Flu Season in Jane Austen's Time

By Lauren Gilbert

Recovery from Sickness, An Allegory by Sir Joshua Reynolds

Here we are in the depths of winter.  We all know someone who has it, has recovered from it, or is trying hard not to get it.  What might “it” be?  That miserable cold, the awful flu, whatever it is that is going around.  Interestingly enough, it was all going around in Jane Austen’s time, too.  However, the seriousness of the winter ailments and their effects in the late 18^th and early 19^th century is frequently forgotten or overlooked today.

In the early part of the 19^th century, medicine had improved dramatically.  Superstition was waning - people no longer believed that the ruler’s touch could heal a form of tubercular infection called scrofula (or “King’s Evil”).  Bathing was becoming more common.  Vaccination with the cowpox vaccine was making inroads on that dreaded scourge, smallpox.  However, bleeding, laudanum and bathing in or drinking spa waters were still standby treatments for many illnesses.

Two of the winter ailments in Jane Austen’s time were the “epidemic cold” and the “putrid sore throat.”  The epidemic cold appears to be basically the same as it is today; a virus resulting in sneezing, sore throat, coughing, slight fever, and so forth.  It would appear that the standard treatment was staying in, keeping warm, and getting plenty of rest, as it is today.  (It must be noted that, in Miss Austen's time, the stricture to get plenty of rest would have been reinforced with a few drops of laudanum, if necessary!) 

The second ailment, the “putrid sore throat,” was much more serious, indeed life threatening.  This term appears to cover a variety of ailments, all manifesting in the throat.  At its most basic, a putrid sore throat seems to be a sore throat complicated by serious infection resulting in any or all of these: accumulation of pus, ulceration and sloughing of soft tissue at the back of the throat, and even gangrene.  In trying to identify this illness with modern diseases, it has been linked to tonsillitis, diphtheria, bronchitis, and even a form of streptococcal throat infection, as well as scarlatina or scarlet fever, and possibly measles.  Obviously, this would be a very painful condition.  

Scarlet fever, measles, diphtheria, and strep are also quite contagious.  It is also worth noting that all of these conditions frequently resulted in death or disability, such as damage to the heart.   While most are considered childhood diseases, adults can also contract these illnesses.  Lacking knowledge of germs, bacteria and other microorganisms, as well as the issues of sepsis, these conditions could sweep through a household (or a neighborhood), creating havoc if not outright death. 

Diphtheria produces fever and weakness, and causes the formation of a thick gray membrane in the throat, causing difficulty breathing and swallowing.  Scarlet fever and scarlatina result from infection with type A strep bacteria, and are characterized by a fever, sore throat, and a bright red rash; there is also flushing from high fever.  Tonsillitis is the inflammation of tonsils resulting from infection by a virus or bacteria, with symptoms including fever and sore throat; if the result of a bacterial infection, this can be contagious.  Measles also manifest with fever, sore throat, a rash. 

Treatment of illness and high fevers included blisters (which literally raised blisters on the head or other part of the body where applied), broths made of various materials (some harmless, some not), poultices, patent medicines of questionable value and homemade remedies.  Mercury and other toxic substances were considered medicinal and may have been included in many concoctions. CULPEPER'S COMPLETE HERBAL AND ENGLISH PHYSICIAN included many herbs with medicinal properties.  

Willow was considered cooling and a tea made of willow bark was used for fever.  Sorrel was also cooling, useful for skin conditions (including itching) and good for sores or ulcers in the mouth when used as a rinse or gargle.  Pennyroyal  was recommended for phlegm, headache and cough.  While these and similar herbal tonics might have ameliorated some symptoms, they were unlikely to effect a cure.  They also depended on availability-not everyone had access to an apothecary or the means to buy herbs, if they did not have their own gardens or stillrooms.

The similarities of the symptoms of these diseases, as well as the fact that they were all common in Jane Austen’s time, make the question of pinning down an exact definition of what disease constituted a putrid sore throat very difficult.  The real issue is that the lack of modern medical treatment, some of which evolved later in the 19^th century, made treatment very difficult, infection hard to contain, and recovery as much a matter of luck and a good constitution as anything else.  The discovery of how disease spreads, improved vaccination for more diseases, and antibiotics have drastically reduced, if not eliminated, these conditions today, and the resulting damage that these conditions can cause, which include heart damage, blindness, deafness, and even brain damage from an uncontrolled high fever.  

  

Thanks to modern medicine, our concept of “flu season” is much more an uncomfortable inconvenience; in Jane Austen’s time, it was truly a major threat.
~~~~~~~~~~
Sources include:
CULPEPER'S COMPLETE HERBAL, AND ENGLISH PHYSICIAN.  Manchester: J Gleave and Son, Deansgate, 1826.  Facsimile edition reproduced by Harvey Sales, 1981.  (Nicholas Culpeper published THE ENGLISH PHYSICIAN in 1652, and the COMPLETE HERBAL in 1653.  Numerous editions were published.)
Olsen, Kirstin.  DAILY LIFE IN 18th CENTURY ENGLAND. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1999.
