Behold the Glass Armonica, the Unbelievably Fragile Instrument Invented by Benjamin Franklin

We’re all famil­iar with key­board instru­ments. Many of us have also heard (or indeed made) music, of a kind, with the rims of wine glass­es. But to unite the two required the tru­ly Amer­i­can com­bi­na­tion of genius, where­with­al, and pen­chant for fol­ly found in one his­tor­i­cal fig­ure above all: Ben­jamin Franklin. As we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly not­ed here on Open Cul­ture, the musi­cal­ly inclined Franklin invent­ed an instru­ment called the glass armon­i­ca (alter­na­tive­ly “glass har­mon­i­ca”) — or rather he re-invent­ed it, hav­ing seen and heard an ear­ly exam­ple played in Lon­don. Essen­tial­ly a series of dif­fer­ent­ly sized bowls arranged from large to small, all rotat­ing on a shaft, the glass armon­i­ca allows its play­er to make poly­phon­ic music of a down­right celes­tial nature.

The play­ing, how­ev­er, is eas­i­er writ­ten about than done. You can see that for your­self in the video above, in which gui­tarist Rob Scal­lon vis­its musi­cian-preser­va­tion­ist Den­nis James. Not only does James play a glass armon­i­ca, he plays a glass armon­i­ca he built him­self — and has pre­sum­ably rebuilt a few times as well, giv­en its scarce­ly believ­able fragili­ty.

Trans­porta­tion presents its chal­lenges, but so does the act of play­ing, which requires a rou­tine of hand-wash­ing (and sub­se­quent re-wet­ting, with dis­tilled water only) that even the coro­n­avirus has­n’t got most of us used to. But even in the hands of a first-timer like Scal­lon, who makes sure to take his turn at the key­board-of-bowls, the glass armon­i­ca sounds like no oth­er instru­ment even most of us in the 21st cen­tu­ry have heard. In the hands of one of its few liv­ing vir­tu­osos, of course, the glass armon­i­ca is some­thing else entire­ly.

“If this piece did­n’t exist,” says James, hold­ing a piece of sheet music, “I would­n’t be sit­ting here.” He refers to Ada­gio & Ron­do for glass armon­i­ca in C minor (KV 617), com­posed by none oth­er than Wolf­gang Amadeus Mozart. “In 1791, the last year of his life, Mozart wrote a piece for the Ger­man armon­i­ca play­er, Mar­i­anne Kirchgäss­ner,” writes Tim­o­ty Judd at The Lis­ten­ers’ Club. Like every glass armon­i­ca piece, accord­ing to James, one ends it by drop­ping sud­den­ly into com­plete silence: “It’s the only instru­ment, up until that point, that could to that: die away to absolute­ly noth­ing.” Alas, writes James, not long after the debut of Mozart’s com­po­si­tion rumors cir­cu­lat­ed that “the strange, crys­talline tones of Ben­jamin Franklin’s new instru­ment were a threat to pub­lic health.” A shame though that seems today, it does suit the mul­ti­tal­ent­ed Franklin’s ancil­lary rep­u­ta­tion as an invet­er­ate trou­ble­mak­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Instru­ment Ben­jamin Franklin Invent­ed, the Glass Armon­i­ca, Plays Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sug­ar Plum Fairy”

Hear the Cristal Baschet, an Enchant­i­ng Organ Made of Wood, Met­al & Glass, and Played with Wet Hands

Dis­cov­er the Appre­hen­sion Engine: Bri­an Eno Called It “the Most Ter­ri­fy­ing Musi­cal Instru­ment of All Time”

Bach’s Most Famous Organ Piece Played on Wine Glass­es

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Catherine the Great of Russia Sends a Letter Urging Her Fellow Russians to Get Inoculated Against Smallpox (1787)

I got my boost­er shot the oth­er week and through the mir­a­cles of mod­ern sci­ence I bare­ly knew a nee­dle was in me before the phar­ma­cist told me it was over. (I also didn’t feel any after effects, but your mileage may vary.) I men­tion this because before nee­dles, before injectable vac­cines, there was some­thing called var­i­o­la­tion.

Since ancient times, small­pox had a habit of dec­i­mat­ing pop­u­la­tions, dis­ap­pear­ing, and reap­pear­ing else­where for anoth­er out­break. It killed rulers and peas­ants alike. Symp­toms includ­ed fever, vom­it­ing, and most abhor­rent, a body cov­ered with flu­id-filled blis­ters. It could blind you, and it could kill you. In var­i­o­la­tion, a physi­cian would take the infec­tious flu­id from from a blis­ter or scab on an infect­ed per­son and rub it into scratch­es or cuts on a healthy patient’s skin. This would lead to a mild—but still par­tic­u­lar­ly unpleasant—case of small­pox, and inoc­u­late them against the virus.

