Hampshire County Council Museums and Archives Service, Winchester (information provided by Alison J. Carter, Senior Keeper of Art and Design, Historic Dress and Textiles, who thinks the case may have been used to conceal communion wafers for clandestine Roman Catholic rites); Sharp, 95 (no. 133). 79 Christie’s, Fingask Castle, lots 946–9. 80 Louis L. Lipski and Michael Archer, Dated English Delftware (London: Sotheby’s Publications, 1984), 76 (pl. 289); John Black, British Tin-glazed Earthenware (Oxford: Shire Publications, 2001), 33. 81 Mountford, Illustrated Guide to Staffordshire Salt-glazed Stoneware, 60; Seddon, 83. One of the glasses from Oxburgh Hall, Norfolk, bears this inscription: ‘Charles ye Great ye Brave the just and good, / Brittania’s Prince ye Noblest of her Blood / Thy glorious Feats ye world may Proclaim’: Oxburgh Hall (n.p., 2000), 41. On another glass, also with a portrait of the prince, is the inscription ‘Brittas Glory & Brittas Shame’ – Britain’s glory presumably being the prince, her shame his defeat at Culloden. It was advertised for sale by Howard Phillips, London, in Glass Circle Journal 8 (1996); not in Seddon but discussed and illustrated in Francis, Old English Drinking Glasses, 181 and pl. lxiii (no. 361). 82 Other examples are ‘Health to all our Fast Friends’, ‘The Friendly Hunt’, ‘Success to the Society’, ‘The Imortal [sic] Memory’, ‘The Glorious Memory’ (a Revolutionist tag in disguise, as seen above in Chapter 1), ‘Sir Watkin Williams Wynn’ (the name of a Welsh Jacobite grandee): see Seddon, 117,

Notes to pages 98–102

83

84 85 86 87 88 89 90

91

92

121, 132, 134–5, 162, 165; Francis, ‘Disguised Jacobite Glasses’, 174–6; Drambuie, 24, 45 (pl. 13); F. Peter Lole, ‘Clubs and their Glasses in the Eighteenth Century’, Glass Circle Journal 9 (2001), 15–17. The names are [Hippalca (?) – on the missing glass], Atlante, Zerbino, Agramant, Rodomont, Doralice. See Francis, Old English Drinking Glasses, 186; Francis, ‘Disguised Jacobite Glasses’, 176; J. M. Bacon, ‘Acrostics in Glass – A Jacobite Puzzle’, Country Life 102:2643 (12 September 1947), 523; Lelièvre, 72. The Hazard sank in 1746 carrying a cargo of French money to fund Charles Edward’s enterprise: Farquhar, 206–7. Seddon, 126 and 135–6 casts doubt on the theory of flower names, but in reference to a pair of floral glasses in the Drambuie collection and not specifically to the Hazard set (although he cites Bacon’s article). For toasts using all the letters of the alphabet as initials, see S. W[illia?]mson, ‘Lord Duff’s Toast’, N&Q 1 series 7 (29 January 1853), 105; and J. H. M., ‘Jacobite Toasts’, N&Q 1 series 7 (26 February 1853), 220. SCLE, 47 (cat. 308). Stuart Exhibition, 103 (no. 505). Seddon, 117; Lelièvre, 70–1; Woolf 27:2 (and 67); Hawkins, ii. 314–15/137. The Sixth Book of the Æneis, lines 1079–81, in Dryden, Works, v. 564. PSAS 27 (1892/3), 9. Nicholson, 107, suggests that there were two phases of production: from 1746 to 1758 and then from 1770 to 1795. See also Chapter 4 below. See Chapters 1 and 4 in the present volume. It has been suggested that members of the Cycle Club (as constituted in the 1770s) kept a full set of glassware at each of the houses where they met in succession, each member having a glass with his name etched on it at each location. Four specimens of this kind are found in the National Museum of Wales at Cardiff; a further five, with a provenance by descent in the family of Robert Vaughan (1723–91), a Cycle member of the period, were offered for sale by Bonhams, London, in December 2009: Fine British & European Glass & Paperweights. Wednesday 16 December 2009. London, 43–5 (lots 107–11). Seddon, 185–229, 230–46; R. J. Charleston and G. Seddon, ‘“Amen” Glasses’, Glass Circle 5 (1986), 4–14; G. Seddon, ‘The Engraving on the “Amen” Glasses’, Glass Circle 5 (1986), 15–26. See also Woolf, 45; Stuart Exhibition, 111 (cat. 577; the ‘Keith-Douglas’ glass, said there to have been owned by Prince Charles Edward; compare Seddon, 198). The specimen at Traquair House has ‘Prosperity to the Family of TRAQUAIR’ round the base. See Seddon, 204–6 (Stewart of Traquair), 204–5, 212 (engraved ‘Donald MacLeod of Gualtergil in The Isle of Skye. The Faithful PALINURUS. ÆT69. Anno 1747’, comparing the Skye boatman who ferried Charles Edward away from pursuing government ships to the steersman of Æneas), 210 (Cameron of Lochiel), 216 (Keith, Earls Marischal), 220 (Bank of Scotland, Drummond); Charleston and Seddon, ‘“Amen” Glasses’, 9; Seddon, ‘Engraving on the “Amen” Glasses’, 22, 15; Traquair, 10. A firing glass (a short-stemmed

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Notes to pages 102–107

93 94 95 96 97

98 99

100 101 102 103 104

105

106 107

glass which, once drained, was rapped on the table with a sound like the firing of a gun) with a rose and two buds and the inscription APPIN – presumably for the Stewarts of Appin – was lot 195 at Bonham’s, London, 3 June 2009. Another item associated with a country house is an ivory snuff-mull, inscribed AMPHERLAW (the seat of the Somervilles in Lanarkshire), the cypher I R VIII, the motto PRO REGE ET PATRIA and the date 1723: Bonhams, Scottish Sale, Edinburgh, 17 August 2011, lot 378. Sharp, 104 (no. 176). London Evening Post, 22–24 July 1744. N. Rowe, Ulysses: A Tragedy (London, 1706), 1 (I.i.9–10 and 13–14). Sharp, 49, 97 (no. 144). Another engraving based on the Belle portrait has apposite verses from Psalms 37 (‘Wait on the LORD, and keep his way, and he shall exalt thee to inherit the land: when the wicked are cut off, thou shalt see it’) and 109 (‘the mouth of the wicked and the mouth of the deceitful are opened against me’). A punch-bowl with an engraved portrait of Charles Edward and a banner with another passage from Psalm 37, this time verse 24 (‘Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down / For the LORD upholdeth him with his hand’) is illustrated in Fleming, Scottish and Jacobite Glass, plate facing 166. Matthew 21:13, Mark 11:17, Luke 19:45. For the fan, see Cheape, ‘Culture and Material Culture of Jacobitism’, 41; Drambuie, 10, 44 (pl. 2). Stuart Exhibition, 115 (no. 623). See also ‘Mr. W. Sharp Ogden [exhibitor]. – A Jacobite Prayer Book temp. 1715, in which the name “King James” had been carefully substituted for that of King George’, Proceedings of the Society, BNJ 3 (1906), 404. John Gay, Fables (Glasgow, n.d.), author’s collection. Chambers, ed., Chamber’s Book of Days, ii. 234. A Collection of Loyal Songs, Poems, &c. ([Raglan Castle], 1750), 5, 8, 41, 67 (author’s collection). Heather Jackson, Marginalia: Readers Writing in Books (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2001), 99. Heather Jackson, ‘“Marginal Frivolities”: Readers’ Notes as Evidence for the History of Reading’, in Owners, Annotators and the Signs of Reading, ed. Robin Myers et al. (New Castle, Del./London: Oak Knoll Press/British Library Publications, 2005), 140. SCLE, 30 (cat. 201); also 22 (cat. 156), 30 (cats. 202, 203, 204), 31 (cats. 205, 206), 55 (cat. 338). See also Bonhams, Stobhall, lot 98 (sword presented by the Old Pretender to William Drummond, 4th Viscount Strathallan, and lost by the latter on Culloden Moor, restored to his descendant the 9th Viscount by the 5th Duke of Buccleuch). SCLE, 53 (cat. 332). Hawkins, ii. 606/255; Woolf, 49:4.

Notes to pages 107–110 108 W. H. C., ‘Relics of 1715 and 1745 in Carlisle Castle’, N&Q 3 series 6 (24 December 1864), 514, citing slightly conflicting accounts: ‘The Artists’ Ramble along a Line of the Picts’ Wall’, in Once a Week (14 September 1861), 332; and J. Collinwood Bruce, The Wallet-Book of the Roman Wall (London, 1863), 207. 109 Richard Graves, The Spiritual Quixote, 2nd edn, 3 vols. (London, 1783), iii.90–1; and see W. H. Lammin, ‘Chalking the Doors’, N&Q 2 series 9 (7 April 1860), 273. 110 Stuart Exhibition, 107 (cat. 545); SCLE, 41 (cat. 265); Inverness Museum and Art Gallery, accession 2006.026 (two garters, each with one line of ‘God bless . . . usurpers down’; information provided by Catharine Niven, Senior Curator); SCLE 41 (cats. 269, 271, 270); also 44 (cat. 288); Kelvin, 76, 131–2; Bonhams, Stobhall, lot 224 (deltware punch-bowl, possibly Glasgow, c. 1760, with a ‘Highlander’ portrait of Prince Charles Edward and the inscription RIGHT TO HIM THAT SUFFERS WRONG). 111 SCLE, 41 (cats. 266, 267); Stuart Exhibition, 103 (cats. 500–2, 539; pincushions); R. B. K. Stevenson, 127 (ring inscribed SIN : LD LOVAT BED : 9 APR 1747 Æ : 80; and with Dulce et Decorum est pro Patria Mori), and 128 (ring inscribed with the name of Robert Lyon, the date of his execution in 1746, a skull and PRO REGE & PATRIA TRUCIDATO (‘Slain for king and country’)); Kelvin, 110–11. On a silver snuffbox dated 17 July 1717 there is the ominous word ‘Newgate’ and the further inscription ‘Alexander M’Grouder, Be not given to changes, fear God and honour the King’: Stuart Exhibition, 44 (cat. 289). 112 See G. B., ‘A Singular Inscription’, N&Q 6 series 6 (15 July 1882), 45; S. O. and John Pickford, ‘Sarah Bramstone’, N&Q 8 series 6 (3 November 1894), 352–3. See also Joshua Scodel, The English Poetic Epitaph: Commemoration and Conflict from Jonson to Wordsworth (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), 245–8 (Dryden’s epitaphic practice). 113 See also Monod, 306, where it is suggested that the lines on the monument of Godfrey Clarke (d. 1734), that he ‘manfully contended that in every matter, those things which belonged to them, should be rendered to the King, the Church and to the State’, are a coded reference to the Jacobite slogan redeat. 114 Cited in Eleanor D. Longman and Sophy Loch, Pins and Pincushions (London, 1911), 171. For brief mention of a ‘Jacobite pincushion’ given to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, see PSAS 97 (1963/4), 256. For another Jacobite egg, see Chapter 2 above. 115 E-mail correspondence with the Antiquities Department, November 2008 to March 2009; and with Alison Roberts, Curator, European and Early Prehistoric Collections, 20 August 2012. 116 SCLE, 38–9 (cat. 250). 117 Nicholson, 73 (toast as late as 1753); Seton Veitch Collection of Early English Drinking Glasses, with Delomosne & Son Ltd, North Wraxall, Chippenham,

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Notes to pages 111–14

Wilts, September 2006 (see picture 12 at www.delomosne.co.uk/Veitch/); SCLE, 41 (cats. 266, 267); Mountford, Illustrated Guide to Staffordshire Saltglazed Stoneware, 60 (the mug also bears the inscription ‘The Next Spring restore the King’); PSAS 82 (1947/8), 319 (pincushion); lot 546, Bonhams, Knowle, 9 December 2008, woven pincushion inscribed ‘God Preserve P.C. [Prince Charles] And’ on the cushion, ‘Down With The Rump’ on the suspension band. See also Longman and Loch, Pins and Pincushions, 167– 70; British Museum, AN 406502001 (salt-glazed mug, 1752), AN 28645001 (salt-glazed jug, c. 1760); Noël Woolf Collection, 19 (lot 161; engraved halfpennies).

