This is a pity, for it is often in the detailed debates of the Sejm that much is revealed about szlachta political culture. For just as the vapourings of right-wing shock jocks on American radio are not necessarily a direct window into the soul of ordinary American voters, so the often rancid pamphlet literature in a system without effective censorship do not necessarily indicate what members of the crucial middling nobility – since the 15th century the bedrock of the political system – were thinking. And if there were undoubtedly many, indeed probably a majority, whose political views and attachments in general to the old pieties were just as Lukowski portrays them, when it came to practical politics, there are hints in his own material that there was a significant minority of the szlachta who thought differently and were willing to contemplate change. Thus in 1790, over the key issue of the introduction of the hereditary monarchy, Lukowski writes that ‘only’ nine out of 55 sejmiks were ready to accept it. Yet for just over 16 per cent of the sejmiks to endorse hereditary monarchy is, in the context of the conviction embedded in szlachta consciousness since at least the 1660s that elective monarchy was the bedrock of liberty, actually rather remarkable: only 14
fiction, works stylistically by 'describ[ing] material about sexual pleasure which depicted sex, bodies and desire through illusions of concealment and distance: bodies were represented through metaphor and suggestion, and depictions of sexual activity were characterized by deferral and silence' (author's italics, p. 20). Harvey sees erotica as a kind of literary chiaroscuro, a genre that reveals and conceals at once, and she approaches it through the themes of 'sameness and difference'. Her distinctions are clear and valuable, though I do not entirely agree with her assessment of seduction fiction. Seduction fiction is often characterised by a series of deferrals, and many things are suggestively and partially articulated. Eliza Haywood, known in her day as 'the great Arbitress of Passion', for instance, consistently claims that 'language wants the force' to adequately express passion. Haywood's amatory fiction often displaces desire and passion onto language, though, unlike erotica, it leaves the desiring heroines (and readers?) unfulfilled. Text may be erotic, but it is not, after all, sex. Harvey is right to point out the important difference in tone between the two genres, and she usefully locates erotica at the juncture between pornography and amatory fiction: 'Erotica shared with pornography an interest in sex, and shared with amatory fiction a desire to hide it from the reader. This combination situated the genre on the cusp between refined restraint and liberated libido.' (p. 33) This last point is an important one, for the first chapter details a gendered readership of erotica within the context of a specifically eighteenth-century balance between refinement and sexual pleasure (p. 74).
Yet, overall the methodology has the problematic tendency to obscure the broader arguments of the book, and the history of the anatomical models themselves. Indeed, throughout the book the primary focus of the analysis shifts back-and-forth from anatomical models to their commissioners, makers, and consumers, and this sometimes causes arguments to become convoluted. Secondly, although in the book’s introduction anatomical models are presented as the work’s ‘main protagonists’ - with Dacome making extensive reference to Arjun Appaduari’s Social Lives of Things - the narrative of Malleable Anatomies tends to privilege the story of the ‘lives’ of the anatomical model makers over the ‘lives’ of their models.(1) Thirdly, broader issues concerning the role of anatomical models in knowledge production often got lost as a result of the micro-historical organisation of chapters and their focus on individual biography. It might have been useful for Dacome to explore some of these bigger issues in the conclusion, and this could have helped her establish the wider significance of the themes that emerged across the different chapters. In the conclusion, Dacome could have also more effectively highlighted the book’s main contributions, and how the themes raised in the book extend the existing historiography. Discussion of the legacy of Italian anatomical wax modelling in Europe in the 19th century, might have also been usefully commented upon in the conclusion. Fourthly, the methodology employed in Malleable Anatomies makes it ‘hard to use’ as a researcher. This is because the micro-historical biographical approach makes it difficult to ‘dip into’ individual chapters to extract main points/arguments, as such information comes tightly wrapped or intertwined with detail about the life of the person (or persons) through which the theme explored in the chapter is investigated.
Several researchers of historical costume have followed Prown’s materialculture methodology and have demonstrated the value of an in-depth object analysis. Lou Taylor (2007) is one such scholar to have used a materialculture approach – in her research, she thoroughly describes three 19 th century women’s woolen garments in order to make deductions about their social function. In her description of the objects, she notes the fabric, trimming, and construction methods used. Using written primary sources from the same era, she places the garments in context, illuminating the changes society was undergoing, the influence of society on dress, and the leisure activities of the wealthy. These sources also describe the types of garments women typically wore for such leisure activities. After describing the cultural context of the garments, Taylor compares and contrasts the functional and aesthetic details of the garments to those typically found in walking and shooting/fishing clothes to deduce that the three garments were worn for country walking in Scotland. The wearer of two of the garments is known, which allowed Taylor access to primary sources that helped her relate the wearer’s dress to her personal beliefs: the garments were specific to holiday wear in Scotland for three months out of the year, and Scotland was viewed as the playground of the wealthy. In addition, the owner of the garments clearly followed the rules of society and participated in societal activities such as country walking, but was “confident enough to tweak the rules with her antique trimmings.” (Taylor, 2007, p.103).