“18th Century Medicine.” by Tim Lambert.  LIFE IN THE 18th CENTURY. HERE
19th Century Diseases. HERE 
Bader, Ted, “Mr. Woodhouse is not a Hypochondriac!” PERSUASIONS On-Line, V. 21 , No. 2 (Summer 2000). HERE 
“Health and Medicine in the 19th Century,” by Tim Lambert.  LIFE IN THE 19th CENTURY.   HERE
Landers, John.  DEATH AND THE METROPOLIS Studies in the Demographic History of London, 1670-1830.  Cambridge Books On-Line.  The Autumn Diseases and the ‘putrid sore throat’ pp. 363-364.  HERE
MedicineNet.com.  HERE
English Glossary Causes of Death and other Archaic Medical Terms. HERE 
Image is in the Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lauren Gilbert published her first book, HEYERWOOD: A Novel, in 2011 and her second, A RATIONAL ATTACHMENT, is in process.  She lives in Florida with her husband.  Visit her website at www.lauren-gilbert.com

England and the Aquitaine Part II: Richard

by Helena P Schrader

Last month, I noted that an English Friend used to lament that: “England has gone downhill ever since she lost the Aquitaine!” (For those of you who are a bit rusty with the date: that was 1454.) You might be forgiven—thinking of the Glories of the Empire—that he was very much mistaken, although I dare say he was thinking mostly of the climate and the wine. Nevertheless, the Aquitaine was immensely important to England in the three hundred years preceding its final loss and is strongly associated with three of England’s most charismatic historical figures: Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard the Lionheart and Edward, the Black Prince. Today I continue my three-part examination of England and the Aquitaine with a look at the importance of Aquitaine to Richard the Lionheart.

Richard I's Tomb at Fontevault

Richard was born in 1157 to Henry II, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Count of Anjou, and his queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was the third son born to the couple, but his eldest brother, William, had already died before he made his appearance, making him effectively the second son. His elder brother Henry was, in an age where primogeniture was increasingly common but not 100% institutionalized, the heir apparent to his father’s kingdom and other possessions. Fortunately for Richard, his mother was also a great heiress. She held not only the Aquitaine, from which she derived her title, but also Gascony and Poitou. Her domains stretched from the Loire to the Pyrenees, from the Massive Central to the Atlantic. Furthermore, it was already common practice (though not legally necessary) for younger sons to be endowed with lands acquired by marriage or purchase. In 1168, Henry II did exactly this; he announced his intention to give his eldest son his own inheritance and to give his son Richard his wife’s inheritance. 

In early 1169, Richard did homage to the King of France for Poitou and Aquitaine, while his elder brother did homage for Normandy, Anjou and Maine. Richard was also formally betrothed to the daughter of King Louis VII, Alice (or Alys). Shortly afterwards, he started taking part in official functions beside his mother. In June 1172, he was symbolically invested with Aquitaine in the Abbey of St. Hilaire in Poitiers, where he was handed the lance and banner of Aquitaine from the bishops of Bordeaux and Poitiers. But it was not until 1173, when at the age of 15 he was knighted by the French King, that he officially entered manhood in the medieval world and thereby acquired the right to “take up” his inheritance.

Meanwhile, however, Richard had already started to identify himself strongly with the Aquitaine.  He had already spent much of his life there. Eleanor is known to have kept her children with her as much as possible, and she was frequently in her possessions even in the early years of her marriage to Henry. In 1166, however, she officially took up residence in Poitiers, and she took Richard with her. From then until Richard joined his elder brother’s first rebellion against their father in 1173, Richard lived with his mother in the Aquitaine. These were highly formative years, from the age of nine to fifteen. They left their mark on Richard in many ways.

This was when Richard not only learned to speak the Langue d’Oc of his mother’s territories (and incidentally the language of his future wife as well), he also learned a love of music and troubadours that remained with him to his death. Indeed, Richard was capable of composing lyrics and music himself. In that he took after his great-grandfather, William IX of Aquitaine, who in addition to being a crusader had been an outstanding troubadour and allegedly a man who “turned everything into a joke” (according to William of Malmesbury).  The Aquitaine also contained some of the most magnificent architectural monuments of the age, schools of sculpture and the home of enamel working in Limoges — all things that Richard would have been exposed to while growing up. Furthermore, Aquitaine was rich in wine, game, and agricultural produce — everything needed to support a lifestyle of luxury in the medieval context. Richard, unlike his father, was known to love the trappings of wealth as much as the substance. Richard, like his great-grand father, had a sense of humor appreciated even by his Saracen enemies. Richard was very much a product of the South of France by the time he became a man. He remained it all his life. 

Cloisters at Moissac

As for the rebellion against his father in 1173, we cannot know his motives for sure, but John Gillingham argues in his biography of Richard that Eleanor had reasons to fear her husband trying to extend his control over her territories and infringing on the independence of her inheritance. As long as Eleanor and Henry had been in harmony, jointly building an empire for posterity, there had been no rivalry between them, but as the break between Eleanor and Henry grew, Eleanor appears to have resented her husband’s interference in her lands. She is widely credited with convincing Richard that he should toss off his father’s yoke just as his elder brother was doing and take control of the lands settled upon him for himself. In short, he should seek to become Duke of Aquitaine in fact as well as name.

Richard’s first rebellion against his father was not a success. Many citizens had no desire to support an untried youth against a king with as formidable a reputation as Henry Plantagenet. Although Richard had some supports and was stubborn in his resistance, he did not dare risk a direct confrontation with a man who had won so many battles already. When he learned his elder brother and the French King had already submitted to Henry, Richard too bowed to the inevitable and threw himself on his father’s mercy. He was forgiven, and not just nominally. Richard had lost his bid for autonomy and real power, but he had not (yet) lost the Aquitaine itself. For the next ten years, he ruled the Aquitaine as his father’s deputy.

These were not peaceful years. Richard had temporarily given up his fight for independence, but many of the barons of Aquitaine had not. Richard was sent by his father to subdue his erstwhile allies—and he did. But not easily. He had to ask his father for help more than once. In the end, however, as Gillingham writes: “Richard … exceeded his father’s expectations. The combination of the father’s resources and occasional presence with Richard’s determination and burgeoning military skills had, it seems, pacified even the most independent parts of the duchy.” (Richard I, p. 63.)  Church chroniclers were quick to claim that Richard was hated by his barons for his “cruelty,” but the lords of Aquitaine needed no such excuse for rebellion. They had rebelled against Eleanor (because she was a weak woman) and her father and her grandfather…. Rebellion was in their nature, and Richard did what any ruler of his time had to do: assert his authority by force of arms.