4 Phases and varieties of Jacobite material culture 1 Seddon, 113. 2 Woolf, 45, 60, 65. 3 There is some evidence that this bore fruit. See RA/SP 202/107 (‘Probus’ (Ralph Smith) to ‘Thorold’ (James Edgar), 30 November 1737): ‘[People send far & near] for the [Pictures] of the [two Princes] and I am [much pleased to see] with what [satisfaction they] view [them & the comparisons they make] between [our Princes &] those of [Hannover]’ (square brackets enclosing decrypted text). 4 Woolf, 71;1, 71:2, 128–30; Sharp, 122 (no. 255.ii; and see nos. 255–8 generally). 5 ‘Anecdotes of Louise Maximilienne, Consort of the Chevalier Stuart, commonly called The Pretender. [With an elegant and striking likeness of that Princess.]’ (Westminster Magazine 1 (1773), 557 and facing page; Sharp, 122–3 (no. 256). 6 For information about the brooch, the author is grateful to Duncan MacGregor, his third cousin twice removed (its original owner being the author’s greatgreat-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather). For a brief account of the MacGregor interdiction, see Adam, Clans, Septs, and Regiments, 246–8; Allan I. MacInnes, Clanship, Commerce and the House of Stuart, 1603–1788 (East Linton, East Lothian: Tuckell Press, 1996), 12, 34, 38–9, 50, 61, 62, 114, 125, 161, 174. 7 See Margaret Steele, ‘The Jacobite Collection’, University of Guelph Library Collection Update 8 (1984), 7–8; Monod, 126–58 (confessional); Clark, Samuel Johnson, 43–7; Pittock, Myth of the Jacobite Clans, 32, 53–4, 83–4, 86–7, 93; MacInnes, Clanship, 159–187, 193–7; MacInnes, ‘Jacobitism in Scotland’, 227, 239, 242. 8 See, for example, SCLE, 30 (cat. 201), and chapter 3. 9 Rogers, Crowds, Culture, 52–3. 10 Douglas Brooks-Davies, Pope’s ‘Dunciad’ and the Queen of Night: A Study in Emotional Jacobitism (Manchester University Press, 1985); Howard ErskineHill, ‘Alexander Pope: The Political Poet in his Time’, Eightenth-Century Studies 15:2 (1981/2), 123–48; Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 107–19;

Notes to pages 114–16

11

12

13 14

15 16 17

Erskine-Hill, Poetry of Opposition and Revolution, 57–108; Pat Rogers, Pope and the Destiny of the Stuarts: History, Politics, and Mythology in the Age of Queen Anne (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2005), 113–25; Pat Rogers, A Political Biography of Alexander Pope (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2010), 60–3, 86. Nicholson, 94. See also Monod, 7–8, 92; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 125, 143; Toni Bowers, ‘Tories and Jacobites: Making a Difference’, ELH 64:4 (1997/8), 857–69. Hawkins, ii. 367–8/210–12; Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, (London, 1873), ii. 278–340 (nos. 1499–549; period of the Sacheverell crisis, 411–593 (nos. 1609–726; period of the South Sea Bubble), 779–822 (nos. 1918–40; Excise and Walpole); Geoffrey Holmes, The Trial of Dr Sacheverell (London: Eyre Methuen, 1973), back jacket illustration (card from Sacheverell pack); W. A. Speck, The Birth of Britain: A New Nation, 1700–1710 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 167, 189 (Sacheverell playing cards and print); Bute Broadsides, Houghton Library, Harvard University (Houghton p EB65 A100 B675b; Sacheverell broadsides); R. J. Charleston, ‘Some English Glasses with Diamond-point Decoration: The “Calligraphic Master”’, BM 136:1094 (May 1994), 276–82; Clayton, English Print, 85, 97 (fig. 110); Brewer, ‘Clubs, Commercialization and Politics’, 249; Ray, English Delftware Pottery, 123–4 (Sacheverell), 124 (antiExcise). Paulson, Hogarth’s Graphic Works, 81. Bloch, Royal Touch, 181–92, 208–13, 219–22, 238–43; Edward Law Hussey, ‘On the Cure of Scrofulous Diseases Attributed to the Royal Touch’, Archæological Journal 10 (1853), 187–211; R. W. McLachlan, ‘A Touch-piece of Henry IX’, reprinted from The Numismatist 25 (March 1912); H. Farquhar, ‘Royal Charities’, BNJ 12 (1916), 39–155, 13 (1917), 95–163, 14 (1918), 89–120, 15 (1919–20), 141–84; Ellen Ettlinger, ‘British Amulets in London Museums’, Folklore 50:2 (June 1939), 161–2; Woolf, 39, 50, 77, 125, 135–6; Woolf, Sovereign Remedy; R. O. Bucholz, ‘“Nothing but Ceremony”: Queen Anne and the Limitations of Ritual’, Journal of British Studies 30:3 (1991), 298–9, 304–5. James II thought about reviving the related royal cure for muscular spasms and epilepsy through the distribution of cramp rings, which had fallen into desuetude after the death of Mary I, but ultimately did not: see Bloch, Royal Touch, 189–90, 219; H. Farquhar, ‘Royal Charities’, BNJ 15 (1919/20), 169. Oman, Coinage of England, 220–1 (‘not struck in any quantity before 1470’); Woolf, 14:1; Sharp, 114 (no. 215). Charles X was the last French (indeed, European) king to touch: Bloch, Royal Touch, 223–8. There are frequent references in the Stuart Papers to orders for touch-pieces (typically in batches of fifty, for the ceremony), as well as distributions by post: see for example RA/SP 179/78 (James to Father Lewis Innes, 11 May 1735), RA/SP 205/143 (27 March 1738); and ‘P and P’.

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Notes to pages 116–17 18 Farquhar, ‘Royal Charities’ (BNJ 15), 166–8. 19 A Letter from a Gentleman at Rome, to his Friend in London; Giving an Account of some very surprising Cures in the King’s Evil by the Touch, lately effected in the Neighbourhood of that City (London, 1721), 6. 20 Ibid., 8. 21 Eugene Aloysius Dooley, Church Law on Sacred Relics (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1931), 3–9; Nicole Hermann-Mascard, Les Reliques des saints: Formation d’une coutumière d’un droit (Paris: Editions Klincksieck, 1975), 26–49; Alexandra Walsham, ‘Introduction: Relics and Remains’, Past & Present, supplement 5 (2010), 9–36. 22 Davidson, Universal Baroque, 58–9. See also Bath, Emblems for a Queen; Brückmann, ‘“Without any Letter’, 60–2. 23 See, for example, Archæological Institute, 163–92, 198–216; Stuart Exhibition, 14–23 (cats. 20–42), 65 (cats. 212–16), 78–85 (cats. 322–65), 230 (cats. 1123–7). 24 Stuart Exhibition, 86–9 (cats. 370–84); Sir Ralph Payne-Gallwey, Bt, The Scaffold ‘George’ of Charles I (London, 1908); Marshall and Dalgleish, eds., Art of Jewellery in Scotland, 37 (cat. 24); Lacey, Cult of King Charles the Martyr, 61–6; Dicks, King’s Blood. 25 Bloch, Royal Touch, 288, 408 (n. 26); John Miller, James II: A Study in Kingship (Hove: Wayland Publishers, 1978), 234–6, 239–40; Callow, King in Exile, 302– 39, 384–95. 26 See, in particular, J. G. Alger, ‘The Posthumous Vicissitudes of James the Second’, Nineteenth Century 25 (1889), 104–9; Bernard Cottret and Monique Cottret, ‘La Sainteté de Jacques II, ou les miracles d’un roi défunt (vers 1702)’, Revue de la Bibliothèque Nationale 46 (1992/3), 40–3; Bernard and Monique Cottret, ‘La Sainteté de Jacques II, ou les miracles d’un roi défunt (vers 1702)’, in Corp, ed., L’autre exil, 79–106; Scott, Sacredness of Majesty; Lees-Milne, Ancient as the Hills, 102 (shrivelled heart of James II in the collection of Felix Hope-Nicholson, London); Edward Corp, ‘The Last Years of James II, 1690–1701’, History Today 51:9 (September 2001), 25; Callow, King in Exile, pls. 22 and 23 (pl. 24 is a wax death-mask of James II, formerly in the museum at Dunkirk but destroyed by an enemy bomb in 1940); Edward Gregg, ‘The Exiled Stuarts: Martyrs for the Faith?’, in Schaich, ed., Monarchy and Religion, 206–11; The Church of Saint-Germain: History and Heritage (St-Germain-en-Laye, n.d.), 43–4; Jan Graffius, ‘The Stuart Relics in the Stonyhurst Collections’, Recusant History 31:2 (October 2012), 147–69. 27 Thomas Pennant, Tour on the Continent, 1765, ed. G. R. de Beer (London: Ray Society, 1948), 10. See also Philip Thicknesse, Useful Hints to Those who make the Tour of France (London: Ray Society, 1768), 46–7. I am grateful to Jonathan Clark for these references. 28 The relics, originally acquired at auction at Bonhams, London, and offered on eBay in June 2005, were said to have come from the family of George Jeffreys

Notes to pages 117–18

29

30

31 32

33

34

(1648–89), Baron Jeffreys of Wem (of ‘Bloody Assize’ fame). E-mail to the author from Daniel Fearon, the seller, 8 June 2005 and 1 December 2008. See Brückmann, ‘“Men, Women and Poles”’, 39–40; Patricia Brückmann, ‘The Triumphs of Maria Clementina’, in Davidson and Bepler, eds., Triumphs of the Deafeated, 149–65; ‘Memorial’, 549; RA/SP 201/103 (James Edgar to Robert Freebairn, 23 October 1737), RA/SP 202/40 (Freebairn to Edgar, 18 November 1737), RA/SP 219/122 (Edgar to R. Arbuthnot, 6 January 1740). RA/SP 181/165 and 166 (James to the Duchesse de Bouillon, enclosing Clementina’s hair and promising to send more of it in a ring, 14 August 1735), 184/ 25 (James to Lady Mary Rosa Howard, enclosing hair, 11 November 1735), 184/132 (Lady Mary Rosa to James, 22 December 1735), 185/73 (James to Lady Mary Rosa, 19 January 1736), 210/89 (James to the Chancellor of Poland and Palatine of Russia, enclosing a relic of the Holy Cross and Clementina’s hair, 31 October 1738); certificate of a miracle attributed to Clementina (1771), British Library Add. MS 34,638 fo. 247 (I have not examined the certificate). See Marcia Pointon, ‘Materializing Mourning: Hair, Jewellery and the Body’, in Kwint et al., eds., Material Memories, 39–57; Pearce, ‘Museum Objects’, 10. See, for example, J. Sleigh, ‘Prince Charles Edward at Leek in the ’45’, N&Q 4 series 3 (5 June 1869), 532–3; H. Farquhar, ‘Locket and Brooch Given by Prince Charles Edward to Flora Macdonald, now the Property of the Exhibitor’s Sister, Mrs. John Ponsonby’, BNJ 3 (1906), 404–6; Christie’s, Fingask Castle, lots 108 (footboard from Charles Edward’s bed), 914 (Garter ribbon), 920 (Flora Macdonald’s bodkin), 934 (ribbon, lace), 540–4, 546–7, 551–4 (Charles Edward’s baby clothes); and, for a very dodgy-sounding piece, F. H. Amphlett Micklewright, ‘The Episcopal Ring of Henry Cardinal of York’, N&Q n.s. 17 (December 1970), 469, and n.s. 19 (September 1972), 325–6. Country houses: see Christie’s, Fingask Castle; Oxburgh Hall, 10–11, 25, 41; Sizergh Castle (n.p., 2001), 14–46–50; Kelvin, 81–5, 112–14, 160–1 and generally; Alistair Lang, ‘Sizergh Castle: List of Pictures and Sculpture’ (2007), 3–4, available at www. nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-sizergh_picture.pdf; Traquair, 5, 10, 17; Bonhams, Stobhall; James Lees-Milne, A Mingled Measure: Diaries, 1953–1972 (London: John Murray, 1994), 310 (pieces bequeathed by Cardinal York to Sir John Coxe Hippisley, thence by descent to the earls of Oxford and Asquith); also Monod, 77, 135, 291, 297; Corp, 106, 107, 109, 110; Lloyd, Scottish Portrait Miniatures, 82–4. For acquisitions of miscellaneous relics by the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland: PSAS 66 (1931/2), 23–4; 69 (1934/5), 323; 83 (1948/9), 245–6; 84 (1949/50), 232 and 246; 96 (1962/3), 288; 105 (1972–4), 322; 112 (1982), 588; 113 (1983), 652. See Walsham, ‘Skeletons in the Cupboard’, 134–6 (distinction between the relic as miraculous in Roman Catholicism and as merely symbolic or semiotic for Protestants, but noting the potential for slippage amongst the latter). See the pieces presented by the Stuarts to James’s secretary, James Edgar, at www.clanedgar.com/heirlooms.htm. Some Jacobite relics belonging to the