But one can also see how the prac­tice of variolation—introducing a dilut­ed ver­sion of the virus in order for the immune sys­tem to do its work—points towards the sci­ence of vac­cines.

One sup­port­er of var­i­o­la­tion was Cather­ine the Great, as evi­denced by a let­ter in her hand pro­mot­ing it across Rus­sia from 1787. The let­ter just sold for $1.3 mil­lion, along­side a por­trait of the monarch by Dmit­ry Lev­it­sky.

Addressed to a gov­er­nor-gen­er­al, Cather­ine the Great instructs him to make var­i­o­la­tion avail­able to every­body in his province.

“Among the oth­er duties of the Wel­fare Boards in the Provinces entrust­ed to you,” she writes, “one of the most impor­tant should be the intro­duc­tion of inoc­u­la­tion against small­pox, which, as we know, caus­es great harm, espe­cial­ly among the ordi­nary peo­ple.” She fur­ther orders inoc­u­la­tion cen­ters be set up in con­vents and monas­ter­ies, fund­ed by town rev­enues to pay doc­tors.

Cather­ine had a per­son­al stake in all this. Her hus­band, Peter III caught the dis­ease before he became emper­or, and was left dis­fig­ured and scarred for life. When she got a chance to inoc­u­late her­self in 1768 she took it, call­ing in a Scot­tish doc­tor, Dr. Thomas Dims­dale, to per­form the var­i­o­la­tion. The pro­ce­dure took place in secret, with a horse at the ready in case the pro­ce­dure caused ter­ri­ble side effects and he had to hot foot it out of Rus­sia. That didn’t hap­pen, and after a brief con­va­les­cence, Cather­ine revealed what she had done to her coun­try­men.

“My objec­tive was, through my exam­ple, to save from death the mul­ti­tude of my sub­jects who, not know­ing the val­ue of this tech­nique, and fright­ened of it, were left in dan­ger.”

Yet, despite her own brav­ery, 20 years lat­er small­pox con­tin­ued to ram­page through Rus­sia, hence the let­ter.

Nine years lat­er in 1796, Dr. Edward Jen­ner found that the cow­pox virus—which only caused mild, cold-like symp­toms in humans—could inoc­u­late humans against small­pox. Despite ini­tial rejec­tions from the sci­en­tif­ic com­mu­ni­ty, his dis­cov­ery led to vac­ci­na­tion sup­plant­i­ng var­i­o­la­tion. And it’s the rea­son we now use the word “vaccine”—it comes from the Latin word for cow.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the World’s First Anti-Vax Move­ment Start­ed with the First Vac­cine for Small­pox in 1796, and Spread Fears of Peo­ple Get­ting Turned into Half-Cow Babies

How Vac­cines Improved Our World In One Graph­ic

The His­to­ry of the Plague: Every Major Epi­dem­ic in an Ani­mat­ed Map

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the Notes from the Shed pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, and/or watch his films here.

Stephen Fry on the Power of Words in Nazi Germany: How Dehumanizing Language Laid the Foundation for Genocide

In a recent series of Tweets and a fol­low-up inter­view with MEL mag­a­zine, leg­endary alt-rock pro­duc­er and musi­cian Steve Albi­ni took respon­si­bil­i­ty for what he saw as his part in cre­at­ing “edgelord” cul­ture — the jokey, meme-wor­thy use of racist, misog­y­nist and homo­pho­bic slurs that became so nor­mal­ized it invad­ed the halls of Con­gress. “It was gen­uine­ly shock­ing when I real­ized that there were peo­ple in the music under­ground who weren’t play­ing when they were using lan­guage like that,” he says. “I wish that I knew how seri­ous a threat fas­cism was in this coun­try…. There was a joke made about the Illi­nois Nazis in The Blues Broth­ers. That’s how we all per­ceived them — as this insignif­i­cant, unim­por­tant lit­tle joke. I wish that I knew then that author­i­tar­i­an­ism in gen­er­al and fas­cism specif­i­cal­ly were going to become com­mon­place as an ide­ol­o­gy.”

