Why Knights Fought Snails in Medieval Illuminated Manuscripts

The snail may leave a trail of slime behind him, but a lit­tle slime will do a man no harm… whilst if you dance with drag­ons, you must expect to burn.

- George R. R. Mar­tin, The Mys­tery Knight

As any Game of Thrones fan knows, being a knight has its down­sides. It isn’t all pow­er, glo­ry, advan­ta­geous mar­riages and gifts rang­ing from cas­tles to bags of gold.

Some­times you have to fight a tru­ly for­mi­da­ble oppo­nent.

We’re not talk­ing about bun­nies here, though there’s plen­ty of doc­u­men­ta­tion to sug­gest medieval rab­bits were tough cus­tomers.

As Vox Almanac’s Phil Edwards explains, above, the many snails lit­ter­ing the mar­gins of 13th-cen­tu­ry man­u­scripts were also fear­some foes.

Boars, lions, and bears we can under­stand, but … snails? Why?

The­o­ries abound.

Detail from Brunet­to Latini’s Li Livres dou Tre­sor

Edwards favors the one in medieval­ist Lil­ian M. C. Randall’s 1962 essay “The Snail in Goth­ic Mar­gin­al War­fare.”

Ran­dall, who found some 70 instances of man-on-snail com­bat in 29 man­u­scripts dat­ing from the late 1200s to ear­ly 1300s, believed that the tiny mol­lusks were stand ins for the Ger­man­ic Lom­bards who invad­ed Italy in the 8th cen­tu­ry.

After Charle­magne trounced the Lom­bards in 772, declar­ing him­self King of Lom­bardy, the van­quished turned to usury and pawn­broking, earn­ing the enmi­ty of the rest of the pop­u­lace, even those who required their ser­vices.

Their pro­fes­sion con­ferred pow­er of a sort, the kind that tends to get one labelled cow­ard­ly, greedy, mali­cious … and easy to put down.

Which rather begs the ques­tion why the knights going toe-to- …uh, fac­ing off against them in the mar­gins of these illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­scripts look so damn intim­i­dat­ed.

(Con­verse­ly why was Rex Harrison’s Dr. Dolit­tle so unafraid of the Giant Pink Sea Snail?)

Detail from from MS. Roy­al 10 IV E (aka the Smith­field Dec­re­tals)

Let us remem­ber that the doo­dles in medieval mar­gin­a­lia are edi­to­r­i­al car­toons wrapped in enig­mas, much as today’s memes would seem, 800 years from now. What­ev­er point—or joke—the scribe was mak­ing, it’s been obscured by the mists of time.

And these things have a way of evolv­ing. The snail vs. knight motif dis­ap­peared in the 14th-cen­tu­ry, only to resur­face toward the end of the 15th, when any exist­ing sig­nif­i­cance would very like­ly have been tai­lored to fit the times.

Detail from The Mac­cles­field Psalter

Oth­er the­o­ries that schol­ars, art his­to­ri­ans, blog­gers, and arm­chair medieval­ists have float­ed with regard to the sym­bol­ism of these rough and ready snails haunt­ing the mar­gins:

The Res­ur­rec­tion

The high cler­gy, shrink­ing from prob­lems of the church

The slow­ness of time

The insu­la­tion of the rul­ing class

The aristocracy’s oppres­sion of the poor

A cri­tique of social climbers

Female sex­u­al­i­ty (isn’t every­thing?)

Vir­tu­ous humil­i­ty, as opposed to knight­ly pride

The snail’s reign of ter­ror in the gar­den (not so sym­bol­ic, per­haps…)

A prac­ti­cal-mind­ed Red­dit com­menter offers the fol­low­ing com­men­tary:

I like to imag­ine a monk draw­ing out his fan­tas­ti­cal day­dreams, the snail being his neme­sis, leav­ing unsight­ly trails across the page and him build­ing up in his head this great vic­to­ry where­in he van­quish­es them for­ev­er, nev­er again to be plagued by the beast­ly bug­gers while cre­at­ing his mas­ter­pieces.

Read­ers, any oth­er ideas?