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35 36 37

38 39 40

41

42 43

44

45

family of Edgar were sold at auction in 1859: see G. N., ‘Scots College at Paris’, N&Q 2 series 9 (31 March 1860), 248–9 (also 334, 373, 415, 451); and the response from ‘Toronto, Upper Canada’ of James David Edgar, ‘Edgar Family’, N&Q 2 series 11 (30 March 1861), 254–5. See also Stuart Exhibition in 1889: see 119 (cat. 657; miniature of James, presented by him to James Edgar), 131 (cat. 796; brace of pistols worn by Charles Edward at Culloden, presented by him to James Edgar); 365 (miniature of Mary, Queen of Scots), 657 (miniature of James presented by him to his secretary), 689 (miniature of Charles Edward), 702 (miniature of Maria Clementina), 796 (pistols worn by Charles Edward at Culloden). See notes 43–45 in the Introduction above. SCLE, 53 (cats. 327–8, 330), 54 (cats. 336–7), 55 (cat. 341). See my ‘Johnson’s Touch-piece and the “Charge of Fame”: Personal and Public Aspects of the Medal in Eighteenth-Century Britain’, in The Politics of Samuel Johnson, ed. J. C. D. Clark and H. Erskine-Hill (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 90–111. Nicholson, 108; Monod, 290–1. Stuart Exhibition, 107 (cat. 543). Dalgleish and Mechan, ‘I Am Come Home’, 4–7, 13–14. See also the Revd John Stirton, ‘Relics of the Family of Innes’, PSAS 55 (1920/1), 100–7; G. R. Dalgleish, ‘The Silver Knife, Fork and Spoon Given by Prince Charles Edward Stuart to Murdoch Macleod, 3 July 1746’, PSAS 118 (1988), 291–300; Marshall, ed., Dynasty, 107–8, 110. Dalgleish, ‘Silver Knife, Fork and Spoon’, 300. Are there not, however, some gaps in the provenances of some of the other pieces described in Dalgleish and Mechan’s ‘I Am Come Home’? See also G. R. Dalgleish, ‘Objects as Icons: Myths and Realities of Jacobite Relics’, in Heritage and Museums: Shaping National Identity, ed. J. M. Fladmark (Shaftesbury: Donhead Publishing, 1999), 91–102. RA/SP 53/124A. Jane Barker, ‘Fidelia Walking the Lady Abess comes to her’, Magdalen MS 343, fo. 36, reproduced in The Poems of Jane Barker, ed. Kathryn R. King (Oxford: Magdalen College, 1998), 11 (fig. 6). There is a similar pincushion at Chiddingstone Castle: see Sharp, 224 (no. 851) and Chiddingstone Castle, 17; a specimen, from the collection of Col. R. C. Parker of Browsholme, was included in SCLE, 42 (cat. 273). See Archæological Institute, 195–6. The engraving is reproduced in Gentleman’s Magazine 143 (1828), pl. facing 17; and Chambers, ed., Chamber’s Book of Days, ii. 235 (18 August). See also A. B., ‘Pretender Ticket’, N&Q 2 series 3 (10 January 1857), 30; and, in response, R. Almack, ‘Pretender’s Blue Ribbon’, N&Q 2 series 7 (21 May 1859), 419–20. Two copies of the engraving were exhibited at the Stuart Exhibition of 1889: Stuart Exhibition, 115 (cat. 615), 223–4 (cat. 1092). There are specimens at Chiddingstone: see Chiddingstone Castle, 17.

Notes to pages 120–23 46 See Sharp, ‘Notes on Stuart Jewellery’, 232–3; R. B. K. Stevenson, ‘Jacobite Rings’, PSAS 80 (1946/7), 127–9; PSAS 57 (1922/3), 233; PSAS 105 (1972–4), 320; Marshall, ed., Dynasty, 113 (fig. 148). See also S. F. Hulton, ‘Jacobite Memorial Ring’, N&Q 12 series 6 (March 1920), 66 (ring commemorating the death of the Old Pretender: ‘Jacobus III., Br. Fr. Hiber. Rex : Exul : ob. 30 Dec., 1765 : ae. 77’ (the date of his death was actually 1 January 1766)); A. Sparke, ‘Jacobite Memorial Rings’, N&Q 12 series 6 (1 May 1920), 172. 47 SCLE, 20 (cat. 140). 48 Sharpe, Selling the Tudor Monarchy, 28. For discussion of a Jacobite with a natural distaste for commerce but an awareness of the necessity of ‘loyal entrepreneurship’ as a vehicle for Stuart propaganda, see Constance Lacroix, ‘Wicked Traders, Deserving Peddlers, and Virtuous Smugglers: The Counter-Economy of Jane Barker’s Jacobite Novel’, Eighteenth-Century Fiction 23:2 (2010/11), 269–94. 49 Sharp, 53, 57. 50 Sir Ambrose Heal, The Signboards of Old London Shops (London: Batsford, 1947; reprinted New York: Benjamin Blom, 1972), 170 (David Wishart, tobacconist, at ‘ye Highlander, Thistle & Crown’, 1720 – the sign said there to be indicative of a Jacobite rendezvous); George Evans, The Old Snuff House of Fribourg & Treyer (London, 1921), 48–9. There is at least one modern pub sign depicting James II (the King’s Head, Southwold, Sussex): see www.royalstuartsociety.com/activities.html. 51 S. R. Houfe, ‘A Whig Artist in Ivory: David Le Marchand (1674–1726)’, Antique Collector 42 (April–May 1971), 66–70; Charles Avery, David Le Marchand, 1674–1726: ‘An Ingenious Man for Carving in Ivory’ (London: Lund Humphries, 1996), 29. For the political dilemmas of artists in this period, see Monod, ‘Painters and Party Politics in England’, 367–98. 52 Avery, Le Marchand, 58 (cat. 11), 59 (cat. 12), 63–4 (cat. 18), 60–1 (cat. 14); 61–2 (cat. 15). See also 59 (cat. 13; Perth arms, with a ducal coronet reflecting the Jacobite title). Two box lids similar to cat. 15 are known. 53 Christina Corsiglia, Consulting Curator of the Thomson Collection, kindly provided the following information about the piece. Prior to its acquisition by Lord Thomson, the carving passed by descent from the staunchly Jacobite Robert Piggot (1664–1746), maternal grandson of John Dryden, who is said to have received it from James himself. The attribution to Le Marchand is Charles Avery’s, although this is open to question on stylistic and technical grounds. Avery has also suggested that Le Marchand remained in secret contact with Jacobite patrons, an intriguing possibility. 54 Pittock, Myth of the Jacobite Clans, 29; Robin Nicholson, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Royal House of Stuart, 1688–1788: Works of Art from the Drambuie Collection (Edinburgh: Drambuie Liqueur Company, 2002), 38 (cat. 87). 55 Michael Archer, Delftware: The Tin-glazed Earthenware of the British Isles. A Catalogue of the Collection in the Victoria and Albert Museum (London: HMSO in association with V&A Publishing, 1997), 76–7 (nos. A.6 to A.8);

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56 57

58 59 60 61 62 63

64

65

66

Byrom, The Poems of John Byrom, 5 vols., ed. A. W. Ward (Manchester: Chetham Society, 1894–1912), i. 574. Erskine-Hill, ‘Twofold Vision in Eighteenth-Century Writing’, 921; MacKenzie, ‘Double-edged Writing in the Eighteenth Century’, 150. Chiddingstone Castle, 16 (God bless ye King / God Bless ouer fath Defender / God bless what Harm in Blessing the petender [sic] / Now whose the petend whose the King / Is quite another thing’). Nicholson, 79, 94, 97–8. Pittock, Myth of the Jacobite Clans, 106, 134–5; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 129–30. Pittock, ‘Treacherous Objects’, 48; also 49. Eirwen E. C. Nicholson, ‘Consumers and Spectators: The Public of the Political Print in Eighteenth-Century England’, History 81:261 (1996), 4–21. See Sharp, 145 (no. 364), 171 (no. 482), 175 (no. 499), 174–7 (nos. 495–313), 201 (nos. 638–40), 215–16 (no. 704), 220 (no. 720), 221 (no. 725). On ballads, see Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 129–33. See also the selection of ballads available at www.bodley.ox.ac.uk/ballads/. See also Frederick Crooks, ‘Jacobite Cards’, N&Q, 12 series 9 (9 September 1922), 210; Woolf, 2 (cards satirising the birth of James, 1688), 83 (South Sea Bubble card with some antiJacobite content); and note 12 above. Kwint, ‘Physical Past’, 5. See also Brewer, ‘Clubs, Commercialization and Politics’, 249–60; Lorna Weatherill, Consumer Behaviour and Material Culture in Britain, 1660–1760 (London and New York: Routledge, 1988), 25, 37–42, 70–90; Lorna Weatherill, ‘The Meaning of Consumer Behaviour in Late Seventeenth- and Early Eighteenth-Century England’, in Brewer and Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods, 206–27; John Styles, ‘Manufacturing, Consumption and Design in Eighteenth-century England’, in Brewer and Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods, 527–54; Overton et al., Production and Consumption in English Households, 87–120. The green glass bottle engraved with leaves, the monogram JR and the date 1692 at Chiddingstone Castle is a mass-market item rather than a piece for a rich man’s sideboard: Chiddingstone Castle, 16. Longman and Loch, Pins and Pincushions, 170. See also Christine Y. Ferdinand, ‘Selling it to the Provinces: News and Commerce Round Eighteenth-century Salisbury’, in Brewer and Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods, 393–411. Margaret Sankey and Daniel Szechi suggest that the penetration of general English material culture in the north-east and Highlands of Scotland ‘may have helped to sustain the alienness of the new order’ in the first half of the eighteenth century: ‘Elite Culture and the Decline of Scottish Jacobitism 1716–1745’, Past & Present 173 (November 2001), 99. SCLE, 16 (cat. 79). The domestic articles and agricultural implements listed in Scottish Exhibition of National History, Art and Industry, Palace of History:

Notes to pages 124–26

67

68

69

70 71

72 73

Catalogue of Exhibits, 2 vols. (Glasgow, Edinburgh and London: Dalcross, [1911]), 553–632, do not include any labelled as Jacobite, but the catalogue descriptions are terse. Thomas J. Schlereth, ‘Material Culture and Cultural Research’, in Material Culture: A Research Guide, ed. Thomas J. Schlereth (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1985), 14. See also Ann Bermingham, ‘Introduction. The Consumption of Culture: Image, Object, Text’, in Bermingham and Brewer, eds., Consumption of Culture, 3. Rogers, Crowds, Culture, 55; Frank O’Gorman, ‘Political Ritual in EighteenthCentury Britain’, in Political Rituals in Great Britain, 1700–2000, ed. Jörg Neuheiser and Michael Schaich (Augsburg: Wissner-Verlag, 2006), 26. Monod, ‘Dangerous Merchandise’, 161; Woolf, 45. Thomas E. Kaiser, ‘The Drama of Charles Edward Stuart, Jacobite Propaganda, and French Political Protest, 1745–1750’, Eighteenth-Century Studies 30 (1997), 367, cites a figure of 1,500 medals struck soon after Charles Edward’s arrival in Paris in February 1744, but it is not entirely clear which medal this would be. Paulson, Hogarth’s Graphic Works, 125; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 128–9 (10,000 for the Weekly Journal; 100,000 for Sacheverell’s controversial sermon). E. L. I., ‘Jacobin [sic] Garters’, N&Q 1 series 8 (17 December 1853), 586; James Crossley, ‘White Roses’, N&Q 1 series 7 (30 April 1853), 434–5; E. L. I., ‘Jacobite Garters’, N&Q 1 series 8 (17 December 1853), 586; P. P. ‘Jacobite Garters’, N&Q 1 series 9 (3 June 1853), 528; George Bion Denton, ‘Jacobite Garters’, N&Q 11 series 2 (20 August 1910), 144; Stuart Exhibition, 105 (cat. 519), 113 (cat. 595; three white paper roses, said to have been made by Lady Strange); Kelvin, 76, 131–2; National Museums of Scotland, www.nms.scran.ac.uk, cat. 000–100– 003–078-C (cambric rose cockade belonging to Sir Robert Strange). See also A. Mackenzie, ‘A Note on Pierre’s White Hat’, N&Q 192 (8 March 1947), 90–3; Paul Monod, ‘Pierre’s White Hat: Theatre, Jacobitism and Popular Protest in London, 1689–1760’, in By Force or Default? The Revolution of 1688–1689, ed. Eveline Cruickshanks (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1989), 159–89. A portrait in the Drambuie collection depicts a Jacobite lady, possibly Charles Edward’s supposed mistress Jenny Cameron, in fashionable tartan clothes, holding a white rose, with a thistle in her cap: Drambuie, 41, 48 (pl. 36). Christie’s Scotland, Jacobites and their Adversaries, lot 123. Muriel Steevenson, ‘Jacobite Clubs’, Glass Circle Journal 8 (1996), 18–25; F. Peter Lole, A Digest of the Jacobite Clubs, Royal Stuart Society paper 55 (1999); Lole, ‘Clubs and their Glasses in the Eighteenth Century’, 16–21; Nicholson, 107; David Sanctuary Howard, ‘Chinese Porcelain of the Jacobites’, Country Life 153:3944 (25 January 1973), 243–4 and 153:3945 (1 February 1973), 289–90; Brewer, ‘Clubs, Commercialization and Politics’, 231–62; Stephanie Jones, Jacobite Imagery in Wales: Evidence of Political Activity? (London, n.d.); Christie’s, Glasgow, 26–28 April 1993; Christie’s, Glasgow, Fingask Castle, lot 1276 (Chinese punch-bowl with a portrait of Charles Edward, a rifleman and a piper).

