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Pistils and stamens : botanophilia, sex, and nationhood in eighteenth-century Georgian Britain Calyniuk, Darlene Kay 2010

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PISTILS AND STAMENS: BOTANOPHILIA, SEX, AND NATIONHOOD IN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY GEORGIAN BRITAIN  by  DARLENE KAY CALYNIUK B.A., The University of British Columbia, 1973  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIRMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF ! DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY  in  THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Art History)  THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)  APRIL 2010  © Darlene Kay Calyniuk, 2010  ABSTRACT Botanical spaces and their visual representations fascinated British viewing publics, particularly in the years 1760 to 1810 during the reign of King George III. This broad public interest in natural history’s new knowledge was fueled by the appeal of Carolus Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification, a taxonomy that held the promise of providing universal accessibility and rational order in the exploration of the natural world. The impetus that Linnaean taxonomies gave to botanical enterprise, however, was also unsettling. Natural history’s laws that claimed a taxonomic rationale capable of consistently regulating previous unknowns, in fact, raised ambiguities in relation to the artificiality of the Linnaean system and crucially, the concepts of affinity, hybridity, and variability. As a result, particularly in the last half of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth century, these Linnaean tenets threatened to destabilize status quos by mobilizing new anxieties around gender, sexuality, class, and race. In addition, Linnaean notions of oeconomia, that is, botanical resource utility, posed challenges to Britain’s cultural conventions and beliefs. At the broadest level, then, my dissertation explores the interchanges and attendant tensions between natural history’s new knowledge and emerging social anxieties in a period that was especially marked out by Britain’s significant loss of the American colonies and the threat of the French Revolution. More specifically, through examination of visual imagery, my thesis explores a conflicted ‘botanoscape’—one that reveals the ways in which visual representations and display of the botanical were central to the mediation and diffusion of anxieties opened up by Linnaeus’s new systematics and by ongoing transformations within the nation.  !  ""!  TABLE OF CONTENTS  Abstract..................................................................................................................................ii Table of Contents..................................................................................................................iii List of Figures........................................................................................................................ v Acknowledgements.............................................................................................................viii ! Introduction............................................................................................................................ 1 Chapter One: The Ambivalent Territories of the Naturalist Macaroni................................ 15 Introduction.................................................................................................................... 15 Linnaeus’s Legacy ......................................................................................................... 19 New Worlds Unveiled ............................................................................................. 19 Problems and Tensions ............................................................................................ 24 Caricature and Linnaean Affinities: The Naturalist as ‘Macaroni’ ............................... 30 Unsettling Associations ........................................................................................... 38 Conclusion ..................................................................................................................... 52 Chapter Two: New Dynamics in Natural History’s Domain............................................... 54 Introduction.................................................................................................................... 54 A Green Slate: New Grounds for Re-visioning the Naturalist Macaroni ...................... 57 Ordering New Terrains .................................................................................................. 65 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!Botany Helps Order New Regimes ......................................................................... 74 Cultivating Botany’s Popularity .............................................................................. 79 Networks and Flows of Communication ....................................................................... 84 Anxieties Move into Uncharted Domestic Terrains ...................................................... 90 Conclusion ................................................................................................................... 101 Chapter Three: Virtual Paradise, Mutable Kingdom: Troubling Nationhood in the Botanical Illustrations of Dr. Robert John Thornton’s The Temple of Flora .............. 103 Introduction.................................................................................................................. 103 The Imprint of Botanophilia ........................................................................................ 109 Sex in the Garden and Modeling Nationhood ............................................................. 114 Monarchy Under the Microscope ................................................................................ 118 The Nation Uncovered—Rendering Gender in The Temple of Flora ......................... 127 Fecundity and Generation..................................................................................... 130 Fidelity and Continuity ......................................................................................... 138 The Foreign........................................................................................................... 145 Conclusion ................................................................................................................... 154  !  """!  Chapter Four: Power Plants—Transforming Terrains...................................................... 156 Introduction................................................................................................................. 156 Oeconomia or the Utility of Plants ............................................................................. 159 Imperial Kew and Acclimatizing the Public............................................................... 163 Domesticating “Green Gold”...................................................................................... 170 Cinchona’s Cachet ............................................................................................... 171 Cinchona at Home—Negotiating Nationhood..................................................... 174 Cinchona Abroad—Mediating Imperial Spaces .................................................. 177 The Breadfruit Solution ....................................................................................... 180 Plant Power and the Breadfruit Solution ............................................................. 182 Breadfruit and Arcadia’s Underbelly................................................................... 189 The Other Side of Paradise ......................................................................................... 199 Slavery’s Death Knell.......................................................................................... 199 Conclusion .................................................................................................................. 204 Conclusion ......................................................................................................................... 205 Bibliography ..................................................................................................................... 240  !!!!!!!!  !  "#!  LIST OF FIGURES 1.1 Moses Harris, Plate XIII, The Silk-Worm and Large Tyger, 1766 from The Aurelian: or, natural history of English Insects of 1766 by Moses Harris. Courtesy of the Royal Entomological Society, St. Albans, UK.................................. 208 1.2 Georg Ehret, Methodus plantarum sexualis, 1736. Courtesy of the Natural History Museum, London, UK.................................................................................... 209 1.3 Carolus Linnaeus, Vegetal Kingdom—Clavis Systematis Sexualis, or Key to the Sexual System from Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae, Tenth Edition, 1758. Courtesy of the Missouri Botanical Garden...................................................... 210 1.4 Matthew Darly, The Macaroni Print Shop, 1773. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum................................................................................................. 211 1.5 Matthew Darly, The Aurelian Macaroni, 1773. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum................................................................................................. 212 1.6 Moses Harris, frontispiece to The Aurelia: or, natural history of English Insects of 1766 by Moses Harris. Courtesy of the Royal Entomological Society, St. Albans, UK .............................................................................................. 213 1.7 Moses Harris, Plate XXVII, The Ruby Tyger, The Sweet-Scented Pea, 1766 from The Aurelian: or, natural history of English Insects of 1766 by Moses Harris. Courtesy of the Royal Entomological Society, St. Albans, UK ............................................................................................................................... 214 2.1 Matthew Darly, The Fly-Catching Macaroni, July 12, 1772. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum........................................................................... 215 2.2 Benjamin West, Mr. Joseph Banks, 1773. Courtesy of The Web Gallery of Art ............................................................................................................................... 216 2.3 Matthew Darly, A Mungo Macaroni, 1772. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum. .................................................................................................... 217 2.4 Thomas Gainsborough, Ignatius Sancho, 1768. Courtesy of the National Gallery of Canada ....................................................................................................... 218 2.5 Frontispiece from Thomas Burnet’s The Sacred Theory of the Earth, 1753. The British Library...................................................................................................... 219 3.1 Abraham Pether, The Snowdrops, 1804 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents......................................................................................................... 220  !  "!  3.2 Philip Reinagle, Cupid Inspiring Plants with Love, 1805 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the Wellcome Library, UK. ................................................................................................................ 221 3.3 Maria Cosway, Flora Dispensing her Favours on the Earth, 1807 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents................................................................. 222 3.4 Peter Henderson, The Queen Flower, 1804 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents......................................................................................................... 223 3.5 Philip Reinagle, Tulips, 1798 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents. ...................................................................................................................... 224 3.6 Robert Thornton, Group of Roses, 1798 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents......................................................................................................... 225 3.7 Kora, A Lady of Scientific Habits, c. 1805. Private Collection. Courtesy of James Secord............................................................................................................... 226 3.8 Philip Reinagle, The Superb Lily, 1799 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents......................................................................................................... 227 3.9 Peter Henderson, Stapelias, 1801 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents........................................................................................................................ 228 3.10 Peter Henderson, The Dragon Arum, 1801 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents......................................................................................................... 229 3.11 Philip Reinagle, Large Flowering Sensitive Plant, 1799 from Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, 1799-1807. Courtesy of the University of Wisconsin Board of Regents....................................................................................... 230 4.1 Aylmer Lambert, Cinchona officinalis, 1797 from A Description of the Genus Cinchona of 1797 by Alymer Lambert. Courtesy of the Linnean Society of London. ...................................................................................................... 231 4.2 Thomas Gosse, Transplanting of the Bread-fruit-trees from Otaheite, 1796. Courtesy of the Captain Cook Memorial Museum. Whitby, UK .................... 232 4.3 James Gillray, The Great South Sea Caterpillar, Transform’d into a Bath Butterfly, 1796. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum ............................. 233 !  "#!  4.4 J. S. Mason after William Woollett, A View of the Palace from the Hill…in the Royal Gardens at Kew, c. 1760s. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum........................................................................................................... 234 4.5 Thomas Rowlandson, The Winding up of the Medical Report of the Walcheren Expedition, 1810. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum....................................................................................................................... 235 4.6 Sydney Parkinson, Artocarpus altilis (Breadfruit), 1769. http:/ /en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breadfruit...................................................................... 236 4.7 James Gillray, Anti-Saccharrites,-or-John Bull and his Family leaving off the use of Sugar, 1792. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum ................. 237 4.8 Thomas Hearne, Parham Hill House and sugar plantation, 1779. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum....................................................................... 238 4.9 James Gillray, Barbarities in the West Indias, 1791. Courtesy of The Trustees of the British Museum .................................................................................. 