Displayed in the window of Hannah Humphreys’ print shop, fights would break out to see the latest work. An émigré wrote in 1802,

‘The enthusiasm is indescribable, when the next drawing appears; it is veritable madness. You have to make your way through the crowd with your fists’.

James Gillray, painted by Charles Turner.

A powerful asset

Caricatures, once a social curiosity, had become powerful political tools. Some of the raunchier London images of French royalty played a major role in the downfall of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette. Pitt’s Tory government was also acutely aware of the power of satire, and secretly put Gillray on the payroll from 1797.

One of the primary victims of Gillray’s etching knife was Napoleon, who was in no doubt about the potential potency of vindictive cartoons. On exile in Elba, he admitted Gillray’s caricatures were more damaging than a dozen generals.

‘Napoleon Crossing the Alps’, painted by Jacques-Louis David in 1805.

The Egyptian expedition

In 1798, Napoleon led a military expedition to Egypt, which served as a springboard to political power. It was at this point that Gillray began his shrewd attacks.

In ‘Buonaparte leaving Egypt’, Gillray depicted Napoleon’s escape from the Mediterranean campaign in 1799, which was considered a despicable act of betrayal. The campaign, which aimed to defend trade interests and weaken British connections to India, was in a state of hopelessness.

‘Buonaparte leaving Egypt’, published 8 March 1800.

The letters between French generals revealed the despair:

‘I could never have believed General Bonaparte would have abandoned us in the condition in which we were; without money, without powder, without ball . . . more than a third of the army destroyed … and the enemy but eight days march from us!’

In Gillray’s print, the figurehead of the tender is double-headed, signifying Napoleon’s duplicity. As he looks back sly and smug, a mob of emaciated French soldiers desperately hurry towards their leader, still faithful as they are unaware of the betrayal.

In another print, named ‘Buonaparte, hearing of Nelson’s victory, swears by his sword, to extirpate the English from the earth.’, Gillray depicts the moment Napoleon hears of Nelson’s great naval victory at the Nile in 1798.

In an enormous speech bubble, he declares

‘What? our Fleet captur’d & destroy’d by the Slaves of Britain?’, and announces his plans for an obelisk to be inscribed ‘To Buanoparte Conqueror of the World, & extirpater of the English Nation.’

This was a reference to an announcement Napoleon made in 1797:

‘[France] must destroy the English monarchy, or expect itself to be destroyed by these intriguing and enterprising islanders…Let us concentrate all our efforts on the navy and annihilate England. That done, Europe is at our feet.’

‘Buonaparte, hearing of Nelson’s victory, swears by his sword, to extirpate the English from the earth’, published 8 December 1798.

‘Little Boney’ is born

In 1803, Napoleon assembled over 100,000 invasion troops at Boulogne, announcing:

‘All my thoughts are directed towards England. I want only for a favourable wind to plant the Imperial Eagle on the Tower of London’

In light of this terrifying prospect, Gillray raised his game and created one of his greatest legacies – the myth of ‘Little Boney’.

‘Doctor Sangrado curing John Bull of repletion-with the kind offices of young Clysterpipe & little Boney- a hint from Gil Blas’, published 2 May 1803.

Despite never seeing Napoleon in the flesh, Gillray’s imagery of Napoleon was so powerful that it perpetuated a myth of an entire personality.

He became known as a spoilt little man who compensated for his lack of height by seeking power, war, and conquest. In reality, he stood at average height. As he was often surrounded by the Imperial Guard, who were generally tall, the perception of his small stature was consolidated.

Stereotypical attributes of Gillray’s Napoleon included a huge cocked hat with a tricolour plume, an a tricolour sash, a huge scabbard or immense spurs on Hessian boots. His oversized clothing makes mockery of him, too small for his worldly ambitions.

‘Evacuation of Malta.’ published 9 February 1803.

Ill-tempered

Later that year, Napoleon’s short temper had become notorious after an outburst during a meeting with the British Ambassador Lord Whitworth in March 1803. The British press reported he threatened an invasion of England with 400,000 or 500,000 men.

Gillray depicted the moment Napoleon read these newspaper reports in ‘Maniac Raving’s-or-Little Boney in a Strong Fit.’. Stamping in fury with fists clenched, his frantic gestures have overturned a table and left a terrestrial globe to loll on the floor – next to his oversized plumed cocked hat, of course.

‘Maniac Raving’s-or-Little Boney in a Strong Fit.’, published May 1803.

The subject of his raging tantrum is revealed in the explosive swirling text, reading,

‘English Newspapers- English Newspapers!!! Oh, English Newspapers!!! hated & Betray’d by the French! – Despised by the English! & Laughed at, by the whole World!!! Treason! Treason! Treason!’ … Invasion! Invasion! Four Hundred & Eighty Thousand Frenchmen British Slavery – & everlasting Chains!  everlasting Chains.’

‘Buonaparte, 48 Hours after Landing.’ published 26 July 1803.

As preparations were made on both sides of the channel for the anticipated invasion, Gillray produced images of unapologetic propaganda. In ‘Buonaparte, 48 Hours after Landing.’, published in July 1803, Napoleon’s head is proudly held on a pitchfork by John Bull, as one of the 615,000 armed yokels who stood ready to fight.

He exclaims,

‘Ha! my little Boney! – what do’st think of Johnny Bull now? – Plunder Old England! hayy?’

‘The Plumb-pudding in danger – or – State Epicures taking un Petit Souper’, published 26 February 1805.

The Plumb-pudding in danger

Gillray’s most famous image is undoubtedly ‘The Plumb-pudding in danger – or – State Epicures taking un Petit Souper’, published in 26 February 1805.

Martin Rowson described it as,

‘probably the most famous political cartoon of all time … stolen over and over and over again by cartoonists ever since’.

Carving up the world with British Prime Minister William Pitt, ‘Little Boney’ just about perches on the edge of his chair as he cuts a slice marked ‘Europe’ .

St. George and the Dragon

In a pastiche of history painting, Gillray created ‘St. George and the Dragon’ in 1805. Whilst George III acts out St George, and Britannia is the fair maiden, Napoleon plays a dragon.

With a barbed fang and flames issuing from his mouth, a sword-cut has gashed his skull, and cut his crown in two. His large wings combined with the legs and talons of a beast of prey echo questions of his identity, mainly provoked by his dual loyalties to Corsica and France.

‘St. George and the Dragon.’, published 2 August 1805. Image source: Digital Bodleian / CC BY 4.0

1. Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury

Margaret Pole was the niece of Richard III – who Henry VII had slain at the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. Until her dying day, Margaret asserted her Yorkist allegiance and become a focus for rebellion. She was considered such as threat that Henry VIII ordered her execution in 1541.

Margaret Pole; Elizabeth of York; Margaret Tudor

2. Elizabeth of York

Elizabeth was the daughter of King Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville, who were leaders of the Yorkist cause. Her brothers were the ‘Princes in the Tower’.