It is significant that the habit of drinking tea and coffee also gradually penetrated the lower circles of the black clergy; of course, it would hardly be appropriate to discuss its prevalence among ordinary monks, above all because of the cost of both these products. I was able to locate thirty-five property inventories of monks residing in Kyivan, mostly non-stauropegial, monasteries in the eighteenthcentury (until the 1780s), mostly in the Vydubychi Monastery, whose archive is well preserved. Of course, the analysis of these selectively chosen sources does not lend itself to conclusive findings, but certain observations can be made nonetheless. Out of thirty-five monks, only two who were rather well off drank both tea and coffee, judging by the list of dishware. Another eleven individuals owned only teaware; at the same time, additional data lead one to suspect that two of them were not ordinary monks but members of the monastic elite. The rest of this group of eleven monks (particularly four who were quite poor) mostly owned individual pieces of dishware, for example, a cup that could be used for a purpose other than its designated one. Moreover, it is not known what they boiled in their kettles because, as Hoshū writes frequently in his treatise, in Russia “ordinary people dry strawberry leaves and use [this] instead of tea” (Khosiu 208). Another four members of the analyzed group of thirty-five monks owned utensils that do not allow scholars to formulate clear-cut statements about their use of the “modes of pleasure” (a can, spice jar, and sugar bowl), as these objects could have been used for other purposes besides tea- and coffee-drinking (see Addendum 2). Therefore, both the inventories of ordinary monks’s belongings and the value of the modes of pleasure indicate that the use of coffee beverages remained largely the prerogative of the high-ranking clergy.
One such example was by Michel de Fremin whose small volume Mémoires critiques d ’Architecture (1702) is in epistolary form. Although memoirs and correspondence are not really compatible forms, both were fashionable at the time, whether intended for private reading or for publication. The letters in Fremin's work were addressed to no one specific or named, and most ended with “je suis &c...". His first letter feigned a true correspondence: “Que d'esprit & que d’art dans la lettre que vous m ’avés fait l'honneur de m'ecr/re...”.ii6 In subsequent letters he also made allusion to having a correspondent. Despite the effort of maintaining this pretence he found it necessary to give a reason for subjecting his information to this form of delivery: “...pour en rendre ia lecture plus aîsée: l’on y a fait souvent des repetitions, parce que l’on a compris que ce Livre devant être leu par des personnes d ’un genie un peu court...ce style là afin que si d ’abord ils n ’avoient pas conçû une chose ils la comprissent p ar la repetition...”.^^7 Whilst this did not say much for his opinion of his readers, it certainly freed him from the constraints of a strict, systematic method of organizing his material. The illusion of a correspondence, as in such conceits as “Je suis bien-aise que vous ayez lû avec plaisir ce que je vous ay écrit sur la natûre du p l â t r e . . . t e created a certain intimacy between writer and reader. The form is meant to engage the reader, in a sense to make him the fictional correspondent, so that he becomes an active or involved participant in the disclosures. After all, he sets out to have his house built and Fremin is only giving him some friendly personal advice. Consequently, the recipient of the advice and the relationship between writer and reader as well as the material discussed bear significance in this work.
