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Many of us are aware of the Reformation, and how it completely changed the landscape of Europe across the 16th century and beyond. But not so many are aware of the Catholic Church’s response to the Reformation, and how it tried to reform the Church and lure people back to Catholicism, whilst re-asserting its identity in the face of Protestant branches. I’ve always found this period of time so fascinating, and was lucky enough to study it many years ago, so I’m so excited to welcome our guest author for this month who is going to enlighten us to how the Catholic Church used art as part of this movement. A big welcome to Molly, and I’ll let her introduce herself before we get started!

My name is Molly Lindo and my love for history came from my late grandfather, who first sparked my passion for history from a young age, recalling his many adventures in the military in the 1960s and his travels after his service. My passion for the subject only flourished during school and then I went on to study it university. I now have a BA in History and an MA in Cultural History from the University of Chichester.

In the 16^th century, Protestants hated Catholicism, especially its use of images, believing they were ‘wrongheaded’ idolatry. After a series of violent iconoclastic riots in northern Europe, Pope Paul II urgently summoned the Council of Trent (1545-1563) at the defence of Catholicism – essentially a huge meeting of the clergy in Trento, northern Italy, where matters of Catholic doctrine were discussed. Sacred images were the subject of the twenty-fifth session in December 1563 and the ‘Decree on Sacred Images’ was born. It was decided that images would be used as ‘vessels’ to usher the faithful against the profane and towards devotion, and to encourage the memory of religious prototypes.

The Catholic Church plunged itself into the Counter-Reformation (1545-1648), its zealous reinvigoration to ‘counter’ the Protestant Reformation and its criticisms of the papacy. Baroque artists “internalised the spirit of Catholic reform” and the result was the combined effect of total works of art that enlightened all the senses. In collaboration with artists, the Decree instructed all bishops to ensure all sacred images educated the faithful on true Catholic doctrine and practices, such as intercessory prayer. Nothing disorderly, misleading or profane; no false doctrine; and no impurities were to be displayed in images.

Every corner of the expanding Roman Catholic world was filled with decapitated saints, crucified Christs and enraptured Virgin Marys of the Baroque and with increased vigour and conviction. Baroque art overwhelmed the senses with its use of intense emotion, radical realism and dynamism. While art of the past thrived, new categories of subjects proliferated to rebut Protestant heresies, such as paintings of sainthood, biblical scenes, martyrdom, and the Cult of the Virgin Madonna.

The realism and visceral drama of Caravaggio’s Death of the Virgin (circa 1605-1606), portraying several figures hanging over the Virgin’s lifeless body in devastation and sadness, is a stark contrast to Annibale Carracci’s colourful and triumphant Assumption of the Virgin (1588-1590), where many holy figures gaze upon the Virgin in complete shock as she ascends from her earthly existence to Heaven. For the two leading artists of the time, they had very diverse painting styles. Carracci’s Virgin radiates light and harmony, whereas Caravaggio’s Virgin is less magnificent and more realistic, perhaps more accessible to the viewer, set in a dramatically lit and cropped space.

Mary’s role as the Mother of Christ also flourished as a point of connection with the viewer – the role of a mother was a relatable and realistic one. Carracci’s Montalto Madonna (circa 1598-1600), Artemisia Gentileschi’s Madonna and Child (circa 1613-14), and Tanzio da Varallo’s Madonna con Bambino e I Santi Francesco e Carlo Borromeo (1631) and Madonna dell’incendio (1614) are all important displays of Mary in her maternal role. While Tanzio celebrates majesty, Carracci and Gentileschi innovatively explore the mundane life as a mother, for instance, Gentileschi’s Madonna is ready to nurse her son as he turns and caresses her face. Caravaggio’s Madonna of Loreto (1604-1606) shows how powerful realism was in the art world – viewers of the time, who largely could not read or write, would have felt so connected and overwhelmed by these paintings at a time when meaning and symbolism trumped the literal sense. The beautiful canvas depicts the moment pilgrims arrive to worship Mary and Jesus – its seems quite an ordinary scene with only the halo, the large child figure and Mary’s gestures away from the infant Jesus separating it from reality.

During the 16^th and 17^th centuries, most people could not read and write – literacy levels were incredibly low, especially in Catholic strongholds Italy and Spain. In 1601, 23% of the Italian population could read and write, and only 5% in Spain. So when Baroque artists took to painting biblical scenes, they were both delighting the senses and disseminating Catholic theology. Scenes of the Nativity and Adoration of the Magi, the Taking of Christ, and the Three Marys at the Tomb all flourished in the Baroque era.

Caravaggio’s The Taking of Christ (1602) and Nativity with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence (1609), Gentileschi’s Adoration of the Magi (circa 1635-37), Carracci’s Three Marys at the Tomb (circa 1600) and Veronese’s The Adoration of the Kings (1573) all show the importance of portraying the Bible on canvas. For the clergy, it was a way to educate the uneducated flock. The Decree even states that images had to be so powerful that they were “continually revolving in mind.” Sacred images were a major form of indoctrination for the Catholic Church, like we see how propaganda was used in Nazi Germany or the Soviet Russia. For example, Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath (before 1610) and Tanzio’s David and Goliath (circa 1625) both depict the important allegory of having courage and determination when one’s faith is placed entirely in God alone. What sets Baroque artists apart is their clever use of light and dark, realism, dynamism and tightly cropped compositions, but beyond the style, these new innovations made scenes so real that they were almost unfolding before the viewer’s eyes.

The act of divine intervention by miracles of God was also an important feature of Catholic theology and the Decree instructed that all clergymen must teach their congregation the benefit of praying to saints “offer up their own prayers to God for men.” Paolo Veronese’s Allegory of the Battle of Lepanto (1572) and Tanzio da Varallo’s Battle of Sennacherib (1629-30) are both powerful examples of how artists integrated Catholic practices into their paintings to produce magnificent yet accessible scenes for all. Veronese celebrates the defeat of the Ottoman Turks against the fleets of the Holy League (basically, a fleet of loads of Catholic nations and principalities including Spain, Venice, and the Papal States) and Tanzio depicts the triumph of Hezekiah, the King of Judah, against the Assyrian King Sennacherib. Again, the clever and innovative use of light and dark (also known as tenebrism) accentuates the central role of saints interceding on behalf of God. Veronese depicts the beneficent rays of the Virgin Mary which shine down from Heaven and illuminate the victors’ ships, while darkness torments the Turkish fleet. Tanzio’s angel is illuminated by the presence and protection of God as he plunges into the darkness of bloodshed.

Saints, martyrs and Jesus Christ were also to be portrayed in art, essentially as role models of devotion and sacrifice so that Catholics “may order their own lives and manners in imitations” of them. The worship of saints was central to the Counter-Reformation and Baroque ideals – such as exciting senses and emotions – only served to remind viewers of the importance of this message.

The worship (or invocation) of saints in times of need was a central Catholic practice and so there were devotional cults of various saints. For example, the cult of Saint Roch began in the latter half of the 15^th century in northern Italy as a protector against the plague after the Black Death had ravaged Europe in the previous century. Carracci’s Saint Roch Giving Alms (1587-95) is not as emotionally intense as Tanzio’s San Rocco (1631) but is not painted in his characteristic classical style by any means. Carracci paints the figures with much realism, such as the physical gestures of the poor reaching up to Saint Roch to retrieve alms. Even Roch himself looks rather ordinary – its only his raised position on a building and the glowing halo surrounding his head that separates the saint from the ordinary people, acting as reminders of his role as a divine intercessor. It’s not hard to see why Baroque art played such a central role in the Counter-Reformation – artists made holy figures and scenes so relatable and realistic, and so accessible that viewers felt apart of the canvas. Tanzio’s San Rocco is very similar in this respect, with Roch raised above his flock but below God. Tanzio’s use of tenebrism adds to this, with rays of light illuminating the saint’s face in affirmation of the presence of God. And Tanzio added the dog of Saint Roch (who brought him bread and remained at his side); this symbolism furthers the message of fidelity and loyalty to the Catholic Church.

In Christianity, martyrdom was pretty up there in terms of noble religious sacrifices so worshipping martyrs was central to the Decree. It was important to raise saints and martyrs unto eternal life as models of devotion for Catholics to follow. The veneration of martyrs was a long-held practice since early Christianity (dating back to the 2^nd century) and the Counter-Reformation sought to reinvigorate commemoration of the holy. Derived from the Greek word ‘martus’ (or ‘witness’), the term ‘martyr’ was adapted and narrowed by Christians to refer to those who had born witness to their faith at the ultimate cost of their existence on Earth. An act of heroism and penance, martyrdom was the biggest sacrifice for salvation in Heaven.

Saint Peter was the first pope of the Catholic Church and had an inner intimacy with Christ which made him a central figure in Catholic art, appearing in countless conversion and martyrdom paintings. Caravaggio’s The Crucifixion of Saint Peter (1601) depicts his martyrdom, which was instructed by Emperor Nero for his role as a Christian leader in pagan Rome. In the Acts of Peter, it states that Peter was crucified head downward at his own choice as he did not consider himself worthy to die in the same manner as Christ. The viewer is immediately confronted with the physical effort of crucifying Peter upside down and his suffering, for example, the discomfort and pain emanating from his face as he tenses his impaled hand. The realism, the dramatic use of light and dark and the movement of the painting built along strong diagonals adds to the importance of Peter’s sacrifice.