239 !  !  "##!  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This dissertation has benefited from the generous support and insights of my supervisory committee, other scholars, and family. I am deeply indebted to my research supervisor, Dr. Maureen Ryan, whose passion for intellectual inquiry and attention to critical engagement have been invaluable in a study of this scope. Dr. Ryan’s scholarly excellence across disciplines and provocative engagement with this project have been crucial to my growth as an academic and instrumental to the complexity of this thesis. Additional thanks goes as well to members of my dissertation committee Dr. Sherry McKay and Dr. John O’Brian for their thoughtful criticism and encouraging support throughout the duration of this project and indeed during my studies at UBC. In addition, I extend my appreciation to the faculty and staff of Department of Art History, Visual Art and Theory at UBC as well as members of the History Department for their perspective and insights. Archivists and librarians have been instrumental to my research process, particularly those professionals in Britain at the Natural History Museum, the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery and the British Library. To Dr. Sophie Forgan of the Cook Memorial Museum, Lynda Brooks at the Linnean Society, Valerie McAtear of Royal Entomological Society, and Anne Miche De Malleray at the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, many thanks. I appreciate the generosity of Dr. James Secord, Professor of History and Philosophy of Science at the University of Cambridge for allowing me access to his personal collection of eighteenth-century composite caricatures. I gratefully acknowledge the three-year Canada Graduate Scholarship (Doctoral) from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and for several years of support from the University of British Columbia (through the Department of Art History, Visual Art and Theory) by way of University Graduate Fellowships, the Gertrude Langridge Graduate Scholarship in Humanities, and Graduate Entrance Scholarships. Not least of all, I am deeply indebted to Michael and our family for their intellectual curiosity, balanced perspectives, and buoyant wit. Their generous understanding and unwavering support have sustained me throughout this academic pursuit.  !  "###!  INTRODUCTION Botanical spaces and their visual representations fascinated a broad segment of the British public, particularly in the years spanning the reign of King George III from 1760 to 1820. Significantly, the new system of classification developed by the Swedish natural historian Carolus Linnaeus fueled botanophilia, that is, the love of plants.1 As I argue in this thesis, the system captivated in part because the Swedish botanist’s method focused upon the plant’s sexual organs—its pistils and stamens—which in turn allowed for the public practice of looking, handling, and counting these ‘private’ parts. Furthermore, as botanophilia and a widespread interest in the pursuit of botanic resources flourished, so did the potential of botanical products to satiate commodity tastes, ignite national renewals, and importantly, posit mastery of new worlds. At its broadest level then my thesis explores the complex relations between Linnaean classification and practices of plant pursuit, collection, categorization, and exchange in relation to Britain’s expanding nationhood. The Georgian period—and specifically between the years 1770 to 1810—was marked by the discovery and exploration of new geographic regions around the globe. These ventures in turn lay the groundwork for Britain’s transition from island nation to imperial power. As the promises of Enlightenment science, new technologies, and world-wide networks made the distant seem familiar,2 Linnaeus’s innovative contributions to natural history spearheaded at home keen interest in plants as markers of the foreign and the unknown, and as useful resources that could foster national renewal and international strength.  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "!The  term ‘botanophilia’ comes from the title of Roger Williams’s study, Botanophilia in Eighteenth-Century France: The Spirit of Enlightenment (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001). !  !  2  Making the distant familiar references the formulations of Bruno Latour in Science in Action (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), 222-229.!  !  "!  Only on the surface, however, did Linnaean taxonomies posit a universal system based on reason and order, that is, a taxonomy that responded to a world fixed by certainty. As I argue in my study, the new Linnaean natural history also raised anxieties. I explore how several aspects of Linnaeus’s system—specifically the concepts of affinity, hybridity, variation, and oeconomia or resource utility and cultivation—served to undermine Enlightenment claims to rational fixities. Indeed, and as is central to my analysis, these elements tapped into a range of social anxieties in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in Britain, namely, tensions around gender, sexuality, class, and race that in turn raised the specter of change and transformation within the nation and empire. A number of studies have broadly addressed botanophilia in both the eighteenth and nineteen centuries.3 However, the ‘botanoscape’ of my inquiry—a phrase I have coined from the terminology of contemporary theorist of global networks, Arjun Appadurai4 —does not fall upon the conventional reading of botanical space as a site of natural harmony and beauty, pleasurable respite, or as display of agricultural progress. I argue for a very different interpretation, namely, one wherein botanic space is now central both to discourses around !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 3  Here I refer to such explorations in the botanic as those of E. C. Spary’s Utopia’s Garden (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000) and Roger Williams’s Botanophilia in Eighteenth-century France (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001), or the studies of Britain’s Richard Drayton in Nature’s Government (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000) or Dr. Stephen Harris’s more recent commentary that accompanies the British Folio Society’s re-edition of the third part of Dr. Robert Thornton’s A New Illustration of the Sexual System of Linnaeus (1799-1807) entitled The Temple of Flora. In addition, widely diverse interests in natural history are evident in the inquiries of such historians of science and literature as David Allen, Gillian Beer, Alan Bewell, Ann Shteir, Sam George, Charlotte Klonk and Londa Schiebinger, all of whom approach natural history as a dynamic discipline.  !  4  I have developed the term ‘botanoscapes’ from cultural theorist, Arjun Appadurai’s concept of the complexity and layers of global cultural relations and flows. In Appadurai’s Modernity At Large (Minneapolis: University Minnesota, 1996) the dimensions through which these relations flow are ethnoscapes, mediascapes, technoscapes, and ideoscapes (328-340). I have chosen ‘botanoscape’ to underscore the complex and multilayered set of relations that exist in eighteenth-century botanic space and the agency of botanical knowledge: “the infinitely varied mutual contest of sameness and difference on a stage characterized by radical disjunctures between different sorts of global flows and the uncertain landscapes created in and through those disjunctures” (40-41).  ! !  "!  the practices, productivity, and agency within new scientific knowledge, and to the resulting social, political, and economic shifts that emerged in Britain’s terrains. More specifically, my analysis distinguishes itself in that I examine how aspects of Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification were linked to social and political worlds—a relationship that played a role in visual culture of the period. The images I explore in the following chapters not only address the ambivalences and anxieties raised by Linnaean sexual difference and the concepts of affinity, hybridity, variation, and oeconomia but also register natural history’s appeal to diverse publics that themselves ranged widely from middle-class to gentrified palates. These visual representations include caricatures of naturalists such as Matthew Darly’s The Fly-Catching Macaroni of 1772 and The Aurelian Macaroni of 1773; lavish botanical illustrations from Robert John Thornton’s The Temple of Flora produced between 1799 and 1807; academic paintings such as Benjamin West’s portrait of prominent naturalist, Mr. Joseph Banks of 1773 and Thomas Gosse’s rendering of plant pursuit in Transplanting of the Bread-fruit-trees from Otaheite of 1796; and caricatures produced in the last decade of the century that reference both the slave trade and Britain’s importation and consumption of sugar as a notorious product of slave labour. Importantly, my research has found no extended critical analyses that examine the visual in relation to specific Linnaean botanical tenets. Diana Donald’s study, The Age of Caricature of 1996, assesses eighteenth-century satirical images and gives attention to those of ‘macaronis’, a term designating fashionable but foppishly dressed elites5 but without focus upon the tensions incited by natural history’s new knowledge. Art historian Shearer !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 5  Diana Donald, The Age of Caricature (London: Yale University Press, 1996). There is a large literature on the phenomenon of the ‘macaroni’ in the last quarter of the eighteenth century which I discuss in Chapter One. !  !  "!  West and professors of literature Alan Bewell and Deirdre Coleman have addressed some of the caricatures of naturalists as ‘macaronis’, but in the context of the prominent status of the individuals portrayed and as a form of public mockery of natural history collecting as kind of contemporary fashion in itself.6 Here, Alan Bewell’s assiduous decoding of ‘macaroni’ affectations through classical and literary associations has modeled how to tease out the complex levels of caricature’s significance through acute observation of representational details. My exploration of Linnaean tenets in relation to new understandings and anxieties around shifting notions of gender and sexuality also moves in a different direction from that of Ann Shteir, Sam George, or Londa Schiebinger whose studies trace the historical development of women’s practice in botany, of botanical analogy in literature, or of the gendering of natural knowledge.7 A similar lacuna in terms of the anxieties opened up by Linnaean formulations has also characterized the study of botanical folios. These have been consistently discussed in descriptive terms or, as in the case of Robert Thornton’s The Temple of Flora, considered “sumptuous” but of “no botanical value.”8 While art historian Charlotte Klonk in her 1996 !  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 6  See Shearer West, “The Darly Macaroni Prints and the Politics of ‘Private Man’,” Eighteenth-Century Life 25, no. 2 (Spring 2001): 170-182; Alan Bewell “A Passion that Transforms,” Figuring It Out, eds. Ann B. Shteir and Bernard Lightman (Hanover, New Hampshire: Dartmouth College Press, 2006); Deirdre Coleman “Entertaining Entomology: Insects and Insect Performers in the Eighteenth Century,” Eighteenth-Century Life 30, no. 3 (Summer 2006): 107-134; and, Amelia Rauser, Caricature Unmasked (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2008).!  7  Ann Shteir, “Women in the Breakfast Room,” Uneasy Careers and Intimate Lives: Women in Science 17891979, eds. Pnina Abir-am and Dorinda Outram (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1987); Samantha George, Botany, Sexuality, and Women’s Writing 1760-1830 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008); and, Londa Schiebinger, Nature’s Body: Gender in the Making of Modern Science (New Brunswich, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2004).  !  8  Wilfrid Blunt and William Stearn, The Art of Botanical Illustration (London: Antique Collectors, 1994), 236. Recent commentaries upon Thornton’s The Temple of Flora are either a descriptive summary of the entire publication (as with the aforementioned Blunt and Stearn) or a specific address of Thornton’s interest in the “chemical and electrical sources which nourished and animated life itself,” as noted by Martin Kemp in Seen/Unseen (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006), Chapter 4.  ! !  "!  publication Science and the Perception of Nature stands as a major and valuable analysis of the botanical plates of The Temple of Flora, her important account does not take up the social concerns raised by the Linnaean system and it problematic tenets.9 Similarly in turning to visual culture as a register of oeconomia, the images I examine have not been considered in terms of the unsettling impacts of plant utility. Linnaean scholar Lisbet Koerner in Linnaeus: Nation and Nature of 1999 has argued that Sweden’s cameralist ideology of national economic self-sufficiency influenced Linnaeus’s views of plant utility as a strategy by which acclimatized botanic resource could serve the nation’s political mandate.10 But in Britain’s case the social effects linked to cultivation and trade of such resource produced public concern and widespread debate. The inquiry of cultural historians such as James Walvin, Roxann Wheeler, and Felicity Nussbaum has given impetus to my exploration of how Linnaean oeconomia was complicated by discourses and economies that addressed slave labour and re-visioned race. Kay Dian Kriz’s provocative and in-depth study of a range of visual forms that took up the issue of slavery and the production of sugar on Jamaican plantations has also been invaluable in this respect.11 The tenets of Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification as presented in Systema Naturae (1735), Philosophia Botanica (1751), and Species Plantarum (1735) which ignited interest in the botanical, are of course seminal to my inquiry. To assess responses to Linnaean formulations, I have turned to contemporaneous commentaries and critiques in print culture’s literary texts, pamphlets, treatises, newspapers, and diaries or journals to understand the !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 9  Charlotte Klonk, Science and the Perception of Nature: British Landscape Art in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 37-38.  !  10  Lisbet Koerner, Linnaeus: Nature and Nation (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999).  !  11  Kay Dian Kriz, Slavery, Sugar, and the Culture of Refinement (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008).  ! !  "!  social and political temperaments that both fêted and denounced natural history’s new knowledge. These documents and their circulation provided access to diverse social, political, and economic discourses that characterized pre-Darwinian theories in the late eighteenth century. I thus consider sources ranging from Johann Siegesbeck’s (1686-1755) outrage at what he argued was the Linnaean system’s overt concern with sex, or ‘loathesome harlotry,’ to Joseph Bank’s journals of South Pacific exploration of 1775, to Robert Thornton’s translation of the Linnaean sexual system of classification begun in 1797. All register the tensions as well as the promise of the new natural history.12 The ‘botanoscapes’ of my study, therefore, are not the usual unsullied and passive spaces posited by idyllic garden sites. To the contrary, I argue that these terrains were in fact both dynamic and troubled, belying the perceived order and stability assumed inherent to Linnaeus’s taxonomic system.  