Ancient Roman London As Destroyed By Boadicea: Briton's Warrior Queen

A learned antiquary, Thomas Lewin, Esq., has proved, as nearly as such things can be proved, that Julius Cæsar and 8,000 men, who had sailed from Boulogne, landed near Romney Marsh about half-past five o'clock on Sunday the 27th of August, 55 years before the birth of Jesus Christ. Centuries before that very remarkable August day on which the brave standard-bearer of Cæsar's Tenth Legion sprang from his gilt galley into the sea and, eagle in hand, advanced against the javelins of the painted Britons who lined the shore, there is now no doubt London was already existing as a British town of some importance, and known to the fishermen and merchants of the Gauls and Belgians. Strabo, a Greek geographer who flourished in the reign of Augustus, speaks of British merchants as bringing to the Seine and the Rhine shiploads of corn, cattle, iron, hides, slaves, and dogs, and taking back brass, ivory, amber ornaments, and vessels of glass. By these merchants the desirability of such a depôt as London, with its great and always navigable river, could not have been long overlooked.

 
ANCIENT ROMAN PAVEMENT FOUND IN THREADNEEDLE STREET, 1841

In Cæsar's second and longer invasion in the next year (54 B.C.), when his 28 many-oared triremes and 560 transports, &c., in all 800, poured on the same Kentish coast 21,000 legionaries and 2,000 cavalry, there is little doubt that his strong foot left its imprint near that cluster of stockaded huts (more resembling a New Zealand pah than a modern English town) perhaps already called London—Llyn-don, the "town on the lake."

After a battle at Challock Wood, Cæsar and his men crossed the Thames, as is supposed, at Coway Stakes, an ancient ford a little above Walton and below Weybridge. Cassivellaunus, King of Hertfordshire and Middlesex, had just slain in war Immanuent, King of Essex, and had driven out his son Mandubert. The Trinobantes, Mandubert's subjects, joined the Roman spearmen against the 4,000 scythed chariots of Cassivellaunus and the Catyeuchlani. Straight as the flight of an arrow was Cæsar's march upon the capital of Cassivellaunus, a city the barbaric name of which he either forgot or disregarded, but which he merely says was "protected by woods and marshes." This place north of the Thames has usually been thought to be Verulamium (St. Alban's); but it was far more likely London, as the Cassi, whose capital Verulamium was, were among the traitorous tribes who joined Cæsar against their oppressor Cassivellaunus. Moreover, Cæsar's brief description of the spot perfectly applies to Roman London, for ages protected on the north by a vast forest, full of deer and wild boars, and which, even as late as the reign of Henry II, covered a great region, and has now shrunk into the not very wild districts of St. John's Wood and Caen Wood. On the north the town found a natural moat in the broad fens of Moorfields, Finsbury, and Houndsditch, while on the south ran the Fleet and the Old Bourne. Indeed, according to that credulous old enthusiast Stukeley, Cæsar, marching from Staines to London, encamped on the site of Old St. Pancras Church, round which edifice Stukeley found evident traces of a great Prætorian camp.

However, whether Cassivellaunus, the King of Middlesex and Hertfordshire, had his capital at London or St. Alban's, this much at least is certain, that the legionaries carried their eagles swiftly over his stockades of earth and fallen trees, drove off the blue-stained warriors, and swept off the half-wild cattle stored up by the Britons. Shortly after, Cæsar returned to Gaul, having heard while in Britain of the death of his favourite daughter Julia, the wife of Pompey, his great rival. His camp at Richborough or Sandwich was far distant, the dreaded equinoctial gales were at hand, and Gaul, he knew, might at any moment of his absence start into a flame. His inglorious campaign had lasted just four months and a half—his first had been far shorter.

As Cæsar himself wrote to Cicero, our rude island was defended by stupendous rocks, there was not a scrap of the gold that had been reported, and the only prospect of booty was in slaves, from whom there could be expected neither "skill in letters nor in music." In sober truth, all Cæsar had won from the people of Kent and Hertfordshire had been blows and buffets, for there were men in Britain even then. The prowess of the British charioteers became a standing joke in Rome against the soldiers of Cæsar. Horace and Tibullus both speak of the Briton as unconquered. The steel bow the strong Roman hand had for a moment bent, quickly relapsed to its old shape the moment Cæsar, mounting his tall galley, turned his eyes towards Gaul.