Baroque artists also began painting Jesus Christ with a renewed passion and intensity to emphasise his suffering and sacrifice to save man from sin. Basically, Catholic doctrine taught that Christ only descended to be born and crucified for the sake of man, who had succumbed to sin by his own fault from the time of Adam. So, the Council of Trent looked to artists to move Catholics into devotion for the atonement for their role in Christ’s sacrifice.

Carracci, Caravaggio and Tanzio brought Christ’s sacrifice onto canvas in a never-before-seen sense of drama and harrowing intensity. Carracci’s Crucifixion with Saints (1583) is painted with a rugged sense of realism, and his Christ Crowned with Thorns (1598-1600) conveys the agony and humanity of Christ’s suffering, through the infirm and weakly contortion of Christ’s body and his desperate gaze. The antithesis of Carracci’s classical and idealistic style, Caravaggio’s The Crowning with Thorns (before 1607) offers the viewer unmediated realism. Both Carracci and Caravaggio show the toll of physical affliction, for example, the thorn crown piercing Christ’s head and the flowing streams of blood, but Caravaggio takes it a step further. He depicts more of the physical intensity of the act: the muscular strain on the bodies of the two men behind Christ, who himself is painted as a limp, weakened figure, almost lifeless, slumped to one side, looking downwards in sheer hopelessness and pain.

It would be incredibly wrong of me not to mention Tanzio’s Crucifixion (1630). Not much is known about Tanzio’s life, his whereabouts, the chronology of his works. And because of this lack of information, he seems to have slipped through the sands of time. Upon studying his artworks, however, it was made glaringly obvious to me the fundamental influence of Caravaggio on Tanzio’s artistic production. Tanzio’s radicalisation of the depiction of Christ was completely unprecedented. At the time, this painting was the apotheosis and reinvigoration of all paintings of the Passion that had come before. The canvas is overcome with an all-pervasive emotion, radical intensity and piercing theatricality. The anatomically perfect body of Christ dominates, hanging lifeless from the Crucifix, hands and feet bloody from being nailed to the Cross. The scene is harrowing, passionate and psychologically intense, and the memento mori (a symbol of the inevitability of death) at the foot of the Cross only adds to the already overwhelming emotion of the scene.

The Decree also stated that paintings of Christ, the Virgin Mother and other saints were to be displayed in temples to enhance devotion so that worshippers “may be excited to adore and love God.” Artists began to look at the idea of intense emotion and spiritual experience in the Catholic world, bringing innovative genres of art to the sacred Baroque. The feelings of ‘incredulity’ and ‘ecstasy’ were explored and artists appealed to all the senses to excite the faithful into devotion and piety. Most importantly, the idea of spiritual experience and visceral emotion were accessible to all and so offered a connection with the divine figures depicted on canvas.

Veronese’s Mystic Marriage of St. Catherine (1565-70) depicts the dream Saint Catherine of Alexandria had after her baptism, where the infant Christ took her as his celestial spouse; she awoke to find a ring on her finger and kept it on for the rest of her life as an emblem of her faithfulness and fidelity to Christ. The Matrimonio mystico is an ultimate display and declaration of spiritual connection to Christ, basically stating someone is ‘married to their faith’. The majesty of this painting shows the profound importance of this declaration. Catherine, adorned in finest regalia and crown to signify her royal blood, presents her hand to the infant Christ, who rests in the Virgin Mary’s arms, surrounded by innumerable angels. In Carracci’s Mystic Marriage of St. Catherine (circa 1585), he seems to swap majesty for intimacy and realism. In his scene, the Virgin Mary and infant Christ are depicted as relatively mundane figures with nothing separating them from the earthly realm. Their expressions are soft, and the use of light and dark is gentle, depicting this intimate holy moment opposed to the triumphant, populated painting by Veronese.

Caravaggio’s The Supper at Emmaus (1601) and The Incredulity of Saint Thomas (1602), and Carracci’s Christ Appearing to Saint Peter on the Appian Way (Domine, Quo Vadis?) (1601-2), show the moment followers and disciples of Christ are thrown into complete shock upon seeing him in the flesh – a feeling too emotionally and spiritually overwhelming that the witnesses are plunged into disbelief and incredulity. The idea of ‘incredulity’ was an innovative genre of religious painting in the sacred Baroque world and, as an explicit display of intense emotion, it most certainly delivered to the brief set out at Trent. Recalling the moment of revelation, Caravaggio cleverly adopts an unprecedented feat of storytelling in The Supper at Emmaus, which would have had such a profound impact on the faith of contemporaries. Having encountered the risen Christ on the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus, failing to recognise him, two disciples invite him to join them for supper at an inn, only when Christ blesses the bread were ‘their eyes opened, and they recognised him.’ Small details, such as the movement of the disciples, contributes to the feeling of astonishment. One is about to leap up from his chair in shock and the other raises his arm in sheer disbelief. Caravaggio has also made light a metaphor for recognition, for example, the impassive innkeeper’s face remains in the shadows suggesting he has not yet ‘seen the light’, or rather recognised Christ.

Paintings of Mary Magdalene ‘in Ecstasy’ also proliferated as displays of spiritual awakening. However, the line between depicting a moment of conversion versus a moment of sexual pleasure was extremely thin: most famously, Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa (1647-52) came under the firing line as “overly physical” with the peak of ecstasy resembling the climax of sexual pleasure. But that is not to downplay Bernini’s work – it is, after all, a beautifully magnificent sculpture. Other artists, however, did manage to fall in step with what was and was not acceptable.

Caravaggio’s Magdalene Klain (post 1606) and Gentileschi’s Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy (circa 1620-25) both show the saint in rapture in her solitude. Ecstasies and raptures were psycho-physical conditions at the peak of mystical activity – their use in sacred art makes the viewer want to experience what’s unfolding before their eyes rather than just look at it ‘from outside’. Both paintings portray Mary Magdalene physically and emotionally overcome in rapture, leaning back with her eyes closed and hands clenched together. In Caravaggio’s depiction, her mouth is open slightly which only adds to the uncontrollable nature of her spiritual awakening from her life of sin to a contemplative moral existence. The use of Mary Magdalene in ecstasy excited an emotional response from worshippers over the intensity and drama of spiritual awakening and religious conversion.

It is so easy to get completely lost in the world of the Baroque – paintings of the time were so intense and excited all senses and emotions. The 18th century travel writer Lady Anna Miller spoke of how she was thrown into a trembling and made very sick by the thought of Caravaggio’s gory scenes. This visceral reaction was desired by the Catholic Church to usher the faithful towards devotion, and it was the ‘Decree on Sacred Images’ that incited Baroque artists to answer the call. Religious subjects flourished and new artistic genres were innovated to create a multi-sensorial experience that enraptured and indoctrinated Catholics into fidelity and devotion to their faith.

A huge thank you to Molly for writing for us today, this is such a fascinating topic and not one we often explore on Just History Posts, so I hope you have all enjoyed reading it as much as I have.

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Ask anyone on the street when they think the worst year in human history was, and I’m sure there’d be quite a variety of answers offered. Years during the World Wars; when the Black Death swept Europe; or even more recent events like during the Covid pandemic. War and disease are probably the most significant influencing factors. But one historian (Michael McCormick, to be precise), has one you almost certainly would never have offered: 536 AD. So why was this year so terrible for humanity, and does it deserve its moniker?

Travelling back almost 1,500 years, we find a recognisable world. Empires have risen and fallen, but there are still many great civilisations across the different continents. Populations are thriving, trade and industry flourishing, religions are established. But then an almost apocalyptic event happens that impacts people the world over. Somewhere, a huge volcanic eruption occurs. Scientists are still unsure exactly where, but it is somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere at a high latitude. No known written records survive recording this event, so few if any were aware of it. But they were about to feel its impact.

Ash, sulphur, and debris was launched high into the atmosphere, and winds spread the fallout far and wide. This was no small explosion; the dust spread for thousands of miles, gradually coating Europe, the Middle East, and parts of Asia. Contemporary writers from a multitude of countries record the strange veil that fell over the sky, dimming everything in its path:

“For the sun gave forth its light without brightness, like the moon, during the whole year, and it seemed exceedingly like the Sun in eclipse.” – Procopius, Roman historian, 536 AD.

“The Sun, first of stars, seems to have lost his wonted light, and appears of a bluish colour. We marvel to see no shadows of our bodies at noon, to feel the mighty vigour of his heat wasted into feebleness… we have had a winter without storms, a spring without mildness, and a summer without heat.” – Senator Cassiodorus, Roman statesman, 538 AD.

“In the first year of the Tai dynasty [536], snow fell in the summer, and the crops failed.” – Nan Shi, Chinese chronicle.

As alluded to above, this ash not only dimmed the light, but thus had a huge impact on the entire Earth’s ecosystem. For around 18 months, the fallout of the eruption partially blocked the sun’s rays, leading to a quick, significant reduction in global temperature – somewhere between 1.5°C to 2.5°C. Although this may not sound much at first, keep in mind the Paris Agreement, aiming to reduce global warming, has a target of limiting the global average temperature to below 2°C above pre-industrial levels in order to save our planet. This drop led to the coldest decade the planet had seen for more than 2,000 years.