The Chapters To address the tensions and anxieties raised by the new Linnaean natural history, this thesis is divided into four chapters. In each chapter I explore particular aspects of Linnaeus’s taxonomy—affinity, hybridity, variation, and oeconomia—that posed problems for British publics. The first two chapters take up anxieties around masculinity and British nationhood in the decade of the 1770s at the time of the uncertainties around the American colonies; the final two chapters examine concerns in relation to patrimony, monarchy, and empire in the 1790s following the upheavals and challenges posed by the French Revolution. I argue !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 12  Johann Siegesbeck in Botanosophiae verioris brevis Sciagraphia (Short Outline of True Botanic Wisdom) (1737) as quoted and cited in Wilfrid Blunt, The Compleat Naturalist: A Life of Linnaeus (London: Collins, 1971), 120 and also Margery Rowell, “Linnaeus and Botanists in Eighteenth-Century Russia,” Taxon 29, no. 1 (February 1980): 15-26. For Joseph Banks’s journals see Joseph Banks, The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks 1768-1771, ed. J. C. Beaglehole, Vol. 1 and 2 (London: Angus & Robertson, Ltd., 1962); and, Robert John Thornton, A New Illustration of the Sexual System of Linnaeus (London: T. Bensley, 1799).!  !  "!  through the images foregrounded in each chapter that aspects of Linnaeus’s system with its emphasis on difference, transformations, and adaptive mobilities, negotiate tensions between public and private spheres, exploration and exploitation, and distant and familiar terrains. These are all domains of sociability where complications within natural history’s new knowledge visibly play out. Each chapter nuances these central strains, addressing Britain’s modernizing flux through the body, nationhood, and global reach. In Chapter One, I focus upon Linnaean sexual difference, the formative tenet of his taxonomic system. Georg Ehret’s engraving Methodus plantarum sexualis of 1736 (Figure 1.2) provides a diagram of the simple, ordered construct of Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification. The implications of Linnaean taxonomy and its basis in sexual difference play a key role in caricaturist Matthew Darly’s The Aurelian Macaroni of 1773 (Figure 1.5) where anxieties associated with natural history’s popularity are taken up in the depiction of wellknown entomologist, Moses Harris. Harris’s The Aurelian of 1766, a publication on butterflies and botany, opened up for publics new considerations around sexuality and transformation.13 Darly’s engraving, at the simplest level mocks the aurelian, a butterfly collector, as a foppish effete interested only in natural history as a passing fashion. More importantly, however, the image calls up fears about affinities that underpinned the Linnaean system’s arbitrary framework, and around sexual ambiguity that seemed to threaten the nation’s patriarchal stability. Conflicts with the American colonies and uncertainties about political allegiances unsettled those who saw the naturalist ‘macaroni’ as an obtuse youth  !  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 13  Moses Harris, The Aurelian: or, natural history of English Insects; namely, moths and butterflies. Together with the plants on which they feed; and their standard names, as given and established by the Society of Aurelians. Drawn, engraved and coloured, from the natural subjects themselves (London: printed for the author, 1766).  ! !  "!  susceptible to foreign influence. Here, I show how the body is a significant discursive site where debates around natural history emerge and anxieties around cultural shifts surface. In Chapter Two, I explore botany’s global outreach and the resulting anxieties around Linnaean tenet of hybridity, which had the potential to blur conventional boundaries imposed by class and race. Here I return to Matthew Darly’s prints because of their wide public appeal. Darly’s The Fly-Catching Macaroni of 1772 (Figure 2.1), a caricature of Britain’s chief naturalist-explorer and renowned botanical administrator Joseph Banks, and Benjamin West’s 1773 painted portrait Mr. Joseph Banks (Figure 2.2), both depict cultural shifts that attended botany’s global outreach. While these very different representations register the prominence of Joseph Banks who served for forty years as Director of King George III’s Royal Gardens at Kew, and concurrently shaped Britain’s imperial botanical enterprises, both also evoke Linnaean tenets of hybridity or ‘mixity’ that complicated botany’s legitimacy as a stable scientific discipline. Another satire, A Mungo Macaroni of 1772 (Figure 2.3), an engraving of freed black protégé Julius Soubise, and the 1768 portrait by Thomas Gainsborough of writer and former slave Ignatius Sancho (Figure 2.4), address offshoots of botanical outreach—slave labour and freed slaves—that in fact troubled gentrified publics. As a product of the triangular trade that saw botanical resource exchanged for slaves who were then transported to Europe or North America, Soubise represented the potential to both co-opt and corrupt Britishness. Sancho’s portrait, a representation also within the tradition of academic art, positioned similar ‘race’ anxieties, particularly in relation to black populations who capably adapted and penetrated elite worlds. In the images, caricature’s bourgeois tastes are held in tension with portraiture’s more sophisticated eye to negotiate cultural discomfort pertaining to emerging social hybridity.  !  "!  In Chapter Three, I turn to the Linnaean notion of variation and address both the tenets and the anxieties it raised through a different category of imagery, the popular botanical folio. Several plates from Dr. Robert John Thornton’s folio, The Temple of Flora (1799-1807), the third part of his much larger work The New Illustration of the Sexual System of Carolus von Linnaeus (1797-1807), frame my discussion. From The Temple of Flora, Philip Reinagle’s allegorical plate of 1805 entitled Cupid Inspiring Plants with Love (Figure 3.2) and Peter Henderson’s 1804 florals of The Queen Flower (Figure 3.4) and The Dragon Arum of 1801 (Figure 3.10) negotiate and diffuse, I argue, debates extending from monarchy, governance, and patrimony to erosions around constructs ranging from conventional notions of gender to that of time. Unique to The Temple of Flora are the landscaped backdrops of the various florals—testaments to Britain’s national trajectories and imperial mandates that were facilitated through botany’s global reach. Such depictions, while positing Britain’s botanoscapes as harmonious and idyllic, are actually striated with uncertainties that surface through the themes of fecundity and generation, fidelity and continuity, and the threat of the foreign. In this chapter, Linnaeus’s notion of variability within a species is shown to pose unsettling considerations especially in light of looming revolutionary change in France that in itself modeled the potential volatility of political and social variation. Chapter Four’s investigation takes up Linnaeus’s oeconomia. Here I explore how the power and utility of plants lay not just in their usefulness as a food source, but in their influence upon the nation’s economic health and political prowess. Within the productive partnership of oeconomia and imperial geo-botanizing anxieties materialize in relation to resource exploitation and interactions with the native ‘other.’ I return to and further explore Britain as imperium, that is, botanic space as a depiction of nation. Here, the Royal Garden at Kew is assessed as a botanizing center representative of the nation’s botanical expertise, !  "!  global trade capability, and imperial prowess. Thomas Gosse’s Transplanting of Bread-fruittrees from Otaheite of 1796 (Figure 4.2) is a pivotal image through which I investigate the promise of economic botany as well as its dark underbelly as a site of slave exploitation. James Gillray’s caricatures, the Anti-Saccharrites,-or-John Bull and his Family leaving off the use of Sugar of 1792 (Figure 4.7) and his Barbarities in the West Indias of 1791 (Figure 4.9), tease out the hypocrisy underpinning Britons’s desires for commodities, such as tea and sugar, that blinded publics to the brutalities and atrocities of the triangular trade in African slaves. Such images, as I develop, responded to topical debates and tensions concerning new social mixities, miscegenation, and shifting notions of what constituted British subjectivity.  Theoretical Considerations My investigation of how botanophilia and what was known as a ‘botany cult’ mobilized yet constricted cultural transformation in Georgian Britain has been informed by several aspects of critical theory. Michel Foucault’s formulations have influenced my tracing of the complex web of power relations belying the discipline of natural history and its practices, whether individual bodies like that of the naturalist as a fashionable ‘macaroni’ or institutional spaces such as the Royal Gardens at Kew. In resolving the order of things in natural history’s new knowledge, Foucault’s method of anticipating “the possibility of seeing what one will be able to say,”14 not only validates natural history’s empirical approach as measured and rational, but also allows for the emergence of discourses around imagined possibilities that apparently contributed to the naturalist’s pursuit of botanical knowing. Power and knowledge conflate here to validate botany’s productive strategies of examining, !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 14  Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (London: Routledge, 1989), 141.  ! !  "#!  measuring, questioning, and adapting. In as much as visible patterning of an entity’s sexual organs—in Linnaean terms, ‘number, form, proportion and situation’—formed the basis of a predictable taxonomic language, and by analogy found application to the social, I have found invaluable Foucault’s observation that it is not necessarily in what these patterns “make possible to see, but in what they hide and in what, by this process of obliteration, they allow to emerge.”15 It follows then that Foucault’s aforementioned paradox is instrumental to unpacking ambivalences and fluctuations which I argue underpin Georgian botanoscapes and their visual representations. I also draw upon aspects of postcolonial theory, specifically Homi Bhabha’s concept of ambivalence, that is, “a negotiation of oppositional and antagonistic elements” that emerge as an ‘in-between’ site of “problems of judgment and identification that inform political space.”16 Bhabha’s notion of hybridity as “neither one nor the other,” but somewhere inbetween has import for thinking through Linnaean formulations of the hybrid as ‘mixed’. This formulation has given shape to my unpacking of the anxieties incited by unknown variations and perceived instabilities seen to surface in Linnaeus’s system.17 So too have cultural scholars Mary Douglas, Mary Lousie Pratt, and Gayatri Spivak informed my view of subaltern invisibility and social tensions striating Georgian Britain’s national and imperial terrains, specifically within the spheres of class, sexuality, gender, and race.18 Mary !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 15  Ibid., 150.  !  16  Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 22-29.  !  17  Ibid., 22-29.  !  18  Of particular influence have been Mary Douglas’s Purity and Danger: Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (New York: Routledge, 2002), Mary Pratt’s Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1996) and Gayatri Spivak’s “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988).  ! !  ""!  Douglas’s observations on “chasing dirt…re-ordering our environment, making it conform to an idea,”19 for example, not only mirrors taxonomic strategy but conversely points to the embedded tensions around disease and the ‘exotic’ within botanic space. In addition, debates stimulated by Edward Said’s Orientalism (1979) have lent texture to my analysis of how natural history’s practices provoked and complicated an imagined exoticism of distant spaces and encoded how Britons gazed upon or exploited those of other cultures. A return to Foucault helps map out tensions concerning race that emerged through Linnaean taxonomic tenets. Foucault’s observation of race as a conflicted site “between a race…that holds power and defines the norm, and one which constitutes various dangers for the biological patrimony,”20 is fundamental to anxieties surfacing in the botanoscapes of my study, and that in turn I have argued, lent momentum to shifts in Britain’s cultural terrains. I have also found important Bruno Latour’s formulations in Science in Action (1987) that expand upon the idea of ‘mobilization of the world’ through science’s empirical practices, a concept valuable to this study’s exploration of natural history’s influence upon Britain’s imperial mandates of resource and land claim. His concept of “centers of calculation,” namely, spaces or “centers dominating at a distance many other places” through a means that “renders them mobile…stable… combinable,”21 has been helpful in framing the construct thought necessary in the negotiation of new knowledge, new geographies, and new botanical resources. I argue that Latour’s ‘centers’ are evident in the botanic space of Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification, voyages of discovery, botanical administrators !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 19  Douglas, Purity and Danger, 2.  !  20  Michel Foucault, Difendere la societa (Florence: Ponte alle Grazie, 1990), 54 as quoted in Ann Laura Stoler, Race and the Education of Desire (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995), 67.  !  21  Latour, Science in Action, 223.  ! !  "#!  and their networks, or botanic gardens as transfer depots for vegetal resource. These centers of calculation allowed for fluctuations that characterized a more modern and diverse world, a factor similarly endorsed by spatial theorists. Here, geographer Doreen Massey’s formulations have informed my inquiry, specifically the idea that not only is “the character of a particular place a product of its position in relation to wider forces, but also that that character in turn stamped its own imprint on those wider processes.”22 My exploration of botanic spaces argues then that visual culture did not just register new knowledge and its anxieties but lent momentum to emerging shifts in social, political, and economic practices. On a similar note, as Edward Soja cogently observes in his response to Henri Lefebvre’s Production of Space of 1991, “the production of space (and the making of history) can thus be described as both the medium and the outcome of social action and relationship.”23 In my inquiry, these ambivalent concepts of ‘medium’ and ‘outcome’ come to light through social interactions and relations within the productive spaces of governance, class, gender, and race, giving momentum to new understandings and cultural transformation. My thesis then contributes to art historical studies by demonstrating that visual culture’s discursive space allowed for the mediation, circulation, and dissemination of new knowledge and attendant anxieties around specific aspects of Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification. Formerly the province of privileged tastes and collectors, botanical practices and their visual representations began to appeal to a wider and more diverse viewership. Eighteenth-century publics that ranged from the middle-class to the elite were fascinated with taxonomy’s universal accessibility and standardization, a strategy whose simplified naming !