Philobiblon

… is now up on Reappropriate. And again it is a fascinating collection, with a distinctive “voice”, particularly in the highlight section on “feminisms of colour”.

It is hard to pick out particular links, but I do particularly have to mention the interview with Serap Cileli on Redemption Blues, which was, Jenn, notes, multiply nominated, and well deservedly so.

The whole thing is delightfully arranged – I do particularly like the idea of the “Tapas” section – such an appropriate metaphor!

But, hey, I won’t ramble on here – go over and check out the carnival. And please help to spread the word!

Most of us have an exciting tale, passed down through the generations, that shapes a family’s view of itself. We might live boring, humdrum lives, but a bit of excitement is added by the “fact” that one of our ancestors was a highwayman, or a high-class courtesan, or made some other mark, even a disreputable mark, on history.

James Landale’s family has a solidly based claim to such fame – his ancestor, an otherwise apparently dull but worthy Scottish businessman, fought the last known fatal duel in the nation’s history. But all the family history could tell him about the drama came from one single, small newspaper cutting, a summary that raised more questions than it answered.

And so, intermittently over ten years, Landale set out to uncover the real story, much helped by the manuscript of the evidence of the resulting trial, which was fortuitously collected by one of the lawyers involved. He also found the very pistols used in the duel, in a corner of the small museum in Kirkcaldy.

But Landale sought more than just the individual tale, fascinating as it was. He also wondered why this was the last such clash. So as he follows the days leading up to the meeting of the 40-year-old David Landale, a sober linen trader and merchant, and George Morgan, the hot-head former army officer turned banker, in a muddy, misty field near the North Sea in 1826, he looks back over the history of the duel.

That takes him back to the medieval tales of trial by ordeal – including the wonderful account of the “duelling” greyhound, which avenged his murdered master. He wanders around the continent, tracing the social differences that led it to stick to cold steel, while British increasingly – and eventually almost exclusively – used pistols.

On the Continent, the duelling remained the preserve of the aristocratic class, which still formed the military upper class. So it was that in 1794, when a young French officer, Captain Dupont, was ordered by his general to tell a fellow captain that he was not welcome at a ball, the two came to fight a duel with naked steel. The second man, Fournier, was seriously wounded by a sword thrust, and immediately demanded a rematch. So it came, over 19 years, that they fought regular duels – signing a contract that they would fight any time they came within 100 miles of each other. (Their story was made into a movie by Ridley Scott, called, logically enough, The Duellists.)

Only two under-employed aristocrats, you feel, could dream up and persistently follow through such a caper. In Britain, however, with its growing empire and spreading commercial wealth, the duel spread widely through society, well into the middle classes. Most of these combatants had never been trained with the sword – to try to wield one would be to provoke ridicule, and a quick but nasty death should your opponent be better prepared. This social change also led, as Landale outlines, to a whole industry in printed guides for duelling, for those not brought up with the requisite etiquette. And complex it was indeed, as Landale and Morgan, and their reluctant seconds, demonstrated.

One problem was the status of Morgan; he had been an army officer, but was he a gentleman? Then there was the nature of the conflict. The two had clashed initially when Morgan and his brother, joint agents of the Bank of Scotland, had suddenly refused Landale credit, threatening his commercial standing, his very name in the community, without which no merchant could continue. He’d then written a letter of complaint to their superiors in London. This was a commercial dispute; should it really be settled in a military manner, or taken to the rapidly developing civil courts?

The fact was society was changing so fast that this looked less like an inevitable stage in a conflict between two men, and more like an anacronistic farce. (This was not helped by the fact that one of the surgeons called to assist the combatants had apparently had to attend in his slippers, since his wife had hidden his boots in a bid to stop him attending, for fear of the legal consequences.)

But getting to that point there was much palaver and confusion, until finally Morgan decided to provoke Landale by striking him in public, which could only have one result. (Although his second later told him he’d got the etiquette wrong, and should simply have directly challenged the merchant to a duel.) Landale describes the scene:

The morning of Tuesday August 22 1826 broke cold and damp, rain coursing down on Kirkcaldy’s townsfolk as they scurried to work…. So when George Morgan strolled down the High Street at 10 o’clock for his morning newspaper, he for once was carrying an umbrella rather than his usual cane. He entered James Cumming’s shop, selected a paper and engaged ‘in a little conversation’ as he rummaged in his pocket for a coin. But as he turned to leave, he spotted David Landale passing by outside. He did not hesitate. He rushed out the door and struck David violently across the shoulders with his umbrella.
‘Take you that, Sir!’ he cried.
David staggered back in shock. He had not seen George coming and took the full force of the blow on his shoulders. But, gathering his wits about him, he ran quickly into the shop, before Morgan could get in another blow.
“Mr Cumming, I hope you observed what passed’ he asked the bookseller. Cumming said he had indeed seen it all. But George Morgan was not yet done. He followed David inside. ‘By God, Sir, you shall have more of this yet!’ he yelled and moved forward to strike David again.
Furious at the indignity of this sordid fracas, David exclaimed: ‘I have never got such treatment in my life!’ and ran out before the banker could assault him again. George Morgan made chase but returned to the shop a few minutes later.”

The reader can imagine a Prussian aristocrat shuddering with horror at the scene and the class of the opponents. But now it was that the two men had to meet on that muddy field the next morning. The book is written so that – if you don’t cheat by looking ahead – you won’t know which man walked away from the field and which died there, and I won’t spoil that.