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Notes to pages 126–28

74 Bonhams, Fine British Pottery, Porcelain and Glass, London, New Bond Street, 3 October 2012 (London, 2012), lot 19 (11 of 12 matching glasses, the twelfth surviving elsewhere, c. 1745–55). For diminishing numbers of glasses at Traquair (16 in a 1764 inventory, down to four today), see F. Peter Lole, ‘The Eighteenth-Century Glass Bills and Inventories at Traquair House’, Glass Circle Journal 10 (2006), 11–33; also Lole, ‘Clubs and their Glasses’; F. Peter Lole, ‘The Hoards of Jacobite Glass’, Glass Circle Journal 9 (2001), 64–8. 75 Peter B. Brown and Marla H. Schwartz, Come Drink the Bowl Dry: Alcoholic Liquors and their Place in 18th Century Society (York: York Civic Trust, [1996]), 26. 76 Monod, 290; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 142–3; Pittock, ‘Treacherous Objects’, 46–7. 77 See Scarisbrick, ‘Jewellery of Treason’, 128–9; Kelvin, 94–6, 109, 116–18, 132–8, 154, Scarisbrick, Portrait Jewels, 214; Sharp, ‘Notes on Stuart Jewellery’, 226–41; R. B. K. Stevenson, ‘Jacobite Rings’, PSAS 80 (1946/7), 127–31; Marshall and Dalgleish, eds., Art of Jewellery in Scotland, 44–7, 50–1; and Chapter 2 above. 78 These include the Dunfermline servet mentioned in Chapter 3, with its mottoes derived from medals; a set of elaborate bed hangings, now in the National Museums of Scotland, which display (amidst elaborate floral stitching) the cyphers of Jacobus Rex and Clementina Regina and the date of their marriage, 1719, placed in the centre of a regal sunflower; a Culloden sampler, currently on display at the battlefield’s visitors centre; a needle-purse of c. 1715 in the collection of the Hampshire Museums Service; a pair of ‘richly-worked’ purses with the ciphers of James and his elder son. See Henderson, Annals of Dunfermline and Vicinity, 401–2; www.artfund.org/artwork/1735/jacobite-bed-hangings; www3.hants.gov.uk/museum/dress-and-textiles.htm; Archæological Institute, 194; Stuart Exhibition, 106 (cat. 530). There are two Jacobite samplers and a ‘Stuart Picture in Tapestry Stitches’ listed in Palace of History: Catalogue of Exhibits, 632 (this sampler hedges its bets with both i.r.8 and g.r.), 633, 636. See also Christie’s, Fingask Castle, lot 496 (early eighteenth-century needlework with heraldic floral badges, crossed swords and cypher J.R.VIII). 79 Ivison Wheatley, The Language of the Fan: An Exhibition at Fairfax House, York, July 1st to October 31st, 1989 (York: York Civic Trust, 1989), 11. 80 Cited in Longman and Loch, Pins and Pincushions, 169. For more on pincushions, see Chapter 3 above. 81 For more on Barker, see Kathryn R. King with Jeslyn Medoff, ‘Jane Barker and Her Life (1652–1732): The Documentary Record’, ECL 21:3 (1997), 16–38. 82 Monod, 62–9; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 129–30. 83 See, for example, Addison, The Freeholder, 24–6, 48 and n., 52–3, 88, 103, 135–8, 145–8. 84 Henry Fielding, Jacobite’s Journal 2 (12 December 1747) in ‘The Jacobite’s Journal’ and Related Writings, ed. W. B. Coley (Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press, 1975), 97–8.

Notes to pages 128–30 85 See Stanley Idzerda, ‘Iconoclasm During the French Revolution’, American Historical Review 60:1 (1954), 26 (‘Immure a political symbol in a museum and it becomes merely art’), cited in Tamen, Friends of Interpretable Objects, 63. 86 Nicholas, 18–19, 30–1; Woolf, 112; Nicholson, 82–3. 87 Monod, 289 (and 95–125, 269–307 generally); Arthur S. Hayward, ‘The Board of Brothers’, N&Q 193 (1 May 1948), 192–3; Maj. W. G. Harding, ‘Kitt Kill Hunt’, N&Q 197 (16 August 1952), 369–70, and ‘Gorvin Hunt Club, Circa 1766–70’, N&Q 202 (December 1957), 545–6; and see note 73, above. 88 Hewlings, ‘Chiswick House’, 145. See also J. Clark, ‘Lord Burlington is Here’, in Lord Burlington, ed. Barnard and Clark, 251–310; J. Clark, ‘For Kings and Senates Fit’, Georgian Group Report and Journal (1989), 55–63. And see Chapter 2 above (plasterwork at Tackbear Manor). 89 Linda Colley, who generally underplays Jacobitism as a matter of history, accepts a Jacobite reading of the decorative scheme at the House of Dun, basing her interpretation on the National Trust for Scotland guidebook: see Britons: Forging the Nation, 74–5. See also Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 138; Pittock, ‘Treacherous Objects’, 54–7 (Gibbs), 57–60 (Dun); www.fairfaxhouse.co.uk. See also the plasterwork at Tackbear Manor, described in Chapter 2, which is clearly Jacobite. 90 J. Clark, ‘Palladianism and the Divine Right of Kings: Jacobite Iconography’, Apollo 135: 362 (April 1992)’, 224–9. See also Katherine R. P. Clark, ‘Getting Plastered: Ornamentation, Iconography and the “Desperate Faction”’, in Architectural Space in Eighteenth-Century Europe: Constructing Identities and Interiors, ed. D. A. Baxter and M. Martin (Farnham and Burlington, Vt.: Ashgate, 2010), 81–101 (Jacobite plasterwork at Cullaly Castle, Northumberland). 91 Clark, ‘Palladianism and the Divine Right of Kings’, 224. 92 J. Clark, ‘The Mysterious Mr Buck’, Apollo 129: 327 (May 1989), 321–2; Clark, ‘Lord Burlington, les Jacobites et la franc-maçonnerie’, in L’autre exil, ed. Corp, 187–8; Clark, ‘Lord Burlington is Here’, 257–8. See also Geoffrey Tyack, ‘The Clarendon Building: Printing House and Propylæum’, Bodleian Library Record 23:1 (April 2010), 58, noting Tory and Stuart overtones in the decorative scheme of the Delegates’ Room. 93 W. Chatters, ‘Pretender’s Portrait’, N&Q 4 series 3 (3 April 1869), 320–1; Hartshorne, Old English Glasses, 368–9; Nicholas, 14–15 (illustrated). The Oulton glasses, at least, seem to have perished in a disastrous fire in the 1920s: see Bonhams, Fine British & European Glass and Paperweights, 43. 94 See Valerie Rumbold, ‘The Jacobite Vision of Mary Caesar’, in Women, Writing, History 1640–1760, ed. I. Grundy and S. Wiseman (London: Batsford, 1992), 183–4; Nicholson, 30. 95 See, for example, the National Museums of Scotland’s specimen of a medal of Queen Anne and her half-brother (Hawkins, ii. 383/232, Woolf 28:3) in its original shagreen case: www.nms.scran.ac.uk, cat. 000–100–003–87-C.

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Notes to pages 130–31 96 Prown, ‘Mind in Matter’, 72. 97 Monod, 289; Pittock, ‘Aeneid in the Age of Burlington’, 246. See also Clark, ‘Palladianism and the Divine Right of Kings’, 225–6; R. T. Spence, ‘Chiswick House and its Gardens, 1726–1732’, BM 135:1085 (August 1993), 530 (somewhat sceptical); Gwenllian Davies, ‘Fir Trees a Jacobite Emblem’, N&Q 1 series 11 (24 March 1855), 227; A. Hartshorne, ‘Decapitated Trees: Scotch Firs Planted in England by Jacobites’, N&Q 7 series 11 (10 January 1891), 27; T. C. C., ‘Fir Trees as a Jacobite Memorial’, N&Q 177 (18 November 1939), 368; M., ‘Fir Trees as a Jacobite Memorial’, N&Q 177 (16 December 1939), 448; Sir H. Stewart-Rankin, Bt, ‘Fir Trees as a Jacobite Memorial’, N&Q 178 (27 January 1940), 70; B. Roberts (pseud. of Elizabeth Mary Dew), The Charlie Trees: A Jacobite Novel (London: Chatto & Windus, 1951). 98 M. Charlesworth, ‘The Imaginative Dimension of an Early EighteenthCentury Garden: Wentworth Castle’, Art History 28:5 (2005), 626–47. 99 Hewlings, ‘Chiswick House’, 1–149; Clark, ‘Lord Burlington is Here’, 288–310. See also Clark, ‘Mysterious Mr Buck’, 317–22. On Jane Clark, see John Harris, The Palladian Revival: Lord Burlington, his Villa and Garden at Chiswick (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1994), 132 n., 148; T. G. A. Nelson, ‘Pope, Burlington, Architecture, and Politics: A Speculative Revisionist View’, ECL 21:1 (1997), 45–61; Howard Colvin, ‘Introduction’, in Lord Burlington, ed. Barnard and Clark, xxvii; Rogers, Pope and the Destiny of the Stuarts, 126–7; Timothy Mowl, William Kent: Architect, Designer, Opportunist (London: Jonathan Cape, 2006), 14–16, 63–4; Richard Hewlings, ‘Chiswick House: Recent Historiography’, paper presented at the Simposio del Cinquecentenario organised by the Centro Internazionale di Studi di Archittetura di Andrea Palladio, Vicenza, 6 May 2008. See also Marsha Keith Schuchard, Restoring the Temple of Vision: Cabalistic Freemasonry and Stuart Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 793; Charles McKean’s conclusion is that Jacobite architecture in Scotland was confined to interiors: ‘Was There a Jacobite Architecture?’, paper presented at Jacobites and Anti-Jacobites: Culture and Diaspora, Jacobite Studies Trust conference, University of Strathclyde, Glasgow, 24 June 2010. 100 Christopher Hibbert, The Encyclopædia of Oxford (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1988), 465; Clare Hopkins, Trinity: 450 Years of an Oxford College Community (Oxford University Press, 2005), 170–1. 101 Traquair, 27; Seddon, 206. But see Gwyn Headley and Wim Meulenkamp, Follies: A Guide to Rogue Architecture in England, Scotland and Wales (London: Jonathan Cape, 1990), 467, for non-Jacobite accounts of the origins of the locked gate. 102 Terry Friedman, ‘A “Palace Worth the Grandeur of a King”: Lord Mar’s Designs for the Old Pretender, 1718–30’, Architectural History 29 (1986), 102–18; Davidson, Universal Baroque,, 160–6. 103 See Hawkins, ii. 601/254, 655/358; Woolf, 50:1, 61:1; Nicholas, 20–5; Nicholson, 62–80; Drambuie, 36–7, 47 (pls. 28–30); David Sanctuary Howard, ‘Chinese

