Wednesday, 29 October 2014

The Collective Term for Kittens?

That's easy! I hear you cry.
The collective term for a group of kittens is obvious. The answer is, "A litter of kittens."


WRONG.

The correct term is a "Kindle of kittens".
This name is much older than the word litter, and first appears in connection with those bundles of cuteness we call kittens in the The Book of St Albans.

The Book of St Albans was a sort of Middle Age gentleman's almanac. Printed in 1486 it was perhaps more accurately known as The Book of Hunting, Hawking, and Blasing of Arms, which gives you a glimpse into what the priorities were of a well-heeled gent in the 15th century.


It seems likely the word's derivation comes from a Middle English word, kindelen, meaning to give birth to. In turn, this word probably come from an even older Norse word with the same meaning, kynda.

These days the word kindle is used more as a verb, meaning to set light to or to grow excitement. (Or, depending on your generation your thoughts may skip straight to a reading device.)


So here's a little test.
What are the collective terms for the following: (Answers at the end – No peeking!)

A)     Buffalos
B)     Bears
C)     Ferrets
D)     Rhinoceroses
E)      Giraffes


Answers:
A)     Not, it's not a herd of buffalos (that's what I would have said), but an obstinacy.
B)     Bears – I've never given this much thought before, but the answer is:- a sloth of bears
C)     Before you say firkin ferrets (think about it), the correct response is a business of ferrets
D)     The term for a group of rhinoceroses is very descriptive: a crash
E)      And last but not least, a tower of giraffes

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

The Collective Term for a Group of Cats?

Anyone who has been following this blog for a while will know I'm a "mad cat lady" in training. I love anything and everything to do with cats. Whilst waiting for my son to meet me in Waterstones, Birmingham (bearing in mind we live near London, this happened to be our easiest to-get-to bookstore – but that's a whole different story), I discovered a charming book about collective nouns. 


If you mentally switched off at the mention of "nouns" (and by default, grammar) fear not! This post is about cuteness not clauses, and can be read by those phobic about punctuation. So, onwards! Let's answer those all important questions such as…

What is the Correct Term for a Group of Cats?
Yes, it made me pause (or paw-se.) To my shame I'd never stopped wonder what a group of cats is called – sometimes I amaze even myself!

According to Chloe Rhodes(*), there are two early mentions of the collective noun for cats.  A manuscript from 1450, the Egerton Manuscript, "a  clouder of cats." Whilst in 1476 a list found at the end of "Horse, Sheep, and Goose" states "a cluster of tame cats."


Three terms seem to be in use in the Middle Ages (which raises questions in my mind about how often a group of cats pops up in conversation) and these are clowder, cluster, and clutter. It seems likely that these words have a common origin, possibly an Old English word, clott, meaning a mass of objects stuck together.

Hmm, not sure it's how I would have described a group of cats – more like an "independence of cats" in my book. Perhaps a better term is one found in the Harley Manuscript which sites "a glorying of cats." That's more like it! The term glorying is also interchangeable with glaryn, meaning to shine brightly, which at a push could describe cats eyes glowing in the darkness.


Next week: A litter of kittens? I think not! Find out the proper term for a cuteness/ confection of kittens.

Fellow cat lovers, leave your suggestions of a fitting term to describe a group of cats.
(*) An Unkindness of Ravens. Chloe Rhodes. Michael O'Mara books.

Wednesday, 15 October 2014

Object 22542: The Unlucky Mummy

After seeing yet another re-run of "The Mummy" on the TV, today's post is about the "Unlucky Mummy".
 
The Unlucky Mummy
as featured on the cover of Pearson's magazine in 1909
The Unlucky Mummy's story starts way back in Ancient Egypt but we pick up the thread in the 1860s. At this time an adventurer and explorer, Douglas Murray, bought himself a mummy.

Murray purchased an ancient artefact, the inner coffin lid of a high-ranking female in Egyptian society, suspected to be a Priestess of Amen-Ra. That this artefact had a reputation for bringing ill fortune to whoever owned it, didn't bother Murray in the least. Which perhaps it should because the very next day he accidentally shot his own arm off!


Shortly after this, call it co-incidence, but a string of unfortunate accidents befell three Egyptian porters, all of whom had recently handled the sarcophagus. Enough was enough, and Murray gave away his recent acquisition.

However, it didn't take long for the new owner to experience bad luck. He can't have been fond of his sister because he gifted the mummy to her! The sister, Mrs. Warwick-Hunt sounds a practical sort and she commissioned an occultist to exorcise any malign spirits. But this didn't go to plan when the occultist decreed that the evil was too strong for her, and advised Mrs. Warwick-Hunt, if she valued her health, to move the artefact on.


Mrs. Warwick-Hunt then made the sensible deduction that an august institution such as the British Museum was far too lofty to worry about superstition. She donated the mummy to them.