With less heat and fewer rays reaching the Earth, photosynthesis slowed, crops failed, insects and animals could not survive, and thus humans were severely impacted at all levels of the food chain. Irish annals record that there was no bread for several years, whilst Chinese ones discuss summer famines.

But the worst was not yet over. Somewhere between 539 and 540 AD at least one more volcanic eruption occurred, compounding the effects of the one from a few years prior. The temperature continued to drop, the weather continued to act erratically, and famine continued. Numerous scientific studies from the past few decades show the impact of these eruptions on tree-rings and in arctic ice. Trees more-or-less stopped growing during the ash blankets, whilst deposits of sulphur in Greenland and Antarctic ice cores record the explosion.

Empires began to collapse under the strain. Unable to feed their armies, they could not hold off attacks from neighbours. People turned to their gods: Scandinavian communities buried hoards of gold to beg for the return of sunlight, and they created stories of Fimbulwinter and Ragnarök – the end of the world.

These populations, weakened from hunger, then fell prey to another catastrophe. Plague. In 541, the Justinian Plague broke out across the Mediterranean Basin, Europe, and the Near East. This outbreak was so named because even Emperor Justinian I of the Byzantine Empire fell afoul of the disease, though he managed to recover. Just as with the Black Death of centuries to come, the consequences were devastating. For a long time, this was considered one of the deadliest pandemics in history, and though the extent of this has been questioned (then reasserted) in recent years, it is likely that somewhere between a quarter and half of the affected population died.

The impact of years of unusual weather, failing crops, plague, terror and unrest is easy to imagine. It took decades, if not a century for the continents to recover. One study of ice deposits shows a spike in airborne lead in 640 AD, suggesting silver mining only resumed on a large scale at this time and thus is indicative of a resurging economy.

The impact of 536 AD on the Americas is a little harder to discern, but there is still evidence that the drop in global temperature affected these societies too. One cited example is the Mesoamerican city of Teotihuacan, thought to be the largest city across the two continents and the sixth-largest in the world. Teotihuacan had been founded around 100 BC, and so had been a thriving city for centuries. It is thought that anywhere up to 200,000 people may have lived there by the year 400, but mysteriously around 550 the city’s most important monuments were razed and after 600 probably no more than 30,000 people called it home. Skeletal remains from the sixth century show a rise in skeletons of children and young people who have evidence of malnutrition, and this aligns with droughts from this period.

So, was 536 AD the worst year in human history? It certainly can claim to be up there. A chain of events following a volcanic eruption led to decades of problems, and can perhaps be held in part responsible for millions of deaths. It is easy to see how populations thought the world could be ending, From snow in summer, to the sky being dimmed and the seasons turned on their heads, it is hard to envision the chaos that would bring even today. Through a combination of the written, archaeological and geological record, we can begin to piece together this almost cataclysmic event.

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https://www.forbes.com/sites/scotttravers/2025/03/01/the-forgotten-apocalypse-of-ad-536-a-biologists-take-on-the-worst-year-to-be-alive/
https://www.science.org/content/article/why-536-was-worst-year-be-alive
https://agupubs.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1029/2007GL032450#:~:text=%5B1%5D%20New%20and%20well%2D,536.
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S2352409X24003171
https://pastglobalchanges.org/publications/pages-magazines/pages-magazine/7172
https://www.cam.ac.uk/research/news/justinianic-plague-was-nothing-like-flu-and-may-have-hit-england-before-constantinople
https://www.metmuseum.org/essays/teotihuacan

Today we return to an old favourite series of mine, looking at the history of mythical creatures. In recent years, the unicorn has experienced a true revival, representing both LGBTQ+ communities and becoming a fan favourite of young children. But the unicorn was just as popular in medieval Europe, appearing countless times in artwork and heraldry. So where did the idea of this creature come from, and why did it have such a hold?

It is thought that the concept of a unicorn originates from sources in the Indus Valley (covering parts of Pakistan, India and Afghanistan) around 2,000 BC. Here, it is found on various artefacts as a cow-like creature with one single, long, curved horn. From there, writers in ancient Greece heard stories, writing about single-horned wild asses from India from the fifth century BC onwards. As time went on, the stories of these animals became conflated with creatures called re’em described in the Bible. This animal almost certainly referred to a type of wild ox or antelope, but in translating from Hebrew to Greek, where there was no equivalent word, it became monokeros and then eventually translated into Latin as unicorn.

Now that the unicorn had found authority in the Bible, and following already circulating stories of its existence, the unicorn took on a mythos of its own. Pliny the Elder described the unicorn as having a body resembling a horse, a head like a stag, feet like an elephant and a tail like a boar. But by the following century, what was to become the greatest authority on unicorns was published. The Physiologus was a second-century Alexandrian compilation of beasts, and it introduced the most enduring legend of the unicorn:

A small animal like the kid, is exceedingly shrewd, and has one horn in the middle of his head. The hunter cannot approach him because he is extremely strong. How then do they hunt the beast? Hunters place a chaste virgin before him. He bounds forth into her lap and she warms and nourishes the animal and takes him into the place of kings

Michael J. Curley, Physiologus: A Medieval Book of Nature Lore, cited in The Unicorn Tapestries: Religion, Mythology, and Sexuality in Late Medieval Europe

Initially, the unicorn was seen as an evil creature. Its large horn was seen as synonymous with pride or lust, and unicorns were thus associated with vice and demons. In one version of the Physiologus, the virgin offered the unicorn her breasts which he began to suckle and “conduct himself familiarly with her”. But by around the twelfth century, the unicorn took on significant Christian symbolism which it was to carry for the rest of the period.

A dangerous creature tamed by a virgin, only to be murdered by hunters, found an easy comparison to the story of Christ. It became exceedingly popular in artwork – particularly tapestries – to depict the hunt of the unicorn, imbuing symbolism of the Incarnation of Christ and his Crucifixion. This is exemplified by pieces like The Unicorn Tapestries, made right at the end of the period (1495-1505) where the classic unicorn hunt story appears alongside other Christian allegories, such as in one section where the unicorn is surrounded by twelve hunters, one of whom points to the unicorn reminiscent of Judas’ betrayal, or where the killed unicorn is brought back to the castle wearing a wreath of oak branches with thorns, like Christ’s Crown of Thorns. Other pieces instead linked the hunt of the unicorn to the Annunciation, where the hunter and virgin become the angel Gabriel and Mary, and thus the hunt and taming becomes the conception of Christ.

Alongside the unicorn’s heavy religious symbolism, it also found itself an important role in secular society. Despite its exceeding popularity in artwork, it appears infrequently in the textual record, only being found in one known medieval romance, Le Chevalier du Papegau or The Knight of the Parrot. It did, though, take on a general air of romance – almost inevitable, considering its centuries-long association with virgin women – and it appeared in other written works under this association. The twelfth-century Carmina Burana, a collection of poems and dramatic texts, feature unicorns, as does a piece written by renowned thirteenth-century troubadour Count Thibaut IV of Champagne, where he compares himself to a unicorn falling deeply in love with a woman. Over time, the unicorn therefore also became associated with courtly love and with marriage, and it is thought that the highly famous Lady and the Unicorn tapestry set was commissioned by a member of the powerful Le Viste family of Lyon to commemorate a marriage.

Two panels from The Hunt of the Unicorn, showing Christ-like symbolism. Met Museum.

Another appeal of the legend of the unicorn came from real-world artefacts associated with the creatures. Though rhinoceroses were well-known, narwhals were less so, and the beautiful, long horns of the creatures made perfect substitutes for unicorn horns. One of the stories of the unicorn was that its horn had purifying qualities, and by dipping its horn in water it was able to nullify poison, cure disease, or otherwise protect. Obtaining these protective horns thus became a major medieval trade, and every major court in Europe had objects made from or featuring these unicorn/narwhal horns. It was particularly popular to have drinking vessels with pieces of horn, to protect the ruler from ingesting any poison.

As heraldry took off, so too did nobles’ desire to associate themselves with the unicorn. The unicorn represented Christ, the Virgin Mary, chivalry, romance, nobility, suffering, salvation and more. The appeal was clear. Nobles across Europe incorporated it into their Coats of Arms, even at the highest level; the Scottish royal family used a unicorn to represent them from at least 1426, and it is still used to represent Scotland to this day.

Interest in the unicorn continued into the Renaissance, but by the seventeenth century this began to wane. No longer did people believe that the creature could exist, or in the protective property of the horns. The unicorn fell into the background, to be revived by Victorian interest in all things medieval and championed into the modern day.

The unicorn is a creature of mystery and beauty. Its legend has lasted two millennia, and its story remained surprisingly unchanged throughout the medieval period. Despite being depicted in art and literature for centuries, the core idea was consistent: a strong, elusive creature with a single horn, impossible to tame but for the appeal of a virgin woman. This one story found easy footing in Europe during this time, a place of fervorous religious belief and wideswept chivalric romanticism. The unicorn was both the poet devoting himself to a noble woman, and Christ sacrificing himself for the sins of the world. Its horn could protect people from the gravest poisons, whilst its visage adorned palaces and castles. And its appeal is just as strong today, even if the story has now evolved.