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 22  Doreen Massey, Space, Place, and Gender (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1994), 131.  !  23  Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies: the reassertion of space in critical social theory (London: Verso, 1989).  ! !  "#!  process and gridded order assured containment of a chaotic natural world. Such mastery, through analogy, suggested similar stability when applied to social and political paradigms. But natural history’s promise was ambivalent. Not only did botany’s terrain open up (in Foucauldian terms) “the knowledge to be gained from sex and the right to speak about it,”24 but concurrently made way for the unsettling emergence of ‘exceptions’ particularly around Linnaean notions of sexual difference, hybridity, variation, and oeconomia. Botanophilia and its practices were not untroubled sites of harmony and respite, but complex spaces where shifted ways of seeing and knowing natural and human worlds registered unsettling mobility and cultural change.  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 24  !  Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality Volume I: An Introduction (New York: Vintage Books, 1978), 6.!  "#!  CHAPTER ONE The Ambivalent Territories of the Naturalist Macaroni Introduction In the last quarter of the eighteenth-century in Britain, natural history fed a wide range of public interests from the curiosity of hobbyists to the rigours of scientific inquiry. Botany and botanophilia, the study and collection of plants, played key roles in these developments. The sexual system of classification of Sweden’s Carolus Linnaeus (17071778) was central to public accessibility around both botany and natural history as a whole. First documented in his Systema Naturae of 1735, Linnaeus set out his fundamental tenets of the natural world’s three kingdoms: mineral, vegetal, and animal.1 Historian of science Gunnar Broberg has pointed out that sexuality was the quality “common” to both “plants and animals,”2 yet the vegetal and thus botanical world was the key vector for Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification. Linnaeus based his botanical taxonomy upon counting and differentiating sexual organs in plants to determine their class and order, a seemingly rational and mathematical process.3  1  Carolus Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, with an introduction and first English translation of the “observations,” (1735) First Edition, trans. M.S.J. Engel-Ledeboer and H. Engel (Nieuwkoop: B. de Graaf, 1964), 19. All further references to this text will be truncated to Systema Naturae. In the Linnaean system, within each kingdom were classes, within classes were orders, which in turn had genera (genus), within which were species, and then within species were varieties. There were six classes in the animal kingdom (mammalia, aves, amphibia, pisces, insecta, vermes), twenty-four classes in the plant kingdom as designated by Ehret’s diagram (Figure 1.2) as will be discussed shortly, and three classes in the mineral kingdom (petrae, minerae, fossilia).  2  Gunnar Broberg, “Linné’s Systematics and the New Natural History Discoveries,” Contemporary Perspectives on Linnaeus, ed. John Weinstock (New York: Lanham, 1985), 153. In William Stearn’s “Appendix: Linnaean Classification, Nomenclature and Method,” in Wilfrid Blunt’s The Compleat Naturalist (London: Collins, 1971) Linnaeus is quoted as simply stating that “the stamens and pistils enticed my mind to inquire what Nature had concealed in them. They commended themselves by the function they perform” (243).  3  In the botanical world, the plant’s class was determined by the position and number of stamens, or male sexual organs in the flower, and the plant’s order was determined by that of pistils or female sexual organs.  15  While Linnaeus’s taxonomy facilitated the pursuit, collection, and exchange of botanical specimens, the system as a whole brought clear translation and uniform order to former unknowns effectively taming, as one commentator in 1796 noted, “the chaos of intricacy and confusion”4 within the natural world. But the new taxonomy also had implications for human, social, and political relations in the modern world of the eighteenth century. After all, Linnaeus called his system Nuptiae plantarum—the marriage of plants5— and through metaphor drew parallels between vegetal function and paradigms of human sexual relations, as clearly expressed as well in Philosophica Botanica of 1751, where he described how “the CALYX is the bedroom, the ANTHERS are the testicles, the POLLEN is the sperm and the STYLE is the vagina.”6 It was also unsettling that in Systema Naturae Linnaeus described botanical features with reference to “husbands, wives and concubines” or that of polygamy with its “many marriages with promiscuous intercourse.” 7 Indeed by the end of the century polymath Erasmus Darwin, who had translated Linnaeus into English in 1783,8 played upon this aspect of the new science in his overtly erotic publication The Loves  4  The Edinburgh Magazine or Literary Miscellany (January, 1796), 426.  5  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, Introduction and 10. Also Londa Schiebinger, Nature’s Body: Gender in the Making of Modern Science (New Brunswich, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2004), 23. Upon his ennoblement in 1761, Linnaeus also used and was referred to as Linné.  6  Carl Linné, Philosophia Botanica (1751), trans. Stephen Freer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 105. All future references to this publication will be as Philosophia Botanica. Bronwyn Parry points out in Trading the genome (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004) Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification was not entirely “normative, objective, or rational. It was, rather, a regulatory system devised by Linnaeus as he “read nature through the lens of social relations” such that his “new botanical ‘language’ integrated fundamental aspects of his own social world” (28). Parry also makes reference to Londa Schiebinger’s Nature’s Body (2004).  7  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, “Clavis Systematis Sexualis,” no page (n.p.). Also see, William T. Stearn, “Appendix: Linnaean Classification, Nomenclature and Method,” in Wilfrid Blunt, The Compleat Naturalist: A Life of Linnaeus (London: Collins, 1971), 242-249 and Amy M. King, Bloom: The Botanical Vernacular in the English Novel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 27-28.  8  Alan Weber in Nineteenth-Century Science: A Selection of Original Texts (Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2000), 26. According to Weber and what is generally known is that Erasmus Darwin translated two of  16  of the Plants (1789), the second part of The Botanic Garden.9 In The Loves of the Plants, Darwin anthropomorphized and eroticized the vegetal kingdom by exploiting various sexual liaisons and impulses that ranged from clandestine marriages to the personification of flowers as “vamps,” “nymphs,” and “wanton beaut[ies].” 10 These kinds of analogies extended to other realms of natural history. As Deirdre Coleman has noted concerning eighteenth-century entomology, “Insects, especially the social insects—bees, ants, termites, and wasps—[had] long been a source of fascination, rich in allegorical meanings for human life.”11 Thus, in the 1760s and 1770s the fascination with insects in terms of their social organization and productivity encouraged comparison to human social and political constructs. Put another way, just as vegetation was vital for insect nourishment, insect pollination was instrumental to fructification in the vegetal world, and as  Linnaeus’s works, A System of Vegetables of 1783 and The Families of Plants of 1787, writings that served as ‘inspiration’ for Darwin’s own The Loves of Plants (1789) and The Economy of Vegetation (1791) which are together known as Darwin’s The Botanic Garden. See Maureen McNeil, Under the Banner of Science (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987). 9  The Botanic Garden, finally published in 1791, had two parts, The Economy of Vegetation and The Loves of the Plants.  10  Fredrika J. Teute, “The Loves of the Plants; or, the Cross-Fertilization of Science and Desire at the End of the Eighteenth Century,” The Huntington Library Quarterly 63, no. 3 (2000): 319-345.  11  Deirdre Coleman, “Entertaining Entomology: Insects and Insect Performers in the Eighteenth Century,” Eighteenth-Century Life 30, no. 3 (Summer, 2006): 107-134. One social parallel for example emerges from Linnaeus in Fundamenta entomologiae, or an introduction to the knowledge of insects, trans. W. Curtis (London, 1767) where he wrote of insects that “each of them has its proper business assigned to it in the oeconomy and police [my emphasis] of nature” (4), a function that helped ensure Linnaeus’s view in Oeconomia Naturae (1749) of the cycle of “perpetuation,” “preservation,” “destruction,” and “reiteration” of species in nature. Historian Robert Stauffer in “Ecology in the Long Manuscript Version of Darwin’s “origin of Species” and Linnaeus’s “Oeconomy of nature,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society points out that in Linnaeus’s dissertation, Politia Naturae of 1760, “politia” can mean both ‘polity’ or ‘police’. Stauffer quotes Linnaeus from an English translation of Politia Naturae to show how Linnaeus makes a parallel between insect and human worlds: “Nature resemble[s] a well regulated state in which every individual has his proper employment and subsistence, and a proper gradation of office and officers is appointed to correct and restrain every detrimental excess” (240). As historian Lisbet Rausing cogently summarizes in “Underwriting the Oeconomy: Linnaeus on Nature and Mind,” History of Political Economy 35, Annual Supplement (2003): 173203, Linnaeus saw nature as “benign and cyclically self-regulating” by way of “policing” mechanisms one of which was insects which were essential to the succession of plant communities.  17  such a highly effective and cyclical, symbiotic relationship emerged with the core allure of sexual activity. Moses Harris’s plate of The Silk-worm and Large Tyger (Figure 1.1) from his publication The Aurelian: or, natural history of English Insects of 1766 depicts moths mating on a mulberry plant’s upper leaves, insect nests affixed to the underside of a work-table, and the life cycle of Lepidoptera development. Notably, the ripening fruit on the mulberry branch marks out the vital role of insects in plant pollination and fruition just as the ‘silkworm’ calls up insect utility that underpins Britain’s thriving silk industry. In this chapter I explore tensions that I argue were generated by the Linnaean system’s explicit sexuality and as well by its numerous inconsistencies. For example, by Linnaeus’s own admission the taxonomic system was ‘artificial’.12 In terms of botany, it was constructed arbitrarily upon one key attribute, the reproductive organs, and was meant only as a temporary solution until a more satisfactory ‘natural’ system could be found.13 Additionally, Linnaeus pointed to inconsistencies or exceptions that were at odds with his clear categorization. As I will argue what had the potential to trouble Britons in the last quarter of the eighteenth century were these exceptions that surfaced in relation to three 12  According to numerous historians, Linnaeus saw his artificial system as merely a ‘diagnostic tool.’ See Staffan Müller-Wille, “The Love of Plants,” Nature 446 (March 15, 2007): 268 and Tore Frängsmyr, ed. Linnaeus: The Man and His Work (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983).  13  See Linnaeus’s comments on ‘artificiality’ in James Edward Smith, A Section of the Correspondence of Linnaeus and other naturalists, from the original manuscripts (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1821), 232. From this text, in a letter to Albert Haller on April 3, 1737, Linnaeus explains that he “never spoke” of his “harmless sexual system” as being “a natural method; on the contrary, in my Systema, p. 8 sect. 12, I have said, ‘No natural botanical system has yet been constructed; not do I contend that this system is by any mean natural...Meanwhile, till that is discovered, artificial systems are indispensable.’ And in the preface to my Genera Plantarum, sect. 9: ‘I do not deny that a natural method is preferable, not only to my system, but to all that have been invented…But in the meantime artificial classification must serve as a succedaneum.’” Renowned naturalists, British John Ray (1627-1705) and French Comte de Buffon (1707-1788) had not agreed with Linnaeus’s arbitrary choice of pistils and stamens (that is, sexual difference as the one definitive trait that determined division into a category) as central classifiers. They argued for a natural system that saw species exhibiting affinity through various shared characteristics, not just reproductive parts. Also see Philip R. Sloan, “The Buffon-Linnaeus Controversy,” Isis 67, no. 3 (September 1976): 356-375 and James Larson, “Linnaeus and the Natural Method,” Isis 58, no. 3 (Autumn 1967): 304-320.  18  Linnaean concepts: ‘affinities’ or shared traits, hybrids or ‘mixities’, and ‘mutabilities’ or variations between categories. These components of Linnaeus’s taxonomy through “the lens of social relations”14 posed threats to a world that chastised deviations from the status quo and valued fixity not flux.  Linnaeus’s Legacy New Worlds Unveiled Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification promised understanding and mastery of the natural world. This mastery was shown in Linnaeus’s own practice where he identified 7700 plants through a simplified naming system (binomial nomenclature) that helped standardize botanical knowledge.15 His orderly method, designed to be easily applied and argued to be universally relevant, captivated eighteenth-century publics who viewed such practices as demonstrating enlightened and rational thinking. The forte of botanical knowing was its fixed methodology of observing, counting, and categorizing, one that seemed on the surface at least, to evoke a form of certainty.16 Georg  14  See Parry, Trading the genome, 27-28. Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification was not entirely static, that is, “normative, objective, or rational” as Parry points out. Rather, as a method by which to classify the natural world, Linnaeus “read nature through the lens of social relations” and as such that his botanical overview “integrated fundamental aspects of his own social world” (28).  