Notes to pages 132–34

104

105 106 107

108 109 110 111

112

113 114

Porcelain of the Jacobites – I’, Country Life 153:3904 (25 January 1973), 243–4; Pat Halfpenny, English Earthenware Figures (Woodbridge: Antique Collectors Club, 1991), 18, 24, 28–9. See also Nicholson, 113–14; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 137–8; Murray Pittock, ‘Jacobite Ideology in Scotland and at Saint-Germain-en-Laye’, in Cruickshanks and Corp, eds., Stuart Court in Exile, 113–24. Thistle medal: Farquhar, 202–3; Woolf, 61:2; Sharp, Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Medals, 15. Instructions from James to Norbert Roettiers, Bodleian Library, Carte MS 180 fo. 484r (May 1708). Dalgleish and Mechan, ‘I Am Come Home’, 8; Robin Nicholson, ‘The Tartan Portraits of Prince Charles Edward Stuart: Identity and Iconography’, British Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies 21:2 (autumn 1998), 145–60. Nicholson, 80–1, 82–7. P. Attwood, ‘Editorial’, The Medal 55 (autumn 2009), 3. R. L. Hobson, Catalogue of the Collection of English Pottery in . . . the British Museum (London, 1903), 142 (cat. E113). Bernard Rackham, Catalogue of the English Porcelain, Enamels & Glass Collected by Charles Schreiber, Esq. M.P. and the Lady Charlotte Schreiber, 3 vols. (London: V&A Museum, 1924–30), ii. 123 (no. 637), pl. 81. See also ibid., ii. 217 (cat. 637); Hildyard, English Pottery, 46 (salt-glazed china teapot of the late 1750s with a portrait of Charles Edward); Jonathan Horne, comp., English Pottery and Related Works of Art (London: Sampson & Horne Antiques, 2009), 22–3 (large, enamelled, salt-glazed jug with portrait of Charles Edward after Strange, c. 1765); Bonhams, Georgian Frivolities: The Mort and Moira Lesser Collection of English Enamels, London, 19 October 2011, lot 24 (Birmingham enamel snuffbox with a portrait of Charles Edward on the lid, surrounded by military trophies and banners, c. 1755–60; offered again at Fine British Pottery, Porcelain and Enamels, Bonhams, London, 18 April 2012 (lot 145). SCLE, 24 (no. 168); Scarisbrick, ‘Jewellery of Treason’, 129; John M. Gray, James & William Tassie (Edinburgh: W. G. Patterson, 1894; reprinted London: Holland Press, 1974), 149–50; James Holloway, James Tassie, 1735–1799 (Edinburgh: National Galleries of Scotland, 1986), 32. See also A. & H. Baldwin & Sons Ltd, Auction Number 74, Wednesday 9 May 2012: English Coins, The AJ Lansen Collection of Plantation Tokens, Indian Coins, Russian Coins and Medals, Commemorative and Art Medals (London: A. & H. Baldwin & Sons, 2012), lot 1732 (Tassie reproduction of obverse of medal of James of 1719). Seddon, 94, 228–9, 252–8; and see note 151 below. The ‘Amen’ glasses probably pre-date the ’45: see Drambuie, 13. Henry Fielding, Jacobite’s Journal 49 (5 November 1748), in ‘Jacobite’s Journal’ and Related Writings, 424.

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Notes to pages 135–37

115 116 117 118 119

120 121

122 123 124 125 126

127

See ‘P and P’. Ibid. Hawkins, ii. 600–1/251–3, 655/359; Woolf, 48:1, 58:1, 59:1, 59:2, 60:1, 62:1. Coins, Medals, and Medallions in Gold, Silver, and Brass, of the Learned and Ingenious Martin Folkes, Esq; ([London], [1756]), 3, 12, 17, 22. Sharp, 120 (no. 243). Ascanius went through numerous editions: two in 1746, two in 1747, 1769, 1779. Other biographies capitalising on the fame of Charles Edward were Æneas and his Two Sons (1746); Alexis: or, The Young Adventurer (1746); The Wanderer or, Surprising Escape (1747, 1752); Young Juba: or, the History of the Young Chevalier (1748); Virtue in Distress: or, Heroism Displayed (1749); An Authentic Account of the Conduct of the Young Chevalier (1749); A Genuine and True Journal of the Most Miraculous Escape of the Young Chevalier (1749, 1754); A Plain, Authentick and Faithful Narrative of the Several Passages of the Young Chevalier (1750); The Young Chevalier: or, A Genuine Narrative of all that befell that Unfortunate Adventurer (1746 or 1750?). Clark, English Society, 78; Clayton, English Print, 78. See Frank McLynn, The Jacobites (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1985), 123, 310; Claude Nordmann, ‘Choiseul and the Last Jacobite Attempt of 1759’, in Cruickshanks and Erskine-Hill, eds., Ideology and Conspiracy, 201–17; Victoria Thorpe, ‘The 1752 Medal: Promise of a New Augustan Age’, Royal Stuart Review (1996), 15–19; Nicholson, 87–95; Doron Zimmerman, The Jacobite Movement in Scotland and in Exile, 1746–1759 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003); Sharp, Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Medals, 15. Compare Corp, Stuarts in Italy, 346–8. There was no medal specifically commemorating the death of James or the ‘accession’ of his elder son, although Prince Henry issued a medal of his own in 1766: see Laurence Brown, British Historical Medals, 1760–1960 (London: Seaby, 1980), i. 24 (no. 99); Woolf, 67:1. See, for example, McLynn, Charles Edward Stuart, 399, 412. See ‘P and P’. Forrer, v. 165; Farquhar, ‘Concerning Some Roettiers Dies’, 126–65. See also Sharp, Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Medals, 5. Archæological Institute, 105. Forrer, vi. 707; H. Farquhar, ‘Patterns and Medals Bearing the Legend IACOBVS III or IACOBVS VIII’, BNJ 3 (1906), 229–70; Woolf, 33:1 and 33:2; Nick Holmes, ‘A Jacobite Mystery: Thomas Coats’s 1716 Pattern Crown’, Numismatic Circular 113:4 (August 2005), 245–6: Hawkins, i.645/74. Francis Atterbury (1662–1732), the numismatist Bishop of Rochester, described the medallist Norbert Roettiers (1665–1727) as ‘the greatest artist of his time’ and reported that his disappointment at not receiving the commission was bitter: see RA/SP 81/107B (Atterbury to the Hon. John Hay of Cromlix, titular Earl of Inverness, 16 April 1725); also 81/172 (Atterbury to Hay, 30 April 1725). See also Forrer, v. 183–7.

Notes to pages 137–39

128 Woolf, 38:2. 129 Archæological Institute, 103; Farquhar, ‘Concerning some Roettiers Dies’, 143, 151; Woolf, 61. 130 John Stuart, ‘Note of a Copper Plate and Bronze Ornaments from Cluny’, PSAS 6 (1864–66), 83–5 and pl. 5; Woolf, 101–2; Noël Woolf, 18 (lot 144); S. Archibald and F. Marwick, The West Highland Museum, Fort William (Derby: Heritage House Group, 2003), 22. 131 Edward Besly, Coins and Medals of the English Civil War (London: B. A. Seaby, 1990), 77, 82. 132 Pittock, Invention of Scotland, 72 (and 73–98 generally). See also Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 223–42; Pittock, Myth of the Jacobite Clans, 33–4; Nicholson, 107–10. 133 Nicholson, 110. For a less sympathetic view, see Hugh Trevor-Roper, ‘The Invention of Tradition: The Highland Tradition of Scotland’, in The Invention of Tradition, ed. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (Cambridge University Press, 1983), 31–40; Trevor-Roper, The Invention of Scotland: Myth and History (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2008), 218–36. 134 Nicholson, 115 and 111–27 generally; Pittock, Invention, 99–105. 135 See also Michael Sharp, ‘A Jacobite Coinage for 1745?’, Numismatic Circular 99:2 (March 1991), 41. 136 See Daniel Szechi, George Lockhart of Carnwath, 1681–1731: A Study in Jacobitism (East Linton, East Lothian: Tuckwell Press, 2002). 137 The Lockhart Papers: Containing Memoirs and Commentaries upon the Affairs of Scotland from 1702 to 1715, by George Lockhart, Esq. of Carnwath, His Secret Correspondence with the Son of King James the Second from 1718 to 1728, And his other political Writings; Also, Journals and Memoirs of the Young Pretender’s Expedition in 1745, by Highland Officers in his Army, 2 vols. (London: William Anderson, 1817), i. vii. See also Letters of George Lockhart of Carnwath, 1689–1732, ed. Daniel Szechi (Edinburgh: Scottish History Society, 1989). 138 The subtitle of James Boswell’s Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides (1785) refers to Charles Edward as the grandson of James II. See also Clark, ‘Many Restorations of King James’, 11–17. Acts of parliament to restore the forfeited peerages of Jacobites of the ’15 and the ’45 were not passed until 1824 and 1826 (with further enactments as late as 1885): see GEC, i.475–9; Richard Almack, ‘Jacobite Mementos’, GM 143 (1828), 18. 139 Lockhart Papers, i. viii. 140 Ibid., ‘Fac-simile of Mr. Lockhart’s letter to his Son with directions relative to his papers’ (3 February 1730), facing xvi. 141 Horace, Ars Poetica, 287, in Satires, Epistles and Ars Poetica trans. H. Rushton Fairclough (London/New York: William Heinemann/G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1932), 475. Scott himself later used the line in the introduction to St Ronan’s Well (1823). Aufrere was not the first to attempt a more objective

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Notes to pages 139–40

142

143

144

145

146

147

reassessment of the Stuarts, being preceded by Sir John Dalrymple’s Memoirs of Great Britain and Ireland (1771, 1773, 1778, 1790); James Stanier Clarke’s edition of Lewis Innes, Life of James the Second (1816); and James Macpherson’s The History of Great Britain (1775): see Clark, ‘Many Restorations of King James’, 12–17, 22–3. See B. B. Woodward, ‘Jacobite Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage’, N&Q 3 series 9 (27 January 1866), 71; R. Ararat, ‘Introduction’, in M. H. Massue (‘Marquis de Ruvigny’), The Jacobite Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage, and Grants of Honour (London and Edinburgh: Charles Skilton, 1974), xxvii–xxviii; ‘Preface’, ibid., vii; F. J. A. Skeet, Stuart Papers, Picture, Relics and Books in the Collection of Miss Maria Widdrington (Leeds: John Whitehead & Sons for the author, 1930), 1–6. The royal commission was disbanded in 1829. John Hulbert Glover, ed., The Stuart Papers. Printed from the Originals in the Possession of Her Majesty the Queen (London: W. N. Wright, 1847); Philip Henry Stanhope, 5th Earl Stanhope, ‘The Forty Five’: Being the Narrative of the Insurrection of 1745, extracted from Lord Mahon’s History of England. To which are added, Letters of Prince Charles Stuart, from the Stuart Papers (London: John Murray, 1851); Robert Folkestone Williams, Memoirs and Correspondence of Francis Atterbury . . . Compiled chiefly from the Atterbury and Stuart Papers, 2 vols. (London: W. H. Allen, 1869). Hugh Cheape, lecture given at the Royal Museum of Scotland, Edinburgh, 9 January 1995, cited in Nicholson, 107; and see ibid., 104–9. See also J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 10 vols. (Toronto: George N. Morang, 1901), vii. 34–50; John Prebble, The King’s Jaunt: George IV in Scotland, August 1822 (London: Collins, 1988); Pittock, Invention of Scotland, 88–90, 114; Trevor-Roper, ‘Invention of Tradition’, 15–41; TrevorRoper, Invention of Scotland, 191–236. On the duplication and adaptation of relics for ideological and other purposes, see Lowenthal, Past is a Foreign Country, 264, 290–5, 326–48. Seddon, 231. For tips on how to distinguish the real from the fake, see Marc Allum, ‘Wise Buys: Jacobite Glass’, BBC Homes and Antiques 197 (June 2009), 119 (althought the example illustrated is pretty obviously not genuine, and probably more in the category of revivalist than dishonest). Nicholson, 125. There were, in fact, nine Jacobite glasses on display in 1889: see Stuart Exhibition, 106 (cat. 528; two glasses); 111 (cat. 577), 115 (cat. 621; set of six). Peter Francis, ‘Francis Tieze (1842–1932) and the Re-invention of History on Glass’, BM 136:1094 (May 1994), 291–302 (discussion of Jacobite glass, 300–2). See also Robin Hildyard, ‘Glass Collecting in Britain: The Taste for the Earliest English Lead Glass’, BM 136:1094 (May 1994), 303–7. Francis also questioned, 302, the authenticity of a uniface badge of Charles Edward in Highland dress with a white cockade in his bonnet (Woolf, 49:1). Nicholson