Detail from The Gor­leston Psalter

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2019.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Killer Rab­bits in Medieval Man­u­scripts: Why So Many Draw­ings in the Mar­gins Depict Bun­nies Going Bad

Medieval Cats Behav­ing Bad­ly: Kit­ties That Left Paw Prints … and Peed … on 15th Cen­tu­ry Man­u­scripts

The Aberdeen Bes­tiary, One of the Great Medieval Illu­mi­nat­ed Man­u­scripts, Now Dig­i­tized in High Res­o­lu­tion & Made Avail­able Online

A Rab­bit Rides a Char­i­ot Pulled by Geese in an Ancient Roman Mosa­ic (2nd cen­tu­ry AD)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er in New York City.

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2,178 Occult Books Now Digitized & Put Online, Thanks to the Ritman Library and Da Vinci Code Author Dan Brown

In 2018 we brought you some excit­ing news. Thanks to a gen­er­ous dona­tion from Da Vin­ci Code author Dan Brown, Amsterdam’s Rit­man Library—a siz­able col­lec­tion of pre-1900 books on alche­my, astrol­o­gy, mag­ic, and oth­er occult subjects—has been dig­i­tiz­ing thou­sands of its rare texts under a dig­i­tal edu­ca­tion project cheek­i­ly called “Her­met­i­cal­ly Open.” We are now pleased to report that the first 2,178 books from the Rit­man project have come avail­able in their online read­ing room.

Vis­i­tors should be aware that these books are writ­ten in sev­er­al dif­fer­ent Euro­pean lan­guages. Latin, the schol­ar­ly lan­guage of Europe through­out the Medieval and Ear­ly Mod­ern peri­ods, pre­dom­i­nates, and it’s a pecu­liar Latin at that, laden with jar­gon and alchem­i­cal ter­mi­nol­o­gy. Oth­er books appear in Ger­man, Dutch, and French. Read­ers of some or all of these lan­guages will of course have an eas­i­er time than mono­lin­gual Eng­lish speak­ers, but there is still much to offer those vis­i­tors as well.

In addi­tion to the plea­sure of pag­ing through an old rare book, even vir­tu­al­ly, Eng­lish speak­ers can quick­ly find a col­lec­tion of read­able books by click­ing on the “Place of Pub­li­ca­tion” search fil­ter and select­ing Cam­bridge or Lon­don, from which come such notable works as The Man-Mouse Takin in a Trap, and tortur’d to death for gnaw­ing the Mar­gins of Euge­nius Phi­lalethes, by Thomas Vaugh­an, pub­lished in 1650.

The lan­guage is archaic—full of quirky spellings and uses of the “long s”—and the con­tent is bizarre. Those famil­iar with this type of writ­ing, whether through his­tor­i­cal study or the work of more recent inter­preters like Aleis­ter Crow­ley or Madame Blavatsky, will rec­og­nize the many for­mu­las: The trac­ing of mag­i­cal cor­re­spon­dences between flo­ra, fau­na, and astro­nom­i­cal phe­nom­e­na; the care­ful pars­ing of names; astrol­o­gy and lengthy lin­guis­tic ety­molo­gies; numero­log­i­cal dis­cours­es and philo­soph­i­cal poet­ry; ear­ly psy­chol­o­gy and per­son­al­i­ty typ­ing; cryp­tic, cod­ed mythol­o­gy and med­ical pro­ce­dures. Although we’ve grown accus­tomed through pop­u­lar media to think­ing of mag­i­cal books as cook­books, full of recipes and incan­ta­tions, the real­i­ty is far dif­fer­ent.