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The Biblical Unicorn in Late Medieval Religious Interpretation
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Heroes and Marvels of the Middle Ages
Imaginary Animals: The Monstrous, the Wondrous and the Human

Today we have a wonderful guest post by jeweller Samuel Mee, giving us a fascinating tour through some key pieces of jewellery from history. It’s a real great snippet into just how important jewellery could be, and how much we can glean about certain times in the past from the jewellery which was fashionable. Samuel Mee is the founder of The Antique Ring Boutique and a member of Lapada. He has several guides on his website to buying rings from different historical periods, such as this guide to Victorian rings: https://www.antiqueringboutique.com/pages/victorian. Over to Sam!

Jewellery may be small but it’s often been witness to, and sometimes part of, key moments in history.

The Pope’s ring

A recent example is the papal Ring of the Fisherman, a tradition going back to at least the 13th century and the time of Pope Clement IV, the 183rd pontiff. The ring represents each Pope’s role as successor to St Peter, a fisherman, and was traditionally destroyed at his death. This changed in 2013 after the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI when his was instead cut with a chisel in the shape of a cross – this same method was used for Pope Francis’s ring in May of this year. Although different each time, Pope Leo XIV, the 267th pontiff, is the 84th bearer of a version of this ring.

From piety to power

The incredible gold funerary mask of Tutankhamun is one of the earliest examples of how jewellery was used to signify status. It is made of solid gold and inlaid with semi-precious stones (lapis lazuli, turquoise, obsidian and carnelian). 

Tutankhamun ruled the New Kingdom of Egypt for 9 years from 1332BC. Despite his death aged just 18 in 1323BC, the mask was supposed to reflect the idea that the pharaoh was not just a ruler but also a god in human form. Yet over time, Tutankhamun was forgotten. Downplayed by subsequent rulers, his tomb became hidden under debris, which helped preserve it from looting.

Its discovery in 1922, after being buried for 3000 years, helped kickstart the archaeological trend of the Art Deco movement of the 20s and 30s and was one of many finds that reshaped how we understand Egyptian society. Newspapers around the world ran multiple stories about the artifacts and supposed curse. This Egyptomania was reflected in Art Deco motifs – scarabs, hieroglyphs and pyramids became extremely fashionable. Jewellery also incorporated the treasure’s colour palette: blues, turquoise, golds and black. 

Royal power

Throughout the long period his tomb was undisturbed, royalty in other countries continued to made great use of jewellery, much of it symbolic. 

The Iron Crown of Lombardy is a medieval crown, traditionally used in the coronation of the Kings of Italy and later associated with the Holy Roman Emperors and used to crown both Charlemagne and Napoleon (he crowned himself King of Italy with it in 1805, reportedly saying “God has given it to me, beware he who touches it.”). Despite its name, it’s mostly made of gold and enamel but has a thin inner band of iron that’s said to be forged from a nail of the True Cross, reinforcing the idea that kings were chosen by God. 

The Crown Jewels of England (Scotland have their own Honours) date back to 1660 and the restoration of the monarchy. King Charles II made the St Edwards Crown for his coronation to replace the medieval crown that had been melted in 1649 after the execution of Charles I – and this same new crown was used nearly four centuries later for the crowning of Charles III in 2023.

But not all jewellery has brought monarchs good luck.

The affair of the diamond necklace (explained for History is Now Magazine) made Marie Antoinette the subject of scandal, despite being blameless, and is cited as one of the factors delegitimising the French monarchy – Napoleon said that the reasons for her execution could be traced back to the incident. An impersonator of the Queen tricked a gullible Cardinal into believing he was the go between for her to buy a 600-diamond necklace. But once the con was exposed and a trial held, no one could quite believe she hadn’t been involved somehow. Already perceived as out of touch, her popularity slumped even further.

Anne Boleyn was another unlucky royal. The second wife of King Henry VIII was executed by beheading in 1536 after being convicted of treason, adultery, and incest. The charges were considered a pretext for Henry to remarry. Her jewellery survived though – her gaoler received £100 after her execution for her “jewels and apparels”. Lucky for him, less so for her.

And sometimes the jewellery itself is considered unlucky. The 105-carat Koh-i-Noor diamond is part of the crown jewels but no male monarch will wear it due to rumours of a curse (queen consorts have worn it though) – this might also be because they don’t want to anger India, which wants its gem back. 

The power of empire

This is another way jewellery has influenced history: imperial extraction and exploitation of mineral wealth.  From the Spanish gold fleets of the 16th century to the gem-rich colonies of the British Empire, huge amounts of gold, silver, diamond and emeralds were mined or seized from colonised lands, often through forced labour, and transformed into jewels for the elite. 

The Koh-i-Noor is a lasting sign of that colonial power. It was presented to Queen Victoria, who wore it as a brooch. And she had a big influence on the jewellery worn in Britain. After Prince Albert died in 1861, 24 years into her 63-year reign, the ruler was plunged into mourning. She wore and popularised mourning jewellery, often with jet, hairwork and sentimental inscriptions. As a result, grieving changed from a private function to a more popular and public affair across the whole of Europe.

In many ways, Victorian mourning jewellery marks the culmination of two thousand years of cultural evolution. It represents the point at which jewellery, once the domain of gods, kings and clerics, became both intimate and democratized.

Evolving with society

Back in 14th Century England, Edward III’s laws banned gold and silver jewellery for anyone below the rank of knight. And in Tudor England, only the elite could wear pearls (there’s a fascinating list of who could wear what due to these sumptuary laws at Mid-Tudor Manor).

Fast forward to the early 1900s and members of the women’s suffrage movement in Britain used jewellery to express their political beliefs. Suffragette jewellery featured the movement’s official colours: purple for dignity, white for purity, and green for hope. Gemstone combinations like such as amethyst, pearls and peridot allowed women to signal their support, without risking arrest. Brooches engraved with “For Valour” were awarded to imprisoned women who went on hunger strike.

The Industrial Revolution meant that new materials, the discovery of raw-material deposits, and mass production techniques made jewellery affordable for the middle class – just as societal changes made it acceptable for them to wear it. Jewellery has always been a clear sign of who has – or wants – power and wealth. But don’t lose sight of who paid the price for the extraction of the raw materials. 

A huge thanks to Sam for writing for us today. It’s so interesting hearing how jewellery can reflect social changes, be emblematic of exploitation, and even help lead to royal downfall. Make sure to check out his business, The Antique Ring Boutique, if you want to learn more, or want to purchase some pieces for yourself!

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It’s been a little while since I’ve written about a castle, despite the plethora of incredible castles in England where I live, let alone ones further afield. Last month I visited Pontefract Castle in Yorkshire, so I thought it was a perfect opportunity to pick this series back up! Pontefract Castle was one of the most important in the country throughout the medieval period, up until its destruction in the aftermath of the Civil War, and today it is just a shadow of its former grandeur. So what exactly was so impressive about it?

As is the case with many of the castles in England, Pontefract Castle traces its roots back to the Norman Conquest. Duke William of Normandy successfully pushed his claim to the English throne and brought his loyal nobles with him to essentially colonise England. Up to this point, England had been filled with Saxons, Angles, and various groups of Norse, who had made up the ruling classes. But the Normans pushed the men out of leadership, and inter-married with local noble women, and they brought their own culture and language with them. There was plenty of discontent about this, and it took decades for William and his heirs to subdue the nation. Thus, castle building was a high priority of his. Previously, fortifications had largely been wooden, but William brought imposing, stone castles as a way to intimidate the locals and protect his interests. During his two decades on the throne, it is estimated that he oversaw the construction of hundreds of castles.

One of William’s key allies who fought for him at the Battle of Hastings was a man called Ilbert de Lacy, and William rewarded him generously by granting him a significant portion of land in northern England – the Honour of Pontefract. Amongst this land was an Anglo-Saxon burial ground and manor on the top of a rock which was in the perfect position to expand. Within a few years of the Norman Conquest, records show a castle being constructed on the site, and it was recorded in 1086’s Domesday Book. The timing was no surprise: construction likely began around 1070, just after William’s infamous Harrying of the North. After a major rebellion in northern England, William had spent the winter of 1069-1070 razing much of it to the ground, destroying crops and animals and causing mass starvation. It made sense he would want one of his loyal friends to start building a castle to keep the local population in check afterwards.

Ilbert and his family continued working on Pontefract Castle for many years afterwards, expanding it and making it a formidable fortress. But though Ilbert had been a close and loyal friend of William’s, his descendants had a more fraught relationship with the Crown. At various points the Honour of Pontefract was confiscated from Ilbert’s son, then regranted, but the tipping point was in 1211 when the current holder, Robert de Lacy, died. King John, who ruled at that time, confiscated the castle, and made Roger’s heir, John, pay a huge amount of money to regain his inheritance. John was furious that what should have been his rightful inheritance was taken from him through greed, and so he joined other rebel barons in a fight which eventually led to King John being forced to seal the Magna Carta.