The marriage between Elizabeth of York and Henry Tudor marked a union between the Houses of York and Lancaster, and the red and white Tudor rose was born. Elizabeth and Henry had eight children, who, through marriage, became monarchs of England, Scotland and France.

3. Margaret Tudor, Queen of Scots

The eldest daughter of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, Margaret was the sister of Henry VIII. She was married to James IV of Scotland from 1503-1513, which united the royal houses of England and Scotland. After her husband’s death, Margaret acted as regent for her son James V, from 1513-1515.

4. Catherine of Aragon

Catherine ruled as Queen of England from June 1509 until May 1533. She was the daughter of Isabella I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon.

At three years old she was betrothed to Arthur, Prince of Wales, who was heir apparent to the English throne. After Arthur’s death, Catherine was married to his younger brother Henry, who grew increasingly frustrated after she failed to deliver a male heir.

Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn

Image Credit: History Hit

For six months in 1513, she served as regent of England as Henry was abroad in France. Her rousing speech about emotional courage seemed to be an important factor in the English victory at the Battle of Flodden. She was also a prominent humanist, and counted scholars such as Erasmus of Rotterdam and Thomas More as her friends.

5. Elizabeth Blount

‘Bessie’ Blount was a mistress of Henry VIII. On 15 June 1519, Blount bore the king what he had always craved – a son. Henry Fitzroy, the only illegitimate son of Henry VIII, was later Duke of Richmond and Somerset and Earl of Nottingham.

6. Anne Boleyn

The second and perhaps most infamous wife of Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn was Queen of England from 1533 to 1536, when she was executed.

Henry first caught eyes on her when she served Catherine of Aragon as a maid of honour. To accommodate a marriage to Anne and divorce Catherine, Henry had no choice but to leave the Catholic Church and establish the Church of England. Anne was the mother of Elizabeth I.

7. Catherine Parr

Catherine had four husbands, the third of which was Henry VIII who she outlived by a year. She enjoyed a close relationship with Henry’s three children, taking personal interest in their education and playing an important role in the Third Succession Act, which restored Mary and Elizabeth to the line of succession.

Catherine Parr; Lady Jane Grey; Mary I

Image Credit: History Hit

After Henry’s death, Catherine acted as queen dowager and was allowed to keep royal jewels and dresses.

8. Lady Jane Grey

Jane was the great-granddaughter of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, through their daughter Mary, who became Queen of France.

She was exceptionally well educated in humanist studies, and as a committed Protestant, Edward VI saw her as an ally. In 1553, Edward’s will placed Jane in line to inherit the throne, effectively removing his half-sisters Mary and Elizabeth from the line of succession and ignoring the Third Succession Act.

Jane was proclaimed queen on 10 July 1553 but support quickly waned and the Privy Council abandoned her. Lasting just over a week, she became known as the ‘Nine Days Queen’. Although Mary initially spared her life, she became viewed as a threat to the Crown, and was executed the following year.

9. Mary I

Mary was the eldest child of Henry VIII to survive to adulthood. As the daughter of Catherine of Aragon, she was a staunch Catholic. After expelling Lady Jane Grey to regain her place on the throne, Mary attempted to reverse the English Reformation begun by her father and restore Roman Catholicism.

The executions of Protestants earned her the nickname ‘Bloody Mary’. She was married to Phillip of Spain.

10. Elizabeth I

Elizabeth was the final monarch of the Tudor dynasty, ruling from 1558-1603. She depended heavily on a group of advisers led by William Cecil. Together they established a middle way in the religious debates, as Elizabeth became the Supreme Governor of the English Protestant church, but insisted on greater tolerance of English Catholics.

Elizabeth I; Bess of Hardwick; Mary, Queen of Scots

Image Credit: History Hit

Elizabeth never married and she became referred to as the ‘Virgin Queen’. Her 44 year reign was marked by England’s defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588 and a flowering of English drama, led by playwrights Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare.

11. Bess of Hardwick

Born into a modest background, Bess married four times and acquired an enormous fortune to become the second most important woman in England, after the queen. She is famed for building Hardwick Hall, which gave rise to the rhyme ‘Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall’.

12. Mary, Queen of Scots

Mary reigned over Scotland from 1542 to 1567. She was the only surviving legitimate child of King James V of Scotland, who died when Mary was six days old. She married Francis, the Dauphin of France, and later her half-cousin, Lord Darnley.

Their son, James, would become James I of England, uniting the two kingdoms. She was executed by her cousin, Elizabeth I, in 1587 at Fotheringhay Castle.

Here are ten of the most important.

1. Bertha of Kent

Bertha, a Frankish princess, was born in the early 560s to Charibert I, King of Paris, and a woman named Ingoberga. She was married off to King Æthelberht of Kent, an Anglo-Saxon pagan. In 597, St Augustine arrived in England to convert the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity.

Bertha is depicted in a stained glass window of the Chapter House, Canterbury Cathedral. Image source: Mattana / CC BY-SA 3.0.

It is widely believed that Bertha was instrumental in persuading her husband to embrace the new religion, as all accounts of St Augustine’s work named her as a prominent figure. Pope Gregory wrote to Bertha in 601, praising what “great succour and what charity you have bestowed upon Augustine”. She was compared to Helena, the mother of Emperor Constantine, who persuaded her son to convert to Christianity.

2. Æthelflæd

The eldest daughter of Alfred the Great, Æthelflæd was born in 870, a time when Viking invasions were at their height. By 878, East Anglia and Northumbria were conquered, meaning most of England was under Danish Viking rule.

Æthelflæd in the 13th century Genealogical Chronicle of the English Kings.

Æthelflæd’s father, Alfred, married her to Æthelred to cement a strategic alliance between the surviving English kingdoms. After Æthelred’s death in 911, Æthelflæd ruled Mercia as Lady of the Mercians, where she would transform the balance of power.

She embarked on a defensive rebuilding programme in towns such as Tamworth, Warwick and Bridgnorth, recaptured Derby and was offered loyalty by the Viking leaders of York.

3. Matilda of Flanders

According to legend, when the Norman Duke William the Bastard sent his representative to ask Matilda’s hand in marriage, she retorted she was too high-born to marry a bastard. Furious at this snub, William rode to find Matilda, dragged her off her horse by her long braids and threw her down in the street.

A statue of Matilda of Flanders in the Luxembourg Gardens, Paris. Image source: Jastrow / CC BY 3.0.

Whether such rumours are true or not, the marriage to William – who became William the Conqueror – seemed to be successful. Their 9 children were known for being remarkably well educated, and their daughters were educated at Sainte-Trinité in Caen.

4. Matilda of Scotland

Matilda was the daughter of the English princess Saint Margaret and the Scottish king Malcom III. After a messy succession crisis in Scotland, Matilda married the English king, Henry I, and steadied relations between the two nations.