Encoun­ter­ing the vast and strange trea­sures in the online library, one thinks of the type of the magi­cian rep­re­sent­ed in Goethe’s Faust, holed up in his study,

Where even the wel­come day­light strains
But duski­ly through the paint­ed panes.
Hemmed in by many a top­pling heap
Of books worm-eat­en, gray with dust,
Which to the vault­ed ceil­ing creep

The library doesn’t only con­tain occult books. Like the weary schol­ar Faust, alchemists of old “stud­ied now Phi­los­o­phy / And Jurispru­dence, Med­i­cine,— / And even, alas! The­ol­o­gy.” Click on Cam­bridge as the place of pub­li­ca­tion and you’ll find the work above by Hen­ry More, “one of the cel­e­brat­ed ‘Cam­bridge Pla­ton­ists,’” the Lin­da Hall Library notes, “who flour­ished in mid-17th-cen­tu­ry and did their best to rec­on­cile Pla­to with Chris­tian­i­ty and the mechan­i­cal phi­los­o­phy that was begin­ning to make inroads into British nat­ur­al phi­los­o­phy.” Those who study Euro­pean intel­lec­tu­al his­to­ry know well that More’s pres­ence in this col­lec­tion is no anom­aly. For a few hun­dred years, it was dif­fi­cult, if not impos­si­ble, to sep­a­rate the pur­suits of the­ol­o­gy, phi­los­o­phy, med­i­cine, and sci­ence (or “nat­ur­al phi­los­o­phy”) from those of alche­my and astrol­o­gy. (Isaac New­ton is a famous exam­ple of a mathematician/scientist/alchemist/believer in strange apoc­a­lyp­tic pre­dic­tions.) Enter the Rit­man’s new dig­i­tal col­lec­tion of occult texts here.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2018.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Big Archive of Occult Record­ings: His­toric Audio Lets You Hear Trances, Para­nor­mal Music, Glos­so­lalia & Oth­er Strange Sounds (1905–2007)

Dis­cov­er The Key of Hell, an Illus­trat­ed 18th-Cen­tu­ry Guide to Black Mag­ic (1775)

Isaac Newton’s Recipe for the Myth­i­cal ‘Philosopher’s Stone’ Is Being Dig­i­tized & Put Online (Along with His Oth­er Alche­my Man­u­scripts)

Aleis­ter Crow­ley Reads Occult Poet­ry in the Only Known Record­ings of His Voice (1920)

The Sur­re­al Paint­ings of the Occult Magi­cian, Writer & Moun­taineer, Aleis­ter Crow­ley

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

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The Stunt That Ended Buster Keaton’s Brilliant Career

Buster Keaton’s pen­chant and skill for comedic stunts made him one of the biggest stars of the silent-film era.  Nobody at the time imag­ined that he would still be engag­ing in dan­ger­ous-look­ing prat­falls 40 years lat­er in his sev­en­ties, espe­cial­ly since his career seemed to have come to an end in 1926. That was the year of his Civ­il War-set film The Gen­er­al, which, though now crit­i­cal­ly respect­ed, left con­tem­po­rary audi­ences cold. Flops are, per­haps, inevitable, but this one hap­pened to incor­po­rate into the pic­ture the most expen­sive shot in cin­e­ma his­to­ry to date. As a result, says the Ming video above, “Keaton was nev­er giv­en con­trol over his films again.”

Iron­i­cal­ly, unlike the cin­e­mat­ic images that had made him famous, the $42,000 shot in The Gen­er­al did not put its direc­tor-star in appar­ent mor­tal per­il, depict­ing only a rail­road bridge col­laps­ing while a train cross­es it. Though undoubt­ed­ly impres­sive, it would­n’t have been what peo­ple went to a Buster Keaton movie to see.

Here was a man will­ing, after all, to fly from the back of a mov­ing street­car, dan­gle off the edge of a water­fall, risk being crushed by an entire wall of a house, and even break his neck — though he did­n’t dis­cov­er that he’d done so until eleven years lat­er. Mak­ing these and all of Keaton’s oth­er famous stunts involved con­sid­er­able amounts of both cal­cu­lat­ed dan­ger and movie mag­ic.

Some of that movie mag­ic was con­ceived by Keaton him­self, the first film­mak­er, in Quentin Taran­ti­no’s words, to “use cin­e­ma itself to be the joke.” Few per­form­ers could have adapt­ed so well to the medi­um of silent film, with its realms of silent com­e­dy just wait­ing to be opened. And after sound had been around for a few decades, long­time movie­go­ers start­ed to feel like cin­e­ma had lost some of the visu­al exu­ber­ance that it once pos­sessed. By that time, luck­i­ly, Keaton had emerged from his long post-Gen­er­al peri­od of hard-drink­ing malaise, ready to appear not just in the movies again, but also on tele­vi­sion, delight­ing the gen­er­a­tions who remem­bered his ear­li­er work and fas­ci­nat­ing those too young to rec­og­nize him. Even today, when we find our­selves laugh­ing at a scene of elab­o­rate­ly orches­trat­ed phys­i­cal dan­ger, we are, in some sense, wit­ness­ing Keaton’s lega­cy.