But the Priestess of Amen-Ra wasn't done with her curses, and on the way to the British Museum, the vehicle carrying the sarcophagus careered off the road and struck a pedestrian. Once at the museum, a laborer broke his leg whilst unloading the artefact…and yet another worker died a short time later under mysterious circumstances…
 
The British Museum
The mummy settled in as "Object 22542" but to the public she became known as "The Unlucky Mummy". Perhaps her reputation preceded her, when a night watchman reported hearing scrabbling noises coming from inside the coffin. A journalist, thinking it would make a good story, took a photo. But he got more than he bargained for when the photograph was developed and showed a human face. The poor man subsequently lost his mind and shot himself.

Time for the Unlucky Mummy to move on again. This time she was sold to an American archaeologist who planned to transport this Egyptian wonder back to his home country. With this in mind he arranged urgent passage on the next available ship…the RMS Titanic.



Wednesday, 8 October 2014

Musings on 18th Century Portraits and Coins

 Last week I was fortunate enough to visit the "First Georgians" exhibition at the Queen's Gallery, Buckingham Palace Mews. It was an enjoyable (if slightly disjointed) display that left me faintly frustrated. However, to dwell on the positive, two portraits on display in the first chamber inspired me to write today's blog post. 

The first portrait was of Queen Anne, whose death in August 1714 paved the way for the "first Georgian", George Ludwig, Elector of Hanover, to ascend to the English throne. As much as anyone can, living in such elegant splendour, Queen Anne had a tragic life marked by 17 pregnancies, none of which provided a healthy living heir. 
The portrait of Queen Anne
I found the portrait of this somewhat matronly lady, who yet lacked a brood of children, somehow moving. And it put a new twist on the picture when I read it was painted to provide a likeness for coinage. 

Gold coins in circulation during Queen Anne's reign
Indeed, the next portrait was of her successor, King George I - and again, this picture was used to mint coins bearing his likeness. The painting was executed by Sir Godfrey Kneller and was intended to show the new king in regal glory as "Defender of Faith". 

Portrait of King George I
The results of this were on display in a separate cabinet

Is it just me, or is the coin more flattering
than the painting?
OK, there you have it, my favourite objects from the exhibition, which leads me neatly onto some Royal Mint trivia. 
From 1300 to 1812 (encompassing the period when Anne and George's coins were minted) the Royal Mint was sited within the curtain wall of the Tower of London, in Mint Street
The Tower of London with the Shard in the background.
Behind this outer wall lay Mint Street
The houses built into the outer wall that once made up the Mint, are called the Casemates. In the 18th century coal and precious metals were stored there, are well as housing the machinery for making coins. In the present day they are now home to the Yeoman Warders and and their families. 
The view on the other side of the wall.
Looking down Mint Street at the Casemates

One of the most famous Wardens of the Mint was Sir Isaac Newton (famous for his theory on gravity) who held the post for 28 years from 1696. 
Standing beside the Casemates looking inwards to the Tower
Sir Isaac's job was to investigate cases of counterfeiting and it was he moved the currency standard from silver to gold in 1717.

Tuesday, 30 September 2014

The Medieval Midwife: Guest post by Kim Rendfeld

Today I'm delighted to welcome Kim Rendfeld to "Fall in Love with History". Kim writes historical fiction and is celebrating a new release "The Ashes of Heaven's Pillar", which I have added to my TBR pile! Today, Kim posts on "The Medieval Midwife’s Unique Place in Society", so without further ado I'll hand over to Kim
G x

The Medieval Midwife’s Unique Place in Society

By Kim Rendfeld


The medieval midwife faced a lot of pressure. Not only was she to do her best to help mother and baby survive the birth. As the only layperson with the authority to baptize, she was responsible for the newborn’s soul.

In the Middle Ages, childbirth must have been greeted with a mix of emotions. A family might look forward to the arrival of an heir, but the process was so risky that women were urged to confess their sins before they went into labor.

Whether the delivery was in a low-ceilinged lying-in chamber of a noble house or a one-room peasant’s hut, the last person an expectant mother wanted was her husband or a doctor. Medieval folk considered childbirth part of life, not medicine. Better for the men to be praying at church and let the midwife take charge of the situation.

A midwife learned her craft from her own mother. Her tools might include a birthing stool, a sharp knife, ointments, herbs, the right foot of a crane, a piece of jasper, spells in case the labor was particularly difficult, a basin to bathe the baby, honey, and salt. The Church did not condemn the midwife for touching another woman in an intimate area, since her duties required it.

Officially, the clergy frowned on spells and charms, but as they did with most other white magic, they ignored it for the most part. Medieval folk in general saw magic as a tool, one that could be used for good or evil.  After all, the laity often wore amulets alongside their crosses. Clerics were much more concerned if the midwife said the wrong words while baptizing a child in danger of dying before a priest could perform the rite.