The "Discontinuous Motions" paper [2.43] is an extraordinarily interesting contribution to the methods of reasoning by analogy between fluid currents, electrical currents, and heat currents. For, the paper begins by pointing out that "the partial differential equations for the interior of an incompressible fluid that is not subject to friction and whose particles have no motion of rotation" are precisely the same as the partial differential equations for "stationary currents of electricity or heat in conductors of uniform conductivity." ([2.43], p. 58) Yet, he notes, even for the same configurations and boundary conditions, the behavior of these different kinds of currents can differ. How can this be? It would be easy to assume that the difference is a matter of the equations being, in the case of hydrodynamics, an "imperfect approximation to reality", possibly due to friction or viscosity. Yet, Helmholtz argues, various observations indicate this is not plausible. Instead, he proposes, the difference in behavior between fluid currents on the one hand and electrical and heat currents on the other is due to "a surface of separation" that exists or arises in the case of the fluid. In some situations, "the liquid is torn asunder", whereas electricity and heat flows are not. Though the main point of the paper is to propose his detailed account of what happens in the liquid to cause this difference (the pressure becomes negative), it is interesting, especially in the context of nineteenth century, that Helmholtz is discussing a case in which physical entities described by the same partial differential equations do not behave in the same way. Yet, once the existence of discontinuous motions in fluids is
Von Wolter’s interest in midwifery was rooted in the greatest political catastrophe to face Bavarian politics in the second half of the eighteenthcentury, namely, the prospect of no heir to the throne. Neither the Electoral spouse, Maria Anna of Saxony (1728– 97), nor Maria Anna of Palatine (1722–90), the wife of Duke Clemens (1722–70), the Elector’s direct cousin (and second in line of dynastic heritage), were able to pro- duce offspring (despite several successful pregnancies). Von Wolter, during the first decade of his appointment at court was deeply involved in the medical care of these two women. Among other things, this put him in continuous correspondence with major European specialists in midwifery. It also entailed extended visits to various restorative spas. He turned the situation to his advantage, exploiting the issue of the succession to convince the Elector Maximilian III Joseph to innovate by appointing several male French accoucheurs to the Munich court. 22 He also established a generous grant system to enable aspiring Bavarian surgeons to train at the famous midwifery school of Johann Jakob Fried (1689–1769) in Strasbourg before taking up appointments back in their home country. When it became increasingly clear that the Electoral cou- ples would remain childless and the courtly services of the male accoucheurs were no longer required, von Wolter managed to convince Maximilian III Joseph to supply them with official titles and appointments at key administrative centres in Bavaria. Once dispersed, events took their own course. Since it was not easy for the accoucheurs to survive once they were cut off from the professional and social amenities of the court (they were often irregularly paid, and faced not only the hostility of local popula- tions, but that of competing medical men and midwives) they devised new means of surviving. Many of them published books on midwifery or other aspects of medical police for the glory and economic benefit of the fatherland. Some opened midwifery schools, which, once they were officially recognised by the Collegium Medicum (which was presided over by von Wolter), began training local midwives and surgeons in the latest scientific theories and practices of midwifery. By the end of the eighteenthcentury no one in Bavaria could practice midwifery without having passed through one of these schools. Thus, directly and indirectly, von Wolter succeeded in turning mid- wifery into a centralised and state-controlled system – ironically, as the Wittelsbach family line died out in 1799 for want of issue. 23 Von Wolter’s immediate concern for
[Reviewed in Novel 33 (1999): 122-24; Albion 32 (2000): 654-56; Philosophy and Literature 24 (2000): 490-93; Studies in English Literature 40 (2000): 585-86; South Atlantic Review 65 (2000): 174-77; TLS (22 Dec. 2000): 24; History of Education Quarterly 41 (2001): 274-76; 18th-Century Fiction 13 (2001): 593-95; History of Education 30.2 (2001): 202-3; 18th- Century Studies 35 (2002): 137-39; British Journal for 18th-Century Studies 25 (2002): 271- 72; The Age of Johnson 13 (2002): 610-13.]
On eighteenth- century English fears of French infl uence and the under- mining of national character, Michèle Cohen cites French fashions, luxury goods, manners, and language as the main ways in which French culture was seen to be undermining English culture. When the Earl of Chesterfi eld’s ‘Letters to his Son’ were published in 1774, they were accused of promot- ing artifi cial politeness, of focusing (as French polite society was perceived to) on the public display of politeness through conversation and bodily control. Centred upon self- representation rather than on a refi ned polite- ness founded upon inner sensibility, Chesterfi eld’s advice was deemed by some to encourage effeminacy. By the end of the eighteenthcentury, these connections between effeminacy and politeness led to a rejection of con- versation, particularly conversational French (the language of politeness), as the foundation of English polite society. 143
There was clearly within Trinity a substantial appetite for choral repertoire. As well as excerpts and short pieces, programming lists also include large-scale oratorios by Mendelssohn (The First Walpurgis Night) and Handel (Messiah, Joshua, Esther, Israel in Egypt, and the short opera Acis and Galatea). Handel remained very popular, and clearly the UDCS was a serious organisation with strong musical direction. This included an impressive, perhaps even surprising commitment to contemporary music. By giving what may well have been the Irish premieres of what were at the time new contemporary works such as Verdi’s Requiem (completed 1874) in 1881, Sullivan’s The Martyr of Antioch (completed 1880) in 1881, and Dvořák’s cantata The Spectre’s Bride (completed 1884) in 1888, the UDCS gave far greater support to the work of living composers in the nineteenth century than it does today. Other notable performances during the nineteenth century include Beethoven’s The Ruin of Athens (1853), Spohr’s The Last Judgement (1853), Handel’s L’Allegro ed il Penseroso (1876), Utrecht Jubilate (1888) and Dettingen Te Deum (1888), Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas (1892), and Beethoven’s Mass in C (1899). 13
temptation in the vein of the biblical Eve who committed the original sin that instigated the downfall of man. Collier’s Essays upon several moral subjects (1700) promulgates the abject immorality of prostitution by citing the Old Testament, a text that deems fornication and co- habitation outside marriage sinful: ‘In the first Ages of the World, and long before the Mosaic Institution, co-habitation without Marriage, was look’d on as great Wickedness.’ 5 Marriage was considered an act of ‘holy matrimony’, binding two souls in eternal bliss, but prostitution challenged that notion and those who feared the potentiality of prostitution often used religion as a means to reign in the sex trade at the end of the seventeenth century.