Matilda of Scotland was the mother of William Adelin and Empress Matilda.

In England, she led a literary and musical court, embarked on building projects for the church and ruled in her husband’s name during his absence.

5. Empress Matilda

Matilda of Scotland’s daughter, also named Matilda, was married to the future Holy Roman Emperor, Henry V. When her brother, William Adelin, died in the White Ship disaster of 1120, Matilda returned to England to be nominated heir.

Empress Matilda in ‘History of England’ by St. Albans monks of the 15th century.

She was an unpopular choice in the Anglo-Norman court. When her father died the throne was taken by Matilda’s cousin, Stephen of Blois, who was backed by the English church. Civil war broke out, and the disorder which prevailed gave this period the name of ‘The Anarchy‘.

On one occasion, Matilda was trapped in Oxford Castle, and escaped across the frozen River Isis in a white sheet to avoid capture. Although never officially crowned Queen of England, Matilda was titled Lady of the English, and her son succeeded the throne as Henry II.

6. Eleanor of Aquitaine

Eleanor was born into the House of Poitiers, a powerful dynasty in southwestern France. As a Duchess of Aquitaine, she was the most eligible bride in Europe. Her marriage to Louis VII of France produced two daughters, but was soon annulled on account of consanguinity.

A 14th century depiction of Eleanor marrying her first husband, Louis. On the right, Louis sets sail for the Second Crusade.

Just eight weeks later, she was engaged to the Duke of Normandy. He became Henry II of England in 1154, beaconing a period of stability after civil war had raged.

Eleanor and Henry had eight children, three of whom became kings. Their marriage broke down when Henry imprisoned Eleanor in 1173 for supporting their son’s revolt against him. After her husband’s death, she acted as regent while Richard the Lionheart went on the Third Crusade.

7. Queen Philippa of Hainault

Married to Edward III for 40 years, Phillipa acted as regent for her husband in 1346, and accompanied his expeditions to Scotland, France and Flanders. The eldest of their thirteen children was Edward, the Black Prince.

Her compassion and kindness made her a popular figure, especially in 1347 when she persuaded her husband to spare the lives of the Burghers of Calais. The Queen’s College in Oxford was founded in her honour.

8. Isabella of Valois

Miniature detailing Richard II of England receiving his six-year-old bride Isabel of Valois from her father Charles VI of France.

Isabella was the daughter of Charles VI of France and Isabeau of Bavaria. At the age of six, she was married to Richard II, who was then 29.

Despite the union acting as a political exercise to improve French and English relations, Richard and Isabella developed a respectful relationship. He regularly visited her in Windsor and entertained her and her ladies-in-waiting.

Richard’s death cut the marriage short, leaving Isabella widowed at the age of 9. She went on to marry Charles, Duke of Orléans and died in childbirth at the age of 19.

Her sister, Catherine, would briefly marry Henry V and give birth to the future Henry VI. Through her second marriage to Owen Tudor, Catherine became the grandmother of the future Henry VII.

9. Anne Neville

As a daughter of Richard Neville, who was known as ‘Warwick the Kingmaker’, Anne was used as an important bargaining chip in the Wars of the Roses. She was originally betrothed to Edward, Prince of Wales, who was the son of Edward IV.

After the death of Prince Edward, she married the Duke of Gloucester, later Richard III. Anne bore a son, Edward of Middleham, who predeceased his parents. Anne also died of tuberculosis in 1485, and later that year Richard was slain at the Battle of Bosworth.

10. Margaret of Anjou

Margaret married King Henry VI, and ruled as Queen of England and France in accordance with the agreements made by Henry V at the Treaty of Troyes. After her husband suffered from bouts of insanity, Margaret ruled in his place.

The marriage of Henry VI and Margaret would break down when Henry suffered bouts of insanity.

Her provocative actions and position as leader of the Lancastrian cause made her a key player in the Wars of the Roses, although she would never enjoy much success. In her final years, she lived in France as a poor relation of the king, and died there aged 52.

And it’s lucky it’s so quiet, for this is London’s legal quarter, and behind these elegant facades are some of the biggest brains in the country – barristers pouring over texts and scribbling down notes. There are two of the four of London’s Inns of Court here: the Middle Temple and Inner Temple. 

It might be an oasis of hushed tones today, but it wasn’t always so tranquil. Geoffrey Chaucer, who mentioned one of the clerks of the Inner Temple in the prologue of Canterbury Tales, was probably a student here, and he was recorded for fighting with a Franciscan friar in Fleet Street.

And in the Peasants Revolt of 1381, the mob poured through these lanes, into the houses of the Temple lawyers. They carried off everything they could find – valuable books, deeds and rolls of remembrance – and burnt them to cinders. 

But in the centre of this maze is a building far older and far more intriguing than the antics of Geoffrey Chaucer or Wat Tyler’s revolting peasants. Here is a building drenched in almost nine centuries of turbulent history – of crusading knights, secret pacts, hidden cells and blazing firestorms. It’s a historic gem full of secrets: Temple Church. 

The Knights Templar 

In 1118, a holy order of crusading knights was formed. They took the traditional vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, as well as a fourth vow, to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land, as they traveled to and from Jerusalem.

These knights were given headquarters in Jerusalem, near Temple Mount – believed to be the Temple of Solomon. So they became known as the ‘fellow soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem’, or Templars, for short. 

In 1162, these Templar Knights built this Round Church as their base in London, and the area became known as Temple. Over the years, they grew incredibly powerful, working as bankers and diplomatic brokers to successive kings. So this area of Temple grew to become the centre of England’s religious, political and economic life.

Detail of the West Door of Temple Church.

Image Credit: History Hit

On the West Door are some clues to the church’s crusading past. Each of the columns is surmounted by four busts. The ones on the north side are wearing caps or turbans, whereas those on the south side are bare-headed. Some of them wear tight-fitting buttoned clothing – before the 14th century, buttons were considered to be oriental – and so some of these figures may represent the Muslims, whom the Templars were called upon to fight. 

Medieval effigies

When you come into the church today, you’ll notice the two parts: the Chancel, and the Round. This circular design was inspired by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, which they believed to be the site of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. So the Templars commissioned a circular design for their London church, too. 

There are nine effigies in the round of the church.

Image Credit: History Hit

In the middle ages, this would have looked quite different: there were brightly painted lozenge shapes on the walls, carved heads bursting with colour, metallic plating on the ceiling to reflect the candlelight, and banners hanging down the columns.

And although most of this doesn’t survive, there are still some hints of a bygone medieval past. On the ground are nine male figures, weathered and bashed by the ravages of time, and packed full of symbolism and hidden meaning. They are all depicted in their early thirties: the age at which Christ died. The most important effigy is a man known as the “best knight that ever lived.” It shows William Marshall, the 1st Earl of Pembroke. 

William Marshall was said to be the greatest knight that ever lived.

