The diminutive stature of these two ships destroyed my perception of Columbus‘ crossing of the Atlantic ocean. To be honest, I expected a little more girth on the vessels. That the ships were so small gave me a greater appreciation of the feat that Cristoforo Colombo and his crews accomplished.
What I was so inept in sharing in the conversation was that in 1860, Napoleon III, Emperor of France, visited the workshop of an engineer named Paul Gustave Froment, and was given a demonstration of a device called a pantelegraph that was able to reproduce printed messages across telegraph lines. The pantelegraph was invented by Giovanni Caselli. Napoleon was impressed and secured the use of telegraph lines so that Caselli could continue work on his invention. The primary commercial application of the device was to verify signatures for banking transactions. A more detailed history of the telegraph in general is available here (unfortunately, some of the image links are broken).
Finding America: University Discovers Lost Early Map of New World: German university researchers have rediscovered a 500-year-old map that had been mistakenly bound in a volume on geometry several hundred years ago. The map, by cartograther Martin Waldseemüller, is one of the first to include the term “America” in reference to the New World.
The Clan System:
The clan system as we know it today was created over the course of a few years in the first quarter of the 19th century.
The clan system as we know it today was created over the course of a few years in the first quarter of the 19th century. At its heart were the novels of Walter Scott who triggered an extraordinary revival of interest in the Highlands and Highland history. This was sealed by the visit of King George IV to Edinburgh in 1822 when, to the bewilderment of many Lowlanders, the capital – and the king – were decked in tartan and alien pipe music accompanied every function.
In its aftermath Clan Societies and Highland Societies sprang up across Scotland. Thousands wanted a Highland heritage and sought a connection with a clan so that they could wear the new tartans, declared by the chiefs to have been worn as a badge of identity since time immemorial.
And the new clan societies and the manufacturers of tartan were pleased to accommodate them. The concept of septs and associated names was created, those of different surnames from that born by the clan chief who had lived within the old territory of a clan territory and been part of it. The more septs a clan could claim, the more members a clan society would gain and the more kilts would be sold. The Clan Chattan federation managed to list more than 1200, Clan Campbell over 650. Many of these names were claimed by more than one clan.
Surnames came late to Gaeldom; many were based on occupations. Gows – smiths – would have been present in every clan territory. The MacIntyres are a full blown clan, but the name means son of the carpenter and carpenters would have been ubiquitous. Similarly most Johns or Ians had a son – McIan. And men anywhere could have been red-haired, fair or dark – Reid, Bain and Dow. In a few cases most of those living within a clan’s territory did adopt the name of the chief. Simon, Lord Lovat went further. To enlarge his clan he gave a boll of meal to anyone who changed his name to Fraser.
Modern genealogical research has shown that few within any clan have a blood relationship with the chief’s family. And many who bear sept surnames find that their ancestors never had any connection with the declared clan or even its territory. Some are now seeking to become clans in their own right with their own chiefs. And surely this should be encouraged. Cumberland destroyed the original clan culture. Scott’s followers turned it into romantic myth and adapted it for their own times. If it has been re-invented once, why should it not be changed again to what people want in this century?
This article was previously published on Panalba.
I had always heard growing up that my mother’s family (Blackwood) was Scottish, so I did a little research. They were Ulster Scots, having moved to northern Ireland from Scotland, and a sept of Clan Douglas. Being the consummate skeptic that I am, I wrote a letter the Court of the Lord Lyon to inquire what rights I have to bear the Clan Douglas crest badge. I explained in it my paternal Welsh heritage and maternal Scots heritage. They replied back that though my father’s family wasn’t Scottish, I was entitled to bear the emblems of Clan Douglas based on my maternal ancestry.
By Roger Luckhurst
You must surely have been tempted on occasion to curse Julian Fellowes, if not for the script of Young Victoria, then for the creation of Downton Abbey, that death star of good old-fashioned aristocratic virtue and due deference. For a little while, all public debate seemed to be sucked through the funnel of Downton discourse, coinciding as it did with the election of all those shiny Eton boys to government in 2010. Fellowes has even had enough self-belief and ambition to become an aristocrat himself. He is now Baron Fellowes of West Stafford and sits on the Tory benches.
But don’t worry, he may already be cursed. It’s not just his obsession with the Titanic –- the sinking creates the opening crisis in Downton Abbey and this year he scripted ITV’s centenary mini-series. It turns out that there is another famous curse, ninety years old this year, which haunts Downton. The stately home that stands in for the Abbey is Highclere Castle, the family seat of the Carnarvons. And it was the fifth Earl of Carnarvon who sponsored the search for the tomb of Tutankhamun, found by Howard Carter in 1922. The Earl was present at the formal opening of the long-lost tomb in the Valley of the Kings in February 1923. Six weeks later he was dead, from pneumonia and blood poisoning, launching a frenzy of rumours and a host of mysterious deaths — allegedly. At Highclere, it was said the Earl’s three-legged dog Susie howled in misery and died at the precise moment of her master’s death. The sixth Earl, the surviving son, recalled all sorts of spooky events in the castle around his doomed father’s Egyptian adventure. There were séances and premonitions by fortune-tellers and Spiritualist mediums.
The Curse of King Tut was a monster bolted together by the tabloid press in the 1920s. It has often been called the first global media sensation, although it surely was not. But because rumours can never be denied, only ever more elaborated upon, the curse has proved remarkably persistent, evolving over the decades, claiming more and more victims. And now, it seems it has reached down to the set of Downton Abbey. The Daily Express and the Daily Mail reported recently that the set had been spooked by a series of uncanny events, associated with the museum display of artefacts from the tomb in the basement of Highclere Castle. The authoritative source for these stories, it transpires, is Shirley MacLaine, who will appear in a cameo role. MacLaine has been rather more famous for her occult and New Age beliefs than her acting in recent years. She reads auras and believes in reincarnation. She is one of many psychic sensitives who claim that they can see menacing presences swirling around Egyptian artefacts claimed from the graves of kings.
