In early June 2016 I gave my professorial inaugural lecture (yes, three years ago, just before we heard the results of the Brexit referendum, when the world seemed very different). I have not had a chance to work on my blog since then, subjected to a relentless series of publication deadlines. Now I’ve got back to my blog, I am posting the text of the lecture. I did share the video of the talk way back then, but it takes ages to watch. This post is still a long read, probably a good 30 minutes, but not quite as time intensive! My post might be interesting for anyone who wants to think about emotions history. In a way, it is a reflection on my own personal journey through my research up to 2016 and – thus – through the history of emotions.
I began by thinking about my research publications as a body of work, contemplating how my interests fit together and inform each other and thus what themes I have pursued since I began my academic career.
The formal version was this: I am interested in the history of marriage: particularly the emotional and physical relationships between men and women and how these change over time; I’ve worked extensively on parenting, focusing on self-identity, through the lens of family, gender, and religion; and more recently I’ve begun to investigate the roles of men’s bodies, emotions, and material culture in conveying and constructing ideas about masculinity.
In reality, my research interests seemed to boil down to this: a fascination with angry men, crying men, sad men, happy men, and anxious men. So the connecting themes through all my work were masculinities and emotions and these were what shaped my talk.
Feeling our way through the past
The multi-disciplinary field of the history of emotions is concerned with how far human emotions have been conceptualised, felt, and expressed differently across times and the ways in which they influence ideas and practices.
To demonstrate this in a concrete familial example, here’s a gorgeous family portrait painted by John Singleton Copley in 1778 of Sir William Pepperell and his family, commissioned by Sir William to celebrate having a baronetcy conferred on him and the birth of his heir in 1775.
The portrait shows the idealised Georgian family. It captures a new development in the genre of the family portrait: in which a tender family moment is caught in time with the participants seemingly unaware of the viewer. This was influenced by the culture of sensibility, which elevated the capacity to ‘feel’, and sought to stimulate sentiment, sympathy, and benevolence, which collectively were understood to regulate human society. As art historians like Kate Retford, in her wonderful The Art of Domestic Life, observe, when a family commissioned such a portrait they intended to show their social and cultural status to the outside world through these symbols of refinement, gentility, and affection.
All the hallmarks are here – the feted heir posed like the Christ child in a painting of the Holy Family, drawing our eyes from the mother who takes centre stage, up to the contented gaze of his tender doting father. With all the family members touching one another, it depicts a family poised in an affectionate moment, but positioned to extend into future generations.
As Margaretta Lovell shows, however, this is a portrait of a family that never existed -in this form. The baby – William Pepperell IV – was born in July 1775 in Boston, Massachusetts, when British troops occupied the city, and there was an uneasy peace between loyalists and revolutionaries. Shortly afterwards, Sir William was censured as a loyalist and had his lands, shipping, and lumber mills in New England confiscated. The family were effectively exiled and left for London in February 1776. Their fortunes never fully recovered; sadly, even the adorable male heir predeceased his father.
Most disturbingly for the viewer, is that the mother at the heart of the painting died three years before the painting was finished; she had died three weeks after her son and heir was born, a victim of fever and dysentery. Lovell argues that this image reveals the widower, Sir William, vainly struggling to assert family continuity in the face of enormous economic and personal disruption.
For me, as a historian of emotions, family feelings are also central to this portrait: especially those of fear, anxiety, grief, and loss. This is not simply because the painting’s commission was driven by competing emotions, with Sir William attempting to outface fear and uncertainty by displaying instead familial affection and stability. Emotions also have cultural agency. The feelings represented in this portrait manipulate the viewer, who is offered only a loving, well-ordered family presumably secure for future generations to come: because families mattered.