The rebels, however, faced with an indomitable military leader like Richard, looked for allies—and found the perfect candidate in the Richard’s elder brother, Henry the Young King. The latter was intensely jealous of Richard’s independence and success. In a complicated family drama, Henry the Young King sought to garner support from the Old King by doing homage and swearing eternal loyalty – and then turning on his brother and claiming the Aquitaine. Henry II didn’t fall for the trick. He tried to make peace between his sons. Unfortunately, Henry the Young King didn’t want peace, he wanted the Aquitaine. Richard wasn’t about to give it up. It came to a bloody showdown with the King of France, the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Toulouse and the perpetual rebel barons of the Aquitaine all lined up behind Henry the Young King  to fight against Richard — and his father the Old King. The latter two won!

The image of Richard hounding his father to a terrible and lonely death in 1189 tends to so overshadow all that went before that the degree to which Richard and Henry II worked together in the decade from 1173 - 1183 is all but forgotten. While it goes beyond the scope of this essay, I think it is fair to remember that love and hate are often intimately interrelated. Betrayed love is a common cause of bitter hatred. Many crimes of passion grow from exactly this motive. We may think of betrayed erotic love — the murder of a faithless lover or the seducer of one’s love — but the filial love betrayed might also ignite hatred, especially in a man as passionate as Richard the Lionheart. 

With the death of the Young King, however, the dynamic and the relationship between Richard and Henry II unalterably changed. Suddenly, Richard was no longer the younger son, he was instantly the heir apparent to his father’s heritage. That is, he was heir to England, Normandy, Anjou and Maine. There were three fundamental problems with this: 1) Henry II had no intention of giving up the real power in his territories to Richard any more than he had to the Young King, and 2) Richard was not inclined to become a puppet king like his elder brother, and 3) Richard was still Duke of Aquitaine.

Richard's Castle in Poitiers

The latter was a problem because it made him master of everything, but he had a younger brother who had practically nothing. Henry, not unreasonably, thought that if Richard was getting a kingdom (plus Normandy, Anjou and Maine), he ought to share with his little brother — namely give him the Aquitaine. Unfortunately, by now Richard was 26 and he’d spent the better part of his life in Aquitaine. He’d attended his father’s court in Normandy and Anjou often enough, but he’d had no cause to go to England for almost two decades. England might be a kingdom, but it wasn’t home. More important, he’d fought for the Aquitaine — risking life, limb and fortune there. Predictably, therefore, when Henry II ordered Richard to turn over the Aquitaine to John, Richard flatly refused. He told his father he would never allow anyone to take his place as Duke of Aquitaine. And so a new intra-family war began.

Henry first tried to persuade Richard to relent, and when this didn’t work, he apparently told John if he wanted the Aquitaine he should take it by force of arms. The remark was probably made more in a fit of exasperated temper (such as the one that resulted in the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury) because when Henry heard that John (joined by brother Geoffrey) had indeed attacked the Aquitaine he summed all three of his sons to England and effected a formal reconciliation. 

But, of course, nothing had been resolved. Richard was still heir presumptive to his father’s domains and very much in control of his mother’s as well. Henry next tried to persuade Eleanor to use her influence over Richard. It is interesting that at this juncture, ten years after her rebellion and imprisonment that Henry still presumed she had influence over Richard. But he didn’t trust Eleanor entirely and now (foolishly it seems in retrospect) started to himself play his sons off against one another, making Geoffrey (of all people!) his deputy in Normandy. Henry may have hoped that Richard would come to heel if he thought his claim to his patrimony was not secure, but the tactic did not work.

So Henry played the Eleanor card again: he ordered Richard to surrender Aquitaine not to John but to his mother. Richard dutifully did so — a very strong statement about his relationship to her despite ten years of separation and despite the fact that he got nothing in return. One can only speculate that he was confident that she would not give the Aquitaine to anyone but him! But the agreement also notably reconciled him (temporarily) with his father. Once again, father and son acted in harmony.  Richard moved against a rebellious Count of Toulouse, and received financial support for doing so from his father. They also campaigned together against a French invasion of Angevin territories on the Loire.

It was not until summer of 1187 that the break really came between Richard and Henry. The instigator appears to have been the French King, who convinced Richard that his father meant to disinherit him entirely. It’s hard to believe Philip would have been successful if Richard hadn’t harbored doubts already or if his relationship with his father had been good. There must have been quarrels and tensions that did not make it into the chronicles. Richard must have felt threatened or slighted or cheated. In any case, he rebelled again, and this time alone. He seized his father’s treasure at Chinon, but before it came to outright conflict the news of the loss of Jerusalem reached the West.

Richard was one of the first to “take the cross” and swear to regain the Holy Land. Henry II is said to have been stunned by Richard’s move. Indeed his reaction (he allegedly did not talk to anyone for days) is evidence of how much he respected and depended on Richard. Had he truly planned to disinherit him, Henry would have been delighted to see Richard go to Jerusalem — and stay there, dead or alive. He could had sent him off to regain the crown of Jerusalem, and given his own empire to John. But Henry did not want to see Richard go to distant Jerusalem. He wanted him at home defending the Angevin Empire from a clearly hostile Philip of France.

The situation was temporarily resolved by Henry II and Philip also taking the cross. The general idea being that no one would be around to prey upon the other’s weaknesses if they all went crusading together. In the event, however, the mutual suspicions were simply too great for this solution. Returning to the theme of this essay, it was a revolt in the Aquitaine that distracted Richard from the crusade. He turned to put it down and then became embroiled in a new war with the Count of Toulouse. The King of France used this as an excuse to attack along the Loire again. Henry and Richard were partners again; the Plantagenets were fighting the Capets, the crusade forgotten.  