Per­haps, as Stephen Fry explains in the video clip above from his BBC doc­u­men­tary series Plan­et Word, we might bet­ter under­stand how casu­al dehu­man­iza­tion leads to fas­cism and geno­cide if we see how lan­guage has worked in his­to­ry. The Holo­caust, the most promi­nent but by no means only exam­ple of mass mur­der, could nev­er have hap­pened with­out the will­ing par­tic­i­pa­tion of what Daniel Gold­ha­gen called “ordi­nary Ger­mans” in his book Hitler’s Will­ing Exe­cu­tion­ers. Christo­pher Brown­ing’s Ordi­nary Men, about the Final Solu­tion in Poland, makes the point Fry makes above. Cul­tur­al fac­tors played their part, but there was noth­ing innate­ly Teu­ton­ic (or “Aryan”) about geno­cide. “We can all be grown up enough to know that it was human­i­ty doing some­thing to oth­er parts of human­i­ty,” says Fry. We’ve seen exam­ples in our life­times in Rwan­da, Myan­mar, and maybe wher­ev­er we live — ordi­nary humans talked into doing ter­ri­ble things to oth­er peo­ple.

But no mat­ter how often we encounter geno­ci­dal move­ments, it seems like “a mas­sive­ly dif­fi­cult thing to get your head around,” says Fry: “how ordi­nary peo­ple (and Ger­mans are ordi­nary peo­ple just like us)” could be made to com­mit atroc­i­ties. In the U.S., we have our own ver­sion of this — the his­to­ry of lynch­ing and its atten­dant indus­try of post­cards and even more gris­ly mem­o­ra­bil­ia, like the tro­phies ser­i­al killers col­lect. “In each one of these geno­ci­dal moments… each exam­ple was pre­ced­ed by lan­guage being used again and again and again to dehu­man­ize the per­son that had to be killed in the eyes of their ene­mies,” says Fry. He briefly elab­o­rates on the vari­eties of dehu­man­iz­ing anti-Semit­ic slurs that became com­mon in the 1930s, refer­ring to Jew­ish peo­ple, for exam­ple, as ver­min, apes, unter­men­schen, virus­es, “any­thing but a human being.”

“If you start to char­ac­ter­ize [some­one this way], week after week after week after week,” says Fry, cit­ing the con­stant radio broad­casts against the Tut­sis in the Rwan­dan geno­cide, “you start to think of some­one who is slight­ly sullen and dis­agree­able and you don’t like very much any­way, and you’re con­stant­ly get­ting the idea that they’re not actu­al­ly human. Then it seems it becomes pos­si­ble to do things to them we would call com­plete­ly unhu­man, and inhu­man, and lack­ing human­i­ty.” While it’s absolute­ly true, he says, that lan­guage “guar­an­tees our free­dom” through the “free exchange of ideas,” it can real­ly only do that when lan­guage users respect oth­ers’ rights. When, how­ev­er, we begin to see “spe­cial terms of insult for spe­cial kinds of peo­ple, then we can see very clear­ly, and his­to­ry demon­strates it time and time again, that’s when ordi­nary peo­ple are able to kill.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Umber­to Eco Makes a List of the 14 Com­mon Fea­tures of Fas­cism

Yale Pro­fes­sor Jason Stan­ley Iden­ti­fies 10 Tac­tics of Fas­cism: The “Cult of the Leader,” Law & Order, Vic­tim­hood and More

The Sto­ry of Fas­cism: Rick Steves’ Doc­u­men­tary Helps Us Learn from the Hard Lessons of the 20th Cen­tu­ry

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

How to Be a Samurai: A 17th Century Code for Life & War

Many today draw inspi­ra­tion from Bushidō, the Way of the War­rior, a com­pre­hen­sive code of con­duct for pre­mod­ern Japan’s samu­rai (or bushi).

The above install­ment of His­to­ry Broth­ers David and Pete Kel­ly’s pri­ma­ry source web series Voic­es of the Past sug­gests that some aspects of the samu­rai code are more applic­a­ble to 21st cen­tu­ry life than oth­ers.

For instance, when was the last time you slaugh­tered some­one for ren­der­ing offense to your Lord?

Not that the best prac­tices sur­round­ing such an assign­ment aren’t fas­ci­nat­ing. Still, you’ll prob­a­bly ben­e­fit more from incor­po­rat­ing the samu­rai approach to deal­ing with gos­sips or clue­less col­leagues.