After this, relations settled a little, and the de Lacys continued their tenure of the Honour and castle of Pontefract. They continued to expand, building a highly impressive keep within the walls to an unusual design; it is in a quatrefoil shape of overlapping circles, rather than a square shape, which is rare.

In the early 1300s, the keep finally moved out of the de Lacy family through marriage of its female heir, Alice, to Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. Alice had become heir after the tragic deaths of her two brothers – one of whom fell from a parapet at Pontefract Castle – and Thomas was the grandson of Henry III of England and son of the Queen of Navarre, so a very powerful man. Their wedding agreement ensured that Alice’s vast inheritance would go to Thomas and the royal family even if the couple had no children together. They had a highly unhappy marriage, and Thomas was eventually executed for treason at Pontefract Castle. Although Thomas’ lands forfeited to the Crown, Alice’s inheritance should have returned to her. However, Edward II (king at the time) did not want to lose such a vast amount of land and wealth, and he imprisoned Alice and threatened her until she signed over most of her lands to the king. Thus, the de Lacy’s 150-year ownership of Pontefract Castle came to an ignominious end.

After this time, the castle passed into the control of the earldom and later duchy of Lancaster, including one of the most powerful men of the late 14^th century, John of Gaunt. John was very fond of the castle, making it one of his personal residences, and he spent a significant amount of money upgrading it into a royal home. However, it was again to become a place of death at the turn of the century, when the overthrown and imprisoned King Richard II died at the castle. As the castle had moved into the possession of John of Gaunt’s son and heir, Henry Bolingbroke, when Henry succeeded his cousin as King Henry IV, the castle became part of the royal estates.

Pontefract Castle had become, over the centuries, one of the strongest fortresses in the north of England. With inner and outer baileys and barbicans, curtain walls, multiple towers, and a significant keep, as well as its own chapel, by the Early Modern period the castle was unassailable. It continued to be an important hub in royal history: in 1483, Richard III executed the son and brother of Queen Elizabeth Woodville there, whilst in 1536 the castle’s guardian was executed for treason after handing the castle over to rebels taking part in the Pilgrimage of Grace, a Catholic rebellion in response to the break from the Catholic Church and the Dissolution of the Monasteries. It is also supposed to be the site of Henry VIII’s fifth wife, Catherine Howard’s, first act of adultery.

Perhaps one of the biggest chapters in the castle’s history, though, comes from the English Civil War. Being such an important site – seen as “the key to the north” – it came under siege three times. Initially under royalist control, the garrison surrendered during the second siege after news arrived of Charles I’s defeat at the Battle of Naseby in 1645. However, the Royalists continued to try and fight for their king, and so in 1648 they hatched a cunning plan. Knowing the castle was unassailable by brute force, they used cunning instead. After hearing some of the Parliamentarian forces trying to requisition beds in the town, some Royalist troops disguised themselves and brought beds up to the castle, in a trick worthy of the Trojan Horse. Once inside, they managed to take control of the castle and hold it for 9 months, only surrendering when Charles I was executed.

The impact of the Civil War sieges is evident on the ruins today, where cannonball dents can be seen. During conservation work in 2016, seven cannonballs were found still lodged inside the outer wall of the castle almost 1 metre deep. This demonstrates just how strong the castle was, that it still did not fall under such pressure. The physical evidence is corroborated by a key source for this period, the diary of Nathan Drake who was at the castle during the 1644 siege. Here, he wrote that in just the space of a few days (17^th to 21^st January) 1,363 shots were fired at the castle. Despite this huge barrage, only one tower collapsed, and it still did not give the attackers access to the castle – even in the ruined state of the castle today, the curtain wall of the collapsed tower still stands around 5 metres high.

With the ending of the Civil War, and Oliver Cromwell’s seizing of power, the almost six-century dominance of Pontefract Castle came to an end. Cromwell was keen to destroy the castle, which he considered one of the strongest garrisons in the country, and he gained the support of the people who lived in the surrounding town, who had suffered greatly from pillaging armies. In March 1649, Parliament gave orders that it should be ‘totally demolished & levelled to the ground’. Much of the castle was dismantled and sold off to be reused as building material, though a surprising amount still remains. Parts of the curtain and inner wall survive, as well as foundations of buildings like the chapel. Underground, the eleventh-century cellars survive as do the dungeons.

Despite its dismantling, the site of Pontefract Castle continued to be used by locals for other, perhaps more surprising uses: liquorice. Liquorice arrived in England in the eleventh century, and for centuries it was used as a medicine. From at least the 17^th century, Pontefract had been growing the plant, but it soon turned into a major industry for the town. By 1720, a local family, the Dunhills, rented out the grounds of the castle in order to grow liquorice and store the plants in the castle’s dungeons. The conditions at the castle were perfect for the plant to thrive, and George Dunhill was able to use this success to revolutionise the liquorice trade.

In 1760, he completely changed the format of liquorice. What had previously been a dissolvable, medicinal pastel, he now added sugar to and turned it into a chewable sweet which became known as the Pontefract Cake. The family continued to work out of the castle for more than a century. As the Victorian era arrived, the use of the castle and its grounds changed again. A local wealthy woman named Jeanette Leatham created pleasure gardens at the castle, and became involved with the museum at the castle.

Many of the walls of the castle still stand several metres high, as do some of the towers. Author’s own photos.

Today, the castle is still owned by the Duchy of Lancaster, but it is a heritage site managed by Wakefield Council and in receipt of funding from bodies like English Heritage and Historic England. It underwent major conservation in 2016 which uncovered multiple unknown structures to the south of the gatehouse, and work is still pending to secure these remains. The castle is open to the public for free, and guided tours of the castle and the dungeon are run for a charge. There is a visitor centre with some display cases of artefacts, a playground, and a herb garden, as well as regular programmes of activities and events. It continues to be a draw to the area.

Pontefract Castle has a history that spans almost a millennium. Built as a symbol of terror and oppression, it spent centuries at the heart of royal conflict and intrigue. Certainly one of the most significant castles in the country, it was an imposing marker on the horizon and turned out to be impenetrable. In fact, it was this very quality that led to its ordered destruction. But its tearing down did not equal its demise, and it found a new lease of life in an unexpected industry, as a hub for liquorice. Today, its ruins still stand in defiance of all that was done to it, continuing to draw visitors from far and wide. Pontefract Castle, the key to the north, still shares its many stories with those who wish to listen.

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Read more:
https://www.wakefield.gov.uk/museums-and-castles/pontefract-castle/pontefract-castle-stories
https://projects.digventures.com/pontefract-castle/background/a-brief-history-of-the-castle/
https://projects.digventures.com/pontefract-castle/background/how-the-dig-began/
https://www.wakefieldexpress.co.uk/whats-on/things-to-do/in-pictures-inside-pontefract-castles-terrifying-dungeon-where-civil-war-prisoners-were-left-to-languish-4470706
https://www.bbc.co.uk/travel/article/20190710-the-strange-story-of-britains-oldest-sweet

Fashion is fashionable. It is ever-changing, inspired by culture, religion, and society, and every century has had its own “craze” where people go to extremes that are sometimes criticised by contemporaries, and sometimes by those looking back and wondering “what were they thinking?”. But one trend of the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries was that for electric fashion: literally infusing clothes with electricity. Talk about shocking. (Sorry).

People have known about electricity, even if they didn’t know what it was, for millennia. And for as long as they’ve known about it, they’ve suspected it could have restorative power on the human body. At least two thousand years ago, ancient writers in the Roman Empire suggested that people suffering from illnesses like headaches should touch electric fish to be cured.

Through the centuries, scientists ran experiments with static electricity, trying to figure out what exactly the phenomenon was, until perhaps most famously American intellectual Benjamin Franklin made his own observations about lightning and electricity. The late 18^th century saw a spate of experiments and studies about electricity published, and the following century huge advancements were made. Finally, electricity was an understandable, harvestable and useable resource, and innovation took off.

An electric motor was first invented in 1821 during a key period for popular imagination running wild with electricity. In the late 18^th century, it had been noted that certain chemical reactions could create electricity. Meanwhile, in 1781, Italian surgeon Luigi Galvani was dissecting a frog near a static electricity machine and when the scalpel touched the frog’s leg, it jerked. Further experiments led to the conclusion that electrical current had moved the muscle tissue. In the ensuing decades, debate raged about what created life, and whether electricity was the ‘spark’ needed. Public displays of electricity ‘reanimating’ creatures became popular – some even using human corpses – and this led to a very serious belief that scientists were on the cusp of bringing the dead back to life. Most famously, this inspired a young Mary Shelley when writing her seminal book, Frankenstein, in 1816.

By the late 19^th century, notions of bringing the dead back to life had faded somewhat, but there was still plenty of talk about how electricity could help human ailments. This led to a booming new trade in electric treatments. Though initially only offered by doctors, by the 1870s companies started selling batteries to the public so they could continue these treatments at home. These batteries came in a wooden box, and allowed people to shock themselves with a low-level current, but by the end of the century these portable cures were bemoaned by some doctors, who complained that only the medically trained should be conducting these treatments and that people were endangering their health by using them untrained and purchased from charlatans rather than under doctor supervision.