French King at War against the English during the 100 Years War

Then Richard and Henry quarreled yet again. The reason was the apparent willingness of Henry to sacrifice some of Richard’s gains in Toulouse in exchange for securing better terms in Anjou. Richard would not accept this. He sought better terms from Philip — and was again caught in the French King’s web. Philip persuaded him to publicly demand recognition as his father’s heir (without giving up the Aquitaine, note!). Henry replied evasively and Richard took offense. He publicly did homage to Philip II of France. It was November 1188.

Eight months later, Henry II was defeated and dead, a victim less of his son than his own intransigence. Gillingham sums it up like this: “The Old King may have been obsessed by the problems that had arisen after he had recognized young Henry as his heir and determined not to make the same mistake. But it would not have been the same mistake. Richard was not Henry. In character he was very different from his dead elder brother. He was now thirty-one years old and a soldier and a politician of great experience. When entrusted with government, he did not make a mess of it.” (Richard I, p. 97.)

Henry II's Tomb at Fontevrault

Henry’s death was certainly tragic, and had he been less stubborn a reconciliation with Richard would almost certainly have been possible. They had fought together far more often than against one another!  Had Henry fully acknowledged Richard as his heir (without taking away the Aquitaine!), Richard very likely would have joined forces against Philip II — or gone happily off on crusade — rather than fight his father. What is of interest to us here is that the bone of contention with his father was consistently the Aquitaine. Richard was not willing to give it up at any price, and every time his father tried to take it — or even parts of it — away, Richard rebelled.

At his father’s death, Richard indeed inherited it all: England, Normandy, Anjou, and Maine, without surrendering his rights as his mother’s heir to Aquitaine, Gascony and Poitou. He was also still committed to recovering Jerusalem, and the next four years of his life were spent preparing for, conducting and then returning from crusade. The last six years of his reign were spent fighting for the Angevin Empire in a horrible war of attrition mostly carried out in Normandy.

But it was the Aquitaine that claimed him in the end.  His determination to hold on the Aquitaine led him to the fateful siege of Châlus. Had he not felt compelled to put down yet another revolt by lords in Aquitaine, he might have lived to either defeat Philip II once and for all or go on another crusade and reclaim Jerusalem. (No, the story of Richard seeking treasure being the cause of his siege of Châlus has been completely debunked. See Jean Flori’s biography, Richard the Lionheart, for a very comprehensive discussion siting all the primary sources).

Richard the Lionheart was King of England and a famous crusader, but his heart was in the Aquitaine.

Sources:               
Gillingham, John, Richard I, Yale University Press, 1999.
Flori, Jean, Richard the Lionheart, Praeger, 2006.

Helena Schrader is the currently writing a three part biography of Balian d’Ibelin, who served as Richard the Lionheart’s envoy to Saladin in 1192. Balian’s relationship with Richard and their common struggle to recapture Jerusalem 1191-1192 is the subject of the third book in her Balian series, Envoy of Jerusalem. The first two books in the series, Knight of Jerusalem and Defender of Jerusalem, were released in 2014 and 2015 respectively. You can find out more about them and Crusader Jerusalem at http://defenderofjerusalem.com and more about all of Helena’s books at: http://helenapschrader.com.

Valentine's Day: A Brief History

by Margaret Porter

 

Oft have I heard both youth and virgins say
Birds choose their mates, and couple too this day;
But by their flight I never can divine
When I shall couple with my Valentine.
                                        --Robert Herrick

Origins.

In ancient Rome on 15th February, young men drew young women's names in honour of the goddess Februata-Juno. After Christianity was established, the church replaced the pagan ritual and chose the preceding day to venerate St Valentine of Rome. 

Valentine's baptism of St Lucilla by Jacopo Bassano

Valentine's precise identity is mysterious--he might have been a Bishop of Terni, he might have been a priest. Legends about him are various. According to one of them, he actively converted Romans to Christianity, drawing upon himself the wrath of Emperor Claudius II, who demanded that he renounce his faith or be beaten and beheaded. Valentine refused, and was executed--possibly in 269 but perhaps in subsequent years. His other claim to fame is for supposedly marrying lovers in secret to prevent the husbands being sent off to war. One of his best-known miracles was curing his jailer's daughter's blindness. Before being led away to his death, he is believed to have left behind a note for her signed, "Your Valentine."

Archaeologists discovered evidence of his existence in a Roman catacomb and found the remains of an ancient church dedicated to him. In 496, to honour his martyrdom, Pope Gelasius designated 14th February as his saint's day. Valentine remains on the Roman Catholic list of saints, although he was de-listed from veneration in 1969. Within the Anglican Communion 14th February is an official feast day. He is the patron saint of lovers, engaged persons, and happily married couples--but also bee keepers, travellers, and those suffering from epilepsy, fainting, and plague.


England

During the Middle Ages in England it was believed that birds choose their mates in mid-February. In 1361 Chaucer aligns this belief with observance of the saint, in his poem The Parliament of Fowls, commemorating the marriage of King Richard II and Anne of Bohemia:

For this was on Seynt Valentynes day,
Whan every foul cometh ther to chese his make,
...
This noble emperesse, ful of grace,
Bad every foul to take his owne place,
As they were wont alwey fro yeer to yere,
Seynt Valentynes day, to stonden there.

On the 14th it was customary for young men to draw names from a bowl as a way of choosing a female valentine. A paper bearing that person's name was attached to the sleeve. Thus, the phrase "wear your heart on your sleeve" is very old indeed! The drawing of valentines crossed social boundaries, so in the traditional lottery a maid might draw her master's name.

Henry VIII in 1537, by Holbein

The Tudors made the most of the occasion, and in 1537, King Henry VIII--who loved to be in love--decreed by Royal Charter that Valentine's Day would become a holiday in England.