Indeed, in all my research on personal relationships and self-identity, I work from a two-fold premise. Firstly, that the family was an ‘emotional community’ – Barbara Rosenwein’s term, by which she means ‘groups of people animated by common or similar interests, values, and emotional styles and valuations.’[i] This is important because it recognises that the family, therefore, along with other cultural, political, and social forces, influenced systems of feeling. Secondly, that emotions shape societies, politics, and religion, as well as individuals, since both ‘emotional communities’ and institutions deploy emotions or generate emotional standards and atmospheres to achieve their ends.
In the rest of my post I’ll look at three emotions or feelings – anxiety, anger, and loss – through the lens of the anxious father, the angry husband, and the tearful sailor. Hopefully, I’ll demonstrate the ways in which different models of emotions history help us expose the cultural and practical ramifications of identities from the personal to the national.
Anxious Fathers: Emotional work and building bonds
Thinking about emotions offers fresh insights into parenthood in the past because they complicate assumptions about gender difference, opening up the question of gender identities beyond binary oppositions. Emotions are, after all, human and not fixed according to sex and their relationship with gender changes over time. Using this approach in my work on Georgian parenting (the references for the quotes that follow can be found in that book), for example, opened up the distinctions between gender-specific and gender-related parenthood and parenting, so that the gendered stereotypes of mothers providing physical care and fathers offering material care and government become far more multi-layered and complex. Loving arms and nurturing bosoms were also paternal, and the labouring bodies praised for providing for children were maternal as well as paternal.
You can see this in the vignettes of tender fatherhood in this scrapbook page ‘My Father’. Here the father is depicted as playing with and guiding his son, but also nurturing and caring for him.
An ideal way to explore this is in more detail is through the idea of anxious parenting. In the Georgian period, anxiety denoted uneasiness or trouble of mind, solicitude, and concern. The sheer agony and trials of parenting, in an era of vicious childhood infections and diseases, shaped the cultural vocabulary of parenthood. Anxiety was THUS the essential state of parenting; as a late eighteenth century writer on parental duties commented: ‘what a laborious affair it is to bring up children, how much toil of body, and anxiety of mind it occasions’.
There was some tendency to see anxiety as a natural state of motherhood, a form of biological programming. George Horne’s Reflections on the importance of forming the female character by education (1796) declared women had ‘an advantage from their own make and frame of mind; they are generally more apprehensive of danger, and of what may come hereafter, than men are. This makes them more concerned for their children’s everlasting welfare, and solicitous to teach them what they know themselves’.
But, fathers were described as anxious too. In 1790, a correspondent to the Lady’s Magazine claimed he felt ‘all the anxiety of a father’ for his adopted daughter. John Ryland’s The duty of ministers to be nursing fathers to the church (1797) used the scriptural term ‘nursing father’ of Israel as an example of anxious paternal tenderness to explain the role of ministers.
Here emotions served a purpose in constructing self-identity as a father, since anxiety was not a shameful masculine emotion, though it must be tempered with the antidotes of fortitude and resignation to prevent parental over-anxiety. Thomas Percival’s epitaph in The Gentleman’s Magazine, 1804, observed ‘If ever man could be said to have lived for his children and his friends, rather than for himself, it was he. So unceasing his attention to their interests, so tender his anxiety for their welfare.’ Indeed, to be anxious was a badge of sensitivity and refinement in the later Georgian period, and thus was not just a trait of tender fatherhood, but, in turn, of approved masculinity too.
The emotions relating to anxiety also had a familial function. For a chapter on pregnancy that I wrote for a marvelous volume edited by Jen Evans and Ciara Meehan, I explored the vocabulary used by five families in their correspondence during women’s pregnancies. Fear is omnipresent in the frequent recourse to words like ‘awful’, ‘dangerous’, ‘anxious’, ‘death’ and ‘hope’. For instance Elizabeth Leathes wrote to her mother about ‘the approaching awful period’, worrying that her father might not accompany her mother to stay during the confinement, ‘for fear anything should happen … for Life is very uncertain & particularly at such Dangerous times’.[ii] These narratives of pregnancy voice the state’s sheer uncertainty with a focus on anticipation and apprehension, due to women’s bodily change through illness and physical incapacities, and the considerable personal and emotional disruption, partly owing to the invisibility of the unborn, and the justifiable fears of childbirth.