As these medical batteries became smaller and more portable, new ideas on how to provide an electric current to consumers were thought up by these supposed charlatans. By the 1880s, a myriad of products were infused with electricity that could be purchased from catalogues delivered to customers’ doors: toys, tools, home décor, furniture, household appliances and farming equipment. Living away from a city was no longer a barrier, with the extension of the railways and an ever-increasing postal service meaning products could come to you. Amongst this innovation, it was inevitable that fashion would also pick up the craze.

Although there were all sorts of fashion accessories one could purchase, from electric combs and hairbrushes to cure baldness or headaches, and electric insoles for gout and cold feet, two that particularly stand out were the electric corset and electric belt, marketed specifically at women and men respectively. These items of electric clothing were highly gendered and aimed to target specific complaints, and even hoped to tackle what was seen as a masculine crisis.

Corsets were still highly fashionable in western society as a way to shape a woman’s figure to a pleasing aesthetic based on curves and tiny waists. But now, with the help of electricity, feminine health issues could be simultaneously tackled. Alongside looking good, women could now feel good too. Corsets were lined with metals like copper and zinc, or used magnets, to try and generate low-level electric currents to convince wearers of their restorative powers. When used by women, these corsets claimed to help with menstrual cramps, weak backs, chest health, spinal complaints, paralysis, liver and kidney troubles, and a whole other host of ailments.

Understandably, these items became very popular, and numerous companies tried to take advantage of the sales boom. An 1883 advert by “Dr Scott” extolled the “unprecedented success” of its $3 electric corset, and explained it was now making more budget-friendly options from $1 and above to bring them “within the reach of all who desire them”. The advert uses emotive language to convince the wearer of its medical backing, saying their “therapeutic value is unquestioned”, that they “are constructed on scientific principles”, citing “scientists”, “medical men” and even name-checking Dr W A Hammond of New York, late Surgeon-General of the US. It is easy to see why people were influenced in the face of such medical claims, just as people have been swayed in the decades since by many other products claiming to be cure-alls.

However, doctors quickly turned on these products. Fed up with companies trying to profit off of medical treatments, they criticised products that had all the advertisement without any of the actual treatment. One review of an electric belt for both men and women sold by Mr C B Harness’ company in London was scathing, with Dr William Langran writing to The Electrical Review in 1888 that the circuit of metal discs in the belt appeared to be incomplete, and there were no signs of an electric current when placed on skin. He highlighted the problem with misinformation: “These belts… cause a highly imaginative portion of the public to believe in their efficacy as curative agents”.

But whilst corsets were already a feminine product, and electricity merely enhanced them, it was the market for electric belts which really highlight gendered worries in Victorian society, both in the UK and the US. For about 40 years – between the 1880s and 1920s – these belts were touted as a way to save modern man. Electricity was natural, powerful, and could help the human body reach its full potential. It is no wonder, then, that this raw energy translated well to masculine power.

As opposed to women, who were merely having health and weight complaints solved by electricity, for men, electricity could enhance their body. It would regain their strength and improve their vitality. Adverts showed the ‘perfect specimen’ of men with large muscles and toned bodies. Importantly, most of these belts claimed to improve men’s sex drive and sexual performance.

At this time, there were great worries in society about men physically declining. There was moral panic about masturbation, with the idea that this was sapping men of their vigour and strength, and infertility and erectile dysfunction were seen as significant problems that were created as a result. Electric belts seemed to be universally considered the solution. Electricity was powerful, it stimulated muscles, and cured a plethora of problems, so it made complete sense that it could revitalise men too.

Most belts were created with pouches for the testes for direct application, and looped through with zinc and copper wires. Early belts dispensed very small charges by being soaked in vinegar then pressed to skin, but later on more intense charges were gained by plugging the belts in to electrical currents.

Of course, being the Victorian era, it was unseemly to talk about sexual complaints in public. Adverts therefore had to use coded language, which would have been widely understood, to explain the medical benefits of these belts. Such language can be found in a 1901 advert targeted at men “whose vitality is exhausted”, explaining that by wearing their belt overnight they will gain “the vim energy, the fire of perfect physical and mental action”. Sexual power could thus be restored, and with it a perfect, masculine body.

Again, a huge appeal was found in being able to order such products to your door. The same advert reassured men that their information book would be sent “closely sealed”. Another brochure created by Zardon the same year wrote on its front page, “Do you care to have your family physician whisper around that you are not as good a man as you once were? Do you wish to have the druggist laugh at you when getting a prescription filled?” This at once played into fears that men were less than they should be, that they required help, and that rather than go to a doctor for advice lest their inadequacies become known, they should purchase a product from a private company who would keep their secrets instead.

Eventually, the electricity hype died down. During the First World War, electric medicine began to be rejected. Medical schools stopped teaching electrotherapy, and fewer articles were published on the matter. By the 1920s, most interest had ceased. This was likely due to a combination of factors, including increase crackdowns on “quack” treatments by governments and regulating bodies, a shift towards psychological treatments for diseases, and the fact that these treatments did not always work. As such, electric belts faded from the market, and changing fashions removed even normal corsets from shops. But for a time, public imagination had been well and truly captured. Electricity was the miracle element, capable of bringing light into homes without fire, of powering machines without physical labour, of curing any disease, and even of maybe breathing life into the dead. Electrical corsets and belts capitalised on this obsession, blending fashion and function to improve the lives of their wearers – whether it truly worked or not.

Previous Blog Post: Pontefract Castle: The Key to the North

Previous in Historical Fashion: Jewellery: The Eyewitness of History

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Read more:
https://blog.sciencemuseum.org.uk/the-science-behind-mary-shelleys-frankenstein/
https://underpinningsmuseum.com/museum-collections/electric-corset-electropathic-belt-promotional-materials-by-harness/
https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2016/11/electric-corsets-the-original-wearable-devices/507230/
https://www.jstor.org/stable/48555525?searchText=%22electric+corset%22&searchUri=%2Faction%2FdoBasicSearch%3FQuery%3D%2522electric%2Bcorset%2522%26so%3Drel&ab_segments=0%2Fbasic_phrase_search%2Fcontrol&refreqid=fastly-default%3Adb020c6e90ba1bb22821a44420a5f015&seq=8
https://www.jstor.org/stable/3527257?searchText=%22electric+corsets%22&searchUri=%2Faction%2FdoBasicSearch%3FQuery%3D%2522electric%2Bcorsets%2522%26so%3Drel&ab_segments=0%2Fbasic_phrase_search%2Fcontrol&refreqid=fastly-default%3A878a299ed8b4b51296105add3f4804ab&seq=8

Today we have a really interesting guest post lined up for you. I’m happy to introduce Catherine Williams, a graduate student in Early Modern Studies, who will be telling us all about White women in the Early Modern American South. These women held unique positions of power and authority through their scarcity and through the slaves that they owned and managed. Over to you, Catherine!

Allow me to set the scene with the story of Elizabeth Taylor, not the actress but a 1773 bride-to-be from the Early American South. Elizabeth and her fiancé Philip Johnson were not the main characters. Her mother, Ann Taylor, played the leading role. By the 1770s, it had become tradition in the Early American South for mothers to intervene with their daughter’s dowries. Including slaves in their daughter’s dowries was not uncommon in the Early American South either. Mothers recognized a slave’s value to their engaged daughters. They were keenly aware of the position of authority that came with owning slaves. Even thinking a few steps ahead, Ann Taylor included a clause concerning the slaves’ children. Assuming the slaves would reproduce, Ann Taylor secured inter-generational property ownership and authority for her daughter Elizabeth.

The story of Elizabeth and Ann Taylor opens a window into the Early American South. Landed women exercised authority on a plantation both within and beyond traditional gender roles. Ann Taylor exemplified several Early American Southern women in identical positions. As a mother, Ann Taylor sought favourable terms for her daughter’s dowry. But beyond this, including slaves in a dowry was a business decision that affected the plantation’s operations. To heavily invest in the dowry, Ann Taylor likely hired an overseer to, simply put, do all her dirty work. Standardized clauses, and some fairness towards the groom-to-be, attested to stabilized demographics. Hiring overseers was a solution to a landed woman’s internal value conflict between domesticity and dominance. Throughout the Early American South, White landed women occupied positions of authority, leading the domestic economy and filling commercial roles on plantations.

White Early American Southern Women faced an internal conflict between domesticity and dominance on plantations. Their primary obligation was to be ornaments of the family. It meant that these women were to be as perfect as humanly possible to positively represent their families. In historical reality, just simply being an ornament was not possible. Landed women found themselves in positions of authority on plantations that fundamentally clashed with their family ornament duties. It was simply unavoidable. Hiring overseers was one solution that resolved a landed Southern woman’s internal value conflict between domesticity and dominance. They paid someone else to supervise slaves and run plantation(s). Absenteeism created the opportunity for women to live outside their plantations across the Early American south. However, overseers could not be trusted. Female plantation owners often accused their overseers of mismanaging their plantations. A general mistrust in overseers made it impossible for these women to solely pursue domesticity. They had to intervene in plantation affairs at some point.