It was popularly believed that the first person an individual met on that day (though not a family member) would be their Valentine, and if you were choosy you would keep your eyes shut until an acceptable prospect materialised. Shakespeare's Ophelia expresses her desire to be the first person Hamlet sees in the morning, with this rhyme,

To morrow is Saint Valentine's
All in the morning betime
And I a maid at your window
To be your Valentine

Various forms of prognostication arose. To know the occupation of her future husband, a girl would look to the skies. If she saw a blackbird, he'd be a clergyman; a robin meant a sailor; a goldfinch indicated a rich man; a blue tit predicted a happy  man; a crossbill, an argumentative man; a dove for a good man. If she saw a woodpecker, she'd have no man at all.

She might also place a single bay leaf beneath her pillow, reciting, "Saint Valentine, be kind to me, This night may I my true love see."

It was bad luck to bring snowdrops into the house on Valentine's, or else the girls dwelling there will never be wed.

In a Leap Year, girls were permitted to propose marriage to bachelors on Valentine's Day as well as on the 29th of February.

17th Century

 

17h Century glove

The day continued to be a romantic occasion marked by gift-giving. It was considered lucky to present your true love with new gloves, as stated in this rhyme of the period:

Good morrow, Valentine, I go today
To wear for you what you must pay.
A pair of gloves next Easter Day.

 


According to Monsieur Misson, a French visitor to England, the drawing of names continued to be popular:

On the Eve of the 14th of February, St Valentine's Day, an equal Number of Maids and Batchelors get together each writes their true or some feign'd Name upon separate Billets which they roll up and draw by way of Lots, the Maids taking the Men's Billets and the Men the Maids' so that each of the young Men lights upon a Girl that he calls his Valentine and each of the Girls upon a young Man which she calls hers. By this Means each has two Valentines but the Man sticks faster to the Valentine that is fallen to him than to the Valentine to whom he is fallen. Fortune having thus divided the Company into so many Couples, the Valentines give Balls and Treats to their Mistresses, wear their Billets several Days upon their Bosoms or Sleeves, and this little Sport often ends in Love.

Samuel Pepys by Peter Lely

 Valentine's Day was also an opportunity for pranks and frolic, and some of the best evidence of Valentine's Day merriment, expectations, and expence comes from diarist Samuel Pepys:

Thursday, 14th February 1661
14th (Valentine's day). Up early and to Sir W. Batten's, but would not go in till I asked whether they that opened the door was a man or a woman, and Mingo, who was there, answered a woman, which, with his tone, made me laugh; so up I went and took Mrs. Martha for my Valentine (which I do only for complacency), and Sir W. Batten he go in the same manner to my wife, and so we were very merry.

Friday, 14th February 1662
14th (Valentine's day). I did this day purposely shun to be seen at Sir W. Batten's, because I would not have his daughter to be my Valentine, as she was the last year, there being no great friendship between us now, as formerly. This morning in comes W. Bowyer, who was my wife's Valentine, she having, at which I made good sport to myself, held her hands [over her eyes] all the morning, that she might not see the paynters that were at work in gilding my chimney-piece and pictures in my diningroom.

Tuesday, 14th February 1665
14th (St. Valentine). This morning comes betimes Dicke Pen, to be my wife's Valentine, and come to our bedside. By the same token, I had him brought to my side, thinking to have made him kiss me; but he perceived me, and would not; so went to his Valentine: a notable, stout, witty boy. I up about business, and, opening the door, there was Bagwell's wife, with whom I talked afterwards, and she had the confidence to say she came with a hope to be time enough to be my Valentine, and so indeed she did,

Wednesday, 14th February 1666
14th (St. Valentine's day). This morning called up by Mr. Hill, who, my wife thought, had been come to be her Valentine; she, it seems, having drawne him last night, but it proved not. However, calling him up to our bed-side, my wife challenged him.

Thursday, 14 February 1667
This morning come up to my wife’s bedside, I being up dressing myself, little Will Mercer to be her Valentine; and brought her name writ upon blue paper in gold letters, done by himself, very pretty; and we were both well pleased with it. But I am also this year my wife’s Valentine, and it will cost me £5; but that I must have laid out if we had not been Valentines.

Saturday, 16 February 1667
I find Mrs. Pierce’s little girl is my Valentine, she having drawn me; which I was not sorry for, it easing me of something more that I must have given to others. But here I do first observe the fashion of drawing of mottos as well as names; so that Pierce, who drew my wife, did draw also a motto, and this girl drew another for me. What mine was I have forgot; but my wife’s was, “Most virtuous and most fair;” which, as it may be used, or an anagram made upon each name, might be very pretty.

Friday, 14th February 1668
14th (Valentine's day). Up, being called up by Mercer, who come to be my Valentine, and so I rose and my wife, and were merry a little, I staying to talk, and did give her a guinny [guinea] in gold for her Valentine's gift. There comes also my cozen Roger Pepys betimes, and comes to my wife, for her to be his Valentine, whose Valentine I was also, by agreement to be so to her every year; and this year I find it is likely to cost £4 or £5 in a ring for her, which she desires.

  18th Century

18th century puzzle valentine

Notes and letters containing verses, riddles, and anagrams, often lavishly illustrated by hand, gained prominence. Because these missives weren't signed, the recipient had to guess the sender's identity.