After the trial that followed, Landale then follows the duel to its final end – via two British army officers in India who “duelled” by sharing a darkened room with a lethal snake; one died a few hours later in agony, the other’s hair turned white with shock. He finds it, more or less, on the killing fields of First World War Europe. After that, the whole concept of personal honour or death came to seem meaningless, he concludes.

This is a highly readable book, providing a highly digestable mix of individual and social history covering more than 1,000 years, from the birth of the practice of duelling to its entirely welcome death. It is hard to find anything to criticise, although I would have liked a few footnotes to source some of the great tales for future reference.

* Declaration of interest: I used to work with James on The Times; he’s now a BBC politics correspondent. Useful fact: Kirkcaldy is pronounced kir caw day, for no good reason anyone I met there could explain.

Late last year some fascinating figures came out of Scotland: “31.2% of Scottish women born between 1960 and 1963 do not have children, and … if the current trend continues, 40% of women born between 1970 and 1973 will not have children.” It is estimated that only about 7 per cent of those suffer from medical problems that meant this wasn’t an active choice.

The article to which that link points is typical of the response – spluttering incomprehension, then an assumption that the women must have just stupidly “forgotten” to have children. People – or at least journalists, doctors and NHS officials – seem to have a lot of problems believing that women are adults who do make choices for themselves.

Dr Gillian Penney, who carried out the research, went back and double-checked the numbers. “I was very surprised to see these figures, I thought there must have been a mistake,” she says. “A third of women not having had a child seems so high. I would have thought around 10% would have been realistic. But more than 30%? I was very surprised.”
Even more puzzling for Penney was the women in the next age bracket she studied, those born from 1970 to 1973. “If that line keeps following the path it is on, it is quite startling,” she adds.
“One of the things that seems clear is that for the majority of these women it is not infertility stopping them having children: it is choice. Some have made that decision as a positive choice, but for others they will have thought to themselves ‘one day, one day’ and keep putting it off until it is too late.”

But that of course is an active choice. Not wanting to have a child “now” – women do know that may mean never, even if they won’t admit it to social researchers and friends because they will make a big fuss or express disapproval about it.

The comparable figure for the whole of the UK is about 20 per cent, and rising. I couldn’t find any figures – anyone know of any? – but I’m sure that would be considerably swayed by the high fertility rate of immigrant women. If you took the figures for women born in the UK (Scotland has relatively few immigrants) I suspect they’d be similar to the Scottish ones.

(There’s a summary of a sensible-looking study of the issue here, that makes the point this is by no means an “alternative” choice.)

I’m not in any way saying there is anything wrong with having children – at least a reasonable number of them – but it is really about time that it was recognised that childlessness is a reasonable choice that women are making, which should not be a cause for surprise or disapproval.

UPDATE: I forget earlier to add the comment that, while many don’t realise it, we’re actually heading back towards historical norms. The post WWII period saw historically extraordinarily high levels of marriage and childbearing, but it was these that were out of step with the general norm. For example, in London in 1911, 19 per cent of women in their mid-forties had never married (and it is reasonable to assume that nearly all of those had not had children). (S. Inwood, City of Cities: The Birth of Modern London, Macmillan, 2005, p. 11)

You might have had to wear ballooning bloomers and give a slip to your chaperone (the Chaperon Cyclists’ Association was formed in 1896, although it didn’t last long), but it sounds like being a female cyclist in Victorian London could be rather fun:

“The sight of a ‘young Amazon with the auburn hair and nicely-fitting costume’ cycling down Holborn on the wrong side of the road, as recklessly and fearlessly as a newspaper boy, ‘dodging in and out of the mass of cabs and carts’ and ignoring the policeman’s signal, thrilled Duncan Lucas in 1901. ‘Just when we think there will be a frightful accident she calmly crosses to the left, shaving the horses’ heads. Her sangfroid is astounding.”

But then again they did have extra protection: “Thomas Hardy asked a London omnibus conductor if the young women did not meet with accidents. He said: “Oh nao; their sex pertects them. We dares not drive over them, wotever they do; and they do jist whot they likes”.

And I couldn’t find a single thing about her on the web, but one of the famous cyclists of the era was Tissie Reynolds, 16, who raced from London to Brighton and back. She wore knickerbockers, as did Kitty Buckman cycling in the London suburbs. The latter wrote, however, in 1897 that: “One wants nerves of iron … The shouts and yells of the children deafen one, the women shriek with laughter or groan & hiss & all sorts of remarks are shouted at one, occasionally some not fit for publication. One needs to be very brave.”

Not much has changed, in any respect then, except I wouldn’t care to rely on the chivalry of a “omnibus” driver of today.

From Stephen Inwood’s City of Cities: The Birth of Modern London, pp. 148-9

From today all British Library reading rooms (not just rare books) are pencil-only. Pens are absolutely verboten. And the pencils in the shop cost 60p! each. (So it is worth remembering to BYO.)

I can see the argument – there was a woman prosecuted for persistently causing lots of damage last year, and no doubt they get the odd absent-minded doodle – but it is a real pain.

Working for a while in rare books – and trying to read my notes later – made me value Mr Bic a whole lot more.

Today is the final day to get in your nominations for the next Carnival of Feminists. Jenn has a range of suggestions. If you’re just getting back into the swing of work et al – here’s a great reason to do something else instead!