Relat­ed con­tent:

30 Buster Keaton Films: “The Great­est of All Com­ic Actors,” “One of the Great­est Film­mak­ers of All Time”

Watch the Only Time Char­lie Chap­lin & Buster Keaton Per­formed Togeth­er On-Screen (1952)

Char­lie Chap­lin & Buster Keaton Go Toe to Toe (Almost) in a Hilar­i­ous Box­ing Scene Mash Up from Their Clas­sic Silent Films

A Super­cut of Buster Keaton’s Most Amaz­ing Stunts

101 Free Silent Films: The Great Clas­sics

The Gen­er­al, “Per­haps the Great­est Film Ever Made,” and 20 Oth­er Buster Keaton Clas­sics Free Online

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How Ancient Greek Technology Was Used to Sculpt Mount Rushmore

Design­ing their new repub­lic, the Found­ing Fathers of the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca looked back to ref­er­ence points in clas­si­cal antiq­ui­ty. That instinct con­tin­ued to shape Amer­i­can endeav­ors long there­after, and not just polit­i­cal ones. Take the exam­ple of Mount Rush­more, one of the coun­try’s most pop­u­lar tourist attrac­tions. Orig­i­nal­ly con­ceived in the ear­ly nine­teen-twen­ties as a moun­tain sculp­ture of Amer­i­ca’s wild-west heroes, a means of rais­ing the sta­tus of the fledg­ling state of South Dako­ta, it was soon changed into a stone trib­ute to four pres­i­dents: Found­ing Fathers George Wash­ing­ton and Thomas Jef­fer­son as well as Abra­ham Lin­coln and Theodore Roo­sevelt.

Mount Rush­more’s sculp­tor Gut­zon Bor­glum sug­gest­ed the switch from region­al fig­ures to nation­al ones, and it would­n’t be the last good idea he would bring to the table. As explained in the Pri­mal Space video above, he also fig­ured out how to repli­cate his ini­tial sculp­ture of the four pres­i­dents, made at one-twelfth-scale, on a 500-foot-tall cliff edge.

Build­ing all the nec­es­sary infra­struc­ture on and around the moun­tain con­sti­tut­ed a major project in and of itself. But when the work­ers got into their har­ness­es, how would they know where to direct their jack­ham­mers into the rock? To guide them, Bor­glum adapt­ed a mechan­i­cal tech­nique used by ancient Greeks to copy stat­ues, a “point­ing machine” that could “mea­sure spe­cif­ic points on a sculp­ture rel­a­tive to a ref­er­ence point,” mak­ing a three-dimen­sion­al shape trans­fer­able from one sculp­ture to anoth­er.

Bor­glum designed a large-scale point­ing machine that could be installed atop the moun­tain and posi­tioned to show work­ers where and how deep to drill. Though the sys­tem worked well, the team could only make progress so fast: after four­teen years, Mount Rush­more remained incom­plete when Bor­glum’s death and World War II put a stop to it alto­geth­er. Yet enough had been fin­ished to give it the icon­ic appear­ance that has made it rec­og­niz­able the world over, if not always by name. When I recent­ly gave a talk about Amer­i­can his­to­ry to some young stu­dents in South Korea, where I live, one of them iden­ti­fied a pho­to of Mount Rush­more as Mount Olym­pus — and, in a civ­i­liza­tion­al sense, maybe she was on to some­thing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold Ancient Egypt­ian, Greek & Roman Sculp­tures in Their Orig­i­nal Col­or

The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art Restores the Orig­i­nal Col­ors to Ancient Stat­ues

How Ancient Greek Stat­ues Real­ly Looked: Research Reveals Their Bold, Bright Col­ors and Pat­terns

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Down­load & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