 
PART OF OLD LONDON WALL, NEAR FALCON SQUARE

The Mandubert who sought Cæsar's help is by some thought to be the son of the semi-fabulous King Lud (King Brown), the mythical founder of London, and, according to Milton, who, as we have said, follows the old historians, a descendant of Brute of Troy. The successor of the warlike Cassivellaunus had his capital at St. Alban's; his son Cunobelin (Shakespeare's Cymbeline)—a name which seems to glow with perpetual sunshine as we write it—had a palace at Colchester; and the son of Cunobelin was the famed Caradoc, or Caractacus, that hero of the Silures, who struggled bravely for nine long years against the generals of Rome.

Celtic etymologists differ, as etymologists usually do, about the derivation of the name of London. Lon, or Long, meant, they say, either a lake, a wood, a populous place, a plain, or a ship-town. This last conjecture is, however, now the most generally received, as it at once gives the modern pronunciation, to which Llyn-don would never have assimilated. The first British town was indeed a simple Celtic hill fortress, formed first on Tower Hill, and afterwards continued to Cornhill and Ludgate. It was moated on the south by the river, which it controlled; by fens on the north; and on the east by the marshy low ground of Wapping. It was a high, dry, and fortified point of communication between the river and the inland country of Essex and Hertfordshire, a safe sixty miles from the sea, and central as a depôt and meeting-place for the tribes of Kent and Middlesex.

Hitherto the London about which we have been conjecturing has been a mere cloud city. The first mention of real London is by Tacitus, who, writing in the reign of Nero (A.D. 62, more than a century after the landing of Cæsar), in that style of his so full of vigour and so sharp in outline, that it seems fit rather to be engraved on steel than written on perishable paper, says that Londinium, though not, indeed, dignified with the name of colony, was a place highly celebrated for the number of its merchants and the confluence of traffic.

In the year 62 London was probably still without walls, and its inhabitants were not Roman citizens, like those of Verulamium (St. Alban's). When the Britons, roused by the wrongs of the fierce Boadicea (Queen of the Iceni, the people of Norfolk and Suffolk), bore down on London, her back still "bleeding from the Roman rods," she slew in London and Verulamium alone 70,000 citizens and allies of Rome; impaling many beautiful and well-born women, amid revelling sacrifices, in the grove of Andate, the British Goddess of Victory. It is supposed that after this reckless slaughter the tigress and her savage followers burned the cluster of wooden houses that then formed London to the ground. Certain it is, that when deep sections were made for a sewer in Lombard Street in 1786, the lowest stratum consisted of tesselated Roman pavements, their coloured dice laying scattered like flower leaves, and above that of a thick layer of wood ashes, as of the débris of charred wooden buildings. This ruin the Romans avenged by the slaughter of 80,000 Britons in a butchering fight, generally believed to have taken place at King's Cross (otherwise Battle Bridge), after which the fugitive Boadicea, in rage and despair, took poison and perished.

London probably soon sprang, phœnix-like, from the fire, though history leaves it in darkness to enjoy a lull of 200 years.

  BOADICEA.


  While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries
  Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess,
  Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted,
  Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility,
  Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune,
  Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson


 Compiled From Sources In The Public Domain.

See Boadicea, Warrior Queen of the Iceni.

Teresa Thomas Bohannon,
MyLadyWeb, Women's History, Women Authors
Regency Romance A Very Merry Chase
Historical Fantasy Shadows In A Timeless Myth.

FenMaric, one of the main characters in my historic fantasy novel, Shadows In A Timeless Myth, was a member of the ninth legion who fought and died attempting to stop Boudicea.  He still exists to appear in Shadows because he was battle cursed by a Druid Priest to the same fate that the Druid Priests believed themselves fated for, soul transmigration...but with a vengefully, punishing twist!

Giveaway~ George in London

This week's giveaway is George in London by Tim Queeney. To read about the book, please visit our Giveaways page. You will be directed back here to enter by leaving a comment. Please be sure to leave your contact information.

The Lord Mayor's Show

by Mike Rendell

Tuesday 9th November, 1779 - My four-times-great grandfather Richard Hall noted "Saw the Lord Mayor's show by water. Wet in morn'g. Was fine at the time of the show, afternoon fair, not cold."