Notes to pages 141–43

148

149

150

151

152

153 154 155 156 157

finds this a plausible argument, 104–6. A similar locket (Woolf, 49:2) was in the collection of Helen Farquhar: see Farquhar, 213–14; Woolf, 92; also Noël Woolf Collection, 17 (lot 128). As Peter Francis notes, 302, one of these neo-Jacobites was Grant R. Francis, president of the British Numismatic Society (the badge of which is based on the Jacobite Amor et Spes medal) and author of articles on Jacobite glasses and medals: ‘Jacobite Drinking Glasses’, 247–83; Old English Drinking Glasses, 155–64 (‘The Orange or Williamite Series’) and 165–206 (‘Glasses Devoted to the Jacobite Cause and Clubs’); ‘Disguised Jacobite Glasses’, BM 69:403 (October 1936), 174–6. See also Sir Mark Jones, ‘Why Fakes?’, in Interpreting Objects and Collections, ed. Pearce, 94 (on the relation of forgery to ‘the perceived desires of collectors’). Nicholson, 125. The Museum of London also has significant holdings of Jacobite (or at least ‘Jacobite’) glass: see accession numbers 34.139/58, 94, 230, 233, 236, 240, 251, 269, 308 and 313 at www.museumoflondon.org.uk/ ceramics/pages/glass.asp. The papers are summarised in ‘Judging Jacobite Glass: A Symposium Held at the Victoria & Albert Museum, 2nd November 1996’, Glass Circle Journal 9 (2001), 60–81. Seddon, 225–46, 252–58; Simon Cottle, ‘The Other Beilbys: British Enamelled Glass of the Eighteenth Century’, Apollo 124 (October 1986), 323–4; Eirwen E. C. Nicholson, ‘Evidence for the Authenticity of Portrait-Engraved Jacobite Drinking Glasses’, BM 138:1119 (June 1996), 396–7; G. Seddon, Jacobite Glass: Its Place in History, Royal Stuart Society paper 54 (1999); David M. Stuart, ‘Jacobite Drinking Glasses’, BM 138:1122 (September 1996), 607; Pittock, ‘Culture of Jacobitism’, 139; Lole, ‘Hoards of Jacobite Glass’, 64–8; Peter Francis, ‘A Reappraisal of “Eighteenth Century Jacobite Glass”’, Glass Circle Journal 9 (2001), 71–3; Robin Nicholson, ‘Engraved Jacobite Glasses’, Magazine Antiques (June 2003), 80–5. Geoffrey Seddon and F. Peter Lole, ‘Summary and Afterthoughts’, Glass Circle Journal 9 (2001), 81. See also Nicholson, ‘Images and Artefacts’, 1200, on the problem of the ‘commercial dimension’. Robert Chambers, History of the Rebellion (1745–46), cited in Farquhar, 222. Stuart Exhibition, 58 (cat. 180, with some account of the provenance). Farquhar, 224–5 and pl. opposite 225. Nicholas, 46–7 (‘gravely suspect’). Nicholson, 138.

5 Later uses of Jacobite material culture 1 Stuart Exhibition, [5], 30 (cat. 69), 114 (cat. 608). 2 Jane Stevenson, ‘Past Masters’, Things 12 (summer 2000), at www.thingsmagazine.net/text/t12/antiquarian.htm.

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Notes to pages 144–48 3 Idzerda, ‘Iconoclasm During the French Revolution’, 26, cited in Tamen, Friends of Interpretable Objects, 63. 4 Lowenthal, Past is a Foreign Country, 405, 147; also 271, 356, 359–62, 384, 406. See also Walsham, ‘Skeletons in the Cupboard’, 140–2; but compare Jude Hill, ‘The Story of the Amulet: Locating the Enchantment of Collections’, Journal of Material Culture 12:1 (2007), 65–87, which questions the ‘loss of magic’ associated with museum display. 5 Prown, ‘Truth of Material Culture’, 233. See also Brückmann, ‘“Without any Letter”’, 60–6. Compare Knappett, Thinking through Material Culture, 3. 6 Susan Manning, ‘Antiquarianism, the Scottish Science of Man, and the Emergence of Modern Disciplinarity’, in Scotland and the Borders of Romanticism, ed. Leith Davis et al. (Cambridge University Press, 2004), 71. 7 Ibid., 58, citing A New Dictionary of the Terms ancient and modern of the Canting Crew (1699); Susan Manning, ‘Antiquarianism, Balladry and the Rehabilitation of Romance’, in The Cambridge History of Romantic Literature, ed. James Chandler (Cambridge, 2009), 45, 48. 8 Rosemary Hill, ‘Cockney Connoisseurship: Keats and the Grecian Urn’, Things 6 (summer 1997), at www.thingsmagazine.net/text/t6/grecian2.htm. 9 The account of the Royal Collection in this section is based partly on Kathryn Barron, ‘“For Stuart Blood is in my Veins” (Queen Victoria). The British Monarchy’s Collection of Imagery and Objects Associated with the Exiled Stuarts from the Reign of George III to the Present Day’, in Corp, ed., Stuart Court in Rome, 149–64. See also Lenman, ‘Exiled Stuarts’, 196–7; Piacenti and Boardman, Ancient and Modern Gems and Jewels, 199–200 (no. 289; coronation ring), 218–21 (no. 297; Garter and Great George), 237–8 (no. 309; Thistle jewel). Papers, books and jewels bequeathed by Cardinal York are also in the papal collections: see Lees-Milne, Mingled Measure, 150. 10 Corp, 44 (fig. 19). 11 Ibid., 78, 108, 110 (fig. 68 and 69). Another purchase, acquired at Sotheby’s early in Her Majesty’s reign, was a Lesser George traditionally said to have been worn by Charles Edward and then by his brother, Cardinal York, which may have been bought from the latter by George III’s sixth son, the Duke of Sussex, during his visit to Rome in 1792–93: Piacenti and Boardman, Ancient and Modern Gems and Jewels, 222 (no. 298). 12 Barron, ‘“Stuart Blood is in my Veins”’, 156–7, 160. 13 Ibid., 156, 162. 14 J. W. Croker, entry for 10 February 1828, The Croker Papers, 2nd edn, ed. L. J. Jennings (London, 1885), i. 406, cited in Clark, English Society, 161. 15 James Lees-Milne, The Last Stuarts (London: Chatto & Windus, 1983), 176; Ararat, ‘Introduction’, Jacobite Peerage, xxviii; ODNB, ‘Watson, Robert’. 16 See the photograph at www.alliance-france-ecosse.com/carte14.html. See also The Church of Saint-Germain: History and Heritage (St-Germain-en-Laye, n.d.), 43–4.

Notes to pages 148–53

17 Another expression of this urge are the royal pedigrees that represent the later Stuarts as a dead-end without heirs after the death of Henry Benedict in 1807, a dynastic sideline out of the ‘main’ branch that descends through the Electress Sophia to the present Queen and her issue. 18 E. Corp, ‘Conclusion’, in Stuart Court in Rome, 167. 19 Archæological Institute, x. 20 Ibid., ix. 21 Ibid., x. 22 Ibid., ix. 23 Archæological Institute, 197. 24 Nicholson, 114; Nicholson, ‘Images and Artefacts’, 1200. See also Lowenthal, Past is a Foreign Country, 64–6, 384. 25 Royal Warrant of the Historical Manuscripts Commission, www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/policy/warrant.htm. 26 Historical Manuscripts Commission, Calendar of the Stuart Papers Belonging to His Majesty the King, Preserved at Windsor Castle, vol. vii (London, 1923), v. A scholarly edition of the Stuart Papers (digitised and searchable) would be of enormous benefit to scholars. 27 For King George’s visit, see Chapter 4, note 144 above. 28 For the Marsichal collection, see www.abdn.ac.uk/virtualmuseum/; Davidson, Universal Baroque, 180–2. Inverness Museum and Art Gallery: ‘Stuart Relics in the Possession of Prince Frederick Duleep Singh. Oct., 1908’; http:// inverness.highland.museum. West Highland Museum: West Highland Museum, 2; www.museumsgalleriesscotland.org.uk/member/west-highlandmuseum/collections 29 See Scottish Exhibition of National History, Art and Industry, Palace of History, 9; www.studygroup.org.uk/Exhibitions/Pages/1911%20Glasgow.htm. 30 Ibid., i–viii. 31 Ibid., 357, 358–67, 369, 372, 376, 377, 390, 391, 526–7, 527–8, 529–31, 1109. 32 Ibid., 259–60, 262–7, 268–70, 516–25, 526–33, 739–52. 33 Ibid., 358. 34 Ibid., 739–52. 35 Ibid., 516–33. 36 Cheape, ‘Culture and Material Culture of Jacobitism’, 42. For the brogues, see Dalgleish and Mechan, ‘I Am Come Home’, 15–16. 37 Palace of History, 375. 38 Ibid., 748. 39 Ibid., 712, and 710–12 generally. 40 Ibid., 3 (‘Foreword’). 41 Ibid. 42 SCLE, 4. The non-political 1745 Association, founded in 1946, may have a similar origin: see www.1745association.org.uk/; and Michael Barrington, ‘The “Forty-Five” Association’, N&Q 199 (November 1954), 475–7.

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Notes to pages 153–56

43 SCLE, 27 (cat. 183), 42 (cats. 275, 276). 44 SCLE, 10 (cats. 35, 36), 43 (cat. 284). 45 For an account of recent nationalism, see Murray Pittock, The Road to Independence? Scotland since the Sixties (London: Reaktion, 2008). 46 See the SNP’s Independence White Paper (‘Your Scotland, Your Voice’), published in November 2009, clauses 9.18 and 9.19 at http://www.scotland. gov.uk/Publications/2009/11/26155932/11. 47 See ‘Jacobite Exhibition Causes Political Uproar’, Scottish Life 15:4 (2010/11), 23. I am grateful to my father for this reference. The exhibition, ‘Rebels with a Cause’, which consisted of objects from the University of Aberdeen, was on display at the Scottish parliament from 27 October 2010 to 8 January 2011 and prompted accusations by Alex Johnstone, a Conservative MSP, that the Scottish government was attempting to conflate Jacobitism with Scottish nationalism. 48 The jewel was exhibited in 1889: Stuart Exhibition, 225 (cat. 1100). See also ‘The Cycle’, BNJ 17 (2 series 7) (1923/4), 358; Scarisbrick, ‘Jewellery of Treason’, 128–9; Woolf, 61; F. Peter Lole, ‘Limpid Reflections’, Glass Circle News 118 (March 2009), 7–8 (Cycle Club glasses of the early 1770s); Bonhams, Fine British and European Glass and Paperweights, lots 107–11 (five specimens of glassware bearing names of Cycle Club members listed on an engraved rota of the 1770s or known to have been members in that period; by descent from one of these members; four other specimens in the National Museum of Wales). 49 Ararat, ‘Introduction’, ix (note). See, in particular, Nicholson, 122–5; Ian Fletcher, ‘The White Rose Rebudded: Neo-Jacobitism in the 1890s’, in W. B. Yeats and his Contemporaries (Brighton: Harvester, 1987), 83–123; Pittock, Invention of Scotland, 120–33; Murray Pittock, ‘By the Statue of King Charles: The Jacobite Revival of the 1890s’, in Spectrum of Decadence: The Literature of the 1890s, ed. Murray Pittock (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), 96–101. 50 Ararat, ‘Introduction’, ix, xxxii–xxxiii. 51 For Massue’s sham titles, see Fletcher, ‘White Rose Rebudded’, 83 n.; GEC, v. 613 and n. 52 Ararat, ‘Introduction’, xii–xiv. 53 Pittock, ‘By the Statue of King Charles’, 101 (and 96–101 generally). See also Fletcher, ‘White Rose Rebudded’, 90–5, 117. 54 MacInnes, ‘Jacobitism in Scotland’, 228. 55 Scarisbrick, ‘Jewellery of Treason’, 129. 56 Ararat, ‘Introduction’, x. 57 Ibid., xii, xxx. The devotional Society of King Charles the Martyr, founded in 1894, also originated in this period: see www.skcm.org. 58 Stuart Exhibition, 10–12 (cat. 8), 13 (cat. 15), 16 (cat. 25), 17 (cat. 27), 20 (cat. 37), 20 (cat. 38), 23 (cat. 46), 30 (cat. 69), 35 (cat. 83), 42 (cat. 107), 50 (cat. 136), 65 (cat. 212), 70 (cat. 249), 75 (cat. 313), 93 (cat. 403), 93 (cat. 404), 133 (cat. 803), 133 (cat. 806), 173 (cat. 1027).

