There is a very interesting sounding exhibition of cartoons from London’s Clubland on in London at the moment. I read about it in Libby Purves column in The Times
Libby mentions one cartoon by Thomas Rowlandson which shows an old maid searching for a flea, which is likened to Columbus “finding new land in America” Libby calls this insulting to “women & native Americans”
I have not been able to find any information on Google about the inspiration for this cartoon, but it sounds to me like a very clear reference to the poetry of John Donne, which I find rather delightfully funny
Jenni Murray often asks one of her guests on Womans Hour: What is it like, walking in to (or being in) a room full of men? Most recently this week in a discussion about Op-Ed pieces in the newspapers. Quite normal, Jenni, I always answer on the respondent’s behalf. As someone who went to nothing but co-educational schools & then from university onwards was used to being in a minority, often of only one, that is just how it seems
A few years ago I joined an embroidery group; nice middle class ladies, mostly of a certain age. Just like me. But I realised that not since I left the Girl Guides had I been used to being in a room full of women, & I found it a bit intimidating, thought I might have to be careful what I said, mind my p’s & q’s
One day I mentioned a poem by Donne. Oh, said one, is that the one about My New-found America? I like that one
Oh yes! said several others
The ice was broken
So you could call TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED a women’s poem
COME, madam, come, all rest my powers defy;
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now 'tis your bed-time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow.
Now off with those shoes, and then softly tread
In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet's paradise ; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite;
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my new found land,
My kingdom, safliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.
Full nakedness all joys are due to thee ;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views ;
That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul might court that, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus array'd.
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
—Whom their imputed grace will dignify—
Must see revealed. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to a midwife show
Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence;
There is no penance due to innocence:
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?
Funnily enough, in my experience, the other poem which Rowlandson’s cartoon brings to mind, THE FLEA, in my experience appeals to men more than to women
MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.
O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.'
Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
The picture is copied from The Luminarium & is Woman Catching Fleas c.1630.Georges de la Tour. Musée Historique, Nancy.
Not that different from the Rowlandson