15  Lys de Bray, The Art of Botanical Illustration (Bromley: Helm, 1989), 69. Linnaeus worked in Georg Clifford’s gardens at Hartekamp where he cultured his botanical interests. Influential friends such as Herman Boerhaave, a physician to Clifford and professor of Linnaeus, helped finance Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae. Frans Stafleu in Linnaeus and the Linnaeans (Utrecht: Oosthoek, 1971) notes that Linnaeus’s Species plantarum (1753) is known as the “starting-point book for the nomenclature of most groups of plants” (102). The two-name system for identifying plants, binomial nomenclature, named the genus (the basic unit or biological type in taxonomy) and then the species within that genus.  16  According to Nils Uddenberg in “The Origin of and the Philosophy Behind Linnaeus’s Sexual System” The Linnean [sic] Special Issue 8, eds. Mary Morris and Leonie Berwick (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2008) this method, like that of Descartes, used traits that could be weighed, counted, and measured. Thus the tangible and visible number of stamens and pistils were keynote (46).  19  Ehret’s diagram Methodus plantarum sexualis of 1736 (Figure 1.2), published a year after Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae, illustrated the orderly logic of the system’s twenty-four classes according to the number and position of its stamens (male reproductive organs). In this representation, Figure 1.2, Ehret identified the various combinations of sexual organs with letters ‘A-Y’ to visually correspond to Linnaeus’s first twenty-three classes, that is, the ‘Nuptiae Publicae’ (Public Marriages). These were seed bearing plants whose sexual organs were visible. The last and twenty-fourth class lettered ‘Z’ by Ehret was Linnaeus’s ‘Nuptiae Clandestinae’ (Concealed Marriages) because organs were not visible to the naked eye. These classes could then be divided into orders as determined by their female organs, or pistils. 17 For practitioners, Ehret’s drawing was a clear guide for identifying and categorizing plants by the number of their sexual organs. The image focused upon the nexus of classification, what Linnaeus called the “essence of a plant’s flower,” in other words, the site of fertilization and fructification—the sex organs or where in Linnaeus’s words “the male genital organs strew their genital flour (pollen) on the pistil’s stigma.”18 Ehret’s Methodus sanitized and seemingly objectified Linnaeus’s system into a methodical, mathematical exercise. 19  17  A plant with one stamen (andria) would be Monandria, two stamens were Diandria, three stamens were Triandria and so on. The plant with one pistil (gynia) is Monogynia-one pistil, Digynia has two pistils, Trigynia has three. In Ehret’s image, then, letter “A” denotes a plant whose flower has one stamen and one pistil and thus categorizes in Linnaean terms as Monoandria monogynia. A plant such as the Crocus, for example, is classified as Triandria monogynia, that is, a species that has three (tri) stamens (male-andria) serving one (mono) pistil (female-gynia). Plants that had a similar configuration were classified into this similar category.  18  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, 23.  19  See Stearn, “Appendix: Linnaean Classification, Nomenclature and Method,” 242-249.  20  A plant, therefore, was classified by determining the “number, shape, proportion, and position”20 of the stamens and pistils within its flora. Importantly, the primary feature, the class, was determined by the number, size, and placement of the plant’s male organs, that is, the stamens or andria, from the Greek aner meaning ‘husband’. The sub-category of order was determined by the female pistils or gynia, whose meaning came from the Greek word, gyne, which meant ‘wife’.21 The system’s standardization was meant to demystify former confusions by way of a repeatable trace that could be easily followed—in Linnaeus’s words: “The Ariadne thread in botany is classification, without which there is chaos.”22 At a broader level then, classifying an organism and thus assigning its identity was also dependent upon the practitioner’s ability to observe and identify sexual difference. Problematic, however, was that such categorization was challenged by shifts in understandings of difference that were both shaped and encoded by diverse eighteenth-century beliefs, biases, and conventions. Linnaeus’s new taxonomy owed much to the critical inquiry of philosophers and earlier scientists. From Aristotle (384-322 BCE) and then natural philosopher Andrea Caesalpino (1519-1603), Linnaeus adopted his notion of hierarchy in the natural world, his scala natura. The concept of genus was expanded upon from the work of Swiss botanist, Gaspard Bauhin’s Pinax Theatri Botanici of 1623. Francis Bacon’s (1526-1627) focus upon observation and experiment gave impetus to Britain’s John Ray’s (1627-1705) classification 20  Linné, Philosophia Botanica, 71.  21  Linnaeus’s classifying system intuitively mirrored social taxonomies, that is, a site wherein primary agency was male and the female was subordinate. Londa Schiebinger gives deeper attention to this issue in Nature’s Body: Gender in the Making of Modern Science (2004).  22  Linné, Philosophia Botanica, Aphorism No. 156, 113. Ariadne, from Greek myth, is associated with solving problems, that is, ways out of labyrinths, webs, or moral conflicts. Fundamental to her method was keeping a record of the process and path—the thread—which could be followed should one become confused or mired in complexities. For the naturalist, classification was the thread by which to unravel botanical knowledge. Just as Newton’s laws of gravitation established the mechanics of a heliocentric world, Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification simplified generative understanding of the vegetal world.  21  that he based upon affinities and differences, and in turn, influenced Linnaean tenets that focused more specifically upon these aspects to determine a species’s ‘family unit’.23 Ray’s term anthropomorpha, which meant ‘man-shaped’, was reconfigured by Linnaeus for his own taxonomy.24 The notion that plant and animal kingdoms shared a similar law of generation came from Linnaeus’s “great teacher” Holland’s Herman Boerhaave (16681738).25 France’s Joseph Pitton de Tournefort (1656-1708) and Sebastian Vaillant (16691722) added to Linnaeus’s investigations by way of their inquiries on genus, species, and the sexual organs of flowers.26 Stephen Hales in his Vegetable Staticks published in 1727 incited debates on the purpose of pollen that opened up new considerations for Linnaean categorization. And certainly the advent of influential institutions, for example the Royal Society of London founded in 1662 or the French Académie Royale des Sciences established in 1666 which were dedicated to the pursuit and accumulation of knowledge in the natural world, did much to substantiate botany’s promise of new reach and discovery.27  23  Frans Stafleu, Linnaeus and the Linnaeans (Utrecht: Oosthoek, 1971), 87 and Michael Salmon, The Aurelian Legacy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 27-28.  24  Ian Tattersall and Jeffrey H. Schwartz, Extinct Humans (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2000), 22-23. Not until Linnaeus’s tenth edition of Systema Naturae was Anthropomorpha replaced with the term ‘Primates’.  25  A. G. Morton, History of Botanical Science (London: Academic Press, 1981), 261. Linnaeus outlined his botanical theories in Fundamenta Botanica (1735) and Systema Naturae (1735), manuscripts that met publication through the patronage of botanist J. F. Gronovius and Herman Boerhaave, chair of botany and clinical medicine, both at Leiden. Morton in History of Botanical Science notes Linnaeus joined Boerhaave in the view that “generation by male and female is a law common to animals and plants” (275).  26  Introductory notes from Systema Naturae of 1735 cite Sebastien Vaillant’s Sermo de Structura Florum (1718) (a treatise that established the sexual function of the pistils and stamens) as influential groundwork for Linnaeus and his formulations of a ‘sexual system’ of classification.  27  Peter Dear Revolutionizing the Sciences: European Knowledge and Its Ambitions, 1500-1700 (Hampshire: Palgrave, 2001), 129. An appetite for greater exploration of the natural world took its lead from seventeenthcentury natural philosophy, that is, studies in physics and astronomy whose established knowledge, discipline, and inductive method seemed to conflate with the fundaments of natural history and its practices. The acquisition of natural history’s knowledge via the empirical (as suggested by Francis Bacon) was also seen to align in part with philosopher John Locke’s 1690 Essay Concerning Human Understanding, 5th ed. (London: J. Churchill, 1706) wherein evidence through experiment, sensory perception, and self-reflective criticality were encouraged. Locke’s Essay also posited new knowledge as resembling that of a “white paper, void of all  22  Where Linnaeus differed from his predecessors, however, was in his focus upon the counting of genital organs to assign classification as established in Systema Naturae of 1735 and in his simplified two-name labeling process, binomial nomenclature, as established in Species Plantarum of 1753.28 Eminent botanist and historian William Stearn notes that Linnaeus chose Latin as his botanical language because of its association with classical scholarship, institutional power of the judiciary and church, and its widespread use throughout European countries.29 In addition, the language, considered both systematic and stable, conflated the rationality and order seen to underpin both Linnaean classification and Enlightenment ideals. The Linnaean sexual system of classification, then, promised easy access, ensured ordered stability within cataloguing the natural world, and as science historian Mary Winsor has argued, critically “joined naturalists together into a working community” worldwide.30  characters,” that is, a tabula rasa that was naturally equipped with “materials of reason” (Book II, Ch. 1, 51). So it was with Linnaean formulations. Here, natural history emerged as a clean slate of knowledge based upon the rationale of observing, describing, and classifying—a systematic ordering of knowledge that discovered and managed relationships in the natural world. The seemingly shared interest of ‘science’ with natural philosophers was however, contentious terrain. Natural history’s universal appeal was its standardized method of observing and counting reproductive parts, then assigning a simplified two-name label. This stood in opposition to the ‘pure science’ of natural philosophy (physics, mathematics, and chemistry) that was fixed through rigorous falsification and proofs. Only later in the eighteenth century through justification by way of mathematical classification, cultural popularity, and economic prowess was botany validated as science. 28  See Stafleu, Linnaeus and the Linnaeans (Utrecht: Oosthoek, 1971) and Stearn’s “Appendix” to Wilfrid Blunt’s The Compleat Naturalist (1971). Both explain that binomial nomenclature was merely a simple labeling of a ‘trivial name’ or nomen triviale that identified the genus (a group possessing sexual organs that were similarly constructed like fruits or flowers) and species of the lifeform. Stearn gives the example, as does Lynn Barber in The Heyday of Natural History 1820-1850 (London: Cape, 1980), of the simplifying process. For example, the milfoil plant was formerly identified as Achillea foliis duplicato-pinnatis glabris, laciniis linearibus acture laciniatis but via binomial nomenclature, it becomes Achillea millefolium. The achillea is the genus and millefolium is the species. Such simplification universalized identification and in turn made easier the global exchange of botanical information an easier process.  29  William T. Stearn, Botanical Latin, 4th ed. (Portland: Timber Press, 1992), 14-16.  30  Mary Winsor, “The Development of Linnaean Insect Classification,” Taxon 25, no. 1 (February 1967): 65.  23  While Linnaeus’s unveiling of new knowledge of the natural world provoked interest and discussion, there are two aspects of his system that are key to the investigations in this chapter. Firstly, the new discourse that was contingent upon the sexual difference of reproductive organs joined the naturalist’s terrain to a Foucauldian space of “knowledge to be gained from sex and the right to speak about it.”31 Secondly, and as I have foreshadowed in the Introduction to this chapter, this new knowledge was embedded with tensions that hinted at other relationships within the natural world, namely, one’s useful purpose or function within a system, and the notion of identity through performance and concealment or disguise. Thus, an Enlightenment thinker such as Jean Condorcet would praise the Linnaean system for making “‘botany accessible as never before’,”32 but there were still critics.  Problems and Tensions Throughout the century, Linnaeus’s formulations met with opposition from the eminent Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon (1707-1788), France’s director of the Jardin du Roi (Jardin du Plantes) since 1739. Buffon denounced generalized system building, in particular Linnaeus’s ‘traffic in artificiality’ by way of an arbitrary focus upon “a single characteristic [sexual difference] chosen by the taxonomist as the criterion of the class.”33 The naturalist’s seemingly random choice of reproductive parts appeared contrary to  31  Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1988), 6.  32  Jean Antoine Condorcet, Enlightenment philosopher and mathematician, in eulogizing Linnaeus at the Academie des Science, Paris as quoted in Roger L. Williams, Botanophilia in Eighteenth-Century France: the spirit of the Enlightenment (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2001), 24. What Newton had resolved in the mechanical world, Linnaeus was seen to have provided for the material (natural) world—a logical and simplified system of order.  33  Comte de Buffon as quoted in Philip Ritterbush, Overtures to Biology: The Speculations of EighteenthCentury Naturalists (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1964), 110.  24  scientific objectivity.34 Buffon thus argued that an artificial ordering of the natural world responded “to a requirement of the human mind rather than a mirror of the truth of Nature.”35 Other ambivalences were raised by way of Linnaeus’s florid descriptions of his system that played out uncomfortably through his botanical vernacular that clearly suggested affinities with the social world. For example in Systema Naturae, botanical “nuptials” were celebrated in “bridal beds” of petals.36 In Philosophia Botanica of 1751, plant parts were alarmingly human: “the filaments the spermatic vessels; the pollen the male semen; the stigma the extremity of the female organ; the stylus the vagina; the germen the ovarium; the pericarpium the impregnated ovary; and the seeds the eggs.”37 Linnaeus could shock with his graphic detail in the English translation made available for Britons: “The calyx could also be regarded as the lips of the cunt or the foreskin.”38 Also of note was that in the plant world, sexual relationships ranged from monogamy to polygamy, from homosexual to bisexual, and to incest. And, then there was ‘mixed’ sexuality, the hermaphrodite.39 Contemporaries of Linnaeus noted the ways in which Linnaeus’s system transgressed social boundaries. Academician Johann Siegesbeck of St. Petersburg, denounced Linnaeus’s system as “‘lewd... with its loathsome harlotry’” and intolerable to God.40 Anxieties over 34  Georges Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon, Natural history, general, and particular, Vol. 1 (Edinburgh: William Creech, 1780), viii-x.  35  Georges Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon, Natural history, general, and particular, 3rd ed., Vol. 2 (London: A Strahan and T. Cadell, 1791), 70. Also quoted in Williams, Botanophilia in Eighteenth-Century France, 48.  