Perhaps I should start by explaining to anyone unfamiliar with London politics, but we have two lord mayors in town. First we have the office of Lord Mayor, dating back to 1189. He is elected each year by the Aldermen of the City, representatives of the old Livery Companies (successors to the Medieval Guilds which controlled apprenticeships in the Middle Ages). Then there is the Mayor of London, head of the Greater London Authority, a mayoralty which was only created in 2000 and is an altogether more political animal. Indeed there have only been two such mayors, and one would assume from this that to be the mayor you need to be either to the left of Hugo Chavez (as in Red Ken) or somewhat to the right of Genghis Khan (as in Bonkers Boris). Anything in between has proved to be unelectable. Contrast this with the Lord Mayor, who is often a quiet unassuming man who is recognized by his peers for the hard work he has put in to promoting his profession and his city; he chairs a lot of the meeting, opens schools, makes an inordinate number of speeches, but has little or no real power. And once a year he has his day int he spotlight - the Lord Mayor's Show. (The mayor of Greater London has no such pageantry or noble tradition - he is just a politician/showman jumping on bandwagons, and generally falling off again soon afterwards, in the name of running our great capital city).

Our story is with the Lord Mayor and 12th November 2011 is significant because it is the day of his Show - the day he travels from the City of London to Westminster, to present himself to the Lord Chief Justice. The background is fascinating.

London had a mayor way back in the reign of King John, although there wasn't a 'Lord Mayor' until the fifteenth century. The first mayors were appointed by in recognition of the support given by the good burghers of the City, the monarch granted them the privilege of electing their mayor - but on one condition: once a year the mayor had to present himself at Westminster to pledge allegiance to the Crown. And so it was that the new mayor, with his retinue of supporters from the various Livery Companies, made his way upriver from the City to Westminster. And for nearly 800 years each mayor has done the same.

Nowadays the Lord Mayor is met by the Lord Chief Justice at the Royal Courts of Justice rather than by the monarch in person, but for centuries it has been a pageant, with much finery on display, with tableaux and floats (indeed the name 'float' originated from the elaborate displays which were brought up-river on decorated barges). All the main Livery Companies are represented, and the last Show included some you may not have heard of - the Worshipful Company of Lorimers (makers of spurs, bridles, stirrups and metalwork for the harness of a horse) the Woolmen (around since 1180) and the Glovers (makers of gloves since well before 1349). Then there is the Worshipful Company of Fletchers (they make arrows, and suppor archery at all levels) and the Brodereres (celebrating their 450th anniversary as the ancient guild of embroiderers). Different livery companies are featured each year, and last year particular attention was due to the Worshipful Company of Paviors (makers of roads) since their leader, Michael Bear, was elected Lord Mayor in a Silent Ceremony at London's Guildhall in the autumn. By profession he is a civil engineer, and his year in office provided him with a platform to act as an ambassador for all UK-based financial and professional services. The appointment entails something like 700 speeches in the year addresssing some ten thousand people a month and travelling overseas for roughly three months out of twelve. Try doing that and maintaining your waistline!

Some time in the fifteenth century the Lord Mayor, then a draper called Joh Norman, decided to make at least part of the journey by boat, and the livery companies vied with each other for grand barges to accompany the procession. It became the 'done thing' to view proceedings from the water - hence Richard's reference to it in his diary. It would have been a grand spectacle, with music, singing and great displays. Then, as now, there would have been fireworks. No wonder Canaletto, who visited London on several occasions, painted no fewer than five views of the pageant. Seen from the water, here are two showing the activity on the River Thames on the day of the Show:

Just twenty or so years before Richard's diary entry a decision was made to use a formal carriage to enable the Lord Mayor to make the part of the journey which was not water-borne in style. An earlier mayor had fallen from his horse and broken a leg when being barracked by a woman variously described as a flower seller and a fishwife. Maybe she was both, but it was a serious case of lèse-majesté and a coach was accordingly hired each year to carry the Lord Mayor, led by four horses. Hogarth records the scene in his 1754 engraving entitled 'Industry and Idleness' Plate 12; The Industrious 'Prentice Lord-Mayor of London.