How Mon­u­ment Val­ley Became the Most Icon­ic Land­scape of the Amer­i­can West

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Why Ancient Romans Paid a Fortune for the Color Purple — More Than Even Silver

Pur­ple may not be one of the most pop­u­lar col­ors in the appar­el of our age, but if you want it — as cer­tain cul­tur­al fig­ures have amply demon­strat­ed — you can get as much of it as you like, even if you don’t belong to the aris­toc­ra­cy. That was­n’t the case in antiq­ui­ty, as explained by ancient-his­to­ry YouTu­ber Gar­rett Ryan in the new video from his chan­nel Told in Stone above. Back then, long before the inven­tion of syn­thet­ic dyes, human­i­ty had to get all its col­ors from nature, and some of those nat­ur­al sources were more abun­dant and acces­si­ble than oth­ers. To pro­duce splen­did “Tyr­i­an pur­ple” required the mucus of sea snails, and not just any sea snails: only three species, col­lec­tive­ly referred to as murex, would do.

This par­tic­u­lar pur­ple, as Ryan explains, “was vir­tu­al­ly immune to wash­ing and weath­er­ing,” unlike the veg­etable dyes com­mon­ly used in antiq­ui­ty, and per­haps that strength inspired the leg­end that it was dis­cov­ered by Her­cules him­self.

Though its recipe has nev­er quite been repli­cat­ed in moder­ni­ty, it seems to have required a near­ly Her­culean labor to exe­cute, with each batch of ten thou­sand snails pro­duc­ing a sin­gle gram of dye. Even ancient Roman sen­a­tors got just one pur­ple stripe each on their togas; full pur­ple was reserved for tri­umph­ing gen­er­als and emper­ors. In some ages, under emper­ors like Nero, pur­ple — at least in its most lux­u­ri­ant shades — was for­bid­den to the com­mon peo­ple.

Not that most of them could have afford­ed it any­way, in Rome or oth­er ancient civ­i­liza­tions. “In clas­si­cal Athens, a pur­ple cloak cost three minas, or 300 drach­mas, when a fam­i­ly of four could live com­fort­ably for a year on 200,” Ryan explains. “The finest pur­ple cloth was worth its weight in sil­ver, and an espe­cial­ly rich gar­ment could cost two tal­ents: 12,000 drach­mas.” Dur­ing the reign of Augus­tus, when impe­r­i­al legionar­ies earned 900 ses­ter­tii a year, “a cloak of sec­ond-rate pur­ple” might sell for 10,000. Cal­cu­lat­ing from Dio­cle­tian’s Price Edict, you could the­o­ret­i­cal­ly trade a few pounds of pur­ple silk for 75,000 pints of beer, 7,500 “suc­cu­lent sow udders,” 750 pheas­ants, “a sin­gle first-class male lion,” and 150 law­suits: the mak­ings of quite a high time in Ancient Rome.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How the Ancient Greeks & Romans Made Beau­ti­ful Pur­ple Dye from Snail Glands

Behold Ancient Egypt­ian, Greek & Roman Sculp­tures in Their Orig­i­nal Col­or

Dis­cov­er Harvard’s Col­lec­tion of 2,500 Pig­ments: Pre­serv­ing the World’s Rare, Won­der­ful Col­ors

Why Most Ancient Civ­i­liza­tions Had No Word for the Col­or Blue

Prince Gets an Offi­cial Pur­ple Pan­tone Col­or

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Memento Mori: How Smiling Skeletons Have Reminded Us to Live Fully Since Ancient Times

The expres­sion “YOLO” may now be just passé enough to require expla­na­tion. It stands, as only some of us would try to deny remem­ber­ing, for “You only live once,” a sen­ti­ment that reflects an eter­nal truth. Some bod­ies of reli­gious belief don’t strict­ly agree with it, of course, but that was also true 24 cen­turies ago, when an unknown artist cre­at­ed the so-called “YOLO mosa­ic” that was unearthed in South­ern Turkey in the twen­ty-tens. That arti­fact, whose depic­tion of a wine-drink­ing skele­ton liv­ing it up even in death has delight­ed thou­sands upon thou­sands of view­ers on the inter­net, is at the cen­ter of the new Hochela­ga video above.