Though women experienced the pangs of labour, men dreaded them too and communicated considerable emotional distress. Elizabeth’s husband Edward Leathes told his father-in-law that he dreaded having to ‘endure the bitter pangs of another Night so Fraught with Anxious Doubts & Dead-like thoughts as this hath been’.[iii] When women and their families shared feelings like this, they performed emotional ‘work’ by building bonds between spouses and between them and family members, bridging the difficult transitions from one phase of life to another, and helping neutralise the fear of the arrival of a baby who was often referred to at the time as an unseen ‘stranger’.
Angry Husbands: emotional objects and wife-beating
Not all emotions are benign, and thus historians of emotions have also investigated societies’ ‘emotional rules’ – establishing how societies attempt to control and manage emotions considered unacceptable – at the collective level through rules of emotional expression. This is particularly useful when examining patriarchal society in the past, since men were given authority over their dependents, including their wives and children. In such hierarchical societies, because some men had numerous rights and privileges, social rules were implemented which prevented men from exploiting this power. Emotional restraint was a major component of these rules, and thus men were trained from boyhood to channel their anger into appropriate forms.
In this period, after all, as I’ve written about in my book Unquiet Lives, husbands had the legal right to correct their disobedient wives using moderate chastisement, but limits were placed upon them by insisting that husbands must act with reason and without anger, otherwise their physical acts would be defined as cruelty, which could lead to formal punishment. Here men’s transgressions of society’s rules were useful to their victims when prosecuting them in court. The abused wives, and their supporting witnesses, ensured that they used the language of anger when describing the men’s actions to the authorities, with words such as ‘passion’, ‘fury’, and ‘rage’. This inferred irrationality and even madness. In 1766 a wife deposed that her husband John Greenwell ‘worked himself up into great Anger and Passion’ before he attacked her. In 1803, a servant described the Manchester manufacturer, James Lee, as ‘more like a madman than anything else’.
I think that a new dimension of the history of emotions is really useful here – the concept of emotional objects (for a great introduction to this, check out this blog). Essentially, this approach investigates the ways in which material culture – objects, stuff, and spaces – convey emotions and have symbolic power.
It is particularly valuable to consider the emotional resonances of material culture where marital violence is concerned (I’ve written extensively about this in an article). As well as hitting wives with their fists, many violent husbands used objects to abuse them. Often, husbands picked up heavy things and hurled them. When Mary Bentley ran away from her husband after a blow he threw the chair at her, which broke to pieces against the wall.[iv] In the records of marital violence that I surveyed, I found that husbands used a range of weighty objects including a wooden charger, white stone plate, tankard, burning coals, and lit candelabra. Sometimes an implement was wielded like a stick: bed staff, poker, hearth brush and other hearth implements, umbrella, walking stick, and in one case, a bull’s pizzle (a bull’s penis, dried and twisted into a switch).[v] Illustrations of marital violence conveyed abuse through the broken ornaments and overturned furniture as well as the figure of large, aggressive husband wielding domestic objects (usually pokers.)
The material culture of marital violence had several emotional resonances. For instance, a symbolic form of abuse in nineteenth-century cases was the husband tearing off his wife’s wedding ring as part of an attack, often before turning her out of the house. Moreover, refusing to provide wives and families with their material rights was a profound statement to the public that a husband rejected his legal obligation, since his primary function was provision. But withholding the ‘stuff’ of marital love was of course also a profound emotional rejection too.