At the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, Valentine's Day: A Musical Drama in Two Acts was performed as an afterpiece in 1776. It sounds as though it would be a delightful entertainment, however a theatre employee recorded in his diary that it was "much hissed" and "badly performed." The critics were  a little kinder:

It would be going out of our way to dwell much on its defects; suffice it therefore that although we so far join with the audience in condemnation of it...yet we protest we have seen worse singing pieces received with applause. Jerry Jingle had some humour, and the music had great prettiness about it. (Westminster Magazine)

For a sixpence, a young woman seeking inspiration could purchase the book Every Lady's Own Valentine Writer In Prose and Verse for 1798 contained "Humorous Dialogue: Witty Valentines, with Answers; Pleasant Sonnets, on Love, Courtship, Marriage, Beauty, &c&c". The first entry is a dramatic sketch set in a girls' boarding school, in which several pupils compare their gifts--a cake, a diamond pin, a work-bag, all accompanied with a rhyme--which appear all to have come from the same young man.

Most of the romantic poems it contains are written in the form of a question or plea from the swain, immediately followed  by a set of rhymed verses from the lady, giving her answer. 

Here is a sample acrostic featured in the book:

V ain world farewell, I live for love
A mbition ne'er my soul shall move;
L ove is the all of my desire,
E ach thought, each wish, it can inspire;
N e'er can wealth my hopes excite;
T itles are mere trifles light;
I n a sound there's no delight.
N ames can never joy assign,
E xcept that of Valentine.

19th Century

 

Regency Valentine

 
In his Essays of Elia, Charles Lamb discourses upon the holiday :

...this is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other at every street and turning. The weary and all forspent twopenny postman sinks beneath a load of delicate embarrassments, not his own. It is scarcely credible to what an extent this ephemeral courtship is carried on in this loving town, to the great enrichment of porters, and detriment of knockers and bell-wires....Not many sounds in life, and I include all urban and all rural sounds, exceed in interest a knock at the door. It “gives a very echo to the throne where Hope is seated.” ...But of all the clamorous visitations the welcomest in expectation is the sound that ushers in, or seems to usher in, a Valentine.

Victorian Valentine

Remarkably, by the third decade of the century, on Valentine's Day  two hundred thousand more letters than usual were delivered through the two-penny post. Commercially printed valentines became available early in the century, and production of these grew ever more intricate and artistic. Over time, the comic valentine became popular, as did "bank notes" drawn on Cupid's Bank or "telegrams" from Cupid.

Impetuous reckless use of a valentine purchased in a shop leads to a crucial aspect of plot in Thomas Hardy's novel Far From the Madding Crowd:

It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of February. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her....

"Dear me--I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday," she exclaimed at length.

"Valentine! who for, miss?" said Liddy. "Farmer Boldwood?"

It was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just at this moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right.

"Well, no. It is only for little Teddy Coggan. I have promised him something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Liddy, you may as well bring me my desk and I'll direct it at once."

Bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illuminated and embossed design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous market-day at the chief stationer's in Casterbridge. In the centre was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion than any
generalities by a printer could possibly be.

"Here's a place for writing," said Bathsheba. "What shall I put?"

"Something of this sort, I should think," returned Liddy promptly: --

"The rose is red,
The violet blue,
Carnation's sweet,
And so are you."

"Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child like him," said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small though legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped her pen for the direction.

"What fun it would be to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and how he would wonder!" said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eyebrows, and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought of the moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated....

"No, I won't do that. He wouldn't see any humour in it."

But of course, she does. And he doesn't. A Valentine's joke that goes seriously awry!

Nowadays, as we express our affections with cards and flowers and chocolates, in social media as well as via the postal service, we perpetuate time-tested traditions that our most distant ancestors would recognise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Margaret Porter is the award-winning and bestselling author of twelve period novels, whose other publication credits include nonfiction and poetry. A Pledge of Better Times, her highly acclaimed novel of 17th century courtiers Lady Diana de Vere and Charles Beauclerk, 1st Duke of St. Albans, is her latest release, available in trade paperback and ebook. Margaret studied British history in the UK and the US. As historian, her areas of speciality are social, theatrical, and garden history of the 17th and 18th centuries, royal courts, and portraiture. A former actress, she gave up the stage and screen to devote herself to fiction writing, travel, and her rose gardens.

Author Website
Blog
Facebook  
Author Page
Twitter

Amazon

In Search of Early Tudor Magicians

By Lizzy Drake

Rattan-monodosico: An English magic sigil or device found in the Devil's Dyke.
Photo from Tumblr (The Broom Cupboard)

Most students of Tudor history are familiar with Elizabeth I's pet magician, John Dee, but they might not be familiar with where the earlier ideals of the magician originated from. While most of his work revolved around his Angelic Manuscripts and attempts to conjure and communicate with angelic beings, there is an older, some would say much darker, form of 'magical science' that helped to bring him to the position of authority he is now known for. While Dee was obsessed with contacting angels, previous magicians are known for their attempts to summon demons to do their bidding.

I would however, like to point out here that evidence for early Tudor magic in regards to demon summoning is scarce. John Dee wanted to classify the difference between higher spirits (angels) and lesser (demons) and go on to make his Angelic Manuscripts. His work was based much on what Edward Kelly (seen as a charlatan by most historians) saw in his visions, but there are hints in his books that his research has also come from others who have claimed to summon or have a story about a demon visiting. Witchcraft was well known and understood to be a force of evil at the time, though 'cunning women' were seen as helpful forces (it wasn't until 1542 that the practice of witchcraft was deemed a capital offence punishable by hanging – unlike popular fiction, burning of witches was not practiced in England as it was in Scotland and Europe).

Just to differentiate, the magician or astrologist (some would put alchemist in this category too) was a completely different kettle of fish than the witch or cunning woman. These men (I have yet to come across a record of a woman within this category) were individuals who view themselves more as scientists and scholars than people users of magic. Henry VIII had several court astrologers, though they kept getting their predictions so wrong that he eventually lost faith in them. Despite this, they were still viewed as acceptable at court.