If you want to adapt Mas­ter Nin­ja Natori Masazu­mi’s Edo peri­od instruc­tions for clean­ing blood from long swords, with­out dam­ag­ing the blade, to pol­ish­ing your stain­less steel fridge, have at it:

Place horse drop­pings inside some paper and wipe it over a blade that has been used to cut some­one. This will leave traces of the wip­ing and the blood will no longer be seen. If there are no horse drop­pings avail­able to wipe the blade with, use the back of your straw san­dals or soil inside paper.

The video draws on his­to­ri­an Antony Cum­mins and trans­la­tor Yoshie Minami’s The Book of Samu­rai: The Fun­da­men­tal Teach­ings, a repro­duc­tion of two scrolls con­tain­ing Natori Masazumi’s direc­tives for samu­rai con­duct in times of war and peace.

The sec­ond scroll, “Ippei Yoko,” con­tains some explic­it march­ing orders for the for­mer.

If you’re squea­mish — or eat­ing — you may want to duck out of the video before Natori Masazu­mi’s gran­u­lar instruc­tions on the sev­er­ing of ene­my heads. (15:30 onward.)

Alter­na­tive­ly, you could make like an inex­pe­ri­enced young samu­rai and hard­en your­self to the graph­ic real­i­ties of blood­shed by attend­ing exe­cu­tions and vio­lent pun­ish­ments in your down­time.

Again, the more every­day wis­dom of “Hei­ka Jodan,” the first scroll, will like­ly prove more per­ti­nent. A few chest­nuts to get you start­ed:

Don’t say some­thing about some­one behind their back that you are not pre­pared to repeat to their face.

Keep your dis­tance from “stu­pid” asso­ciates, but also resist the urge to make fun of them.

Nev­er shy away from an act of virtue.

In an emer­gency, exit in a swift, but order­ly man­ner.

Com­pli­ment the food when you’re a guest in someone’s home, even if you don’t like it.

If you’re the host, and two guests begin fight­ing, try to help set­tle the mat­ter dis­creet­ly, to avoid last­ing injuries or grudges.

Don’t pass the buck to excuse your own mis­deeds.

Don’t pan­ic in an unex­pect­ed sit­u­a­tion — the first thing you should do is take a breath and set­tle your mind.

Whether trav­el­ing or just out and about, be pre­pared with nec­es­sary items, includ­ing, pen­cil, paper, mon­ey, med­ica­tions…

When tempt­ed to regale oth­ers with any super­nat­ur­al encoun­ters you may have had, remem­ber that less is more.

Watch more Voic­es of the Past on their YouTube chan­nel.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Hyp­not­ic Look at How Japan­ese Samu­rai Swords Are Made

An Origa­mi Samu­rai Made from a Sin­gle Sheet of Rice Paper, With­out Any Cut­ting

A Demon­stra­tion of Per­fect Samu­rai Swords­man­ship

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­maol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Browse a Huge Collection of Prison Newspapers: 1800–2020

“By the end of the eigh­teenth and the begin­ning of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, the gloomy fes­ti­val of pun­ish­ment was dying out… Pun­ish­ment, then, will tend to become the most hid­den part of the penal process.” — Michel Fou­cault

The study of crime in the late 1800s began with racist pseu­do­science like cran­iom­e­try and phrenol­o­gy, both of which have made a dis­turb­ing come­back in recent years. In his 1876 book, Crim­i­nal Man, the “father of crim­i­nol­o­gy,” Cesare Lom­brosco, defined “the crim­i­nal” as “an atavis­tic being who repro­duces in his per­son the fero­cious instincts of prim­i­tive human­i­ty and the infe­ri­or of ani­mals.” Lom­brosco believed that cer­tain cra­nial and facial fea­tures cor­re­spond to a “love of orgies and the irre­sistible crav­ing for evil for its own sake, the desire not only to extin­guish life in the vic­tim, but to muti­late the corpse, tear its flesh, and drink its blood.” That such descrip­tions pre­ced­ed Bram Stok­er’s Drac­u­la by sev­er­al years may be no coin­ci­dence at all.

No such thing as a nat­ur­al crim­i­nal type exists, but this has not stopped 19th cen­tu­ry prej­u­dices from embed­ding them­selves in law enforce­ment, the prison sys­tem and the cul­ture at large in the Unit­ed States. Out­side of the most sen­sa­tion­al­ist cas­es, how­ev­er, we rarely hear from incar­cer­at­ed peo­ple them­selves, though they’ve had plen­ty say about their human­i­ty in print since the turn of the 19th cen­tu­ry, when the first prison news­pa­per, For­lorn Hope, was pub­lished in New York City on March 24, 1800.