Abusive men frequently removed wives’ management of the household space and objects, symbolically enacted by taking away their keys. As Elizabeth Foyster observes, ‘household keys were significant indicators of authority, since whoever held them governed access to both household spaces and resources. Without them a woman was powerless’.[vi] In literature, household keys represented normality and security. Carried on the body – tied around the waist or held in baskets of keys, these were intimate reminders of a woman’s status in household and family. By removing them, men took away the one object that gave a woman access to critically important chests and rooms within which were cash, food, clothing, linen, papers and marital property. This removal was emotional: women who complained about this to the courts revealed feelings akin to loss as well as resentment and humiliation.[vii]
Furthermore, the material culture of this violence offers insights into the way accused husbands would be assessed by society and law. After all, consider what they reveal about being beaten by one’s husband, who in this patriarchal world, was supposed to be a wife’s protector, guide, companion, and lover. A pewter tankard, an iron poker, a silver or brass candlestick share several qualities: they are heavy, likely to draw blood when used as a weapon, and even to kill the victim depending on which part of a body they struck. Thus, judged as material culture, these objects convey the victims’ fear and pain and the perpetrator’s unacceptable fury. This was critical in the courtroom, for it showed that these objects were not corrective in function, but deployed in unplanned anger, the very antithesis of mild chastisement. In addition their use was grossly out of proportion to any supposed female provocation, for example, as when Thomas Bowes of Brancepeth was accused before the Church Courts of using his ‘iron beef forks’ in the 1730s to try and stab his wife until the servant intervened and took them off him.[viii]
Thus, objects’ emotional power influenced understandings of wife beating. In its imagined, form, the material culture of wife beating became class-specific over the nineteenth century, a development which embellished and embedded the stereotype of working-class marital violence in public discourse and conscience. The best example of this is the working boot, both clog and hobnail versions, which became the most notorious object associated with wife beating in the Victorian era. Both were industrial workers’ footwear, reinforced with metal toe caps and heels: wooden clogs were worn in metal- and textile-working industries to protect feet; hobnail boots were similarly cheap, durable, and protective. In some horrific later nineteenth-century cases, men used both to murder their wives by kicking them to death.
Worried commentators and feminist writers evoked these objects in their publications, when demanding the appropriate punishment for wife beaters, or improved rights for women. For example, attempts to pass Lord Leigh’s Bill to introduce flogging to punish wife-beaters in 1874, presented evidence of cases of working-class husbands ’“digging” the women with wooden clogs tipped and heeled with iron’.[ix] A letter to the Editor in the Spectator, Dec 1877, complained of a series of northern men who had killed their wives recently: ‘Alfred Cummins, tailor, Moor Street [Blackburn], was charged with knocking his wife down and kicking her head and face so violently as to deprive her of sight in one eye’.[x] In 1874 another article raised the spectre of an epidemic of violence in the north, thanks to: ‘The Rough who kicks an inoffensive passer-by to death, or who tramples, with his hob-nailed boots, on the body of his senseless wife, is often maddened with drink, but he is never, or hardly ever, quite irresponsible’.[xi]
This rapidly became a regional material culture of marital violence – as you can see in this Punch cartoon. After all, clogs and hobnail boots were worn in textile mills, mines, and iron-working; industrialised labour that centred on Lancashire, West Yorkshire (Manchester, Preston, Blackburn), Liverpool, and the north-east of England. So, in 1876 Serjeant Pulling identified the ‘kicking district’ of Liverpool and most famously of all the feminist activist Frances Power-Cobbe drew to the public’s attention the ‘kicking districts’ of Lancashire in her 1878 publication Wife Torture.[xii] For Victorians, therefore, working-class men physical abused their wives, while middle-class men mentally abused them. In fact, studies of assault show it was scattered far more widely among different types and classes of men.[xiii]
In short, boots and clogs were profoundly emotional objects, which contributed to the efficacy and tenacity of the stereotype of wife beating. After all, the reading and viewing public had seen, hefted, or worn a pair of clogs or hobnail boots and knew their weight and size, their roughness, and crudeness of form; those who heard the shoes on cobbles heard the nails ring. Hence, all knew these objects’ potential threat as weapons and the way they turned one kick into a fatal blow. They also spoke of the rage of men who used them and prompted visceral emotions in those who came to associate them with marital violence – of disgust, revulsion, and contempt – for men who used them.