Image Credit: History Hit

He was a soldier and statesman who served four English kings and is perhaps most famous for being one of the chief mediators in the years leading up to Magna Carta. In fact, in the countdown to Runnymede, lots of the negotiations around the Magna Carta happened in Temple Church. In January 1215, when the king was in the Temple, a group of barons charged in, armed and ready to fight a war. They confronted the king, and demanded his submission to a charter.

These sculptures would have once been blazing with coloured paint. Analysis from the 1840s tells us that there would have once been a ‘delicate flesh colour’ on the face. The mouldings had some light green, there were traces of gilding on the ring-mail. And the buckles, spurs and this little squirrel hiding underneath the shield had been gilt. The surcoat – that’s the tunic worn over the armour – was coloured in crimson, and the inner lining was light blue.

The penitentiary cell 

The Knights Templars’ management of the routes in and out of the Middle East soon brought them great wealth, with which came great power, with which came great enemies. Rumours – started by rivals in other religious orders and the nobility – began to spread of their nefarious conduct, sacrilegious initiation ceremonies and worship of idols.

One particularly notorious story was in regards to Walter Bacheler, the preceptor of Ireland, who refused to follow the Order’s rules. He was locked away for eight weeks, and starved to death. And in a final insult, he was even refused a proper burial.

The circular staircase of Temple Church hides a secret space. Behind a door is a space four and a half feet long and two feet, nine inches wide. The story goes that this is the penitentiary cell where Walter Bacheler spent his final, miserable days. 

It was just one of the terrible rumours which blackened the name of the Templars, and in 1307, at the instigation of Philip IV King of France – who happened to owe them quite a lot of money – the Order was abolished by the Pope. King Edward II took control of the church here, and gave it to the Order of St John: the Knights Hospitaller.

Richard Martin 

The following centuries were full of drama, including the great theological debate in the 1580s known as the Battle of the Pulpits. The church was rented out to a bunch of lawyers, the Inner Temple and Middle Temple, who shared use of the church, and still do to this day. It was during these years that Richard Martin was around.

Richard Martin was known for his lavish parties.

Image Credit: History Hit

His tomb in Temple Church makes him appear a sombre, sober, rule-abiding lawyer. This is far from the truth. Richard Martin was described as “a very handsome man, a graceful speaker, facetious and well-loved”, and once more, he made it his business to organise riotous parties for Middle Temple lawyers. He was so notorious for this debauchery it took him 15 years to qualify as a barrister. 

The encaustic tiles 

There have been all sorts of refurbishments at Temple Church over the years. Some classical features added by Christopher Wren, then a return to medieval styles during the Gothic Revival of the Victorian period. Now not much of the Victorian work is visible, apart from up in the clerestory, where visitors will find a remarkable display of encaustic tiles. Encaustic tiles were originally produced by Cistercian monks in the 12th century, and were found in abbeys, monasteries and royal palaces all across Britain during the medieval period.

They went out of fashion abruptly in the 1540s, during the Reformation, but were rescued by the Victorians, who fell in love with all things medieval. So as the Palace of Westminster was being rebuilt in all its gothic splendour, Temple Church was being decked out in encaustic tiles.

Encaustic tiles were common in great medieval cathedrals.

Image Credit: History Hit

The tiles at Temple Church were created by the Victorians, and the design is simple and striking. They have a solid red body, inlaid with white and glazed with yellow. Some of them feature a knight on horseback after medieval originals from the Temple Church. They even have a pitted surface, made to imitate that of a medieval tile. A subtle, romantic nod to bygone days of the Knights Templar. 

Temple Church during the Blitz 

The most testing moment of the church’s history came on the night of 10 May 1941. This was the most devastating raid of the Blitz. German bombers sent down 711 tons of explosives, and around 1400 people were killed, over 2,000 injured and 14 hospitals damaged. There were fires the whole length of London, and by morning, 700 acres of the city was destroyed, about double that of the Great Fire of London.

Temple Church was at the heart of these attacks. Around midnight, fire-watchers saw an incendiary land on the roof. The fire caught hold and spread down to the body of the church itself. The blaze was so fierce that it split the chancel’s columns, melted the lead, and the wooden roof of the Round caved in on the knights’ effigies below. 

The Senior Warden remembered the chaos:

At two o’clock in the morning, it was as light as day. Charred papers and embers were flying through the air, bombs and shrapnel all around. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

The fire brigade were powerless to stop the blaze – the attack had been timed so the Thames was at low tide, making it impossible to use the water. Temple Church was lucky not to have been completely annihilated.  

Post-World War Two restoration 

The destruction of the Blitz was immense, although not totally unwelcome for those who considered some of the Victorian restoration work as outright vandalism. The treasurer of the Inner Temple was happy to see the Victorian alterations destroyed, writing:

For my own part, seeing how dreadfully the Church had been despoiled by its pretended friends a century before, I do not grieve so very acutely for the havoc now wrought by its avowed enemies …. to have got rid of their awful stained glass windows, their ghastly pulpit, their hideous encaustic tiles, their abominable pews and seats (on which alone they spent over £10,000), will be almost a blessing in disguise.

It was seventeen years before the Church was fully repaired. The cracked columns were all replaced, with new stone from the beds of Purbeck ‘marble’ quarried in the Middle Ages. The original columns had been famous for tilting outwards; and so they were rebuilt at the same wonky angle. 

The organ, too, is a post-war addition, since the original was destroyed in the Blitz. This organ began its life in the wild hills of Aberdeenshire. It was built in 1927 for the ballroom of Glen Tanar House, where its inaugural recital had been given by the great composer Marcel Dupré.

The nave of the church is much restored. Note the organ loft to the left.

Image Credit: History Hit

But the acoustic in that Scottish ballroom, which is quite a squat space covered with hundreds of antlers, was “as dead as it well could be…very disappointing”, and so the organ wasn’t used much. Lord Glentanar gifted his organ to the church, and it came whizzing down to London, by rail, in 1953.  

Since then Lord Glentanar’s organ has greatly impressed many a musician, including none other than the film composer Hans Zimmer, who called described this as “one of the most magnificent organs in the world”. After spending two years writing the score for Interstellar, Zimmer chose this organ to record the film score, performed by the organist of Temple Church, Roger Sayer.

Once more, the sound and tonal potential of this organ was so remarkable, the score for Interstellar was actually shaped and created around the possibilities of the incredible instrument.

A Shakespearean legacy

The story of Temple Church is a history peppered with thrills, terror and even riotous parties. So it’s perhaps it’s no surprise that this was also the inspiration for one of William Shakespeare’s most famous scenes. 

A key scene of Shakespeare’s Wars of the Roses saga was set in the Temple Gardens.