Inside the birthing chamber, the midwife had her own assistants, and a few of the mother’s friends and relatives attended to offer encouragement. Doors and cupboard drawers were open; knots were untied. Even the mother’s hair might be loosened and free of pins.

The midwife would do what she could to hasten labor, such as rubbing an ointment on the mother’s belly or giving her a potion with ergot. When the time came, the mother would sit on the birthing stool to deliver the child. Midwives knew to wash and oil their hands before they brought the child into the world. The only time a midwife would perform a Caesarean, without anesthesia, was when the mother was dying or already dead.

The midwife was the one to cut the umbilical cord four finger lengths, wash the baby, and use honey on the child’s gums and palette to stimulate appetite. After the infant was wrapped in swaddling, the midwife would present the child to the father.

In noble houses, the mother would remain confined to the lying-in chamber for a month, and only the midwife, servants, and the mother’s close friends were allowed to visit during her recovery.

I needed to research medieval childbirth for two scenes in my latest release, The Ashes of Heaven’s Pillar. One goes reasonably well; the other goes very, very wrong. In this scene, Sunwynn, the daughter of my heroine, Leova, is the maid to the expectant mother. Both Sunwynn’s and Leova’s well-being depend on the well-being of Countess Gerhilda.
Click for a link


Excerpt:

When Gerhilda screamed and doubled over, the midwife rushed to her. The old woman lifted Gerhilda’s skirts and felt her belly. “The child is coming,” she called. “Get her to the birthing stool.”

The midwife washed and oiled her hands and sat on a stool in front of Gerhilda, whose skirts were hiked to her waist.

“I’m here, my lady. Behind you,” Sunwynn whispered.

At Sunwynn’s elbow, one of the midwife’s assistants held a cup smelling of strong wine.

“Ergot?” the midwife asked her assistant. “Good. My lady, drink the potion. It will hasten the birth and might stop the bleeding.”

As Gerhilda downed the wine, Sunwynn prayed, Mother of God, let this work.

The midwife reached for Gerhilda. The grim lines in her face deepened. “Afterbirth’s first.”

The room was silent except for Gerhilda’s grunts. Sunwynn’s limbs grew rigid. She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

“I have the child,” the midwife said. When she leaned back, blood covered her arms and chest. She cradled a listless newborn and the afterbirth.

“Another son,” the midwife said in a monotone.

“Good,” Gerhilda whispered.

The babe is not crying! Sunwynn stared at the infant. He was quiet when the midwife wiped his nose and mouth. A slap to the bottom was met with barely a whimper. Sunwynn winced. A few other women groaned.

“Daughter, hold the jasper amulet to the countess’s belly until it’s warm,” the midwife told an assistant.

The midwife cut the cord and placed the child in the basin she used to wash her hands. Three times, she used her cupped hand to pour water on the child’s head and muttered a Latin prayer. Sunwynn shuddered. There was only one reason a midwife would baptize a newborn.

Sunwynn beheld her lady’s face. It was paler than anything she had ever seen.

“Pray for me; pray for my son,” Gerhilda mumbled. Her eyes rolled, and she swooned, slumping forward.

“Gerhilda!” Sunwynn shrieked, shaking her lady’s shoulders. “Gerhilda! No! Come back! Come back and live!” Sunwynn, her tears unchecked, looked at the midwife.

Sources:

Daily Life in Medieval Times by Frances and Joseph Gies

Europe after Rome: A New Cultural History 500-1000 by Julia M.H. Smith

“Capturing the Wandering Womb” by Kate Phillips, The Haverford Journal, April 2007
Author: Kim Rendfeld

 Kim Rendfeld is the author of The Cross and the Dragon (2012, Fireship Press) and The Ashes of Heaven’s Pillar (August 28, 2014, Fireship Press). To read the first chapters of either novel or learn more about Kim, visit kimrendfeld.com. You’re also welcome to visit her blog Outtakes of a Historical Novelist at kimrendfeld.wordpress.com, like her on Facebook at facebook.com/authorkimrendfeld, or follow her on Twitter at @kimrendfeld, or contact her at kim [at] kimrendfeld [dot] com.

Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Lighting London's Street: A short history

What goes around comes around, or so the saying goes.  It seems this is true of street lighting. Walking home late one night I was struck by the inky blackness. Then it occurred to me that only 1 out of every 3 street lamps was alight. It appears this is the result of council cut backs, with many street lights being turned off altogether after midnight. A small taste perhaps, of what it was like to experience night in earlier centuries.


The need for street lighting was recognized as long ago at 1417 when the then Lord Major of London, Sir Henry Barton, ordered that:
"Lanterns with lights to be hanged out on the winter evenings between Hallowtide and Candlemass."
These lanterns were mainly cheap affairs made out of animal horn scraped until they were thin enough for a light to shine through. The fuel used was whatever came to hand and with choices including animal or vegetable fat, or fish oil; I imagine the lamps smelt stronger than the light they emitted.