Though the sinister association between footwear and working-class and regional wife-beating waned in the twentieth century, by the 1950s the flat cap had taken over as the social-class- and place- signifier of wife-beating. It was perhaps most associated with Andy Capp, a globally popular cartoon character who was the personification of the wife beater.
According to Erik Hobsbawm the flat-cap marked a proud working-class identity from the 1890s; he describes it as the ‘headgear which virtually formed the badge of class membership of the British proletarian when not at work’. Though Hobsbawm states that the Capp cartoons ‘gently satirized the traditional male working-class culture of the old industrial area of Britain’, Andy Capp’s callous use of violence against his wife, Flo, offered a derogatory vision of working-class men.[xiv] Thus the very emotional associations of this material culture of marital violence helped entrench class stereotypes by creating an ‘other’ against whom the middle classes and ‘respectable’ working classes could construct identities.
The Tearful Sailor: Gendering Emotions
So far, I’ve looked at the work emotions did in forming familial bonds, facilitating public scrutiny and criticism of behaviour, and in symbolising through certain objects a number of gendered and class stereotypes. Now I want to look at the way emotions helped construct identities, both individual and collective. I’m going to use the common image of the sailor to examine this in more detail, largely through the depiction of the tearful sailor (see my article for more details).
Representations of the ordinary sailor were ubiquitous from the later eighteenth century and through the nineteenth century, as consumption, sentiment and war joined forces, and sailors (and soldiers) were commoditised in word, song, picture, object, and spectacle. I will focus on the motif of the Sailor’s Farewell and Sailor’s Return.[xv] This was a staple event depicted in songs, poems, art, and on pottery from porcelain to more affordable earthenware versions.
These show the sailor taking leave of either his sweetheart, or wife and children, against background of sea and ship, along with tearful reunions. The woman’s tears are central to these depictions, represented by her holding a handkerchief to her eye.
These depictions were more than consolatory accounts of women’s response to separation, reunion, and loss. Thomas Dixon explains that contemporaries did not see tears as a simple indication that a person was emotional. Tears were signs of passions, affections, feelings, thoughts, and ideas. For instance, as a refined, genteel man of feeling, for example, the Georgian naval officer could weep. He symbolised all the admirable manly attributes of the age of sensibility. But his tears were not just informed by the Georgian culture of sensibility and Victorian domesticity, but also by Christian texts. Tears of a Christian sensibility were often about resignation, lament, and pity.[xvii]
By the 1790s such qualities were extended to depictions of the ordinary sailors. These Jack Tars wept when press-ganged. In one ballad, Patrick O’Stern was ‘in tears’ when he was torn from his Kate. Luckily he managed to hoard his prize money and returned to take his rightful role in providing for her and their two boys, who in his absence fell into poverty and were maintained by the parish.[xviii] In fact, Jack Tars shed tears in numerous songs, verses and titles. ‘The Sailor’s Tear’ (in the image above), 1830, was the title of a picture of a sailor gesturing to sea with his sailor’s hat in one hand and clasping his wife’s hand to his heart with the other, a young child and small dog at his legs.