36  Linnaeus, System Naturae, 11.  37  Linné, Philosophia Botanica, 105.  38  As quoted in Carl Linné, Philosophia Botanica (1751), 105.  39  Linnaeus, System Naturae, 23.  40  As quoted in Williams, Botanophilia in Eighteenth-Century France, 24. Allegedly, Linnaeus’s ‘revenge’ upon Johann Siegesbeck was to name a useless weed, siegesbeckia, after this critic.  25  botany’s moral dissolution were further voiced by such critics as Reverend Richard Polwhele who warned that “boys and girls botanizing together” heightened “illicit knowledge” and sexual exploration as did touching and probing a plant’s “organs of unhallow’d lust.” 41 He claimed that such practice was a precursor to sexual chaos and social decay. How could a system that was meant to contain, promote as its practice the wanton inspection of genitalia in the open and unregulated outdoors and within mixed company? The Bishop of Carlisle, Reverend Goodenough clashed with botanist and founder of the Linnaean Society James Edward Smith over botany’s “gross prurience” and its questionable suitability for female study.42 Similarly, the German philosopher and naturalist Goethe was concerned that particularly young girls not be subject to the “dogma of sexuality inherent in the new science.”43 English botanist William Withering suggested in 1787 that in practicing the Linnaean system, especially in relation to “the Ladies,” it would be “proper to drop the sexual distinctions” as the language could be too explicit.44 University of Edinburgh botanist Charles Alston (1683-1760) charged that Linnaeus misread the role of pollen and selffertilization, asking how could stamens (males) cowering in the shadow of pistils (females) possibly fertilize them?45 In 1790, William Smellie in The Philosophy of Nature had summed  41  Richard Polwhele, The Unsex’d Females: a poem, addressed to the author of The pursuits of literature. By the Rev. Richard Polewhele. To which is added, a sketch of the private and public character of P. Pindar. (Reprinted by Wm. Cobbett, New York, 1800), 10. Polwhele’s (Polewhele) surname is spelled both ways in documents.  42  Reverend Samuel Goodenough to James Smith in January of 1808 as quoted in Stearn’s “Appendix” to Wilfrid Blunt, The Compleat Naturalist, 245. Also cited and quoted in Brent Elliot, “England’s Linnaeus,” The Linnean Special Issue 8, eds. Mary J. Morris and Leonie Berwick (Oxford: Wiley Blackwell, 2008), 125.  43  As quoted by Stearn, “Appendix,” 245.  44  William Withering, A Botanical Arrangement of British Plants, Vol. 1 (Birmingham, 1787), xv.  45  Schiebinger, Nature’s Body, 29.  26  up decades of discontent when he attacked the system as “beyond all decent limits.”46 Linnaeus’s sexual classification of plants then, provided a forum wherein practitioners could speculate and debate about sexuality—their own, that of others, and of course, even plants— but it was contentious, discursive terrain. A particular area of concern was that Linnaeus candidly exposed unanticipated affinities or ‘relatedness’ of species within genera. In Figure 1.3, Clavis Systematis Sexualis or “Key of the Sexual System” from the tenth edition of Systema Naturae, Linnaeus designated some classes as “DIFFINITAS” or without affinity and others as “AFFINITAS” or with affinity. For those species with ‘affinity’, Linnaeus uses the term “coherent inter,” that is, to unite together or cohere and relate as in “brotherhoods,” “confederate males,” “feminine males,” and even “polygamies”—in other words, “stamens cohere” with various others.”47 In Philosophia Botanica of 1751 he proposed that “related [plants] agree in habit, manner of reproduction, properties, potencies and use.”48 This notion of ‘relatedness’ was seen to have developed through generations of reproductive processes that seemed to have adapted to various threats such as climate, predators, or pestilence. Clearly, the thought of adaptation and its social parallels would raise anxious responses from Britons where a fixed  46  William Smellie, The philosophy of natural history (Edinburgh: Charles Elliot, 1790), 248.  47  Figure 1.3 is the Latinized form. The English translation comes by way of Erasmus Darwin, “Key of the Sexual System,” The Families of Plants (Lichfield: Botanical Society of Lichfield, 1787), lxxvii. It can also be found in Carl von Linné, Caroli Linnaeu Systema Naturae; a photographic facsimile of the first volume of the tenth edition (1758) (London: British Museum, 1939). Many contemporary publications have copies, ranging from Linnaean scholar Frans Stafleu’s Linnaeus and the Linnaeans: The spreading of their ideas in systematic botany,1735-1789 (Utrecht: Oosthoek, 1971) to Janet Browne’s “Botany for Gentlemen: Erasmus Darwin and ‘The Loves of the Plants’,” Isis 80, no. 4 (December 1989): 592-621.  48  Linné, Philosophia Botanica, 149. He also recognizes here that “affinities” could be a problem (149).  27  chain of being was prescribed to by a wide cultural spectrum.49 Relatedness or affinity was developed further in Linnaeus’s Genera plantarum of 1764 when he posited that “Nature blended the Genera whence [came] as many species… and Chance blended the Species.”50 This dictum endorsed affinity to suggest that Nature, not the Creator, did the ‘blending’ to produce species. The issue of affinity or relatedness then, also subtly suggested that a species could have possibly arisen not at the moment of creation, but afterwards via hybridization. 51 Hybridization in turn implied that a species had shown the ability to adapt or acclimatize to conditions within the natural world in order ensure further generation. That Linnaeus’s contemporary, polymath Erasmus Darwin said as much in his various natural history writings throughout the eighteenth century did much to fuel concerns over affinity, notions of adaptability, and evolutionary trace.52 Despite Linnaeus’s own admission that he was merely “God’s registrar,”53 his formulations raised a number of tensions and contradictions for contemporaries. At one level his system challenged conventional religious belief, in other words, God’s Omnipotent perfection and purity. For example, Linnaeus’s system deemed the essence of the plant, its 49  See Daniel J. Boorstin, The Discoverers: A History of Man’s Search to Know his World and Himself (New York: Random House, 1983), 457-459 and Arthur Lovejoy, The Great Chain of Being: s study of the history of an idea (Cambridge: Mass: Harvard University Press, 1964), 189-203.  50  Carolus Linnaeus, Species Plantarum. A. facsim. Of the 1st ed., 1753. With an introduction by W. T. Stearn. trans. William Stearn (London: Ray Society, 1957) as cited in Frans Stafleu, Linnaeus and the Linnaeans, 136.  51  Ibid. According to Stafleu, Linnaeus’s phrase “genericas has miscuit Natura,” the use of ‘miscere’ is taken as ‘hybridize’. While Linnaeus at this point cannot be called an evolutionist, the seeming mutability and fluidity of generative processes suggests that ideas of adaptation and natural selection are the ‘future improvements’ borne out by the knowledge he knew would be refined by discoveries of other naturalists.  52  Erasmus Darwin’s The Economy of Vegetation (one part of The Botanic Garden of 1791) and Zoonomia (1794) both refer to issues of ‘evolution’ that I later address. Furthermore, Linnaeus’s included man and apes in the same order of Anthropomorpha, and this did much to intensify concerns around the nature of man’s relatedness or ‘affinity’ to other species.  53  Adolf Koelsch, in the title of an article in Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, 1928 as cited in Heinz Goerke, Linnaeus, trans. Denver Lindley (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1973), 115.  28  fructification, as essential, that is, invariable and constant because, as acknowledged by Linnaeus in Systema Naturae, the plant was determined through God’s divine hand.54 The deference to God’s mastery appealed to some skeptics, but raised concerns for others engaged by the new taxonomy. If Linnaeus’s system was merely a “laying bare the totality of God’s work,”55 then how could some plants lack the essential organs that were supposed to be Divinely ordained to all? And how were these and other exceptions in God’s Handiwork to be reasoned, for example, where a plant had male and female organs concurrently?56 For that matter, how could Divine workmanship that was based upon a fixed chain of being allow for such formulations as those in Linnaeus’s Fundamenta Botanica of 1736 that logically posited plants and animals (including insects) as “equal...[in] origin, nutrition, aging, disease, death, movement, internal propulsion of fluids, and general anatomy?”57 If such sweeping equanimity was ordained through God’s perfection and merely recorded by Linnaeus, then how could fault be found or exclusion imposed upon any variations or irregularities? Put another way, exceptions or those inconsistencies to encoded belief and the possible porous borders that could affect classification processes—in particular, in relation to social parallels of modern class or gender divides—unsettled worlds in want of fixed grids. Linnaean categorization then, in terms of sexual difference and in terms of what constituted exceptions and affinities or lack thereof, was complicated in that its definition arose out of a decidedly western European perception of the norm, an interpretation that 54  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, 18. Also see Williams, Botanophilia in Eighteenth-Century France, 24. In later years Linnaeus was to be less driven by the notion of fixity.  55  James Burke, The Day the Universe Changed (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1985), 313.  56  See Seth Lindroth, “The Two Faces of Linnaeus,” Linnaeus: The Man and His Work, ed. Tore Frängsmyr (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 1-63.  57  Linnaeus, Fundamenta Botanica (1736) as quoted in Philip Ritterbush, Overtures to Biology: The Speculations of Eighteenth-Century Naturalists (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1964), 110.  29  collided with understandings within wider global cultural contexts. Certainly different cultures had varied interpretations or understandings of a range of concepts extending from issues of sexuality and gender to that of family and community, or of notions of value and utility. Indeed in Systema Naturae of 1735, Linnaeus seemed to defy notions of difference by positioning Man and animal in the same family order of Anthropomorpha,58 a troubling concept for those who wanted familiar boundaries that distinguished the human from the bestial. Some comfort was found in Linnaeus’s own admission in Systema Naturae that the system was not ideal, but that “as long as a natural system is lacking, artificial systems will definitely be needed.”59 Natural history framed a world of mutable proportion, a world whose difference and variation was held in tension by taxonomy’s thread of logic and precision. Nonetheless, the simplicity and clarity of the system were challenged by troubling exceptions, unusual affinities, hybridities, and fluctuations or mutabilities within the natural world. These shifts and changes could suggest, I argue, that modernity’s own fluctuations and transformations lay at the very heart of the new natural history.  Caricature and Linnaean Affinities: The Naturalist as ‘Macaroni’ In the last quarter of the eighteenth century, anxieties around the Linnaean system surface most obviously in the visual realm of caricature. Caricature appealed to middle and upper class appetites for celebrity—that is, the consuming of fashion and notoriety that fed 58  Linnaeus placed man and orangutan in the same (genus) (Homo sapiens and Homo troglodytes, respectively). See Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, “Observations of the Animal Kingdom.”  59  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, 23. Tore Frängsmyr in Linnaeus and the Linnaeans (1971) quotes Linnaeus that “Natural orders without a key do not constitute a method. And so an artificial method has only diagnostic value since it is not possible or it is hardly possible to find the key to the natural method” (135).  30  desires to be seen yet distanced from society’s lower orders. Social and political satires were loaded with scathing wit, intemperate mockery, exaggerated physical features, and foibles laid bare. And at their foundation was a censure meant to inform as well as reform. Through hyperbole, the caricature attacked the façade of cosmopolitan savior faire and decried its appetite for sensation and exposure. Albeit often associated with less refined tastes, caricatures had wide appeal for their readability, their affordability,60 and their ability to circulate much like the topics and names in the news that caricatures referenced.61 This thesis will ultimately examine several caricatures produced in the last quarter of the eighteenth century. In particular a subset that satirized the cultural phenomenon of the ‘macaroni’—fashionable gentlemen and aristocrats associated with both foreign travel and loose sexual morals—provide an arena where public perceptions of Linnaean classification could be conflated with modern concerns around sexuality, masculinity, and the modern British nation.  60  Constance Simon in English Furniture Designers of the Eighteenth Century (London: B. T. Batsford, 1907) points out production and costs in relation to printmaker Matthew Darly, for example, who started his career by publishing the “humorous sketches” of several artists (namely Henry Bunbury and George Townshend). In 1776 Simon reports, Darly produced a comprehensive series called “‘Darly’s comic prints of Characters, Caricatures and Macaronies’ by Bunbury, Darly, Sandby, Topham and others,” that sold for £4 4s a set. Given that these productions were conventionally of at least twenty prints as noted by historian Tim Clayton in The English Print 1688-1802 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997) and that at this time the pound sterling was worth 20 shillings according to Roy Porter in English Society in the Eighteenth Century (London: Penguin, 1982), 317, it would seem that the macaroni caricatures were relatively inexpensive.  