Notes to pages 156–59

59 The dukedom was an ancient Scottish royal title, later borne by Charles I in his youth and by James II and VII when also Duke of York. It was adapted by Charles Edward, who used ‘Count of Albany’ as an alias, and was conferred at the ducal level on his illegitimate daughter Charlotte. See GEC, i.77–86, xii-2.918–22; Charlotte Zeepvat, Prince Leopold: The Untold Story of Queen Victoria’s Youngest Son (Stroud: Alan Sutton, 1998), 162. 60 Nicholson, 124. 61 Stuart Exhibition, 112 (cat. 592), 113 (cat 596, 598), 115 (cat. 618), 118 (cat. 643). See also 103–18 (cats. 500–653) generally (‘relics’ of various Stuarts and adherents). 62 Manning, ‘Antiquarianism, the Scottish Science of Man’, 72. 63 Nicholson, 124–5. 64 Stuart Exhibition, 47 (cat. 121), 39 (cat. 96). 65 Tamen, Friends of Interpretable Objects, 58. 66 Skeet, Stuart Papers; F. J. A. Skeet, Catalogue of Jacobite Medals and Touchpieces with Descriptions from Standard Works of Authority of all that were Minted from the Accession of James II to the Death of Henry IX in the Collection of Miss Maria Widdrington with Additions to her Collection since 1930 (Leeds: John Whitehead & Sons for the author, 1938). 67 Author’s collection. I have not been able to identify Pamela Mackintosh, who does not appear in the pages of Margaret Mackintosh of Mackintosh, The Clan Mackintosh and the Clan Chattan (Edinburgh and London: W. & A. K. Johnston, 1948), 57–66, or in a later edition (Loanhead, Midlothian: Macdonald Publishers, 1982). For the Jacobite Mackintoshes of Moy Hall, including ‘Colonel’ Anne Mackintosh (1723–84), see ODNB, ‘Mackintosh, Anne’; F. Macdonald, ‘Colonel Anne’: Lady Anne Mackintosh (University of Edinburgh Press, 1987); Maggie Craig, Damn’ Rebel Bitches: The Women of the ’Forty-five (Edinburgh and London: Mainstream Publishing, 1997), 24–8, 90–1, 131–3. 68 Skeet, Stuart Papers, 77, 83. The Royal Stuart Society (founded 1926) has its origins in the same period and amongst the same sector of the population, but its aims have been more carefully neutral: it is ‘monarchist and traditionalist’ but officially agnostic as to the royal succession, recognising that its members may take differing positions. See www.royalstuartsociety.com. For neo-Jacobite activity in this period, see J. Brookes, ‘Jacobite Societies’, N&Q 164 (13 May 1933), 336; ‘Jacobite Societies’, N&Q 164 (27 May 1933), 375. 69 Lt Col. Robert Gayre of Gayre and Nigg, The Knightly Twilight: A Glimpse at the Chivalric and Nobiliary Underworld (Valletta: Lochore Enterprises (Malta) Ltd, 1973), 135. 70 The suggestion at www.angmeringvillage.co.uk/history/Articles/Skeet.htm that it was left to ‘the Society of Antiquaries and the National Portrait Gallery of Scotland or other Public Museum in Edinburgh’, according to the strictures of Skeet’s will, appears to be incorrect, although she left a monetary legacy to English Heritage in 2005: e-mail to the author from Heather Rowland, Head of

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Notes to pages 159–61

71

72

73 74

75

76

77 78

Library and Collections, Society of Antiquaries of London, 24 September 2008; and from Dr Simon Gilmour, Director, Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 29 September and 17 October 2008; English Heritage, Annual Report & Accounts 2005/06 (London: HMSO, 2006), 61; ‘Last Will and Testament of Maria Widdrington’, 10 November 1999, clause 3.15; e-mail to the author from Nevill Hayman, Speechly Birchman LLP, 3 and 10 September 2008. Medals from the collection were clearly on the market before her death: see Noël Woolf Collection, 6 and lots 5, 11, 20, 74, 83, 84, 86, 165 (‘Ex Maj. F. J. A. Skeet and (presumed) Miss M. Widdrington Collections’), 172. As for my account of Jacobitiana in the Royal Collection, I have relied on an essay from Corp’s Legacy of Exile for much of the information in this section: see Evans, ‘Acquisition of Stuart Silver’, 131–48. See also Corp, 83–5, 108, 109 (fig. 78 and dust jacket, fig. 85); Barron, ‘“Stuart Blood is in my Veins”’, 156–7. ODNB, ‘Hamilton, James, 4th Duke of Hamilton and 1st Duke of Brandon’ and ‘Hamilton, William Alexander Anthony Archibald Douglas-, 11th Duke of Hamilton and 7th Duke of Brandon’; Evans, ‘Acquisition of Stuart Silver’, 137–8. See ODNB, ‘Singh, Duleep’ and ‘Duleep Singh, Prince Frederick Victor’; www. museums.norfolk.gov.uk/default.asp?Document=400.730.53x2. ‘Stuart Relics in the Possession of Prince Frederick Duleep Singh. Oct., 1908’; ‘Specification Referred to in Policy No. A.R. 5648776 of the Royal Insurance Company Limited: Dulup [sic] Singh Collection (21 October 1948). I am grateful to Catharine Niven, Senior Curator, Inverness Museum and Art Gallery, for kindly providing a copy of these handlists of the Duleep Singh collection and other information. For some introductory approaches to the psychology of collecting, see the following essays in Pearce, ed., Interpreting Objects and Collections: Susan M. Pearce, ‘Collecting Reconsidered’, 193–204; Frederick Baekeland, ‘Psychological Aspects of Art Collecting’, 205–19; Russell W. Belk and Melanie Wallendorf, ‘Of Mice and Men: Gender Identity in Collecting’, 240–53; Russell W. Belk, ‘Collectors and Collecting’, 317–26; Ruth Formanek, ‘Why they Collect: Collectors Reveal their Motivations’, 327–35. See also William Davies King, Collections of Nothing (University of Chicago Press), 2008. Mabel D. Allardyce, Aberdeen University Library MacBean Collection: A Cataloge of Books, Pamphlets, Broadsides, Portraits, etc. in the Stuart and Jacobite Collection Gathered Together by W. M. MacBean (Aberdeen, 1949), iii, ix; ‘W. M. MacBean Back with Aberdeen LL.D.: New York Scot Gave University his Extensive Library on Jacobite History’, New York Times, 14 August 1922, available at http://query.nytimes.com/ The Drawn Sword: www.abdn.ac.uk/diss/heritage/mac_searchpage.shtml. Printed books and pamphlets: http://aulib.abdn.ac.uk/F. MSS: http://calms.abdn.ac.uk/ Chiddingstone Castle, 4–5, 7–11, 16–17; Mary Eldridge, Beyond Belief ([London]: Whitworth Press, 1996), 48, 104, 111; Woolf, vi; Lees-Milne,

Notes to pages 162–65

79

80 81 82

83 84 85 86 87

88

89 90 91

Ancient as the Hills, 38–9. I am grateful to Rebecca Lodge, senior curatorial assistant at Chiddingstone, and Alan Hobson, field officer for the Jacobite Studies Trust, for additional information about the collection. It is to be hoped that the projected second edition of Woolf’s book will address these, as well as subsequent developments in the literature on Jacobite medals: see Sharp, Jacobite and Anti-Jacobite Medals, 18. E.E.C. Nicholson, 1200. See www.lib.uoguelph.ca/resources/archival_&_special_collections/the_collections/digital_collections/scottish/information.htm; www.scottishstudies.com/ Louise Edwards, ‘Maps in the Jacobite Collection’, University of Guelph Library Collection Update 2 (1980), 15–19; Margaret Steele, ‘The Jacobite Collection’, University of Guelph Library Collection Update 8 (1984), 7–13. See Clark, ‘Many Restorations of King James’, 38–46. www.drambuie.com Drambuie, 15, 17–32, 44–6 (pls. 3, 6–23). Nicholson, Bonnie Prince Charlie: Works of Art. See also Drambuie, passim. Lyon & Turnbull Ltd, The Drambuie Collection: Part I – Oil Paintings, Watercolours and Prints, Thursday 26th January 2006 and Part II – Wemyss Ware, Glass, Jewellery, Silver and Accessories, Ships Models, Taxidermy, Works of Art, Furniture and Books: Friday 27th January 2006 (Edinburgh, 2006); Will Bennett, ‘Art Sales: Colourists Bloom in Scotland’, Telegraph (online), 31 January 2006. ‘Rare Collection Could Be Sold’, BBC News (online), 2 January 2006; ‘Culloden Artefacts to Be Unveiled’, BBC News (online), 31 July 2006; ‘Drambuie’s Jacobite Treasures on Loan to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery’, Northings – Highland & Islands Arts Journal (online), 31 December 2006. Stuart Exhibition, [5]. Lowenthal, Past is a Foreign Country, 240. Pat Brückmann suggested the Lampedusan epigraph to this book, here translated: see ‘“History without any Letter”’, 65.

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263

Index

Académie des Inscriptions et Médailles, 13, 43, 73–4 Addison, Joseph, 83 Æneas, 44, 63, 64, 88–9, 92, 95, 100, 203 antiquarianism, 143–4, 148–50, 165 architecture, 16, 128–31 Ashburnham, Bertram, 5th Earl of Ashburnham, 155 Atherton, Herbert M., 66 Atterbury, Francis, Bishop of Rochester, 23 Attwood, Philip, 133 Aufrere, Anthony, 139 Augusta, Princess, 14, 147–8 Augustus, 63, 64, 83, 88, 91–2, 94, 95, 100 Barber, Peter, 68 Barker, Jane, 120, 127 Barron, Kathryn, 147 Belle, Alexis-Simon, 31, 49, 50, 56 Benedict, Barbara M., 9 Blackstone, Sir William, 20–1, 25, 51 Blanchet, Louis-Gabriel, 61, 147, 148 Bowen, Emmanuel, 23 Bower, Dennis Eyre, 161 Boyer, Abel, 24 Brewer, John, 9 Brückmann, Patricia C., 10, 13, 165 Burke, Edmund, 93 Buttrey, T. V., 86 Byrom, John, 123 Caesar, Julius, 91 Casablanca, 13, 35 Charles Edward, ‘King Charles III’ or the ‘Young Pretender’, 2, 13, 52, 58–9, 65, 90–2, 112, 123, 132–3, 135, 136, 141, 142 Charles I, King, 45, 47, 48–9, 55, 116 Charles II, King, 55, 56, 59 Charlesworth, Michael, 130 Cheape, Hugh, 140, 152 Chiswick House, 129–30 Cicero, 86 Clark, J. C. D., 4

264

Clark, Jane, 129–30 clubs and societies, 6, 16, 126, 128 Cycle Club, 6, 15, 84–5, 154 Cohen, Leonard, 10 Corp, Edward, 3, 11, 31, 49, 57, 148 Cotton, Robert, 23, 32 court versus popular, 13–14, 42–3, 46, 74, 78, 80, 96, 100, 110, 128 Cruickshanks, Eveline, 162 Dalgleish, George, 119 David, Antonio, 49 Deetz, James, 2–3 Dryden, John, 56, 62, 64, 70, 89, 100 Dundas, James, younger of Arniston, 24–6, 31 Edgar, ‘Sir’ James, ‘Bt’, 35–6 Eikon Basilike (1649), 27, 47, 71 Elizabeth II, Queen, 146–7, 154 Elizabeth, Queen Mother, 145–6 Erskine-Hill, Howard, 30–1, 123, 162 exhibitions and collections, 17, 143–66 Archæological Institute, 1856, 148–9 Bower, Dennis Eyre, 161 Drambuie Liqueur Company, 163–5 Hamilton, William, 11th Duke of Hamilton, 159 local Scottish, 150–1 MacBean, William M., 160 patriotic or nationalist, 150–4 Royal, 145–8 Scottish Exhibition of History, 1911, 151–2 Second Centenary Loan Exhibition, 1946, 152–4 Singh, Prince Frederick Victor Duleep, 159–60 Stuart exhibition, 1889, 143, 154–7 University of Guelph, 162–3 Woolf, Noel, 161–2 Farquhar, Helen, 142 Festa, Lynn, 5 Fielding, Henry, 128, 134