Image Credit: Henry Payne via Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain

Just a stone’s throw away is the Inner Temple Garden. It was here, in King Henry VI (Part I, Act II, Scene 4) where Shakespeare’s characters declared their loyalties to the York and Lancastrian faction by plucking a red or white rose and thus beginning the epic drama of the Wars of the Roses. The scene closes with the words of Warwick: 

This brawl to-day,
Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden,
Shall send, between the red rose and the white,
A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

One of the most enduring tales from Greek mythology is the tragic fate of Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun.

Icarus was the son of Daedalus, a master craftsman who had designed the labyrinth of Crete. The labyrinth was built for King Minos to house the Minotaur, a terrifying creature which had the body of a man and the head of a bull. For those unfortunate enemies of Crete, they were locked in the labyrinth and – unable to escape – devoured by the minotaur inside.

However, one man, Theseus (one of Crete’s greatest enemies), managed to escape the deadly trap. King Minos, in his fury, became paranoid. The only man who knew the secrets of the labyrinth was its designer, Daedalus. Had Daedalus helped Theseus escape? Had he shared the labyrinth’s secrets? In what other ways was he betraying his king?

Although Daedalus was innocent of the crime, he was locked up in a soaring tower with his son, Icarus. But the ingenious Daedalus was not content to await his fate in captivity. Instead, he developed an escape plan. Using feathers, threads from blankets, clothes, and beeswax, Daedalus built two sets of wings for him and his son to fly from the tower to safety. It was a risky plan, and Daedalus took care to warn his son of the dangers: “Do not fly too high or too low”, said father to son, “in case the sea’s dampness clogs the wings or the sun’s heat melts their wax”.

The Fall of Icarus, fresco from Pompeii, 40-79 AD

Image Credit: Sofia Suli, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

But Icarus, buoyed by the thrill of human flight, and brazenly confident, didn’t adhere to his father’s instructions. Icarus soared higher and higher, only to seal his own fate. His wings melted in the heat of the Greek sun, he plunged to the sea and drowned. The myth gave rise to the idiom, ‘don’t fly too close to the sun’, a warning against being overly ambitious or greedy.

A Victorian inspiration

This tragic tale has been a rich source of inspiration for writers and artists, most notably Herbert James Draper, an English Classicist painter who worked in the late Victorian era and the first decades of the 20th century.

Draper chose to depict the moment after Icarus’ fall. In his oil painting, ‘The Lament for Icarus’ from 1898, Icarus lies motionless. He is cradled in his enormous, bird-of-paradise-esque wings, and surrounded by lamenting nymphs. The scene is highly dramatic, and typical of late-Victorian romanticism in painting and sculpture.

In the distance, the sun – the cause of Icarus’ downfall – sets, and fills the scene with a golden light. The final glimmers of sunlight highlights the transience of time, and echoes the tragic scene which has just unfolded, marking the end of Icarus’ life. Icarus’ darker tone of tanned skin – compared to the pearly alabaster skin of the nymphs – hints at his recent flight in the sun.

‘The Lament for Icarus’ by Herbert James Draper

Image Credit: Herbert James Draper, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The scene of this naked, dead man, surrounded by mourners is a sure nod to a visual which was common in the Western canon of art, and familiar to Draper’s audience – that of Christ descending from the cross. For example, ‘The Entombment of Christ’ by the Italian painter Caravaggio, bears several uncanny similarities with Draper’s work.

However, whilst Christ’s death is ultimately an uplifting story to inspire faith, Icarus’s death is a moralising tale which demonstrates an epic failure, the tragic result of human folly. To increase the impact and heighten the drama, Draper has taken liberties with the original myth – Icarus still has his angelic wings fully intact (despite it usually retold that the wax melted and left Icarus falling without them).

A modern sensation 

Draper’s work was created at the turn of the century in 1898 and was well received at the time. It was bought from the Royal Academy exhibition through a public fund for purchasing modern art, the Chantrey Bequest. Once more, it was awarded the gold medal at the Exposition Universelle of 1900 in Paris.

The themes in this work were particularly appealing to the late 19th century audiences. Charles Darwin’s publication of On the Origin of Species in 1859 provoked widespread discussion regarding the evolution of humankind, and also pointed debate to a deep and obscure past. The blurred lines between history and myth, and struggles between animal and human nature were of particular interest – themes reflected in Draper’s tragic canvas.

Pandora is one of the most notorious characters from Greek mythology. She was the first human woman, created by Hephaestus on the instructions of the King of the Gods, Zeus.

As she was created, Pandora was bestowed a unique attribute by each of the Gods. Thus her name has the meaning of ‘the all-endowed’, the ‘all-gifted’ or ‘all-giving’. According to some sources, she was taught needlework and weaving by Athena. The goddess Aphrodite ‘shed grace upon her head and cruel longing and cares that weary the limbs’. Hermes, the herald of the Gods, gave her ‘a shameless mind and a deceitful nature’ as well as the power of rhetoric, with ‘lies and crafty words’. She was given necklaces and clothing by the Charities, and a garland crown by the Horae, the goddesses of the seasons.

However, Pandora’s fame derives from a more sinister episode, connected with Hesiod’s poem Works and Days, dating from around 700 BC. Driven by intense curiosity, Pandora disobeys instructions and opens a forbidden jar. However, her disobedience soon backfires for as the jar is opened, ‘countless plagues’ are released into the world – an array of physical and emotional curses which torment mankind. As Hesiod put it, the earth and sea were now ‘full of evils’.

This story has gone down in time as an idiom. The jar is a representation of any source of great and unexpected troubles, or a gift which seems valuable but turns out to be a curse.

An artistic inspiration

Images of Pandora began to appear on Greek pottery as early as the 5th century BC, and the drama of Pandora’s story has been a rich source of inspiration for later poets, dramatists, painters and sculptors throughout history.

It has, however, diverted somewhat from Hesiod’s original account, as the jar is commonly referred to as a box. This is largely attributed to a mistranslation of ‘pithos‘, as a large storage jar, as ‘box’ (the original being ‘pyxis‘). This was an error by the humanist scholar Erasmus of Rotterdam, who translated Hesiod’s work. However, it has given rise to the idea of ‘Pandora’s Box’ (rather than ‘Pandora’s Jar’).

One artist who was inspired by this episode was Jean Cousin the Elder, a 16th century French painter and engraver. His painting ‘Eva Prima Pandora‘, dating from the 1540s (now in the Louvre) is considered to be his masterpiece. It depicts a nude woman reclining in a natural landscape with a town in the distance.

Jean Cousin the Elder, ‘Eva Prima Pandora’, Louvre, Paris, 1550

Image Credit: Jean Cousin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

As she rests on a skull, she holds an apple branch in her right hand, and allows a serpent to twist around her left. This is clearly Eve, a symbol of original sin and the fall of mankind. However, Cousin also leaves a sign reading ‘Eva Prima Pandora’, hinting at Pandora’s mistake which also brought sin into the world. Both women are linked with a common theme: their flawed femininity and – as in this painting, womanly seduction – causing the downfall of mankind.