“In the inter­ven­ing 200 years,” notes JSTOR, “over 500 prison news­pa­pers have been pub­lished from U.S. pris­ons.” A new col­lec­tion, Amer­i­can Prison News­pa­pers: 1800–2020 — Voic­es from the Inside, “will bring togeth­er hun­dreds of these peri­od­i­cals from across the coun­try into one col­lec­tion that will rep­re­sent penal insti­tu­tions of all kinds, with spe­cial atten­tion paid to women-only insti­tu­tions.”

The U.S. incar­cer­ates “over 2 mil­lion as of 2019” — and has pro­duced some of the world’s most mov­ing jail and prison lit­er­a­ture, from Thore­au’s “Civ­il Dis­obe­di­ence” to Mar­tin Luther King, Jr.‘s “Let­ter from a Birm­ing­ham Jail.” The news­pa­pers in this col­lec­tion do not often fea­ture a sim­i­lar lev­el of lit­er­ary bravu­ra, but many show a high degree of pro­fes­sion­al­ism and artis­tic qual­i­ty. “Next to the fad­ed, home-spun pages of The Hour Glass, pub­lished at the Farm for Women in Con­necti­cut in the 1930s,” writes JSTOR Dai­ly’s Kate McQueen, “read­ers will find pol­ished sta­ples of the 1970s like news­pa­per The Ken­tucky Inter-Prison Press and Ari­zona State Pris­on’s mag­a­zine La Roca.”

Many, if not most, of these pub­li­ca­tions were pub­lished with offi­cial sanc­tion, and these “cov­er sim­i­lar ground. They report on prison pro­gram­ing, pro­file locals of inter­est, and offer com­men­tary on top­ics like parole and edu­ca­tion” under the watch­ful gaze of the war­den, whose pho­to­graph might appear on the mast­head. “Incar­cer­at­ed jour­nal­ists walk a tightrope between over­sight by admin­is­tra­tions — even cen­sor­ship — and seek­ing to report accu­rate­ly on their expe­ri­ences inside,” the col­lec­tion points out. Prison news­pa­pers gave inmates oppor­tu­ni­ties to share cre­ative work and hone new­ly acquired lit­er­a­cy, lit­er­ary, and legal skills. Those peri­od­i­cals that cir­cu­lat­ed under­ground with­out the author­i­ties’ per­mis­sion had no need to equiv­o­cate about their pol­i­tics. Wash­ing­ton State Pen­i­ten­tiary’s Anar­chist Black Drag­on, for exam­ple, took a fierce­ly rad­i­cal stance on every page. Nowhere on the mast­head will one find the names of cor­rec­tion­al offi­cers, or even a list of edi­tors and con­trib­u­tors, or even a mast­head.

Whether offi­cial, unof­fi­cial, or occu­py­ing a grey area, prison peri­od­i­cals all hoped in some degree to “poke holes in the wall,” as Tom Run­y­on, edi­tor of Iowa State Pen­i­ten­tiary’s Pre­sidio wrote — reach­ing audi­ences out­side the prison to refute crim­i­no­log­i­cal think­ing. Ari­zona State Pris­on’s The Desert Press, led its Jan­u­ary 1934 issue with the press­ing head­line “Are Con­victs Peo­ple?” (like­ly after Alice Duer Miller’s satir­i­cal 1904 “book of rhymes for suf­frage times,” Are Women Peo­ple?)  Lawrence Snow, edi­tor of Ken­tucky State Pen­i­ten­tiary’s Cas­tle on the Cum­ber­land, picked up the ques­tion with more for­mal­i­ty in a 1964 col­umn, ask­ing, “How shall [a prison pub­li­ca­tion] go about its prin­ci­pal job of con­vinc­ing the casu­al read­er that con­victs, although they have divorced them­selves tem­porar­i­ly from soci­ety, still belong to the human race?” Giv­en that the Unit­ed States impris­ons more peo­ple than any oth­er nation in the world, the ques­tion seems more per­ti­nent — urgent even — than ever before. Enter the Amer­i­can Prison News­pa­pers col­lec­tion here.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

On the Pow­er of Teach­ing Phi­los­o­phy in Pris­ons

Pris­ons Around the U.S. Are Ban­ning and Restrict­ing Access to Books

Bertrand Russell’s Prison Let­ters Are Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online (1918 – 1961)

Pat­ti Smith Reads from Oscar Wilde’s De Pro­fundis, the Love Let­ter He Wrote From Prison (1897)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