To the side of that mer­ry set of bones is the Greek text “ΕΥΦΡΟΣΥΝΟΣ,” often trans­lat­ed as “Be cheer­ful and live your life.” As Hochela­ga cre­ator Tom­mie Trelawny points out, that’s a some­what loose inter­pre­ta­tion, since the word “rough­ly means ‘joy­ful-mind­ed,’ or sim­ply ‘cheer­ful.’ ” A more impor­tant ele­ment not often tak­en into con­sid­er­a­tion is the mosaic’s con­text.

It was dis­cov­ered dur­ing the exca­va­tion of a third-cen­tu­ry BC Gre­co-Roman vil­la, where it con­sti­tut­ed one end of a din­ing-room trip­tych. In the mid­dle was a scene, a trope in come­dies of the time, of a toga-clad young “gate­crash­er” run­ning in hopes of a free din­ner. On the oth­er end is a most­ly destroyed image of a type of fig­ure known as “the African fish­er­man.”

Tak­en togeth­er, this domes­tic art­work could reflect the Epi­cure­an teach­ing that “life should be about pur­su­ing hap­pi­ness and enjoy­ing the sim­ple plea­sures while you still can.” But if the “cheer­ful skele­ton,” as Trelawny calls it, draws atten­tion from the rest of the trip­tych, that speaks to its sym­bol­ic pow­er across the ages. Com­mon not only in ancient Rome, the sym­bol­ic fig­ure also makes vivid appear­ances in medieval art (espe­cial­ly dur­ing the time of the Black Death), Renais­sance por­trai­ture, the Día de Muer­tos-ready draw­ings of José Guadalupe Posa­da, and even Dis­ney car­toons like The Skele­ton Dance. As long as death remains unde­feat­ed, each era needs its own memen­to mori, and the cheer­ful skele­ton, in all its para­dox­i­cal appeal, will no doubt keep turn­ing up to the job — some­times with a drink in hand.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

19th-Cen­tu­ry Skele­ton Alarm Clock Remind­ed Peo­ple Dai­ly of the Short­ness of Life: An Intro­duc­tion to the Memen­to Mori

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Epi­cu­rus and His Answer to the Ancient Ques­tion: What Makes Us Hap­py?

Cel­e­brate The Day of the Dead with The Clas­sic Skele­ton Art of José Guadalupe Posa­da

The Skele­ton Dance, Vot­ed the 18th Best Car­toon of All Time, Is Now in the Pub­lic Domain (1929)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Emma Willard, the First Female Mapmaker in America, Creates Pioneering Maps of Time to Teach Students about Democracy (Circa 1851)

We all know Mar­shall McLuhan’s pithy, end­less­ly quotable line “the medi­um is the mes­sage,” but rarely do we stop to ask which one comes first. The devel­op­ment of com­mu­ni­ca­tion tech­nolo­gies may gen­uine­ly present us with a chick­en or egg sce­nario. After all, only a cul­ture that already prized con­stant visu­al stim­uli but gross­ly under­val­ued phys­i­cal move­ment would have invent­ed and adopt­ed tele­vi­sion.

In Soci­ety of the Spec­ta­cle, Guy Debord ties the ten­den­cy toward pas­sive visu­al con­sump­tion to “com­mod­i­ty fetishism, the dom­i­na­tion of soci­ety by ‘intan­gi­ble as well as tan­gi­ble things,’ which reach­es its absolute ful­fill­ment in the spec­ta­cle, where the tan­gi­ble world is replaced by a selec­tion of images which exist above it, and which simul­ta­ne­ous­ly impose them­selves as the tan­gi­ble par excel­lence.” It seems an apt descrip­tion of a screen-addict­ed cul­ture.

What can we say, then, of a cul­ture addict­ed to charts and graphs? Ear­li­est exam­ples of the form were often more elab­o­rate than we’re used to see­ing, hand-drawn with care and atten­tion. They were also not coy about their ambi­tions: to con­dense the vast dimen­sions of space and time into a two-dimen­sion­al, col­or-cod­ed for­mat. To tidi­ly sum up all human and nat­ur­al his­to­ry in easy-to-read visu­al metaphors.