In time it was felt that a more flamboyant, purpose-built, carriage was called for. It was commissioned from Joseph Berry of Holborn, and cost £1065 in 1757. Each of the aldermen had to cough up some sixty pounds (nearly £5000 in today's money). It is a wonderful sight with its gilded and elaborately decorated equipage. The side panels were decorated by the Italian painter Cipriani, and the vehicle is drawn by six horses. When it is not in use it is displayed in the Museum of London.

The Lord Mayor's coach is older even than the Coronation coach and is a real masterpiece. My ancestor Richard Hall did a delightful paper cut-out of just such a 'Cinderella' coach.

In Richard's day all the apprentices would have been given the day off to follow the procession and to see the tableaux and wonder at the sheer glitter of it all. London was indeed a city of huge wealth, just as much as it was a place of grinding poverty. This was their chance to express their pride in the City. There would have been much carousing on the streets, alcohol would have been imbibed in immoderate quantities, the pickpockets would have had a field day, and the whores of London would have been totally exhausted by the end of the evening.

Historically the show was always held on 29 October each year. When the Gregorian Calendar was introduced in 1752 the effect was that we 'lost' 11 days and the Show was held eleven days later i.e. on 9 November. It stayed there until 1959 when it was moved to the second Saturday in November, which is how it came to be held on 12 November 2011.

For my ancestor Richard Hall, the Lord Mayor’s Show was a ‘must-see’ every November. But what comes across in his diaries, and I hope I have demonstrated this in the Journal of a Georgian Gentleman, is how much of everyday leisure time in the Eighteenth Century was spent seeing the sights. He would go and see the wax works, or the Tower of London, or the British Museum, or visit an art gallery or a play at Covent Garden, and faithfully set down both the event and the price of admission (and whether or not he bought macaroons!). The book shows what everyday life consisted of – free time as well as work – and it isn’t that much different from modern lives! Details of the book are at my website and I sometimes do extracts from it on my blogsite.

The Canaletto paintings were take from Canaletto: The Complete Works.

The Mohocks terrorize Georgian London by Dark of Night

by Tim Queeney

As one of the largest cities in the world in 1751, it is no surprise that London had its share of crime, street violence and general thuggery. Life in the great city was a wonder for the privileged few and and an ordeal for the struggling many, but for all walks of life, London could become brooding and sinister with the fall of night. As Christopher Hibbert writes in London, The Biography of a City, "...a reading of contemporary newspapers confirms the belief that London...was one of the most lawless cities in Europe." And a notorious nighttime danger in 18th century London was a shadowy and violent band dubbed the "Mohocks."

Crime of every sort could be found in the capital: thievery, pocket picking, burglary, swindling, pilfering, housebreaking, highway robbery, assault and murder. In the latter half of the century, one authority stated that no less than "115,000 persons in London were regularly engaged in criminal pursuits..." Indeed, Hibbert notes, "A country visitor to London in 1744 thought the metropolis had become 'really dangerous.' Pickpockets, he told a friend, formerly content with mere filching now made 'no scruple to knock people down with their bludgeons on Fleet Street and the Strand and that at no later hour than eight o'clock at night.'" Residents of the city needed to keep their wits about them. The famous wordsmith Dr. Johnson, wending his way home at night after a meeting of his club at the Turk's Head tavern, "carried a big stick which he could wield to good purpose."

And though ordinary criminals in search of coin were an ever present danger, there was also a band of night stalkers whose no other purpose was "doing all possible to hurt to their fellow creatures." These were the Mohocks, "a society whose name was derived from the supposedly most ferocious" of Native American tribes in the colonies.

The playwright John Gay wrote of them:

"Who has not trembled at the Mohocks' name?
"Was there a watchman took his hourly rounds
"Safe from their blows or newly invented wounds?"

The Mohocks were young men of the nobility or gentry who went about town "scowering," attacking passersby, including members of the watch out patrolling the streets. They bludgeoned and beat their victims, but were also well known to draw blood, often by cutting the face or famously slitting a victim's nostril. Mohock attackers were known to thrust their swords into the side of sedan chairs, risking the skewering and murder of those within.

Hibbert writes, "John Bouch, a watchman, was attacked on Essex Street on 11 March by around twenty men with swords and sticks, 'they intending ... to nail him up in his watch house, and roll him about the street.'"