This damning view – which was common in the Renaissance period – faced some rebuttal in the following centuries, suggesting that Pandora’s curiosity was a natural human instinct. Some pointed the blame towards Epimetheus, Pandora’s husband, as the figure responsible for opening the jar. The French poet, Isaac de Benserade, also penned a poem of the tale in 1676, giving a light-hearted edge:

In a jar an odious treasure is
Shut by the gods’ wish:
A gift that’s not everyday,
The owner’s Pandora alone;
And her eyes, this in hand,
Command the best in the land
As she flits near and far;
Prettiness can’t stay
Shut in a jar.
Someone took her eye, he took
A look at what pleased her so
And out came the grief and woe
We won‘t ever be rid of,
For heaven had hidden
That in the jar.

The Pre-Raphaelites

By the 19th century, Pandora’s tragic story had become popular with the Pre-Raphaelite artists, particularly Rossetti. His portrait of Pandora depicts her red-robed with an expressive gaze and her fingers wrapped around the jewelled casket, with the spirits of evil escaping in a cloud of smoke.

‘Pandora’ by John William Waterhouse

Image Credit: John William Waterhouse, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

This passionate, seductive depiction is – like the original tale – linked with temptation and sin, for the model is a lover, Jane Morris – the wife of Rossetti’s friend William Morris. Jane’s long sad face, wide eyes and great mass of dark curls was, for the Pre-Raphaelite artists, a vision of ideal beauty.

Another artist who embraced the pre-Raphaelite style, John William Waterhouse, also dedicated a canvas to Pandora in 1896. This was in keeping with his work, which was known for depictions of women from ancient Greek and Arthurian mythology.

In this painting, Pandora is depicted as a beautiful maiden in a mystical woodland scene, kneeling down to have a close view of the box, which is seductively golden and ornate. But this scene of youth, beauty and peace is already disrupted. Although Pandora is unaware, a thin wisp of smoke escapes the box – the evil spirits free to torment mankind forever.

The myth of the minotaur

The myth began with the death of King Minos of Crete’s son, Androgeus, caused by the city of Athens. As a result, the people of Athens were forced to endure a terrible punishment. Every 7 years, 7 young men and 7 maidens were sent to Crete aboard a ship with black sails. On arrival, they would be forced into a labyrinth which housed a Minotaur – a creature with the head and tail of a bull and the body of a man. Here, the young Athenians would perish, lost in the labyrinth and devoured by the minotaur.

One year, the sacrificial party included the son of King Aegeus, Prince Theseus. He set out on an audacious mission to try and kill the Minotaur. When Theseus arrived on the Cretan shores, he caught the heart of Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos. Determined to save her new lover, Ariadne aided Theseus’ mission, giving him a sword and ball of thread which would enable him to slay the minotaur and retrace his steps through the labyrinth. After successfully doing so, Theseus and Ariadne – who was betraying her father and her country – eloped.

Pasiphaë and the Minotaur, Attic red-figure kylix found at Etruscan Vulci in Italy

Image Credit: Cabinet des Médailles, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

But this romance was not to last long. In many versions of the myth, Theseus soon abandoned Ariadne on the island of Naxos. With Theseus gone, Ariadne married the god of wine, Dionysus. Together they had several children including Oenopion, Staphylus and Thoas. Ariadne lived happily and faithfully with Dionysus, until she was killed by the hero, Perseus, who turned her to stone by holding up the head of Medusa.

A grand canvas 

The turbulent life of Ariadne has been a source of inspiration for many great artists. In the early 1520s, the Renaissance master, Titian, produced a number of paintings with mythological subjects, one of which featured Ariadne on Naxos. It was created for Alfonso I d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, to be displayed in his magnificent palazzo, the Camerino d’Alabastro.

Based on preliminary drawings by Raphael, the subject matter derived from the texts of the Roman poets, Catullus and Ovid. It depicts the moment Ariadne has been deserted by Theseus, whose ship sails into the distance. She is interrupted by Dionysus (who named her as the Roman equivalent, Bacchus), who leads a procession of revellers in a chariot. The painting communicates Ariadne’s initial fear of Bacchus, who falls in love with her at first site. But it also indicates the years of happiness to come, now Ariadne is paired with an immortal lover: Bacchus raised her to heaven, represented by the constellation above her head.

‘Bacchus and Ariadne’, c. 1520–1523 by Titian (cropped)

Image Credit: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

A Kauffman take

In 1774, a female artist, Angelica Kauffman, dedicated a canvas to Ariadne’s struggle, titled Ariadne Abandoned by Theseus. It shows Ariadne alone, reclining on a low, cushioned bed which is covered with a bright red blanket and adorned with gold tassels. She is draped in sheer white fabric, and her head is turned downward as another arm reaches back towards the sea – towards Theseus’ ship in the distance. This is a vision of despair.

The painting was exhibited in London’s Royal Academy in 1774, alongside two of her other works; Calypso Assenting to the Departure of Ulysses and Penelope Invoking Minerva’s Aid for the Safe Return of Telemachus. All three paintings had a common theme – they all depict women in the absence of a lover or a son.

A surreal vision 

Over two centuries later, Giorgio de Chirico, presented a starkly different interpretation of the moment of Ariadne’s abandonment. De Chirico’s Ariadne is depicted as a sleeping statue in the centre of a desolate public square. It’s believed this evocation of loneliness was a reflection of the artist’s personal life – when he moved to Paris in 1911 he faced a period of isolation and loneliness. Perhaps this dreamlike, unsettling vision with classical themes also reflects a longing for the comfort of his childhood years in Greece.

The striking, enigmatic canvas is typical of de Chirico’s ‘Metaphysical’ style, developed between 1910 and 1917. His canvases are filled with dream-like imagery, cramped interiors and deserted city squares filled with apparently random collections of unrelated objects, and all kinds of curiosities: stopped clocks, faceless mannequins, mysterious shadows and sleeping statues.

This style was particularly suitable for paintings with classical themes, adding to the intermixing and overlapping between myth and reality. It also had a significant influence on modern art, particularly the Surrealist paintings of Salvador Dali and Max Ernst.

One of the most disturbing and bizarre tales from Greek mythology is the tale of Leda and the Swan. The king of the Gods, Zeus, transforms into a swan. In this avine form he seduces and rapes Leda, the Queen of Sparta. According to Ovid, Leda was famed for her beautiful black hair and snowy white skin.

The result of Leda and Zeus’ romance was two children, Polydeuces and Helen (who later became Helen of Troy). Leda also bore two children from her husband, King Tyndareus: the twins Castor and Pollux.

Details of the story vary. Sometimes, Zeus is said to have seduced Leda on the very same night she slept with her husband King Tyndareus. As a result, the new babes were hatched from two eggs: from one came Helen and Clytemnestra, and the other came Castor and Pollux. Helen is also sometimes excluded from the story, and described as the daughter of Nemesis, the goddess who personified the disaster that awaited those suffering from the pride of Hubris.