How a Mosaic from Caligula’s Party Boat Became a Coffee Table in a New York City Apartment 50 Years Ago

Imag­ine own­ing Caligula’s cof­fee table — or, bet­ter yet, a cof­fee table made from the mosa­ic floor­ing that once cov­ered the infa­mous­ly cru­el Roman Emperor’s par­ty boats. Art deal­er and Man­hat­tan­ite Helen Fio­rat­ti owned such a table for 45 years, but she had no idea what it was until she hap­pened to go to a 2013 book sign­ing by author and Ital­ian stone expert Dario Del Bufa­lo. There, a friend noticed her table in Del Bufalo’s cof­fee table book, Por­phyry, “about the red­dish-pur­ple rock much used by Roman emper­ors,” notes Glo­ria Oladipo at The Guardian. Fio­rat­ti’s hus­band bought the piece from an aris­to­crat­ic Ital­ian fam­i­ly in the 1960s, then affixed it to a base and made into a table. “It was an inno­cent pur­chase,” Fioret­ti told The New York Times in 2017 after Italy’s Nemi muse­um seized the arti­fact and returned it to its home coun­try. Del Bufa­lo agreed, and it pained him to have to take it, but the arti­fact, he says in an inter­view above with Ander­son Coop­er, is price­less.

Caligu­la had two lux­u­ri­ous wood­en ships with elab­o­rate tile floors built to float on Lake Nemi, just a few miles out­side of Rome. “Stretch­ing 230 feet and 240 feet long and most­ly flat,” Brit McCan­d­less Farmer writes for Six­ty Min­utes, it was said they were once “topped with silk sails and fea­tured orchards, vine­yards, and even bath­rooms with run­ning water.” They even boast­ed lead pipes “inscribed Gaius Cae­sar Augus­tus Ger­man­i­cus, Caligula’s offi­cial name, accord­ing to a 1906 issue of Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can.” He was “once the most pow­er­ful man in the world,” says Ander­son Coop­er above, but Caligu­la became renowned for his bru­tal­i­ty, self-indul­gence, and pos­si­ble insan­i­ty. The third Roman emper­or was assas­si­nat­ed four years into his reign by a con­spir­a­cy of Prae­to­ri­ans and sen­a­tors. So hat­ed was he at the time that Romans attempt­ed to “chis­el him out of his­to­ry.” The sink­ing of his par­ty boats was one of many acts of van­dal­ism com­mit­ted against his waste­ful, vio­lent lega­cy.

Inter­est in the plea­sure ships was only piqued again when divers found the wreck­age in 1895. “The deck must have ben a mar­velous sight to behold,” wrote Ital­ian archae­ol­o­gist Rodol­fo Lan­ciani in 1898; “it goes beyond the pow­er of imag­i­na­tion for its strength and ele­gance.” Lan­ciani described in detail “the pave­ment trod­den by impe­r­i­al feet, made of disks of por­phyry and ser­pen­tine… framed in seg­ments and lines of enam­el, white and gold, white and red, or white, red, and green.” But it would be anoth­er few decades before the ships, sub­merged for almost 2,000 years, would see dry land again when Ben­i­to Mus­soli­ni, who was obsessed with Caligu­la, ordered Lake Nemi par­tial­ly drained in the 30s and the boats res­ur­rect­ed and housed in a near­by muse­um built for that pur­pose. Then, in 1944, retreat­ing Nazis alleged­ly set fire to the muse­um, after using it as a bomb shel­ter, destroy­ing Caligu­la’s plea­sure cruis­ers. No one knows how Fioret­ti’s mosa­ic made it out of Italy dur­ing this time.

It seems that the Emper­or’s star has been on the rise once more the past few years, since the dis­cov­ery of the mosa­ic and of Caligu­la’s impe­r­i­al plea­sure gar­den, Hor­ti Lami­ani, “the Mar-a-Lago of its day,” Franz Lidz writes at The New York Times. Unearthed in an exca­va­tion between 2006 and 2015, the now-sub­ter­ranean ruins found beneath a “con­demned 19th cen­tu­ry apart­ment com­plex, yield­ed gems, coins, ceram­ics, jew­el­ry, pot­tery, cameo glass, a the­ater mask, seeds of plants such as cit­ron, apri­cot and aca­cia that had been import­ed from Asia, and bones of pea­cocks, deer, lions, bears, and ostrich­es.” The ruins opened to tourists this past spring. As for Mrs. Fio­rat­ti, “I felt very sor­ry for her,” said Del Bufa­lo, “but I could­n’t do any­thing dif­fer­ent, know­ing that my muse­um in Nemi is miss­ing the best part.” He hopes to make a repli­ca to return to her Park Avenue liv­ing room for bev­er­age ser­vice. “I think my soul would feel a lit­tle bet­ter,” he says.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Ancient Rome in 20 Quick Min­utes: A Primer Nar­rat­ed by Bri­an Cox