When ordinary sailors were shown as possessing powerful feelings, physically expressed through tears their worth and value and were dramatized and their self-sacrifice and duty highlighted. These depictions of emotional sailors were deployed by writers, artists, and publishers for several reasons. The tearful Jack Tar was a device intended to stir sympathy and benevolence in the consumers of these products. In one song ‘Poor Tom Haulyard’, fought bravely in battle until he received a mortal wound. Dragging himself to his ‘noble captain’ he asked ‘Have I done a seaman’s duty/On this great and glorious day?’ The ‘weeping’ captain confirmed his bravery and agreed to give Tom’s ‘dear and constant Catharine’ a lock of his hair and a letter. Tom died and the final verse rhetorically asks: ‘Who that saw a scene so mournful,/Could without a tear depart?/He must own a savage nature,/Pity never warmed his heart’. So here tears proved the readers’ sympathy, as well as being symbolic of civilisation even in the savagery of battle when ‘the main-deck to the quarter,/ [was] Strewed with limbs, and wet with blood’.[xxi]
Most significant, the representations of the emotionally expressive Jack Tar were used to promote an ideal of masculinity in a time of war and national crisis. You see, up to the 1860s, shedding a tear did not undermine manliness, because tears were ‘movements’ or ‘agitations’ that indicated piety, sympathy, and tenderness; all requisite elements of the manly man.[xxii] In the ballad ‘The Sailor’s Farewell’, the sailor is parted from Mary by ‘stern duty’. He pleads with her not to weep: ‘You unman me with your kindness,/Oh! Chase these tears off my brow’.[xxiii] Though he uses the term ‘unman’, this was not about effeminacy but rather concern that emotional distress might prevent him performing his manly duty. Indeed, a tearful man was not considered effeminate in what might be called a ‘long-century’ of acceptable male weeping as long as he shed his tears for the correct reason and in the correct space. Manly sailors shed tears at leaving home or at homecoming, at the point of entering battle, or at death. The song The Sailor’s Tear (1835) drew on all the attributes of feeling manliness. Here the song-writer melded feeling, domesticity, and fighting in the figure of the ordinary sailor; the epitome of the manly self-sacrificing, patriotic, fighting Briton.
Tearful tars in textual, visual, and material culture, therefore, stirred love and pride, but also at the same time, joy, fear, loss, and nostalgia, and these emotions helped to ‘fix’ their manly ideal in people’s minds and sense of selves. Contemporaries certainly recognised their emotive patriotic impact and popularity. In 1828 The Literary Gazette and Journal of Belle Lettres, Arts, Sciences reviewed The Parting Hour, which it described as ‘A sailor is being borne to his ship in the distance, and waves his handkerchief from the boat to his aged parents on the shore, while his faithful mistress leans against a rock, apart, and weeps her adieu’. The reviewer observed that this subject was ‘one always congenial to British feelings’ and ‘the whole scene possesses a character well calculated for popularity’.[xxv]
What fascinates me is that there is evidence that this cultural motif ALSO had emotional value for men. On 5 July 1811 John Shaw ended a letter to his future wife by copying out a poem celebrating the constancy of wife, children, and friends in an uncertain world. One stanza featured an injured patriotic seaman:
‘the water still breaths in his life’s dying embers
the death wounded tar whose his colours defends
drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers
how blest was his home with wife children and friends’.
The poem concluded by observing that a man’s twilight years were drear if they drew ‘no warmth from the smiles of wife children and friends’. John therefore visualised his married life through the figure of the patriotic man uprooted from his family; no doubt this had extra emotional power since he was himself a travelling hardware salesman who would spend extended periods away from the home and family he loved.
George Hicks’s The Sinews of Old England, 1857, draws together the themes of my post. It’s a particularly appealing example of a working man leaving home to work, in this instance a rural labouring man, rather than the Jack Tar.
Even so, Hicks’s Sinews of Old England evokes the navy, which was popularly described as ‘the sinews and power of old England.’[xxvi] This image can be read in several ways in the light of what I’ve discussed so far. To some extent it can be seen as conservative in intention, reinforcing the gendered spheres of home with the man active in the public sphere and his adoring wife waiting in the domestic sphere. Like other similar images, it sentimentalises men’s hard labour, in the process making the working-class man less threatening to higher ranking people by valorising his work ethic for his family. Moreover, as with the Jack Tar, this labouring men at the heart of his family also embodies the strength of the nation through the motif of familial affection that saturates the painting.