It is important to remember that what we as modern minds consider as 'magic' is very different than the 16th century individual. For one, religion, science and magic were intermingled. There was not yet a great understanding of why or how nature worked. Heaven and Hell were real places in the thoughts and beliefs of 16th century men and women, and the same belief went for angels and demons. If a horse went lame and no obvious source was found, it would often be blamed on witchcraft. If a plague swept through London, many would assume it was God punishing them. Though the fear of eternal damnation would keep many on the straight and narrow, there were also those with a drive to gain more power by any means necessary. And there was the same natural drive that mankind has to understand his/her world. It may be difficult to swallow, but these might be considered as some of the first 'scientific experiments' in England.

The later 16th century saw a surge in 'magical' research and publications. It was separated from witchcraft (as mentioned earlier, which had become a capital offence) and no longer in Henry VIII's or Mary's dangerous reign, students of this new form of rough 'natural science' were accepted. In Robert Turner's book, Elizabethan Magic (Turner, p. 4), he kindly lists just a few texts that he worked from. It gives us some insight into the new revolution of thought, which I would argue, held its seeds much earlier. The list is as follows:

Libri Mysteriorum, Books I-V (1581-1583)
Liber Mysteriorum Sextus et Sanctus (1583)
Libri Mysteriorum, Books VII-XVIII (1583-1587)
48 Claves Angelicae (1584)
Liber Scientiae, Auxilii et Victoriae Terrestris (1585)
A Book of Supplications and Invocations (date unknown)

Simon Forman, 1611
[Public Domain] Wikimedia Commons

Simon Forman (1552-1611) was a highly respected physician, astrologer and necromancer, showing once again how science had still not broken away from what we might now consider unscientific and downright superstitious. But he would not have been allowed to flourish without the change in monarchy. As Turner writes, 'Had fate allowed Mary more than five short bloody years to pursue her relentless persecution of all that she considered heretical, a very different Simon Forman may have emerged. For during his life Forman was to become notorious as a necromancer: expert in the arts of conjuring spirits; communication with the dead; and the manufacture of philtres; charms and talismans; aphrodisiacs and even poisons. In high places his trusted – and perhaps, feared – reputation was to earn him the title 'sweet Father Forman' (Turner, p. 91). Would Forman have abandoned his desires to pursue astrology and raising spirits if he were born half a century earlier? I seriously doubt it. Instead, he may have hidden his works and carried them out in secrecy. After Cambridge University awarded him a licence to practice his art in 1603, he was still imprisoned for a year with a heavy fine for breaking some rules put upon his 'illicit' ministrations as he was harassed by the Guild of Barber-Surgeons and the Royal College of Physicians (Turner, p. 92). This example shows how his passion for his subject overcame any restrictions put upon him by the law. Despite his dubious practices, he was the first to have noted how rats may have been responsible for the spread of plague.

Witchcraft might not have been a capital offence until 1542, but heresy was different. Texts before this Elizabethan revolution were dangerous and if found, were probably burnt. What evidence remains, can be found within the archaeological strata; wall carvings and portable antiquity. At least, that is for the English texts pre-Elizabethan era. Anna Marie Roos lists many European scholars from the medieval era onward, which used sigil and angels to perform feats of magic, Marsilio Ficino (1433–99) and Peter of Abano (ca. 1250–1316), only two of them.

Roos states further evidence in the early use of sigils and angels that has been used and seen in medieval Spain, something that would probably have been familiar to Catherine of Aragon. Although there is little evidence for English texts supporting the uses of cabalistic magic, the fact that it was about previously throughout Europe shows distinct possibility that it would have been accessible for those pursuing it. She writes: 'Inscribing the names of angels on sigils was also thought to be efficacious, a tradition begun in the thirteenth century by the increasing influence of Jewish cabalistic texts such as the Sefer Yezirah and the Sefer Razi'el. These works were used by Jewish astrologers who served as courtiers in medieval Spain, and were later incorporated in Pico della Mirandola's cabalistic theses in 1486.

Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486–1535), in his Philosophia occulta siva magia (1531), also writes detailed instructions for the use of Hebrew symbols and numerology in magical sigils. At this time, nobody was awarding themselves with the title of 'magician' yet they were setting the foundations of what would become popularly known as 'Elizabethan Magic' as scholars see it today.


References:

Agrippa, Heinrich Cornelius; Philosophia occulta siva magia, 1531 (as cited by Roos)

Biggs, Robin; Witches and Neighbours, London 1996

Macfarlane, Alan; Witchcraft in Tudor and Stuart England, London 1970

Roos, Anna Marie; ‘Magic coins’ and ‘magic squares’: the discovery of astrological sigils in the Oldenburg Letters, The Royal Society (online) 2008

Turner, Robert; Elizabethan Magic, Dorset 1989

______________________________________________________________________

Lizzy Drake is the author of the Tudor era Elspet Stafford Mysteries. She is currently working on book 2 of the series which involves an early Tudor 'magician' at Framlingham Castle. She has been studying Tudors for over 15 years and has a MA in Medieval Archaeology from the University of York. 

Amazon

Facebook

Twitter

With a Little Help from the Saints: Medieval Lovers.

By E.M. Powell

You probably can't have failed to notice that wherever you turn at present, your senses are assailed by objects of the red, heart-shaped variety. Although it's not a particular wave I personally like to get swept up in, I couldn't fail to be halted by this gem in a local card shop: 'To My Gran on Valentine's Day.'  I did brace myself for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to come crashing through the door at any second, but all remained calm. And just as I was about to deride twenty-first century consumerism for this new level of madness, it occurred to me that, like so much in our world, it is all the fault of the medievals.

From: The Roman de la Rose
The Lover (L'Amans) in bed with a man (Dangier, or Danger) holding a club.