This was as much a reli­gious project as it was a philo­soph­i­cal, sci­en­tif­ic, his­tor­i­cal, polit­i­cal, and ped­a­gog­i­cal one. The domains are hope­less­ly entwined in the 18th and 19th cen­turies. We should not be sur­prised to see them freely min­gle in the ear­li­est info­graph­ics. The cre­ators of such images were poly­maths, and deeply devout. Joseph Priest­ley, Eng­lish chemist, philoso­pher, the­olo­gian, polit­i­cal the­o­rist and gram­mar­i­an, made sev­er­al visu­al chronolo­gies rep­re­sent­ing “the lives of two thou­sand men between 1200 BC and 1750 AD” (con­vey­ing a clear mes­sage about the sole impor­tance of men).

“After Priest­ley,” writes the Pub­lic Domain Review, “time­lines flour­ished, but they gen­er­al­ly lacked any sense of the dimen­sion­al­i­ty of time, rep­re­sent­ing the past as a uni­form march from left to right.” Emma Willard, “one of the century’s most influ­en­tial edu­ca­tors” set out to update the tech­nol­o­gy, “to invest chronol­o­gy with a sense of per­spec­tive.” In her 1836 Pic­ture of Nations; or Per­spec­tive Sketch of the Course of Empire, above (view and down­load high res­o­lu­tion images here), she presents “the bib­li­cal Cre­ation as the apex of a tri­an­gle that then flowed for­ward in time and space toward the view­er.”

The per­spec­tive is also a forced point of view about ori­gins and his­to­ry. But that was exact­ly the point: these are didac­tic tools meant for text­books and class­rooms. Willard, “America’s first pro­fes­sion­al female map­mak­er,” writes Maria Popo­va, was also a “pio­neer­ing edu­ca­tor,” who found­ed “the first women’s high­er edu­ca­tion insti­tu­tion in the Unit­ed States when she was still in her thir­ties…. In her ear­ly for­ties, she set about com­pos­ing and pub­lish­ing a series of his­to­ry text­books that raised the stan­dards and sen­si­bil­i­ties of schol­ar­ship.”

Willard rec­og­nized that lin­ear graphs of time did not accu­rate­ly do jus­tice to a three-dimen­sion­al expe­ri­ence of the world. Humans are “embod­ied crea­tures who yearn to locate them­selves in space and time.” The illu­sion of space and time on the flat page was an essen­tial fea­ture of Willard’s under­ly­ing pur­pose: “lay­ing out the ground-plan of the intel­lect, so far as the whole range of his­to­ry is con­cerned.” A prop­er under­stand­ing of a Great Man (and at least one Great Woman, Hypa­tia) ver­sion of history—easily con­densed, since there were only around 6,000 years from the cre­ation of the universe—would lead to “enlight­ened and judi­cious sup­port­ers” of democ­ra­cy.

His­to­ry is rep­re­sent­ed lit­er­al­ly as a sacred space in Willard’s 1846 Tem­ple of Time, its prov­i­den­tial begin­nings for­mal­ly bal­anced in equal pro­por­tion to its every mon­u­men­tal stage. Willard’s intent was express­ly patri­ot­ic, her trap­pings self-con­scious­ly clas­si­cal. Her maps of time were ways of sit­u­at­ing the nation as a nat­ur­al suc­ces­sor to the empires of old, which flowed from the divine act of cre­ation. They show a pro­gres­sive widen­ing of the world.

“Half a cen­tu­ry before W.E.B. Du Bois… cre­at­ed his mod­ernist data visu­al­iza­tions for the 1900 World’s Fair,” Popo­va writes, The Tem­ple of Time “won a medal at the 1851 World’s Fair in Lon­don.” Willard accom­pa­nied the info­graph­ic with a state­ment of intent, artic­u­lat­ing a media the­o­ry, over a hun­dred years before McLuhan, that sounds strange­ly antic­i­pa­to­ry of his famous dic­tum.