I’m also ending with Hicks’ labourer because he represents the transition from the research that I’ve previously done to my current interests. My new book (due out in 2020 with Manchester University Press) moves on more explicitly to the role of bodies, emotions, and material culture in constructing gender. It offers, I hope, an innovative account of manliness in Britain between 1760 and 1900. I use diverse textual, visual, and material culture sources to show that masculinities were produced and disseminated through men’s bodies, very often working-class ones, and the emotions and material culture associated with them. I thus analyse idealised men who stimulated desire and admiration, including virile boxers, soldiers, sailors, and blacksmiths, brave firemen, and noble industrial workers. I also investigate unmanly men, like drunkards, wife-beaters, and masturbators who elicited disgust and aversion. Manliness in Britain therefore offers an account of manliness that is more corporeal and material, more emotional, more cross-class, and less heteronormative than other studies. All in all, what I aim to do next is show that emotionalised bodies and objects can tell us a lot about human society.
[i] [Palmer, ‘The History of Emotions’, History and Theory, 253
[ii][ii] NRO, BOL 2/24/13/1 April 9th 1775, also see BOL 2/24/22 Reedham July 18th 1775.
[iii] NRO, BOL 2/24/26 Reedham 28th August 1775.
[iv] Cons. CP 1847/4, Bentley v. Bentley, 1845.
[v] These objects are derived from cruelty separation cases (1660-1857) that I worked on in my first book and subsequent articles.
[vi] Foyster, Marital Violence, p. 53, for examples see Bailey, Unquiet Lives, p. 77.
[vii] Cons.CP 1800/3 Warburton c Warburton, 1799.
[viii] Trans CP 1737/2 Elizabeth Bowes c Thomas Bowes, Libel.
[ix] For more on these debates see Susan Edwards ‘”Kicked, Beaten, Jumped On until They Are Crushed,” All under Man’s Wing and Protection: The Victorian Dilemma with Domestic Violence’, in Judith Rowbotham and Kim Stevenson (eds.), Criminal Conversations: Victorian Crimes, Social Panic, and Moral Outrage, Ohio State University, 2005, pp. 247-66.
[x] The Spectator, 22 December, 1877, p. 13 http://archive.spectator.co.uk/article/22nd-december-1877/13/protection-for-english-christians-ct-the-enrrou-of
[xi] The Spectator, 5 December 1874, p. 9 http://archive.spectator.co.uk/article/5th-september-1874/9/aggravated-assaults
[xii] For more on Cobbe’s campaign see Susan Hamilton, “’A Whole Series of Frightful Cases’: Domestic Violence, the Periodical Press and Victorian Feminist Writing,” TOPIA 13 (2005): 89–101
[xiii] Bailey, Unquiet Lives, pp. 96-7.
[xiv] Eric Hobsbawm, ‘Mass-producing traditions: Europe 1870-1914’ in Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition, Cambridge, 1983, p. 287.
[xv] Check out the online galleries of the National Maritime Museum for examples.
[xvi] Lady’s Magazine, 1782, pp. 343-344.
[xvii] Dixon, ‘Weeping in Space: Tears, feelings, and enthusiasm in eighteenth-century Britain’, in Susan Broomhall (ed), Spaces for Feeling: Emotions and Sociabilities in Britain 1650-1850, London, 2015, pp. 137-9, 148, 150.
[xviii] ‘Patrick O’Stern and Catharine O’Grady’, Universal Songster, p. 425.
[xxi] In Universal Songster, 1828, p. 5.
[xxii] Thomas Dixon, Enthusiasm Delineated: Varieties of Weeping in Eighteenth-Century Britain’, Litteraria Pragensia: Studies in Literature and Culture 22 (2012): 59–81.
[xxiii] Broadside Ballad, English Ballads, Digitised National Library of Scotland.
[xxiv] Sailor’s Tear, Bodley Ballads, Bodleian Library, Frame 19918. Also see sheet music, Victoria & Albert Collection, S.356-2012, c 19th century, and https://jscholarship.library.jhu.edu/handle/1774.2/20159
[xxv] The painting was by H. Corbould and engraved by H. Bromley, R. Ackermann.
[xxvi] Men and times of the Revolution; or, Memoirs of Elkanah Watson, including journals of travels in Europe and America, from 1777 to 1842