The medievals loved their love and especially of the courtly variety. It found its expression in poetry and among the most famous is the French Roman de la Rose, or The Story of the Rose. It was composed by two authors: Guillaume de Lorris in around 1230 and Jean de Meun in around 1275, some forty years later. The poem takes the form of a dream, in which the dreamer, the Lover, approaches the rose (the symbol of his lady's love) in a garden but is spurned. The Lover then has to learn the rules of love to win the object of his desire. The complete work is over 21,000 lines and was hugely popular amongst the elite of England and France. Several copies are still in existence.

The Lover pierced by an arrow,
kneeling before the God of Love (Diex d'Amour).

I have chosen the images from a manuscript from c1320-1340 for this post. Interestingly, it is a non-religious work, so no saints (of which more later). The fourteenth century also saw the introduction of a custom for lovers within court circles that is still with us: Valentine's Day. February 14th is the day that the medievals reckoned birds began mating. So why not have a day when refined men and women could do the same in elaborate rituals and games?

Male Lovers pierced by arrows.

The poetry of the time again reflects the custom. Geoffrey Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls is the earliest, dating from around 1381. In it, lovers are birds, quarrelling over the finest partner on Valentine's Day.

Female Lovers- and a Monk.

By 1400, the French Court had founded the Cour Amoureuse, or the Court of  Love, supposedly in honour of women. It first met on Valentine’s Day in 1400, ruled over by a ‘Prince of Love’ who was a professional poet. Noble ladies heard various love-poems and presented prizes to the winners. It sounds very charming until one realises that around 600 people took part. One can only suppose that, with those sorts of numbers, everyone probably went home with something out of the day.

The God of Love taking hold of the Lover.

In the fifteenth century, the poet and prior of Hatfield Regis, John Lydgate, wrote ‘A Valantine to Her That Excelleth All’.  And we start to see the custom of the Valentine move beyond the confines of the court. In a letter dating from 1477 Norwich, Margery Brews writes to her fiancé John Paston as her ‘right wellbelovyd Voluntyn’.

Envie (Envy) looking at a pair of lovers.

What's even more interesting is that Margery's mother Elizabeth also writes to John to ask that the marriage takes place on 'Sent Volentynes Day'... [when] every brydde chesyth hym a make.' Yes, we have mention of the bird choosing a mate again. But we also have reference to Saint Valentine. It is likely that clerics began making the connection between a saint and the secular customs around finding a partner. Two third century saints were named Valentine: Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Interamna (modern Terni in Italy). We know little about them other than they were martyred and that is commemorated on February 14. They had never been associated with lovers up the middle ages.

Vilenie (Villainy, Abuse, Baseness)
offering the Lover a potion.

Of course other medieval saints were on hand to help steer the course of true love. Fifth century Saint Dwynwen is the Welsh patron saint of love. Dwynwen was one of the twenty four daughters and eleven sons of King of Wales, Brychan Brycheiniog and his wife, Prawst. When I came across those statistics, I felt perhaps that Brychan should patron saint of something, but I wasn’t quite sure what. Prawst, I continue to feel, should just be regarded with awe.

Oiseuse (Idleness, Ease, Leisure)
admitting the Lover through the gate.

Dwynwen was not as fortunate - or fruitful - in love as her parents. Her love story is of a bleaker kind and she suffered horribly at the hands of a man who should have loved her. After much travail, Dwynwen’s prayers were answered. As a mark of her thanks, she devoted herself to God's service for the rest of her life. She founded a convent on Llanddwyn, on the west coast of Anglesey, where she was joined by other broken-hearted women. After her death in 465AD, a well named after her became a place of pilgrimage and it remains there today.

Tristece (Sorrow or Misery), tearing her hair and clothes.

I think blaming the medievals for the annual fuss about Lovers is fair. But I did find an account where some level-headed souls decided it might be nice to use the day to celebrate neighbourly love. A 1415 charter from Norwich records that the citizens should some together on Valentine's Day, 'make peace, unite, and accord, poore and ryche to ben one in herte, love and charite.' Now, that's more like it. And even if they didn't get a card, I'll bet all the Grans were happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
References:
All images are in the Public Domain and are part of the British Library's Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts. 
Drabble, Margaret, ed. et al., The Concise Oxford Companion to English Literature (3 ed.), Oxford University Press (2007, Online version: 2007)
Knowles, Elizabeth, ed.: The Oxford Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (2 ed.) Publisher: Oxford University Press (2005, Current Online Version: 2014)
Lindahl, C., McNamara, J & Lindow, J. (eds.): Medieval Folklore, Oxford University Press (2002)
Livingston, E.A.,ed.:The Concise Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church (2 rev.ed.), Oxford University Press (2006, Current Online Version: 2013)
MacKillop, James: A Dictionary of Celtic Mythology , Oxford University Press (2004, Current Online Version: 2004)
National Library of Wales: Dictionary of Welsh Biography Online.
Simpson, Jacqueline & Roud, Steve: A Dictionary of English Folklore, Oxford University Press (2003, Current Online Version: 2003)

E.M. Powell is the author of medieval thrillers THE FIFTH KNIGHT & THE BLOOD OF THE FIFTH KNIGHT which have both been #1 Historical Thrillers on Amazon's US and UK sites and on the Bild bestseller list in Germany..

Sir Benedict Palmer and his wife Theodosia are back in book #3 in the series, THE LORD OF IRELAND. It's 1185 and Henry II sends his youngest son, John (the future despised King of England), to bring peace to his new lands in Ireland. But John has other ideas and only Palmer and Theodosia can stop him. THE LORD OF IRELAND is published by Thomas & Mercer on April 5 2016.

E.M. Powell was born and raised in the Republic of Ireland into the family of Michael Collins (the legendary revolutionary and founder of the Irish Free State) she now lives in the north west of England with her husband and daughter and a Facebook-friendly dog. Find out more by visiting www.empowell.com

Amazon.com
Barnes & Noble
Amazon.co.uk
Waterstones