The poet­ic idea of “the vista of depart­ed years” is made an object of sight; and when the eye is the medi­um, the pic­ture will, by fre­quent inspec­tion, be formed with­in, and for­ev­er remain, wrought into the liv­ing tex­ture of the mind.

Learn more about Emma Willard’s info­graph­ic rev­o­lu­tion at the Pub­lic Domain Review and The Mar­gin­a­lian.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2020.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Joseph Priest­ley Visu­al­izes His­to­ry & Great His­tor­i­cal Fig­ures with Two of the Most Influ­en­tial Info­graph­ics Ever (1769)

The His­to­ry of the World in One Beau­ti­ful, 5‑Foot-Long Chart (1931)

180,000 Years of Reli­gion Chart­ed on a “His­tom­ap” in 1943

19th Cen­tu­ry Atlas Cre­ative­ly Visu­al­izes the Expan­sion of Geo­graph­i­cal Knowl­edge Over 4000 Years of World His­to­ry: From the Bib­li­cal flood to the Indus­tri­al Rev­o­lu­tion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

When Medieval & Early Modern Europeans Cleansed with Poison: The Strange History of Antimony Cups and Pills

The his­to­ry of med­i­cine is, for the most part, a his­to­ry of dubi­ous cures. Some were even worse than dubi­ous: for exam­ple, the inges­tion of anti­mo­ny, which we now know to be a high­ly tox­ic met­al. Though it may not occu­py an exalt­ed (or, for stu­dents in chem­istry class, par­tic­u­lar­ly mem­o­rable) place on the peri­od­ic table today, anti­mo­ny does have a fair­ly long cul­tur­al his­to­ry. Its first known use took place in ancient Egypt when stib­nite, one of its min­er­al forms, was ground into the strik­ing­ly dark eye­lin­er-like cos­met­ic kohl, which was thought to ward off bad spir­its.

Ancient Greek civ­i­liza­tion rec­og­nized anti­mo­ny less for its effects on the spir­it world than on the human one. The Greeks knew full well that the stuff was tox­ic, but also kept return­ing to it as a poten­tial form of med­i­cine.

Ancient Rome made its own prac­ti­cal use of anti­mo­ny, not least in met­al­lur­gy, but also kept up cer­tain lines of inquiry into its cura­tive prop­er­ties. As a sub­stance, it was well-placed to cap­ture imag­i­na­tions more intense­ly in the medieval age of alche­my. By the late sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry, peo­ple were drink­ing wine out of anti­mo­ny cups, as unboxed in the video from the Vic­to­ria and Albert Muse­um above.

“The pur­pose of it is to try and make you vom­it and have diar­rhea and sweat a lot,” says Angus Pat­ter­son, the V&A’s senior cura­tor of met­al­work. In the­o­ry, this would re-bal­ance the “humors” of which medieval med­i­cine con­ceived of the body as being com­posed. Fan­cy cups like the one in the video, which was once owned by a lord, weren’t the only anti­mo­ny objects used for this pur­pose: the met­al was also forged into so-called “per­pet­u­al pills,” meant to be swal­lowed, retrieved from the excre­ment, then swal­lowed again when nec­es­sary — for mul­ti­ple gen­er­a­tions, in some cas­es, as a kind of fam­i­ly heir­loom. “Not sure I’d fan­cy swal­low­ing a pill that had been through my grand­pa,” Pat­ter­son adds, “but needs must when you have a stom­achache in 1750.”

via Aeon

Relat­ed con­tent:

Hun­dreds of Medieval Med­ical Man­u­scripts with Strange Cures Get Dig­i­tized & Put Online: From Leech­es to Crushed Weasel Tes­ti­cles

Sci­en­tists Dis­cov­er that Ancient Egyp­tians Drank Hal­lu­cino­genic Cock­tails from 2,300 Year-Old Mug

The Col­or that May Have Killed Napoleon: Scheele’s Green

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

Sir Isaac Newton’s Cure for the Plague: Pow­dered Toad Vom­it Lozenges (1669)

The Archive of Heal­ing Is Now Online: UCLA’s Dig­i­tal Data­base Pro­vides Access to Thou­sands of Tra­di­tion­al & Alter­na­tive Heal­ing Meth­ods

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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