Later interpretation 

For artists and writers, this myth has been a fruitful source of inspiration. It was a common form for Italian Renaissance artists (such as Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo and Tintoretto) upon which to display their talent.

After seeing Michelangelo’s version of Leda and the Swan in Rome, the Flemish artist, Peter Paul Rubens, painted two versions of the subject in 1601 and 1602. Rubens’s 1601 Leda was clearly modelled on that of Michelangelo’s. Everything from the placement of Leda’s twisting body entangled with the swan, to the detail of her fingers mirrors the work of his Italian forebear.

However, Rubens did make alterations to Michelangelo’s design. Ruben’s depiction of the female form is much softer: her body is extremely curvaceous, her skin is alabaster, her limbs are in proportion and her golden hair is flowing.

Ruben’s second attempt also saw further developments. In his first work, the brushstrokes are loose, the colours are muted and the drapes are green. In the second painting, the detailing is sharper, the colours are vibrant, the lighting is more dramatic and Leda’s hairstyle is highly ornamental. Her skin is alabaster, tinted with pink and peachy tones which contrast with the stark white of the swan’s feathers. She is intimately entwined with the swan – its beak almost touching her lips and its head leaning gently against her naked breast.

‘Leda and the Swan’, a 16th-century copy after a lost painting by Michelangelo

Image Credit: After Michelangelo, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

This second version is more typical of the Baroque style and the ‘Rubenesque’ figure which would become the artist’s trademark. A sense of movement (another common Baroque theme) is conveyed by the swan’s wings flung open, as if he has just flown into Leda’s arms.

Painters and poets

This peculiar story was not unusual in Greek mythology. Zeus was said to have seduced many women in various guises: for Europa he transformed into a bull, for Antiope a satyr, for Danae a shower of gold. All of which were popular subjects in Renaissance and Baroque artworks, and many of which were heavily erotic. For example, in Rubens’ Leda, she is shown fully nude, with the swan caressing her most intimate areas.

The story was also the inspiration for one of the greatest poets of the 20th century, William Butler Yeats. His sonnet was composed in 1923, beginning:

“A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?”

‘Leda and the Swan’ by Correggio

Image Credit: Antonio da Correggio, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The second half of Yeats’ poem explores the wider implications of this event. The child born from Leda and Zeus was Helen. She Helen of Troy, the woman whose beauty sparked the outbreak of the Trojan War. Here Yeats explores hot the tales of mythology merge with historical truth:

“A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?”

Leda and the Swan remains one of the most popular myths from the Greek world. Although it is a disturbing tale, its sinister surrealism provides an endless source of intrigue and inspiration for some of the most talented artists and creatives in history.

Working between 1780-1810, his surrealist imagery and biting wit made him the most successful satirist of his day, producing a quality of work yet to be surpassed.

He mocked political squabbles with scatological humour and burlesqued the haut monde with a striking ability for vengeance.

His prints were chuckled at by Queen Charlotte during breakfast (until they became too vulgar), hoarded by the filthy minded Prince Regent (later George IV), feared by Napoleon (who claimed Gillray was more powerful than a dozen generals), and adored so much by the general public that fights broke out as new prints were displayed in Hannah Humphreys’ printshop window.

Gillray produced over 1,000 political and social satires. Here are eight of the best.

1. A Voluptuary under the horrors of Digestion (1792)

This etching by Gillray attacks the reckless indulgence of the Prince of Wales (later George IV), offering a nod to his nickname ‘The Prince of Whales’.

Dominated by his enormous bloated belly, which a single waistcoat button struggles to contain, his languid greed is revealed by decanters of port and brandy, the remains of a huge joint of meat, empty wine bottles rolling around under the table, and a coat of arms containing a knife and fork.

Behind the chair, an overflowing chamber pot pins up a host of unpaid bills. In the foreground, a dice-box offers a nod to his gambling addiction, and a medicinal bottle on the shelf is labelled ‘Drops for a Stinking Breath’.

‘A Voluptuary under the horrors of Digestion’ (1792). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Image Credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

2. Britannia between Scylla and Charybdis (1793)

Britannia between Scylla and Charybdis was published in April 1793, three months after the execution of the French King, Louis XVI, and two months after France declared war on Britain. In the print, the British Prime Minister, William Pitt, steers a boat representing the constitution.

Carrying the precious cargo of Britannia, Pitt navigates between two maritime hazards of Homeric mythology, representing ‘the whirlpool of arbitrary power’ and ‘the rock of democracy’. Behind him, he is closely eyed by the deadly, anti-constitutional sharks of the Foxite opposition.

They head towards a gloomy island named the ‘Haven of Public Happiness’.

Gillray’s print reflected the British philosophical debates which dominated the 1790s, as the French Revolution played out across the channel. Gillray’s conclusion is that in times of uncertainty and polarisation, a ‘middle way’ must save the constitution.

‘Britannia between Scylla and Charybdis’ (1793). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

3. Uncorking Old Sherry (1805)

In Uncorking Old Sherry, Gillray imagines the House of Commons as a wine cellar, with the Prime Minister examining his supplies of opposition MPs.

From the bottle in Pitt’s hand explodes a plethora of words: ‘Bouncings’, ‘Growlings’, ‘Fibs! Fibs! Fibs’, ‘Abuse’, ‘Abuse’, ‘Damn’d Fibs’, ‘Invectives’, ‘Old Puns’, ‘Groans of Disappointment’, ‘Stolen Jests’, ‘Invectives’, ‘lame Puns’ – a dig at a recent speech by Sheridan, the chap looking furiously up at Pitt from inside the bottle.

Whilst Pitt, the Prime Minister, was aloof, antisocial and dull, the leader of the opposition could not have been more different. Charles James Fox, the ruddy face in the bottle labelled ‘True French Wine’, was a ruffian who womanised, drank to excess and often turned up to the Commons straight from a night of wild revelry.

‘Uncorking Old Sherry’ (1805). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Image Credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

4. The Plumb-pudding in danger – or – State Epicures taking un Petit Souper (1805)

This print is so often repeated it is more famous than Gillray himself. The modern cartoonist Martin Rowson described it as ‘probably the most famous political cartoon of all time … stolen over and over and over again by cartoonists ever since’. Thatcher, Cameron, May, Johnson and Trump have all been demonised through Gillray’s design.

In the print, Pitt and Napoleon are seated at a dining table, carving up a plum pudding representing a map of the world. Pitt wears a red regimental uniform of the British army, and his fork resembles a three-pronged trident, a reference to British naval strength.

Napoleon, the ‘little corporal’, is smaller and stockier. He wears the blue coat of the Imperial French Army and the enormous plume in his hat makes mockery of his tiny stature.

Whilst Pitt takes a huge chunk of pudding marked ‘ocean’ and ‘West Indies’, Napoleon’s smaller portion contains most of Europe, including Hanover, the home of the British monarchs.