John Fielding warned those newly arrived to London of the danger of going about at night: "he will sometimes be liable to the more dangerous attacks of intemperate rakes in hot blood; who... scower the streets to shew their manhood, not their humanity; put the watch to flight; and now and then have murdered some harmless and inoffensive person."

Few Mohocks were ever apprehended and fewer still were called to account for their crimes. These were young men with money and family connections, such as Lord Hinchingbroke and the baronet Sir Mark Cole, who could buy their way out of any legal action.

In my novel George in London, young George Washington and his friend Darius Attucks, who calls George by the nickname '"Geo," are aware of the Mohock danger in London's night streets, yet still find themselves ensnared by them:

"When we emerged from the tavern, Geo and I again found ourselves in the night city. We traversed dark streets and bumped down inky alleys as we struggled to find Julian Square. The dark was challenge enough. We were further hampered, however, by our evening’s companion: John Barleycorn. He made us to stumble and he slurred our minds.

"On several occasions I looked behind and was nearly certain I saw a shade pacing us. But I shook it off, attributing it to the effects of drink.

"Thus,’twas a rude shock when another shade suddenly appeared to block our path. He wore no coat, only a black waistcoat over a charcoal blouse. His black breeches were tucked into black boots. His eyes were covered by a black mask — such as is worn in Venice at carnival. At his side hung a black-sheathed sword. While he wore black, he was no African like myself. He was as white as Geo and just as tall.

“'Greetings, sirs,' the black-clad man said in seeming good humor.

“'What d’he say, ‘Green tea is served?’' Geo slurred, 'What does that mean?'

"I heard a noise behind us and turned to see another black-clad man. Any thought of Geo and I attempting to overpower one blackened knave fled when the second fiend showed himself.

“'Please follow us,' the first man said, with a black-gloved hand on his sword hilt.

"Since Geo was in no condition to overcome even so much as a kitten, I assured our dark interlocutor we would follow him, and that there was no need for violence.

"He led us through narrow passages, hidden alleys and winding stairs. We moved through nighttime London as shades in a brick underworld, never taking a main street. Instead we passed unseen as if traveling via the deepest caverns of the earth. After some time we arrived at a sunken graveyard. We stumbled over a crumbling wall and our feet sunk into the soft soil of fresh graves.

"In a corner I heard the scraping of a shovel. The weak light of a stub candle suggested bent figures hauling a coffin from the soil. The grave robbers took little heed of our passing but continued their devilish work.

"Ahead was a small chapel, its stones stained by ages of coal smoke. From within, a flame flickered. The chapel’s windows threw tombstones of light on the dead man’s ground. Our dark guide brought us to the door of the chapel and a voice from within bade us enter.

"Geo led me past the half-opened door. Arranged inside was a rough gang of men, well-armed and of a sinister aspect equal to our two guides: they also were swathed in black and masked. The fairest one, a man with light brown eyes and brown hair, held position in the center of the group and seemed the leader. He spoke.

“'We grant you safe passage this night.'

“'And what — ’scuse me — who, are you to grant us such?' Geo stammered.

“'We are the rulers of the night,' the handsome one replied.

"It was then I supposed who these men were. We had been granted an audience with none other than the Mohocks. These were the fearful ones who were whispered to perpetrate odious deeds in the dark."

Little did George and Darius know what this meeting with the dark society would lead to in the years hence.

George in London is an ebook available for Kindle and Nook.

Sources:

Hibbert, Christopher; London, The Biography of a City, William Morrow and Co., New York, 1969.

Shoemaker, Robert B.; The London Mob, Violence and Disorder in Eighteenth-Century England, Hambledon and London, New York, 2004

Bayne-Powell, Rosamond; Eighteenth-Century London Life, E.P. Dutton, New York, 1938

Rude, George; Hanoverian London 1714-1808, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1971

Flip, Shrub and other drinks favored of Georgian Londoners

by Tim Queeney

While researching my book, George in London, set in 1751, I came across many intriguing types food enjoyed by Londoners of the Georgian era. Among the most colorful of these were the names of popular drinks. From small beer and perry to flip and shrub, the drinks of 18th century Londoners often carried names whimsical to our modern ears.

Take rum fustian, for example. It’s a wonderfully old fashioned name. Not one you’re likely to hear today. If it was, you might at least expect you were getting a rum drink. But you would be wrong. Rum fustian was made with a quart of strong beer, a pint of gin, a bottle of sherry and 12 eggs, smoothly mixed and flavored with nutmeg, lemon and sugar.