61  Aileen Ribeiro, “The Macaronis,” History Today 28, no. 7 (July 1978): 463-468. On caricature see Diana Donald’s publications The Age of Caricature (London: Yale University Press, 1996) and Followers of Fashion (London: Hayward Gallery, 2002). Stella Tillyard in “Celebrity in 18th Century London,” History Today 55, no. 6 (June 2005) points out that caricature, a popular print form that mocked diverse aspects of contemporaneous British culture in the eighteenth century, gained momentum when the Licensing Act lapsed in 1695. What that meant was the controls on the number of printing presses, publications, and practitioners in the printing business eased and as a result an extensive print culture flourished and in turn made for a more informed middle class. Weak laws around personal libel allowed for “almost anything” to be written about “almost anyone,” Tillyard notes, and by the 1750s even high-profile public figures were vilified and openly referred to by their actual names, initials, or titles. Private life became a public commodity and celebrity antics and extravagances provided both escape from and defiance to everyday life.  31  In Britain, the name ‘macaroni’ initially referred to predominately moneyed young aristocrats and social elites returned home from their prescribed Grand Tour.62 The Macaroni Club, which they subsequently established, was named as an in-joke after a cheap pasta dish and in opposition to the aging British patriots who frequented a club called the Sublime Society of Steaks.63 The macaronis were mocked for their continental dress of “hats, feathers, [and] long curls,”64 and these references to continental fashion carried over to notions of feminization that were at odds with constructions of masculinity in the British 62  Wealth financed Grand Tours for these young aristocrats. The purpose of the Tour was promoted as pedagogical, that is, meant to offer up the sophistication and culture of Italy and France. J. H. Plumb in Men and Places (London: Cresset Press, 1963) identifies the Tour as “the most expensive form of education ever devised by European society” (57). Laurence Sterne’s “Sermon on the Prodigal Son” from The Sermons of Mr. Yorick, Vol. 3 (Altenburgh: Bottl. Richter, 1777) suggests that such travel was also meant to release young men from the effeminizing “tenderness” of their mothers, aunts, and grandmothers and expose them to “wholesome hardship” (60-62). Also quoted in Michèle Cohen’s Fashioning Masculinity (London: Routledge, 1996), 58. Cohen also credits Richard Lassels in his 1670 publication The Voyage of Italy as the first to call this practice the ‘Grand Tour’ (54). Deirdre Lynch’s “Overloaded Portraits” in Body and Text in the Eighteenth Century (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), identifies that during the 1700s in Britain there was a fashion for portraits and caricatures in Italian settings which Lynch claims “started England’s caricature craze [and] enabled print sellers to profit from the vanity of well-to-do amateur” travelers (119).  63  Giuseppe Marco Antonio Baretti in Easy phraseology, for the use of young ladies, who intend to learn the colloquial part of the Italian language (London: G. Robinson, PaterRow, 1775) noted the macaroni’s pompous and affected dress, in Baretti’s words, “di vestire pomposamente assettato” and characterized the maccherone as “a man of gross understanding, a dolt, a fool, a vulgar fellow” (39-40). Baretti, Secretary for Foreign Correspondence to the Royal Academy of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture, explained that ‘maccherone’ grew out of a Newmarket club of young men who boasted of their continental travel, shunned the Beefsteak Club, and adopted macaroni, a dish ‘so cheap [it was] considered a very gross and vulgar food’. Historian Paul Langford in A Polite and Commercial People (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989) notes that the Sublime Society of Steaks club was also called ‘The Beefsteak Club’: “The macaronis took their origin from a society of enthusiasts for Italian culture who were determined to display their contempt for the values of an opposing club, the Beefsteak Club” (576).  64  Horace Walpole, Horace Walpole’s correspondence with Henry Seymour Conway, Lady Ailesbury, Lord and Lady Hertford, Mrs. Harris (1764) ed. W. S. Lewis, Vol. 38 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974), 306. This reference is to be found in a letter of February 6, 1764 from Horace Walpole to the Earl of Hertford. According to Diana Donald in Followers of Fashion (London: Hayward Gallery, 2002), sumptuary laws that once encoded dress codes and meant to control what people wore, protect domestic production, and encode class rank had long dissipated by the mid-eighteenth century. Nonetheless, fashion was thought to be “intrinsically harmful to society…treacherously seductive, irrational, and fickle”…and “taste was given a moral tone” (10-15). Such outward façade and preoccupation with fashion was seen as a female preoccupation and thus that association with macaroni excess held uncomfortable overtones for Britain whose involvements in the Seven Years War raised anxieties in relation to these “unmanly” men and their questionable readiness to defend the nation. Also see Diana Donald, The Age of Caricature (London: Yale University Press, 1996), 75-83 and Miles Ogborn, Spaces of Modernity: London’s Geographies, 1680-1780 (London: The Guilford Press, 1998), 133-143.  32  nation.65 In other words, macaroni fashion excess challenged the discreet black attire that defined self-disciplined and patriotic gentry, and worried a nation whose political and economic security was understood to rely upon manly action and productivity. In question as well was the well-travelled macaroni’s loyalty to the British Crown. This was evoked in Robert Hitchcock’s play, The Macaroni of 1773 when the character, Lord Promise, summed up society’s sentiments in his complaint about a young macaroni named Epicene: “I wanted you to be a man of spirit… but I see you…shew the world what a contemptible creature an Englishman dwindles into, when he adopts the follies and vices of other nations.”66 That the period’s most prominent and outspoken macaroni, Charles Fox, was not only a radical Whig politician but also a critic of the monarchical policies of George III and a supporter of the American and later French revolutions, exacerbated associations between the macaroni and critiques of the nation.67  65  I expand upon these aspects of the macaroni later in this chapter. Much has been written on the phenomenon of the macaroni: Aileen Ribeiro in History Today (July 1978), Miles Ogborn’s Spaces of Modernity (1998), and Philip Carter’s “Men About Town: Representations of Foppery and Masculinity in Early Eighteenth-Century Urban Society” in Gender in Eighteenth-Century England, eds. Hannah Barker and Elaine Chalus (New York: Addison Wesley Longman Ltd., 1997). For gender ambiguity, masculinity, and the effeminate see Dror Wahrman’s Making of the Modern Self: Identity and Culture in the Eighteenth-Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), Karen Harvey, “The History of Masculinity, circa 1650-1800,” Journal of British Studies 44 (April 2005), Michèle Cohen’s Fashioning Masculinity: National Identity and Language in the Eighteenth Century (London: Routledge, 1996) and Philip Carter’s Men and the Emergence of Polite Society: Britain 1660-1800 (London: Longman, 2001).  66  Robert Hitchcock, The Macaroni. A comedy. (York: A. Ward, 1773), 5. The play’s critique of macaroni serves as a resource for many eighteenth-century historians such as Philip Carter in Men and the Emergence of Polite Society: Britain 1660-1800 (2001), Michèle Cohen in Fashioning Masculinity: National Identity and Language in the Eighteenth Century (1996), and Alan Bewell in “A Passion that Transforms,” Figuring It Out, eds. Ann B. Shteir and Bernard Lightman (Hanover, New Hampshire: Darmouth College Press, 2006).  67  Linnaean natural history would also be seen to raise republicanism and revolution that would emerge in the 1790s in caricature. See my discussion in Chapter Four of James Gillray’s The South Sea Caterpillar (1796). Fox’s activities are noted in Norman Pearson in Society Sketches in the Eighteenth Century (London: Edward Arnold, 1911), 245-248, and Dorothy George in Hogarth to Cruikshank: Social Change in Graphic Satire, (New York: Walker and Company, 1967), 59. Fox’s penchant for red shoes was said to be inspired by Charlemagne who reputedly wore scarlet leather shoes when crowned Emperor. Historian Pearson also indicates that Fox was a notorious gambler, and even the £154,000 that Fox’s friend Lord Holland left in his will for the payment of Fox’s debts was only of “temporary” assistance (247). These excesses were perceived as irresponsible and morally weak especially a time when Britons were crippled by national taxation and huge  33  Mocked then for lavish hairdos, elaborate tricorn hats, and overdress the macaroni was the butt of jokes, plays, and satirical commentary. By 1771, printmaker Matthew Darly took up the macaroni as a subject in a series of six sets of caricatures.68 Indeed, Darly dubbed his new locale at 39 Strand Street as “The Macaroni Print-Shop” and both this site and a display of his macaroni satires are clearly featured in one of his prints of 1772 (Figure 1.4).69 While Darly’s series of macaroni caricatures represented a wide gamut of characters— bakers, lawyers, auctioneers, artisans, gamblers, bankers and politicians—he devoted several to well known naturalists.70 One published in 1773 by Darly, The Aurelian Macaroni (Figure 1.5) depicts a youthful naturalist, an aurelian or butterfly collector replete with clap net and displaying a print of lepidoptera specimens. The naturalist is garbed in a vest with snail shell  wartime debt, uncertainties around naval fleets and shipping depots, and urban poverty and disease. For Fox’s politics see Jeremy Black, George III: America’s Last King (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 244263; Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation 1701-1837 (London: Pimlico, 2003), 208, 244; and, Paul Langford, A Polite and Commercial People: England, 1727-1783 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 685-687. Matthew Darly’s caricature, “The Original Macaroni” of 1772 (British Musem Collection # or BMC #5010) is of Charles Fox. 68  On Darly’s publication of macaroni caricatures see Fredric George Stephens and M. Dorothy George, Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires: Preserved in the Department of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, Vol. I-XI (London: British Museum Publications Ltd., 1870-1954). Volumes IV-VII in this publication that range from 1761-1800 address over 5800 prints, among them the macaronis. Specific macaroni types are addressed in Amelia Rauser’s Caricature Unmasked (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2008); Gillian Russell, “Entertainment of Oddities” in A New Imperial History, ed. Kathleen Wilson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); and, Shearer West, “The Darly Macaroni Prints and the Politics of ‘Private Man’,” Eighteenth-Century Life 25 (Spring 2001).  69  For detailed reference to the print known as “The Macaroni Print Shop” see the comprehensive catalogue and commentary of Frederic George Stephens, Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum Vol. IV (1883), 784-786.  70  Matthew Darly’s other “naturalist” macaronis include: “The Fly-Catching Macaroni” July 12, 1772 (BMC 4695) of Sir Joseph Banks; “The Simpling Macaroni” July 13, 1772 (BMC 4696) of Daniel Solander; “The Botanic Macaroni” November 14, 1772 (BMC 5046) of Sir Joseph Banks; “No. XXV, Miss B—N and No. XXVI, The Circumnavigator” Oct. 1, 1773 (BMC 5146) of Joseph Banks and his mistress; and, “A Polite Artist on St. Luke’s Day” Oct. 18, 1773 (BMC 5168) of botanist, John Hill. Darly’s various macaroni representations also include butchers and bakers, the military, artists, libertines, equestrians, lady macaronis, politicians, and kings. For discussion of lawyers and auctioneers see Shearer West and British Museum website on caricature. Mary Dorothy George’s Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires, Vol. 5-11 (1935-1954) is a remarkably diverse and comprehensive documentation of prints and drawings, and the historical context of each and their themes. Volumes 5-11 cover 12,500 prints between 1771 and 1832.  34  buttons and a butterfly-like tricorn hat from which protrude locks of curly hair that are in fact, caterpillars or aureola.71 Caricature in the eighteenth century worked on many levels depending on the viewer’s interest, knowledge base, and proclivities, and The Aurelian Macaroni offered a range of associations for consumers and viewers. At its most obvious level Darly’s caricature brings into conjunction the current fashion for natural history, in this case, moth and butterfly collecting and “the macaroni” whose association with fashionable excess led to these macaroni prints becoming “fashionable” in themselves.72 Darly’s The Aurelian Macaroni referenced a prominent contributor to the field. As art historian, M. Dorothy George and others have noted, the caricature satirized the well-known Linnaean entomologist Moses Harris73 whose major study, The Aurelian: or, natural history  71  These features of the print have been noted in M. Dorothy George, Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires, Vol. V (1935). Also see Alan Bewell, “A Passion that Transforms,” (2006) and Amelia Rauser, Caricature Unmasked, (2008). To some viewers the locks of curly hair may call up unsettling associations with fashionable actress Dorothy Jordan who was renowned for a similar “mop of brown curls,” a potent sign of both her female sexual identity and her ability as a “natural” performer who easily morphed into roles of masculine gender according to historian Gill Perry in “Staging Gender and “Hairy Signs”: Representing Dorothy Jordan’s Curls,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 38, no.1 (2004): 145-163.  72  Rauser, Caricature Unmasked, 63.  73  George, Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires, Vol. V, 134. Also see Michael Salmon, The Aurelian Legacy (2000) and Alan Bewell, “A Passion That Transforms,” (2006). George points out that Moses Harris (1730-1788), officer of the Aurelian Society and entomological illustrator, was the subject of Darly’s satire. Harris’s was not the first publication on insects. Eleazar Albin published the first English book on butterflies and moths, A Natural History of English Insects (1720). Of note in Harris’s preface to The Aurelian is the customary author’s apology for a ‘humble’ study. As quoted in Harry B. Weiss, “Two Entomologists of the Eighteenth Century—Eleazar Albin and Moses Harris”, The Scientific Monthly, December, 1926, Harris wondered “to whom such apology should be made,” since those who object “are generally men of small capacity and low wit, having a mean conception of things in general”(563). While his apology pays homage to the customary practice that prefaced such publications, his acerbic tone would seem to accent an independence that underscored the marginality of aurelians and macaronis. Of further note is that Harris’s aurelian interests led to his formulations around a system of colours and a colour wheel. According to Robert O’Hara in Picturing Knowledge: Historical and Philosophical Problems Concerning the Use of Art in Science (Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1996), Harris’s theoretical model of concentric colour circles earned him the moniker of the ‘first discoverer of a regular system of colours’. Harris isolated red, yellow and blue as principle colors; the blending of those colours led to the mediate colours were of orange, purple and green. Harris’s theory argued that from principle colors, all other colours originated. More importantly his color observations resulted in a theory of subtraction in colour, that is, by mixing all three principal colours, one gets black. This theory emerged from his observation of the ‘affinity’ and blending of colours in the scales of butterfly and other insect’s wings.  