It was quite common for White women to assume leadership roles in the plantation’s domestic economy. With the assistance of accounting manuals, it was easier for her to manage household expenses that were separate from the plantation economy. They were advised to allocate money to pay wages of housekeepers and servants. While they supervised wage laborers, they also closely managed unfree domestic slaves. Domestic slaves were almost always women because they could assume childcare responsibilities. Mistresses assigned menial household chores, like cooking and cleaning, to domestic slaves. If a domestic slave was not assigned to complete household chores, she could have been a mistress’ personal servant, tasked with looking after her clothing and appearance. Yet, mistresses shifted their own child-rearing responsibilities to a domestic slave whose sole purpose was caring for White children. Landed parents had oversight in their children’s upbringings while the day-to-day matters fell on female domestic slaves. Freedom from their own children allowed a woman’s authority to expand beyond domestic spaces. In subordinating others, White Early American women occupied and asserted positions of authority on plantations.

Before we continue, it is important to ask the question of how could these women get away with everything? Paying overseers and subordinating poor white men, distancing themselves from their children at the expense of an enslaved women’s kinship, dealing in slaves, the list goes on. The answer is simple: commodification. White landed women were commodities in the Early American South. In the seventeenth century, as was the case with many fledgling colonies, there was a demographic imbalance. With more men than women, and particularly few landed women, white landed women were commodities. These demographics stabilized in the eighteenth century, it only took about 100 years or so. Yet White landed women remained commodified because marriage was just that important. White landed women could be more selective with marriage offers, and exercised authority in choosing to whether to accept or reject a marriage offer. Landed men benefitted too from being married to landed women in the Early American South. But marriages were short, and remarriage was a woman’s golden ticket. Including slaves in a dowry was particularly advantageous because it guaranteed a pathway to occupying and asserting positions of authority on a plantation.

Being a delegator, which involved assigning others to complete tasks on behalf of the plantation owner, prepared unmarried women for a career in plantations. It was a woman’s first taste of plantation authority. Delegates commonly placed runaway slave advertisements. These advertisements worked to subordinate multiple people simultaneously. Inherently, a runaway slave who got caught was denied freedom and punished upon their return. Slave catchers were not landed men. They were plebian or poor White men lured with a reward to find and return a landed person’s property. Not every advertisement promised a worthwhile reward for a task that could take months to complete. A runaway slave’s return (or the slave catcher’s reward) was not guaranteed. Ultimately, a landed woman occupied a position of authority as a delegator and asserted it with runaway slave advertisements. Poor men followed a wealthy woman’s instructions to return property.

Joint-mastery partnerships gave married women the opportunity to equally operate a plantation alongside her husband. Joint-mastery partnerships were common enough in the Early American South for the law to catch up. Husbands and wives could be accused of impropriety towards their slaves. Therefore, wives in joint-mastery partnerships brought moral imperatives to their business relationships to avoid such accusations. Wives in joint-mastery partnerships continued placing runaway slave advertisements. These landed wives generally offered higher rewards than advertisements placed by landed men. If a runaway slave was found, the wife would pay the slave catcher and personally collect a runaway slave from the local jail. Equality lied at the heart of all joint-mastery partnerships, which prohibited joint-mastery husbands from subordinating their wives. Being a joint-mastery wife gave Early American Southern White women the same degree of authority on a plantation as their husband, and they asserted it with each business dealing.

Early American Southern women owned entire plantations and the slaves who labored on these plantations, but there were more opportunities for women to acquire slaves than plantations. Slaves were birthday presents, holiday gifts, and integral to a landed woman’s marriage agreement. With each slave came the intangible position of authority as a slave owner. Plantations, however, were usually inherited from their late husbands as outlined in his will. Each marriage presented women with the opportunity to inherit additional plantations from successive dead husbands. Women who inherited plantations inherited the corresponding position of authority as a plantation owner. Being an owner of something gave these women authority when they were expected to uphold domesticity. Runaway slave advertisements were a platform for slave owning and plantation owning women to assert their position of authority to a predominately male readership.

As we conclude, it is important to ask if Early American White Southern female authority on plantations was challenged by their male counterparts. The answer is also simple, no. There was no real incentive for men to challenge female authority. Sharing patriarchal authority with a landed woman was a small price to pay to be married and keep property within the family. While landed women faced a value conflict between domesticity and dominance, dominance was chosen for them. Hiring overseers, shifting household responsibilities to domestic slaves, being delegates, entering a joint-mastery partnerships and even owning property were all mechanisms of dominance on plantations that landed southern women had at their disposal. Each mechanism shared a reliance on subordinating racialized and socioeconomic others to be effective. Additionally, each mechanism worked to sustain plantation patriarchy that depended on the unfreedom of racialized and socioeconomic others. Their freedom was the unfreedom of everyone else who was not white and wealthy on a plantation.

Thank you so much to Catherine for today’s post, I certainly learnt a lot about this earlier period in modern American history. It’s always interesting for us to hear about periods of time when women held a lot more power, but that last line is so powerful: “their freedom was the unfreedom of everyone else”.

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Primary Sources
Chausée, Jacques. Traitié de l’Excellence du Marriage (Paris, 1690).
Mair, John. Book Keeping Method’iz; or, a Methodical Treatise of Merchant Accompts, According to the Italian Form (Edinburgh, 1736).
National Archives Identifier 2641471 “Dowry Gift of Slaves, Ann Taylor v. Thomas Hart Jr.”, https://www.archives.gov/exhibits/documented-rights/exhibit/section1/detail/dowry-gift.html
Schulz, Constantine ,“The Papers of Eliza Lucas Pickney,” last modified 2023, https://rotunda.upress.virginia.edu/PinckneyHorry/default.xqy.
Windley, Lathan A, editor. Runaway Slave Advertisements: A Documentary History from the 1730s to 1790, vol 3. (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1983).

Secondary Sources
Andrews, William L. Slavery and Class in the American South (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019).
Dresher, Seymour, Engerman, Stanley L, et al. A Historical Guide to World Slavery, edited by Seymour Dresher and Stanley L. Engerman. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998).
Jones-Rogers, Stephanie. They Were Her Property, White Women as Slave Owners in the American South (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019).
O’Day, Rosemary. Women’s Agency in Early Modern Britain and the American Colonies (Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2007).
Smith, Daniel Blake. “In Search of the Family in the Colonial South” in Race and Family in the Colonial South, edited by Sheila L. Skemp and Winthrop D. Jordan (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2009).
Stubbs, Tristan. Masters of Violence, The Plantation Overseers of Eighteenth-Century Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia 1670-1830 (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2018).
Young, Jeffery R. Domesticating Slavery, The Master Class in Georgia and South Carolina 1670-1837 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999).

Today I’m pleased to be hosting a guest post looking at the origins of the Hundred Years’ War between England and France. This is a topic that comes up quite a lot on this blog, as it’s right in my era of expertise, so I’m happy to hear from Talia. Talia is a 19-year-old self-taught future historian focused on Medieval England and the Crusades. She’s the founder of the History with Talia Substack and Instagram account, and she has just started her own podcast. Over to Talia!

Throughout the 14th century, warfare and plague spread rapidly hitting all of Western Europe, wiping out as many as possible, including almost half of the population of Europe. The plague didn’t just stop there, but it deteriorated further the relationship between France and England after conflicts for centuries straight.

Ever since the late 11th century, both England and France had feudal territories from Gascony to Aquitaine that allowed them to pay homage to each other, but always sparking feuds over who would get what. Henry II of England (1133-1189), the first Plantagenet king, built what he called the Angevin empire expanding into France. But when Henry died his sons didn’t do much to keep the empire and by 1214 everything was handed into the hands of the French at the Battle of Bouvines due to the failure of King John’s reign. 

Louis IX of France (1214-1270) was especially known for his religious devotions and did not want to deal with the drama unfolding by the English. But as France watched the chaos unfold in England, they were still dealing with issues of their own, namely the crusades and the Knights Templars. Louis’ grandson, Philip IV, decided to solve the problem of the Templars in 1307 by having every last one of them murdered and the group abolished. Across from France, the Flemish in Flanders and other surrounding regions came together to revolt against the French crown causing the Franco-Flemish war from 1297-1305. The English took advantage and sided with the Flemish, and the peace deal recognised Flemish independence as a fief, but they had to owe some debt to the French.

In 1307, Edward II of England married Isabella, the daughter of Philip IV, to ease the tensions between the countries, but Edward’s reign fell apart with scandals leading to his deposition in 1327 and putting his son, Edward III, on the throne. In 1328, Charles IV of France died, being the last Capetian king on the throne, and was succeeded by Philip VI as the first Valois king, the dynasty for the next 200 years. However, Edward III considered he was fit for the crown. Why all of a sudden did Edward want to claim himself as heir to the French throne? His mother, Isabella, was Charles IV’s sister, and so he felt he had a claim through her.

What will subsequently go down in history as the Hundred Years’ War will shift both sides, especially France, who at the start will lose its morale but after various mistakes all around will bring the powerful France into victory.