All of this is but the latest addition to a century of mummy curse stories associated with English collectors of Egyptian artefacts. In my book, The Mummy’s Curse, due out this autumn, I try to peel back the weird accumulation of stories to find the origin of these stories. The Curse of Tutankhamun flew off the presses in 1923, it turns out, because the way was prepared by two prior stories of Victorian gentlemen who had purchased mummy materials in the grey market of antiquities traders and suffered the consequences. The first, Thomas Douglas Murray, was a socialite well known for his parties with painters, actors, and African adventurers in his London town house in the 1870s. As a young man, he had bought a mummy case in Luxor in the 1860s, only to go hunting shortly afterwards, slip, and shoot his own arm off. He survived bearing this awesome wound of his colonial folly. The Priestess of Amen-Ra, as she was known, did all sorts of devilish things to Londoners until the case was presented to the British Museum in 1889. It resides in the Egyptian Rooms and is still known as the ‘Unlucky Mummy’, although much of the folk history attached to it has been shed along the way.
The second adventurer was the soldier Walter Herbert Ingram, who fought in the Zulu Wars and was a great hero of battles against Islamic rebels in Egypt and Sudan in the 1880s. Ingram bought a mummy case as a souvenir, only to be killed by an elephant on his next visit to Africa, prompting rumours that he had been cursed. Ingram was the youngest son of the founder of the Illustrated London News. His death, understandably, was a news sensation. The record of the lives of these extraordinary gentlemen has rested, largely untouched, in London’s eccentric archives and in family memorabilia, the fable of their curses wrapped around the true details of their lives.
Unravelling these histories tells us a lot about how Victorians and Edwardians used the supernatural to negotiate unease with colonial occupation and the traffic in ancient artefacts to the museums and private collections of the imperial metropolis. They tell us more, I’d like to think, than the clumsy way in which Downton Abbey’s Earl of Grantham and his sniffy butler are always bumping into world historical events.
Roger Luckhurst has written and broadcast widely on popular culture, specialising in science fiction and the Gothic. He is interested in the odd spaces between science and popular supernatural beliefs. He has previously written a history of how the notion of ‘telepathy’ emerged in the late Victorian period, and has published editions of Jekyll and Hyde and Dracula. He is also a regular radio reviewer of terrible science fiction films. He teaches horror and the occasional respectable novel by Henry James at Birkbeck College, University of London. The Mummy’s Curse: The true history of a dark fantasy is due to be published in late 2012.
Roughly 3,500 years ago, folding chairs remarkably similar to ones found in Egypt suddenly became must-have items in parts of northern Europe. Scholars are now looking into this potential case of ancient industrial espionage.
The notion that man evolved from other lesser creatures forces us to think that man several thousand years ago could not have been capable of major technological feats, complex trade networks, and bluntly, thinking the way we think. Evolution (not adaptation within species) has handicapped us in understanding and appreciating the accomplishments of past civilizations. These blinders leave us with very limited theories on how great achievements from past civilizations were accomplished.
Since I believe in a God who created man in His image, I don’t have these conundrums to deal with. I accept that from the beginning, man had the capability for all sorts of great accomplishments, and with the cumulation of technological advances over the millennia, he has been able to build on these advances to develop the advanced civilization we live in today. Disasters, such as the destruction of the Library of Alexandria and the collapses of ancient cultures, have taken away much of our ability to provide proper attribution where it was due.
Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon: Bartitsu Club member and Titanic survivor:
Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon (22 July 1862 – 20 April 1931) was a prominent Scottish landowner and athlete who is today best known as a survivor of the sinking of the RMS Titanic in the North Atlantic Sea on April 15, 1912.
A keen fencer, Duff Gordon was also a member of the Bath Club, a London Club that featured an indoor swimming pool (a great novelty in the late 1800s) and counted many athletes among its members. He may well have witnessed Bartitsu founder E.W. Barton-Wright’s demonstration at the Club in 1899. Duff Gordon’s colleague William Grenfell, the first Baron Desborough, was at that time the president of the Bath Club and likewise went on to become associated with Bartitsu, accepting the presidency of the Bartitsu Club.
Fencing and Bartitsu at the Bath Club, 1899In Bartitsu Club instructor Armand Cherpillod’s memoir La vie d’un champion: Cours de culture physique et de jiu-jitsu (1933), Cherpillod recalled a compliment paid to him by Duff Gordon, who had been one of his students. Cherpillod had successfully represented the Bartitsu Club in a challenge contest against the wrestler Joe Carroll. Duff Gordon, remarking on the public reaction to the Swiss Cherpillod defeating the English champion, was reported to have said “you did not only beat Carroll, but you punished England.”
Both Duff Gordon and Grenfell were members of the organising committee of the 1908 London Olympic Games.
Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon (left) poses with W. Bean and Captain MacDonnell, all three holding duelling pistols and protective masks.In 1912, Cosmo Duff Gordon and his wife, the famous fashion designer Lucy Christiana, Lady Duff Gordon, became embroiled in a massive scandal surrounding the circumstances of their surviving the wreck of the Titanic. It was popularly alleged that the wealthy Duff Gordon had bribed members of the crew of their lifeboat not to return to help people left swimming for their lives as the ship sank. He was fully cleared of these charges after an exhaustive inquiry, but, sadly, the stigma of the scandal ruined his reputation and he spent much of the rest of his life shunning the public eye.
A recently discovered cache of letters by Cosmo and Lucy Duff Gordon offers a poignant perspective on one of the great tragedies of the early 20th century.