Three hundred years later in 1716 things were formalized with "An Act (of 1716) for Lighting the Streets of the City of London, and Liberties Thereof".
This act decreed that all householders with a frontage out onto a public highway or path must show a light between 6-11pm, on threat of a penalty of one shilling (12p). There is not report of how stringently this fine was imposed – I have visions of lamps blowing out in the wind and humble folk being reduced to penury. The fine of a shilling also seems quite steep at a time when a maidservant's average wage for a year was £2 (or 24 shillings).
 
A simple lantern with horn instead of glass
Around about the same time as this act, in 1708, a new kind of lamp was patented.
"A new kind of light, composed of one entire glass of globular shape, with a lamp, which will give a cleaner and more certain light from all parts thereof."
This lamp was first demonstrated outside a coffee house in St James' – presumably to impress wealthy patrons.
This brighter light took off quickly with the benefits clear for all to see. In 1725 a visitor to London describes the wonderful illuminations.
"Most of the streets are wonderfully lighted, for in front of each house hangs a lantern or a large globe of glass, inside of which is placed a lamp which burns all night. Large houses have two …suspended outside their door by iron supports, and some houses even have four."
Cesar de Saussure
However, this needs to be put into some sense of proportions. Cesar's reference point was almost complete darkness. Testament to the lighting not being that good really, was the James Boswell was able to have "relations" with a prostitute at night in the public setting of Westminster Bridge – and remain undetected.
 
A lamplighter and his ladder
However, to some the lights remained bright and jolly, and one visitor mistook their reason
"…some German prince, who came to London for the first time…seriously believed it [the lights] to have been particularly ordered on account of his arrival."
Karl Philip Moritz – diary. 1795
 The superior light provided by coal gas had first been recognized by the ancient Chinese. However, it took until the early 19th century for it to be linked to public street lighting. Gas light was first demonstrated on 28th January, 1807, by Frederick Winsor in Pall Mall, London, but it took nearly another 50 years for it to fully catch on.

Perhaps one  of many sceptics was Dr. Johnson. From the window of his house he once watched as the parish lamp lighter climbed his ladder to light the gas lamp. The man was only halfway back down when the flame went out. The lamp-lighter ascended again and this time only had to touch his flame to the residual vapor in the globe. Johnson remarked:
"Ah! One of these days the streets of London will be lighted by smoke."


Another sceptic was Sir Humphrey Davy, who ridiculed the trend for gas light, asked archly:
"If it were intended to take the dome of St Paul's cathedral for a gasometer?"
Each gas lamp had a horizontal bar either side of the globe for the lamplighter to rest his ladder against. Wandering the streets during the night, these men also had a civic duty as patrol or watchmen.

Before I complain more about the street lights being turned off, it is salient to review the power (or lack) of Victorian lamps. The light given off was equivalent to a modern 25 Watt light bulb, and each lamp was placed 65 meters apart. The idea, it seems, was to give the night traveler a distant point of light to head towards, rather than to light the way. 

Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Bud the Bulldog's Epic Road Trip across the US

A treat today with an extra post about the epic journey of Bud, the bulldog, as co-driver in the first ever road trip across the US (and some hints on traveling with pets).

In 1903 Bud was "co-driver" of the first ever motor vehicle to travel coast to coast across the US. The car was an open-top Winton, nick-named Vermont, with a top speed of 30 mph. In an era when there were approximately 150 miles of metaled road in the entire country, this epic trip took 63 days. Neither were there gas stations (the first gas station was established in 1905) and fuel had to be obtained along the way from general stores that kept a supply of gas for farm machinery.
Bud the bulldog
The trip was the idea of the magnificently named, Dr. Horatio Nelson Jackson. However, he did not set off with a dog, but acquired one along the way. The story goes that Jackson left his coat at a hotel, and realizing his mistake turned back to fetch it. On the road, he was stopped by a man asking if he wanted to buy a dog as a mascot. That dog was Bud, a light-colored bulldog, and Jackson, who had been thinking of getting a dog anyway, agreed and the princely sum of $15 changed hands.
Bud soon took to his new life, especially once equipped with a pair of goggles to keep dust out of his eyes. He sat beside his new master on the passenger seat, staring intently at the road ahead and quickly became adept at bracing himself against the lumps and bumps on rocky tracks. Of course, there is no mention of seatbelts, or other safety devices, but there again I don't suppose they encountered many motor vehicles coming in the opposite direction on their journey.

How things have changed! These days it is essential to be safety conscious when traveling with animals. To make the trip stress-free for pets and humans alike, it is best to plan ahead. If you would like some tips on traveling with pets and to read the full article, click on any of Bud's pictures.


A close up of Bud