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Rome, Cir­ca 320 CE: Explore Stun­ning Recre­ations of The Forum, Colos­se­um and Oth­er Mon­u­ments

What Did the Roman Emper­ors Look Like?: See Pho­to­re­al­is­tic Por­traits Cre­at­ed with Machine Learn­ing

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The 17th Century Japanese Samurai Who Sailed to Europe, Met the Pope & Became a Roman Citizen

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

We learn about intre­pid Euro­peans who sought, and some­times even found, trade and mis­sion­ary routes to Chi­na and Japan dur­ing the cen­turies of explo­ration and empire. Rarely, if ever, do we hear about vis­i­tors from the East to the West, espe­cial­ly those as well-trav­eled as 17th-cen­tu­ry samu­rai Haseku­ra Tsune­na­ga. Sent on a mis­sion to Europe and Amer­i­ca by his feu­dal lord, Date Masumune, Haseku­ra “set off on a quest to earn rich­es and spir­i­tu­al guid­ance,” Andrew Milne writes at All that’s Inter­est­ing. “He cir­cum­nav­i­gat­ed the globe, became part of the first Japan­ese group in Cuba, met the Pope, helped begin a branch of Japan­ese set­tlers in Spain (still thriv­ing today), and even became a Roman cit­i­zen.”

Haseku­ra was a bat­tle-test­ed samu­rai who had act­ed on the daimyo’s behalf on many occa­sions. His mis­sion to the West, how­ev­er, was first and fore­most a chance to redeem his hon­or and save his life. In 1612, Haseku­ra’s father was made to com­mit sep­puku after an indict­ment for cor­rup­tion. Stripped of lands and title, Haseku­ra could only avoid the same fate by going West, and so he did, just a few years before the peri­od of sakoku, or nation­al iso­la­tion, began in Japan. Trav­el­ing with Span­ish mis­sion­ary Luis Sote­lo, Haseku­ra embarked from the small Japan­ese port of Tsuki­noura in 1613 and first reached Cape Men­do­ci­no in Cal­i­for­nia, then part of New Spain.

“Sev­en years before the Mayflower head­ed to the New World,” Mar­cel Ther­oux writes at The Guardian, Haseku­ra “crossed the Pacif­ic, trav­eled over­land through Mex­i­co, then sailed all the way to Europe. He was accom­pa­nied by about 20 fel­low coun­try­men — in all like­li­hood, the first Japan­ese to cross The Atlantic.” They set sail on a Japan­ese-built galleon — called Date Maru, then lat­er San Juan Bautista by the Span­ish. “The expe­di­tion spent sev­en years trav­el­ing one-third of the globe,” notes PBS in a descrip­tion of  “A Samu­rai in the Vat­i­can,” an episode of Secrets of the Dead.

Sote­lo and Haseku­ra made for­mal requests for more mis­sion­ar­ies in Japan, deliv­er­ing let­ters from from Haseku­ra’s lord, the daimyo of Sendai, to the King of Spain and Pope Paul V. But the samu­rai’s most press­ing pur­pose was the estab­lish­ment of trade links between Japan, New Spain (Mex­i­co), and Europe. In his 1982 nov­el, The Samu­rai, Shusaku Endo dra­ma­tized the exchange the Span­ish mis­sion­ar­ies made for such intro­duc­tions, hav­ing a priest say: “In order to spread God’s teach­ing in Japan… there is only one pos­si­ble method. We must cajole them into it. Espana must offer to share its prof­its from trade on the Pacif­ic with the Japan­ese in return for sweep­ing pros­e­ly­tiz­ing priv­i­leges. The Japan­ese will sac­ri­fice any­thing else for the sake of prof­its.” This was not to be, of course.