Index

Folkes, Martin, 11, 135–6 Francis, Peter, 140–1 Freebairn, Robert, 34, 120 Garbo, Greta, 28 Gardens, 16, 130–1 Gay, John, 105 Geertz, Clifford, 10 George I, King, 1, 14, 22, 63, 66 George III, King, 145 George IV, King, 140, 145, 148, 150 Hamerani family, 34, 43, 88, 90, 137 Hamilton, William, 11th Duke of Hamilton, 159 Hawkins, Edward, 3, 61, 72, 79, 135, 150 Hearne, Thomas, 26–7, 47, 77 Henry Benedict, Cardinal, ‘King Henry IX’, 2, 13, 91–2, 116, 145 Hewlings, Richard, 129–30 Hill, Rosemary, 144 Hogarth, William, 125, 173, 179 Homer, 64 Horace, 81, 91–2, 93, 94–5 Hume, David, 52 Hussey, Giles, 50 identity confessional, 5, 114 social and personal, 5–6, 113–14, 159–61, 165 Idzerda, Stanley, 144, 148 images, 12–13, 41–78 allegorical and mythological, 62–5, 76–7 altered plates, 58–9 ambiguous, 121–3 anamorphic, 36–7, 59–60, 133 Anne, Queen, 55, 64 Britannia, 62, 88–9, 132, 136 Burke, Betty, 59, 65, 123 Charles I, King, 47, 49, 55 Charles II, King, 56 Christian typology, 44–6, 85, 92 classical divinities, 63–4 coded, 115 compass, 42 deceptive and recycled, 56–60 disguise, 59–60, 123 dynastic, 47–9, 56, 60–1, 64–5 emblems, 13, 69–74 fertility, 44, 46 Hanoverian, 61, 68, 88 heraldic, 60–1, 67, 88

hybrid, 43–6, 78 lion and unicorn, 61, 88 maps, 14, 67–8, 82 modernity, 67 national personifications, 62, 88, 132 oak, 44–6, 77, 136 orange tree, 44, 77 ‘Polish Lady’ prints, 28–30, 50, 57, 59, 79 perceived, 75–7 Prince of Wales’s feathers, 61 reliance on, 54 religious, 47, 78 replication, 49–50 rose, 42, 61, 93, 129 royal, 46–56 satirical, 66 Scottish, 93, 131–3 solar, 69–73 star, 41, 91–2 thistle, 42 time and fortune, 62–3, 74, 102 topical or commemorative, 65–6 typical, 41 white horse of Hanover, 61, 68, 88 Williamite, 44, 70, 77 inscriptions, 14, 79–110 ‘Amen’, 100–2 Amor et spes, 52, 96, 136 Audientor ibo, 64, 81 biblical, 44–6, 98–9, 103–4 Celtic, 97 Clarior e tenebris, 47, 69, 71 coded, 98 Cognoscunt me meæ, 84 Cuius est, 67, 82 Deceptis custodibus, 87 defiant, 107–8 Domine cognoscite vestrum, 84–5 ‘Down with the Rump’, 110, 124 Everso missus succurrere seclo, 83–4 explicit, 100–4 Fiat, 81–2 Fortunam causamque sequor, 86–7 French, 97 German, 97 ‘God save the King’, 100–2, 110 Hunc saltem everso iuvenum, 83 lack of, 50–1, 79–80 Latin, 81–96 ‘Look love and follow’, 7, 36, 96 marginalia 104–7 on walls and doors, 107 Quid gravius capta, 89

265

266

index

inscriptions (cont.) Reddite, 67, 82 Redeat, 81 Redi, 81 retrospective, 110 Revirescit, 82, 96, 136 Sola luce fugat, 72, 74 Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis, 111 translations, 98–100 Unica salus, 89–90 vernacular, 96–110 Jackson, Heather, 106–7 Jacobite literature, 152 Jacobitism economic motivations, 114 heterogeneity, 7, 14–15, 110, 111–12, 114–15, 111–42 phases, 16, 112–13, 133–6, 142, 143–5 revivalist, 138, 143, 154–9, 165 weaknesses, 53–4 James Drummond, 8th Earl (‘5th Duke’) of Perth, 46 James Francis Edward, ‘King James III and VIII’ or the ‘Old Pretender’, 2, 11, 53–4, 112, 116, 132 ‘Lost lover’, 14, 62, 88, 128 James II and VII, King, 1, 116–17 Johnson, Samuel, 118 Kalter, Barrett, 56 Kingship, 14–15, 47, 51–2 Kneller, Godfrey, 82 Kopytoff, Igor, 4, 5, 16, 120 Kwint, Marius, 9, 124 Largillière, Nicolas de, 49 law and legal risk, 5, 12, 18–40, 80, 166 advertising and deception, 27–31 cloak and dagger, 33–9 criminal offences, 19–22 deception, 27–31 defences, 31–3 Fry v. Carne (1725), 27 non-criminal consequences, 26–7 præmunire, 20–1 prosecution and toleration, 30 R. v. Clerk (1728), 32 R. v. Dundas (1712), 25–6, 80 R. v. Knell (1728), 33 R. v. Matthews (1719), 32

R. v. Nutt (1728), 33 seditious libel, 21–6 seditious words, 21 treason, 19–21 Le Clerc, Sébastien, 73 Le Marchand, David, 121 Lemoyne, Jean-Baptiste, 28, 50, 128 Leopold, Prince, Duke of Albany, 156 Livy, 87 Loach, Judi, 70–1 Lockhart Papers, 139 Louis XIV, King of France, 70, 73, 79 Louise Marie, Princess, 57, 102–3 Louise of Stolberg-Gedern, ‘Queen’, 112–13 Lowenthal, David, 5, 144 MacBean, William M., 160 MacGregor clan, 113 MacInnes, Allan, 7, 155 MacKenzie, Niall, 77, 123 Maclean, Sir Fitzroy, Bt, 39 Manning, Susan, 144 Maria Clementina, ‘Queen’, 13, 28, 57, 59, 79, 85–8, 117 Mary Beatrice, Queen, 119 Mary, Queen (consort of King George V), 145 Mary, Queen of Scots, 56, 116 Massue, Melville Henry, ‘Marquis de Ruvigny’, 155 material culture as historical evidence, 11–12, 18–19, 113, 134–6 scale of production, 124–5 Matthews, John, 20 Mauss, Marcel, 15 medals, 79 ‘Look Love and Follow’, 7, 36, 51, 96 after Culloden, 93–6, 134–6 Cuius est, 26, 30, 67–8, 82 emblematic, 69–74 Maria Clementina’s escape, 85–8 Roettiers map medals, 66–8 Sylvius map medals, 68 the two princes, 90–2 Unica Salus, 14, 34, 53, 61, 62, 63, 66, 70, 88–90, 120–1, 132 Ménestrier, Claude-François, 13, 70–2, 73, 74, 80 Mignard, Pierre, 49 Mist, Nathaniel, 21, 28, 32–3 Monod, Paul, 1, 4, 12, 21, 27, 30, 41, 42, 125, 129, 130, 162

Index

Nicholas, Donald, 142 Nicholson, Eirwen E. C., 10, 124–5, 149, 162 Nicholson, Robin, 42, 47, 49, 74, 119, 123, 132–3, 138, 140, 149, 150, 156–7 objects boxes, 51, 55, 74, 82, 84, 98, 120, 121, 125 broadside ballads, 124 busts, 28, 50, 128 cameos, 46 Charles Edward’s canteen, 54–5 commercial and folk, 7, 9, 16, 120–5 dice-box, 36, 133 difficulty in dating, 134, 137 documents, books, 3 dress, 6, 125–6 eggs, 74, 108 embedded coins, 54–5 engraved plate for banknotes, 138 fans, 28, 50, 62, 64–5, 97, 104, 126 folk, 124 forgeries, 81, 140–1, 165 forgeries and revivalist, 41, 136–42 gates, 130 gifts, 15, 82, 118 glass cameos, 50, 133 glassware, 37, 41, 74, 81–2, 98, 100–2, 111, 126, 129–30, 134, 140–1, 152, 163 Hanoverian, 9 honest mistakes, 141–2 hybrid, 4 interior decoration, 16, 128–30 jewellery, 46, 81–2, 97–8, 108, 113, 120, 126 masculine and feminine, 16, 125–8 materiality, 7–8 medals, 3, 18–19, 65, 82, 96, 112, 125, 126, 136–8, 162 memorial, 65–6, 74, 120 miniature, 36 modernity, 9, 67 needlework, 82, 86, 97, 126 Oxford almanacks, 32–3, 76–7 pincushions, 108, 110, 120, 124, 127–8, 133 plasterwork, 66, 128–9 playing cards, 124 portrait plaques, 121, 133 portraits, 46–51, 147 pottery and porcelain, 81, 98, 110, 119, 123, 126, 133, 146–7 prints, 44–6, 50, 82, 124–5, 136

relics, 5–6, 9, 15, 115–20, 141, 149, 152–3, 156, 161 revivalist, 16–17, 41, 137–40 ribbons and garters, 108, 110 Scottish, 1 seditious altarpieces, 57 shop and inn signs, 121 spy ring, 35 supposed ‘Polish’ portrait of Charles Edward, 141–2 swords, 107, 126 tombstones, 108 tongue-pieces, 35 touch-pieces, 11, 115–16 watch-papers, 36, 39 Williamite, 8 Obrisset, John, 55, 121 Order of the White Rose, 155 orders, dodgy, 158 Ovid, 84–5, 90 Parr, Nathaniel, 102 Pittock, Murray, 1, 4, 12, 123–4, 125, 130, 132, 138, 150, 155 Pitt-Rivers, Lieut.-Gen. Augustus Henry Lane-Fox, 2 plots asassination, 1696, 8, 20 Atterbury, 1720–22, 23, 112 Elibank, 1749–50, 28 Rag, 1754, 21–2 Pope, Alexander, 79, 82, 90, 114 Presley, Elvis, 164 Prown, Jules David, 2, 144 risings and invasions, 112, 135 1715, 20 1745–46, 6, 20, 112, 131–2, 135 Roettiers, Norbert, and family, 18, 34, 46, 62, 67–9, 70, 71–3, 84, 96, 112, 132, 135–7 Roman Catholicism, 6, 13, 52, 116 Rowe, Nicholas, 102–3 Sayer, Robert, 33 Schama, Simon, 12 Scottish nationalism, 150–4 scrofula, royal cure for, 11, 14, 115–16 Seddon, Geoffrey, 4, 37, 82, 102, 141, 162 Seneca, 93–4 Sharp, Richard, 3, 28, 30–1, 42, 56, 66 Sharpe, Kevin, 5

267

268

index

Shepheard (Sheppard), James, 20 Singh, Prince Frederick Victor Duleep, 159–60 Skeet, Francis, 144, 157–9 South Sea Bubble, 14, 34, 53, 66, 88, 90, 112 Staves, Susan, 5 Stevenson, Jane, 143 Strange, Sir Robert, 50, 52, 83, 138 Stuart Papers, 34, 139–40, 145, 148, 150 succession, Jacobite, 2, 64–5, 155, 157 Szechi, Daniel, 12 Tackbear Manor, 63, 66 Tamen, Miguel, 23, 157 Tocqué, Louis, 164 Tomasi di Lampedusa, Giuseppe, Prince of Lampedusa, 165

Traquair House, 130 Trinity College, Oxford, 130 Van Dyck, Sir Anthony, 49, 143 Victoria, Queen, 145, 148, 150, 155–6 Viner, Charles, 21 Virgil, 62, 64, 81, 83, 88–9, 92, 100, 129 Weiner, Annette, 5, 15, 54 Widdrington, Maria, 144, 157, 159 William III, 8, 66, 76–7 Wogan, Charles, 28, 59, 87 Wood, Sir Gabriel (‘Sylvius’), 68 Woolf, Noel, 3, 96, 161–2 Young, Matthew, 137–9