The funerals of the nobility and the aristocrats in the eighteenthcentury were evidently cheaper under the undertaker’s management. However, it has to be noted that the costs exclude the mourning clothes and clothing, which the undertakers did not normally provide for their customers. Their funerals would not cost more than £500, while some lower ranking people could pay a higher amount of money for their funeral (without mourning clothes). This was due to the flexibility the undertaker offered to their clients. The funeral of the Right Honourable Lord Chief Baron Montague in 1723 cost £101 and that of the Right Honourable the Earl of Radnor in 1725 cost £262. Others could cost more, even though they were in lower social positions, as for Sir Yeo Thorold’s funeral in 1728 (£340) and Edward Colston’s funeral in 1731 (£320). 71 The money spent on those funerals of upper-ranking nobles was slightly higher: for example, the executor of the duke of Manchester spent £362 for goods consumed at his funeral in 1722, while the duke of St Albans’s executor paid £364 in 1789 to the undertaker and £101 for embalming the body of the deceased. 72 The spending on mourning was recorded in many probate accounts. They varied across funerals and they were in accordance with the executor’s preference. The executor of Sir Justus Back, baronet, paid £26 to the undertaker for the funeral in 1729 and another £35 for ‘all mourning’. 73 Expenses on mourning cloth were various and were far less than what the upper class had to pay under the College’s regulation.
In order to support this claim, he compared few words and asked: 'Ha npniviep, xaK jih snyyaTL cjioea: cent, KHnsbn, KaK cent, K H 5 I 35 I? ' 44 In the twentieth century Shapiro remarked that w h e n the vowel & ^ e. 19 were preceded by a hard sign t they w e r e m o r e distinctly pronounced than w he n they were not p r e c e d ed by a hard sign. For instance in the words natnxb and c t e c T b . the vowel n and e. w ere m o r e clearly pronou n c e d than in the wor d s nsnxb and c e c x t . This rule also applied w h e n the vowels n e. ^ ro and h were precede by a soft sign; for example, n b n H b m . s a s b ë M . nbeca and n g r b , s o s e M . n e c n a . 45
“Oppercoopman”, or leading merchant. In other incoming documents from some years before, there is no mention of such a title for Vernet. This might point to an increasing activity by Vernet in the years 1756-1762 in private trade, besides his job as a Governor of Bengal. The corresponding current account sent to Vernet reveals that he indeed increased his private trade, although this proof is thin because of the fact that the current account only handles one voyage. However, in total 1987,23 in guilders is sent by Vernet’s wife to the Cape of Good Hope and Bengal including many species, fruits and other goods, such as rosins. Even more interesting may be the fact that two bills of exchange are sent to Vernet: one bill of exchange is worth 1183,17 guilders, quite a large sum of money for the mid-eighteenthcentury. Not only is the bill of exchange sent to Vernet, it is also sent in cash, instead
All the authors in this collection are committed to recovering, as far as possible, the voices of marginalised people, and several chapters highlight the possibility of finding in artisanal objects evidence of subaltern agency and resistance that may have been hidden in previous histories. (Each study is attentive to the varied meanings terms such as ‘art’ and ‘craft’ could have in different contexts). In a thought-provoking discussion of the politics of different craft movements around the world at the turn of the 20th century, Edward S. Cooke, Jr. argues that scholars must attend to the lives of the people involved in producing craft goods in order to examine the ‘experience of incongruity’ in the practical application of imperial power in culture and society (p. 22). In this way, the study of materialculture can complicate conventional narratives of global encounter. The essay elegantly situates the more typically studied English, European and United States Arts and Crafts movements and related handicraft revivals in their wider context, extending the debate into other regions – though notably Cooke is the only writer here to deal with communities in Africa.(6)
Punjab was the wealthiest provision of the Mughal Empire in the late sixteenth and seventeenth century. In the beginning of eighteenthcentury after Guru Gobind Singh, Banda Singh Bhadur took the commands of sikhs and unites them but after his execution Sikh rule could not sustain. The province weakened after first quarter of Eighteenthcentury because the Punjab was repeatedly invaded by Nadir Shah and weak governors of Mughals in Punjab. In Eighteenthcentury Sikh had formed twelve loose groups called Misls to protect themselves. In the mid of eighteenthcentury Afgani invaded the Punjab by nine times and Mughal persecution was often brutal. Internal squabbles prevented the Misls from uniting to control the region until Ranjit Singh became head of the Sukerchakia Misl.