The Span­ish gam­bled on trade open­ing up Japan for the kind of mis­sion­ary col­o­niza­tion they had achieved else­where, using Haseku­ra’s mis­sion as a proxy. Haseku­ra gam­bled on a Chris­t­ian mis­sion to save his life. Though his own accounts are lost, it seems he came to gen­uine­ly embrace the faith, becom­ing a con­firmed Catholic under the name Philip Fran­cis Fax­e­cu­ra. Dur­ing his mis­sion, how­ev­er, the Shogun, Toku­gawa Ieya­su, banned Chris­tian­i­ty in Japan on penal­ty of death, in advance of the expul­sion of the Span­ish and Por­tuguese by his grand­son, Toku­gawa Iemit­su, in 1623. What became of the explor­er samu­rai when he returned to Japan in 1620 is unknown, but his dece­dents were exe­cut­ed for prac­tic­ing his new­found faith. He would be the last vis­i­tor to the West from Japan until the Toku­gawa Shogu­nate sent the so-called “First Japan­ese Embassy to Europe” in 1862, over 200 years lat­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Hear the First Japan­ese Vis­i­tor to the Unit­ed States & Europe Describe Life in the West (1860–1862)

Meet Yasuke, Japan’s First Black Samu­rai War­rior

Dis­cov­er Japan’s Old­est Sur­viv­ing Cook­book Ryori Mono­gatari (1643)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The Drugs Used by the Ancient Greeks and Romans

Many of us liv­ing in the parts of the world where mar­i­jua­na has recent­ly been legal­ized may regard our­selves as par­tak­ing of a high­ly mod­ern plea­sure. And giv­en the ever-increas­ing sophis­ti­ca­tion of the grow­ing and pro­cess­ing tech­niques that under­lie what has become a for­mi­da­ble cannabis indus­try, per­haps, on some lev­el, we are. But as intel­lec­tu­al­ly avid enthu­si­asts of psy­choac­tive sub­stances won’t hes­i­tate to tell you, their use stretch­es far­ther back in time than his­to­ry itself. “For as long as there has been civ­i­liza­tion, there have been mind-alter­ing drugs,” writes Sci­ence’s Andrew Lawler. But was any­one using them in the pre­de­ces­sors to west­ern civ­i­liza­tion as we know it today?

For quite some time, schol­ars believed that unlike, say, Mesoamer­i­ca or north Africa, “the ancient Near East had seemed curi­ous­ly drug-free.” But now, “new tech­niques for ana­lyz­ing residues in exca­vat­ed jars and iden­ti­fy­ing tiny amounts of plant mate­r­i­al sug­gest that ancient Near East­ern­ers indulged in a range of psy­choac­tive sub­stances.”

The lat­est evi­dence sug­gests that, already three mil­len­nia ago, “drugs like cannabis had arrived in Mesopotamia, while peo­ple from Turkey to Egypt exper­i­ment­ed with local sub­stances such as blue water lily.” That these habits seem to have con­tin­ued in ancient Greece and Rome is sug­gest­ed by archae­o­log­i­cal evi­dence sum­ma­rized in the video above.

In 2019, archae­ol­o­gists unearthed a few pre­cious arti­facts from a fourth-cen­tu­ry Scythi­an bur­ial mound near Stavropol in Rus­sia. There were “gold­en arm­bands, gold­en cups, a heavy gold ring, and the great­est trea­sure of all, two spec­tac­u­lar gold­en ves­sels,” says nar­ra­tor Gar­rett Ryan, who earned a PhD in Greek and Roman His­to­ry from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Michi­gan. The inte­ri­ors of those last “were coat­ed with a sticky black residue,” con­firmed in the lab to be opi­um with traces of mar­i­jua­na. “The Scythi­ans, in oth­er words, got high” — as did “their Greek and Roman neigh­bors.” Ryan, author of Naked Stat­ues, Fat Glad­i­a­tors, and War Ele­phants: Fre­quent­ly Asked Ques­tions about the Ancient Greeks and Romans, goes on to make intrigu­ing con­nec­tions between scat­tered but rel­e­vant pieces of archae­o­log­i­cal and tex­tu­al evi­dence. We know that some of our civ­i­liza­tion­al fore­bears got high; how many, and how high, are ques­tions for future scholas­tic inquiry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alger­ian Cave Paint­ings Sug­gest Humans Did Mag­ic Mush­rooms 9,000 Years Ago

Dis­cov­er the Old­est Beer Recipe in His­to­ry From Ancient Sume­ria, 1800 B.C.

Pipes with Cannabis Traces Found in Shakespeare’s Gar­den, Sug­gest­ing the Bard Enjoyed a “Not­ed Weed”

1,000-Year-Old Illus­trat­ed Guide to the Med­i­c­i­nal Use of Plants Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online

Beer Archae­ol­o­gy: Yes, It’s a Thing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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