What really originated such a failed relationship between France and England to cause such a major war in the 14th century? It goes back to the time when William the Conqueror defeated Harold in the Battle of Hastings in 1066, allowing the first Norman king onto the throne. What caught the eye of the French was the rich Norman lands that both sides wanted. William’s son, Henry I, would be one of the first to deal with such an issue, with the French supporting the rebels in the Norman lands. Henry was dealing with rival claimants in Normandy that included William Clito, the son of Robert Curthose who was William the Conqueror’s oldest son. William Clito wanted revenge for his father who was captured by Henry at the Battle of Tinchebrai in 1106. France as well as Flanders saw this as a chance to come and go after these lands themselves.

In 1135, after the death of Henry I left no male heir to the throne, a huge civil war between his daughter Empress Matilda and nephew Stephen of Blois broke out. This lasted until 1154 with the accession of the first Plantagenet king, Henry II. One crucial figure within this reign was Eleanor of Aquitaine who married Louis VII of France and was later divorced and married Henry II.

When the civil war was occurring in England in the 1140s, Louis VII of France was busy joining the failures of the Second Crusade which proved to be a major blow all around after the Fall of Edessa. Meanwhile England grew in power under Henry II, with the rise of the Angevin Empire conquering Gascony, Brittany and many parts of France. However, Henry faced rebellion from his sons. Various rebellions in 1173 by Henry the Young King as well as Richard and John had vast consequences on both sides as France yet again sought to use it to their advantage. 

What will define the 12th century will continue to the beginning of The Hundred Years’ War. During the reign of King John, his father’s Angevin Empire will collapse completely. John didn’t tend to care about much of the ruling, and King Philip of France was one of the most ambitious rulers at the time. John’s defeat at the Battle of Bouvines in 1214 allowed Philip to have total domination and control of these lands.

John died in 1217, and The Treaty of Lambeth was signed that allowed for the barons to come at last under some peace. For the next 60 years, France and England will have some minor clashes such as the Santiago War, but England yet again was heading for another civil war, this time over the failures of Henry III claimed by Simon de Montfort. Two civil wars in one century is a lot, but various steps were taken to bring peace for the nobles in England.

France may have been sitting and watching these events occur but at the same time Louis IX and his brother Charles of Anjou were dealing with their own difficulties. Charles of Anjou was also trapped in never-ending conflicts in Italy and soon a huge rebellion would rise and need support from France, known as the Sicilian Vespers in 1282.

From the time of the ambitious Edward I of England, wars in Flanders and Scotland where both sides would take part continued the fighting. Edward’s son Edward II brought England again into more troubles with his various lovers. Edward II would forget about his wife Isabella of France, known as the She-Wolf. In 1327, Edward II would be deposed by Isabella’s supporters starting a golden age in England with Edward III claiming the throne of France, thus creating the crisis known as the Hundred Years’ War. For the next hundred years both sides would see brutal failure from organisation to leadership, but France eventually emerged victorious. 

Thank you Talia for giving us an introduction into the complicated and centuries-long lead up to the Hundred Years War. If you want to hear more from Talia, be sure to give her a follow.

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Firnhaber-Baker, Justine. House of Lilies: The Dynasty That Made Medieval France. Penguin Books, 2025. 
Hanley, Catherine. 1217: The Battles That Saved England. Osprey Publishing, 2025. 
Hanley, Catherine. Two Houses, Two Kingdoms: A History of France and England, 1100-1300. Yale University Press, 2023. 
Packe, Michael St John, and L. C. B. Seaman. King Edward III. ARK Paperbacks, 1985. 
Spinks, Stephen. Edward II the Man: A Doomed Inheritance. Amberley Publishing, 2018. 

Hello and welcome back to our “An Interview With” series! Today it is my pleasure to have author and historian of the Second World War, Victoria Panton Bacon, on as our guest, in a timely post for Remembrance Day. Today also sees the release of Victoria’s first children’s book, Their Second World War.

Victoria is a ‘People Person’, and loves to write, particularly about the Second World War – her four published books all contain true stories of WWII, given to her by veterans who lived through it, or by family members wanting their loved one’s experiences to be recorded. In the past, she also founded and ran a charity called Elizabeth’s Legacy of Hope which raised funds for child amputees in developing countries, and she also worked for the Conservative Party and as a journalist and producer at the BBC.

Hello Victoria! It’s lovely to speak to you today. You are a historian of the Second World War, so it’s easy to start by asking what drew you to the period?

I began my writing about the Second World War in 2012, after finding my Grandfather, Alastair Panton’s, memoir of being an RAF pilot during the Battle of France in the summer of 1940 – during which time he was shot down three times, and again after this battle had ended and the Battle of Britain had begun; this time he was taken prisoner. I researched what he had documented and wrote it up and was delighted when it was published the following year as Six Weeks of Blenheim Summer.

I was then invited to various WWII veteran gatherings and began to be told, first hand, of more and more memories. These I could not ignore, and in 2020 Remarkable Journeys of the Second World War was published, a collection of eleven, again true and previously unpublished, stories of the war. This book was followed by a sequel, a collection of women’s memories: Remarkable Women of the Second World War, published in 2022.

You have just published a children’s book on the topic which came out of some of those previous non-fiction book for adults. What made you want to turn to writing for children, and why these stories?   

The World War II stories in my three published books are all true stories, previously unpublished, illustrating the reality of what it was like to be part of the Second World War. Because these are true stories they are vital historical testaments, important reading for anyone who yearns for a true understanding about the war – be they for adult or child. However, my adult books would not be suitable for a younger audience because many (not all) the chapters are too graphic; so I turned my hand to re-writing some of the memories to enable children to be informed by the truth too, not diminishing the pain and horror of war, but simply by writing appropriately – also with illustrations. The stories contained in Their Second World War are a selection of a variety of memories to illustrate many different aspects of the war as possible; six chapters drawn from my books, four are original memories given to me especially for the children’s book.

So as you started reworking these stories, what differences did you find in writing for a younger audience?   

It is different because I had to keep putting myself in the ‘mind’ of a child;  with every sentence thinking about how I would have reacted to what I was writing at that age, rather than my natural response to the words at the moment.  The fact that these chapters are much shorter than those in the adult books does not mean they were necessarily easier or quicker to write.  In some ways they are more challenging to write because the words can’t just ‘flow’ they need to be considered very carefully, constantly, for suitability.

Each profile contains direct words and quotes from the people you are discussing – it seems it was important to you for the children to hear original voices, the people’s stories in their own words?   

Absolutely – this truth is the essence of the whole book. Each chapter (there are ten) is based on the true memories I have (had the privilege of) been given.  Direct quotes are an essential part of each chapter – my words are written to put their words into context, to explain and set the scene with the quotes being the centre piece. Always remembering  these stories are not mine, they have been given to me to share.

Although you focus on positives from each story, you don’t shy away from giving some of the realities of the war, such as difficult conditions for soldiers, and explaining what gas chambers were. How did you balance giving children the truths of the horrors that occurred, in a way suitable to the age group?   

It is difficult, but – as mentioned before – I had to keep considering very carefully how I would react / respond to what was being written. When trying to protect young minds but inform them correctly too, I think it is important to stick to the facts as much as possible and lessen the descriptions of the awfulness of what has to be written in a Second World War book. The illustrations are also deliberately colourful – because in each chapter – including the Holocaust memory which was very hard to write suitably for this age group – does have messages of love, hope, strength – in midst of the painful situations described

You reiterate throughout the book how important it is for us to remember these stories now that the war generation are dying. Why is this so important for you?  

This is very important to me because I truly believe that these are memories of immense courage, courage that if read about and known about can be – and is – inspiring and vital. This is a sadly passing generation … but there are those still with us who lived through the war, as children. These people I meet are proud that they were ‘there’, proud of their family members who served on the Frontline, or worked at home supporting the war effort that way. We need to keep talking about the War for them, to keep their loved ones memories alive. However, going forward in years to come when this generation has passed too, the Second World War should still be remembered, and remembered correctly, respectfully, properly – in a way only the truth can do.

The book has a lovely mixture of illustrations and real photographs. Was this something you wanted from the start, or did it come from the editing process?  

This really came from the editing process, by Key Publishing. I had already sourced the illustrations (from Kerry Timewell, who I think has done these wonderfully) – Key added the photographs;  I think the finished product is delightful.

They certainly add a lot more humanity to the stories. What advice would you give to anyone wanting to write a children’s history book?   

I – personally – think you really need to not only care about, but be absolutely fascinated in, the period of history you feel needs to be written about. Inject that passion into your writing. Then do lots of research and make sure you are not structuring your book in a way that has already been done. It needs have a ‘U.S.P.’ (unique selling point!)

It’s great advice – children’s books are hard work! Do you have any more projects you can tell us about?  

Yes! Volume Two! I would love to begin to re-structure more of the stories in Remarkable Journeys and Remarkable Women of the Second World War … with illustrations again, as there is more vital historical information I am yet to share with children, which I would very much like to do. I would also like to write His Second World War;  which would be a re-structuring of my first book Six Weeks of Blenheim Summer, which is my Grandfather’s (true) story of being an RAF Pilot during the Battle of France in the summer of 1940.

Thank you so much to Victoria for chatting with us today, I found it so interesting to get an insight into how children’s history books are written, and I hope you did too. If you have a young person in your life then do check out Their Second World War, or have a look at Victoria’s other books for yourself!

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