‘The Plumb-pudding in danger’ (1805). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Image Credit: James Gillray, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

5. Advantages of Wearing Muslin Dresses! (1804)

It was a particular joy of Gillray to satirise the fashions and social mores of modern society. In Advantages of Wearing Muslin Dresses!, a fashionable muslin dress catches fire on a red-hot poker, causing uproar as a cat flees and a waiter drops his tray.

Gillray pokes fun at serious conventions surrounding taking afternoon tea, a drink which had become more popular than coffee, chocolate and alcohol due to the British East India Company’s monopoly over the tea industry in England.

‘Advantages of Wearing Muslin Dresses’ (1802). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Image Credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

6. Monstrous Craws, at a New Coalition Feast (1787)

King George III (dressed as an old woman), Queen Charlotte and the Prince of Wales sit around a bowl of guineas. They greedily guzzle coins which are immediately collected by the bizarre, pelican-like bags attached to their necks. The bowl is inscribed ‘John Bull’s Blood’.

This image of gluttony offered a critique of the royal demands on the public purse in 1787. Parliament had recently granted the Prince £161,000 to pay off debts (over £10 million in today’s money) and had raised his annual income to £60,000.

‘Monstrous Craws, at a New Coalition Feast’ (1787). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Image Credit: James Gillray, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

7. A Sphere, Projecting Against a Plane (1792)

In this print, Gillray brings together two of his favourite subjects from social and political satires.

Pitt, a politician, was a lanky, frugal workaholic. In contrast, the Honourable Albinia Hobart, later Countess of Buckinghamshire, was a heavily obese, flamboyant amateur thespian and avid supporter of Pitt’s political rival, Charles James Fox.

Referencing a mathematical equation of Euclid, which is printed below, Pitt represents a plane, and Mrs Hobart, a sphere. Trapped in this circular anatomy, she must move on a trolley since rolling would be considered crude amongst members of high society.

‘A sphere, projecting against a plane’ (1792). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Image Credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

8. The King of Brobdingnag, and Gulliver (1803)

George III inspects a tiny Napoleon through a spy-glass. He exclaims:

‘My little friend Grildrig, you have made a most admirable panegyric upon Yourself and Country, but from what I can gather from your own relation & the answers I have with much pains wringed & extorted from you, I cannot but conclude you to be one of the most pernicious, little odious reptiles, that nature ever suffer’d to crawl upon the surface of the Earth.’

When shown this print, the King was reported to have said, ‘Quite wrong, quite wrong, no bag [the King’s wig] with uniform!’

Note Gillray’s delight in jesting about Napoleon’s short stature. Upon his death, Napoleon actually measured an average height of 5’ 6’’.

‘The King of Brobdingnag, and Gulliver’ (1803). Image credit: James Gillray, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Image Credit: James Gillray, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Sandro Botticelli (also known as Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi) is one of the most popular Italian Renaissance painters. His work is seen as a link between the late Italian Gothic and the innovation of the Early Renaissance.

He is famed for his carefully rendered scenes from mythology, most notably, The Birth of Venus and Primavera (both in the Uffizi gallery in Florence). He also painted religious subjects, including the Mystic Nativity and many renditions of the Madonna and Child.

Throughout his life, Botticelli lived in Florence, although he spent brief periods working elsewhere: in Pisa in 1474 and the Sistine Chapel in Rome in 1481–82.

Posthumously, he did not receive serious recognition until the late 19th century, when his work was popularised by the Pre-Raphaelites.

Self-portrait of Botticelli

Image Credit: Sandro Botticelli, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

A mythological masterpiece 

One of Botticelli’s most successful works is Pallas and the Centaur, created around 1482 using tempera on canvas.

To the left of the image is a centaur. To the right is a female figure, clutching the centaur’s hair. The identity of this female figure is unclear. In the earliest record of the painting – an inventory of 1499 – she was named as Camilla, a figure from Roman mythology. According to Virgil’s Aeneid, Camilla was raised in the forest by her father, the exiled King Metabus. He promised the goddess Diana that Camilla would be her servant, a warrior virgin huntress – so she often represents chastity.

But in 1516, in another inventory, Botticelli’s muse was recorded as Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom, whose Greek equivalent, Athena, was often given the epithet Pallas. Today, she is generally referred to as Pallas.

The art historian, Arthur Frothingham, also suggested that the figure is Florencia, personifying the city of Florence.

Whilst the identity of the female figure has provoked much debate, the meaning behind the centaur is clearer. The centaur – a creature combining man and beast – symbolises the feral instincts of humanity – uncontrolled passion, lust and sensuality. So, noting this centaur’s submissive position, this painting represents submission of passion to chastity and reason.

‘Pallas and the Centaur’ by Sandro Botticelli

Image Credit: Sandro Botticelli, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

A grand family

Pallas’ dress is decorated with the three ring insignia, a symbol of the Medici family – which indicates that they were probably Botticelli’s patrons. The Medici family was an Italian banking family and political dynasty which grew to enormous wealth and power. They produced four popes of the Catholic Church (Pope Leo X, Pope Clement VII, Pope Pius IV and Pope Leo XI) and two queens of France (Catherine de’ Medici and Marie de’ Medici). With control of the city of Florence, the Medici’s created an environment where art and humanism could flourish, playing a major part in propelling the Italian Renaissance.

Botticelli was one of the artists who benefitted from their patronage. Pallas and the Centaur was owned by Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco, who lived from 1463 to 1503. He was an Italian banker and politician, and cousin of Lorenzo the Magnificent. He belonged to the junior (or “Popolani”) branch of the House of Medici of Florence. This painting may have been commissioned to mark his marriage with Semiramide Appiani in 1482.

A puzzle of symbols 

Pallas wears branches around her head, arms, breasts and hips. These could either symbolise Camilla’s forest dwelling, or they could be olive branches – the olive tree was a symbol of Pallas. Some have suggested these are laurel branches, a possible pun alluding to Lorenzo de’ Medici.

Despite Pallas’ graceful, feminine appearance, on her back is a shield, and she has leather sandals on her feet. She also wields an enormous ceremonial halberd, a weapon carried by guards. As she clutches the hair of the centaur, it appears the centaur has been caught in the act of preparing to shoot a bow.

Later history

Like many of the Medici paintings, today, Pallas and the Centaur hangs in the Uffizi gallery in Florence. In the later 16th century it hung in the Palazzo Vecchio, the town hall in Florence. In 1638 it was at the Medici Villa di Castello, along with Primavera. By 1830 it had been moved to Palazzo Pitti, a palace situated on the south side of the River Arno.

The painting was little-known until it was noticed in 1895 by an English artist living in Florence, William Blundell Spence. He spotted it in one of the ante-rooms of the Palazzo Pitti. From then, the painting became popular with the new Pre-Raphaelite movement, who admired art which was created before the time of Raphael.