The key element in the fustian was gin. And gin was a wildly popular drink in Georgian London. So popular and so cheap -- you could buy a large quantity for only a penny -- there were fears that English society would collapse due to the drunkenness, illness and death brought on by widespread gin abuse during the Gin Craze. Artist William Hogarth’s engraving "Gin Lane" (image above), shows the state of alarm many people felt about the Gin Craze. A distilled liquor that uses juniper berries for flavoring, gin consumption was rampant from the 1730s to roughly 1750 when the Gin Craze began to taper off. As Rosamond Bayne-Powell writes in Eighteenth Century London Life, “...working men went into gin shops on Saturday night, and were found lying dead drunk on the pavement the next morning.”

Along with gin, the other widely consumed drink in London was beer. In 1725, Londoners drank 1,970,989 barrels of strong beer. London had, by one eighteenth century count, 207 inns, 447 taverns, 5,875 beerhouses and 8,659 brandy shops dispensing beer and other drink. If that prodigious amount of strong beer was imbibed, what was small beer? As its name suggests, small beer had a low alcohol content and was considered fit for servants and children! This dispensing of beer to children, while alarming by modern standards, wasn’t quite as callous as it sounds. Water supplies in the eighteenth century were often dangerously contaminated. The alcohol in small beer was usually sufficient to kill deadly microorganisms.

Wine was also popular. Since Britain was often at war with France in the eighteenth century, French wine could be hard to come by. The solution was Portuguese wine, including wines shipped from the city of Oporto, hence the name “port” for wine from Portugal. The 1725 numbers had London consuming 30,000 tuns of wine. A tun was a large barrel holding roughly 256 gallons or about 960 liters. Thus, the 30,000 tuns equaled about 7,680,000 gallons of wine.

What about the other colorful drink names? Perry was a drink made from pears, much as hard cider was made from apples. Shrub was a drink made with a “shrub” or concentrate of orange or lemon juice mixed with sugar and rum. Toddy was hot black tea to which was added sugar or honey, cloves or cinnamon and whiskey. And porter was a type of dark beer brewed with dark malts. It was from porter that stout evolved.

Perhaps the most quaint name for an eighteenth century drink enjoyed by Londoners is flip. Flip was made by mixing ale with sugar, adding eggs and a spice such as nutmeg or cinnamon and then a liberal portion of rum or whiskey. Then the liquid was made to “flip” or froth by immersing a red-hot poker from the fire. This was a popular drink with sailors and Darius Attucks, the mariner who accompanies young George Washington on his adventure in London in my book George in London would likely have had flip often.

During George and Darius’ adventure in London they attend a gala ball at the house of George’s patron, the Baron Mowenholtz. Darius describes the refreshments for the guests:

“The back hall nearest the kitchen was provided with several long tables and lit by four candelabras. Across the tables was arrayed a rich selection of sweet meats, roasts of beef, quails, pigeon pie, cold mutton, veal chops, Colchester oysters, ox palates, pickled whiting, turtle soup, peas, boiled potatoes, leeks, apples, oranges, plums, cheeses both white and yellow, loaves of bread, cakes, syllabubs, Atholl Brose, fruit pies and tarts. To drink were bottles of cherry wine, a bowl of brandy punch, fustian punch, mulled wine, French claret, Madeira Sack, heavy port wine, porter, ale, gin and rum — as this last was a sailor’s spirit, I fancied the baron had provided it for my benefit and so availed myself aplenty.”

My book George in London is available on Amazon for Kindle and will be available in other formats soon. Tim’s news satire website is Height of Eye.





Sources: Dr. Johnson’s London, Coffee-Houses and Climbing Boys, Medicine, Toothpaste and Gin, Poverty and Press-Gangs, Freakshows and Female Education; Liza Picard, St. Martin’s Press, 2000.

Eighteenth Century London Life; Rosamond Bayne-Powell, E.P. Dutton, 1938.

Hanoverian London 1714-1808; George Rude, University of California Press, 1971

A Sea of Words, A Lexicon and Companion to the Complete Seafaring Tales of Patrick O’Brian; Dean King, Owl Books, 2000.