35  of English Insects; namely, Moths and Butterflies, together with the Plants on which they Feed published in 1766 was considered “the most splendid of all English entomological books.”74 Harris’s work not only linked the study of butterflies to plants and the botanical world, but demonstrated the interdependence of their respective generative processes.75 And while the engravings he produced for the publication underscored the symbiotic links between botany and entomology, it was the frontispiece to his publication The Aurelian, in fact a self-portrait featuring Harris (Figure1.6) sitting in nature in gentlemanly dress with a butterfly clap-net on his knees and a box of butterflies in his hand, that shares a resonance with Darly’s The Aurelian Macaroni.76 In contrast to the self-satisfied pose of the gentleman scholar that characterizes Harris’s frontispiece of 1766, Darly’s caricature of the aurelian evokes a naturalist who is both pampered and effete. Such languor, perhaps, is designed to mock the ‘universal’ accessibility of Linnaeus’s practices to even the most leisured of fashionable moderns.  74  Moses Harris, The Aurelian: or, natural history of English insects; namely, moths and butterflies. Together with the plants on which they feed; and their standard names, as given and established by the Society of Aurelians. Draw, engraved and coloured, from the natural subjects themselves. (London, 1766), 3, 28. Further references to this publication of Moses Harris will be truncated to The Aurelian. According to Sharon Valiant in “Maria Sibylla Merian: Recovering an Eighteenth-Century Legend,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 26, no. 3 (Spring 1993), Harris’s publication originally had forty-one plates drawn, engraved and hand-coloured by Harris and was considered “the most splendid of all English entomological books” (473).  75  Historian of science Mary Winsor has observed in “The Development of Linnaean Insect Classification,” Taxon 25, no. 1 (February 1976) that Linnaeus’s classification of insects “displayed as much or more concern with natural relations as with purely logical systematization,” that is, the interconnectedness between Linnaean kingdoms and thus the relationships here between the insect and vegetal worlds (61). Philip Ritterbush in Overtures to Biology (1964) observes the parallels between the vegetal and entomological worlds by noting that “buds of flowers were held to be analogous to the pupal stages of insects,” thus underscoring fundamental truths around development in the natural world, whether botanical or entomological (116).  76  Dorothy George’s in Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires (1935) acknowledged the link between the caricature and the frontispiece. This point has subsequently been made in such works as Alan Bewell’s “A Passion that Transforms” (2006). The frontispiece is signed by Moses Harris and considered a self-portrait, especially since all the engravings within this publication were “drawn, engraved, and coloured by the author” according to historian Harry B. Weiss in “Two Entomologists of the Eighteenth Century—Eleazar Albin and Moses Harris,” The Scientific Monthly 23, no. 6 (December 1926). Also see Michael A. Salmon, The Aurelian Legacy, 32. In addition, Michael Salmon gives explanation of the use of clap nets and racket nets.  36  Similar to the aureolus, that is, the transformative cocoon stage of the butterfly, this satirical figure invites viewers to contemplate his transitory state. The butterfly collector is mobile, but not quite; his eye engages, but with the vacant interest of being seen rather than catching the butterflies which he apparently seeks. The printed illustration in his hand might point to the specimens that are his goal, but the empty net suggests fruitless efforts. He is in ‘the field’ so to speak, but out of place in the fashionable attire of the macaroni—ultra-chic snug breeches, fitted stockings, buckle shoes, silk vest over ruffle-cuffed shirt, bagwig, and tricorn hat. We might assume he is involved in butterfly collecting, but could this dandy’s languorous pose and open disheveled shirt point to the macaroni’s association with loose sexual morals, that is, what popular accounts have described as his “wench[ing] without passion” during Grand Tour exploits? 77 Or does the erotic tension reference critique of both Harris’s and Linnaean concerns with sexual classification and activity as a part of the penetration of and mastery over the natural world? But is fashionable excess the flashpoint for both this pastiche of collecting in the natural world’s three Kingdoms and the macaroni’s social visibility? While literary historian, Alan Bewell has observed that Darly’s The Aurelian Macaroni expresses “anxieties about the dangers of the naturalist collector whose relationship to butterflies is linked to exoticism, luxury, and gender-crossing,”78 the significance of these anxieties and how they are raised by the image requires investigation.  77  The Repository: or Treasury of politics and literature, Vol. 1 (London, 1771), 75.  78  Bewell, “A Passion That Transforms,” 41. Also see Diana Donald, Followers of Fashion (London: Hayward Gallery, 2002).  37  Unsettling Associations As a leading aurelian, Moses Harris isolated and demystified the butterfly’s shapeshifting, explaining in The Aurelian of 1766 that a chrysalis and ultimately a butterfly, was produced by “copulation [and] purg[ing] themselves from their Dung and Filth.” 79 My argument is that hidden transcripts of both affinities or relatedness and their unsettling underpinnings within the natural world play a role in the caricature of The Aurelian Macaroni.80 Indeed the chrysalis or aureolus for which this macaroni is named brings both transformation and mobility to the fore. 81 The naturalist and the macaroni conflate through their affinities, namely, their similarly marginalized stature, unusual interests, and resistance to encoded social conventions and hierarchies. Mikhail Bakhtin identifies the eighteenth century as a transitional period wherein the stimulus for laughter shifted from universal body functions (scatological, for example) to external markers such as the individual’s physiology or eccentricity.82 Here the macaroni and naturalist share in their odd, and for some, frivolous  79  Moses Harris, The Aurelian, 3, 28. That idea of shape shifting—of transforming and changing—is borne out in camouflage techniques of butterflies and moths. Linnaeus in his Institutions of Entomology trans. Thomas Yeats (London: R. Horsfield, 1773) noted butterfly “metamorphosis” and their coloration by which they could camouflage themselves in order to trap prey or elude danger (2-14). Today, a strategy in color shift is called aposematism, a ‘warning coloration’ that occurs when a predator approaches. The ability of one species to camouflage itself as another, such as the Viceroy butterfly’s mimicry of the Monarch’s color patterns, is nature’s way of optimizing species survival. For a discussion of generatio spontanea see Frans A. Stafleu, Linnaeus and the Linnaean (1971) and Frank N. Egerton “A History of the Ecological Sciences, Part 30: Invertebrate Zoology and Parasitology during the 1700s,” Bulletin of the Ecological Society of American 89, no. 4 (October 2008): 407-433. Throughout the 1700s the belief in the possibility that new generations emerged spontaneously from dead material, in other words, generatio spontanea, was rigorously debated. Even in the 1770s with the explosive advance of the natural sciences, many natural scientists thought that the creationist belief underpinning Linnaean natural history was questionable as was ‘generatio spontanea’.  80  I borrow the phrase ‘hidden transcripts’ from James C. Scott in Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990) who defines ‘hidden transcripts’ as critical discourses and debates around shifting notions of self and nation (xii).  82  From Peter Stallybrass and Allon White’s The Politics and Poetics of Transgression (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1996) as cited in Shearer West, “The Darly Macaroni Prints and the Politics of ‘Private Man’,” Eighteenth-Century Life, 2, no.25 (Spring 2001): 175.  38  daily pursuits of collecting fashions or natural history specimens. The eccentricity of their practices is complicated in the satire by an apparent shared preoccupation with sexual and gender roles. But out of these practices arose mobilities that challenged convention to pose new cultural considerations. Trans-national travel interests and affinity for the different suggest both the naturalist and macaroni as entities in flux with their mobility and interstitial position locating them upon a threshold of change. Continental travel exposed macaronis to what Gerald Newman calls in a different context, “alien cultural influence and the associated moral disease…dissipation and effeminacy.”83 Those corrosive influences seeped into elite travel in another way. Venture to other lands was often tainted with the idea of national dissatisfaction, that is, in one popular account of macaronis “their isle [Britain] was a sort of prison: and the first use they make of their love of liberty, is to get out of it.”84 The aurelian’s freedom of movement and action problematizes the stability and social loyalities of not just youthful globe-trotting naturalists but indeed of botany itself, a discipline known for its adjustment to standardizing, interdisciplinary demands. Darly’s aurelian macaroni has an apparent satiation and complacency about him. And even if in a foreign territory, this would-be collector of butterflies seems comfortably protected by what appears to be an oak tree given the customary knotty occlusions along its trunk. The oak was  83  Gerald Newman, The Rise of English Nationalism: a cultural history, 1740-1830 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1987), 67-84.  84  Jean Bernard Le Blanc, Letters on the English and French nations: containing curious and useful observations on their constitutions natural and political. Vol. 1 (London, 1747), 37. The political overtones are palpable here. As Jeremy Black has argued in Eighteenth-Century Britain 1688-1783 (2008) affinity to the foreign through emulation of fashion was important in that there was “a strong sense of inferiority to the cultural life and products of France and Italy” who were leaders in fashion and in particular “women’s clothes and behaviour” (179). Given this association, young ‘gulls’ such as these seemingly obtuse collectors could be seen as especially susceptible to corruptive foreign influence.  39  used in the building of British trade and naval warships and as such was a long-established metaphor for liberty, stability, and aristocratic agency thought to underpin British nationhood.85 British statesman and philosopher Edmund Burke (1729-1797) described the English aristocracy as “‘the great oaks that shade a country’.”86 With considerable irony and some tension then, the naturalist macaroni of Darly’s satire sits inertly beneath the tree’s branches, ostensibly enjoying the security of his British birthright, the oak, while his lax pose suggests little effort to ensure its continuity. Almost suspended and disconnected from the world around him, the young and effete aurelian would seem ill-equipped if not disinterested in defending British patrician values from which he arose.87 The aurelian, then, was an equivocal species whose unpredictable affinities made him neither wholly naturalist nor macaroni, neither patriot nor traitor. Aligned with macaroni affectations, the naturalist and his practices become uncertain conduits through which Britain’s patriarchal values, codes, and duties could be compromised. His affinity for the excesses of foreign taste and travel 85  Colin Winborn, The Literary Economy of Jane Austen and George Crabbe (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 97.  86  As quoted in Keith Thomas, Man and the Natural World: Changing Attitudes in England 1500-1800 (London, 1983), 218. In portraiture, the oak was often appropriated by landed families to frame their pedigree and politics (the oak as symbol of British liberty). Such is Johann Zoffany’s Earl of Lincoln and his Family (1765). Here, the Earl and his family sit under the oak as they overlook their extensive landscape park, Sheringham Park.  87  Sarah Jordan in The Anxieties of Idleness (Lewisburg Pa.: Bucknell University Press, 2003), 153-155 points out that this apparent rupture between parasitic complacency and industry underpinned feared social decay and the cliché of idle hands being susceptible to devilish temptation. Although speculation, it is interesting to consider that The Aurelian Macaroni may have further troubled informed viewers who would know that until the 1760s the oak was known as a Jacobite symbol. The young aurelian, positioned at the foot of the oak, already seen as receptive to foreign fashion tastes, could also register possible foreign political sympathies given that key eighteenth-century Jacobite symbolism was “the oak leaf…the grub and butterfly” as noted by Murray Pittock in “The Culture of Jacobitism,” in Culture and Society in Britain 1660-1800, ed. Jeremy Black (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1997). Jacobites were the Catholic Stuart rebels in Scotland who rallied throughout the century, often with support of the French, to restore James II and his Stuart successors to the English throne that they had lost to the Hanovers in the Glorious Revolution of 1688. The Aurelian Macaroni was armed with all three of these trigger points. Under the oak tree, with butterfly placards in hand, this young ‘grub’ that was indeed a butterfly aureolus about to change form, and thus could call up dangerous affinities. Here, the aurelian’s loyalties are manifest as unstable, potentially mutable, but certainly unpredictable. In other words, Linnaean taxonomy and the reign of science could be seen to pose undermining associations (as did Jacobitism) to British hierarchies based on a Protestant King and aristocracy.  40  could be seen to translate as political equivocation, a trait that was troubling to a nation already reeling from colonial resistances, relentless foreign wars, military losses, and soaring taxation. But exceptions—artificiality or affinity—that underpinned anxieties around the macaroni’s questionable loyalties to traditional forms of the status quo play out in the caricature through yet another trajectory: the macaroni and aurelian’s sexuality. Although sexual difference determined botanical classification, how was that difference negotiated if at issue was sexual ambiguity? Darly’s caricature raises this issue in positing the aurelian as having hybrid affinities, that is, one whose sexuality is neither one nor the other but ambiguous.88 The aurelian’s hat and tunic buttons are signs which provoke mediation of this problematic. Moral discourses of the eighteenth century positioned nature and fashion as polar opposites with Nature being about truth and fashion about deceit.89 With the influx of a new commodity culture, fashion’s alignment with privileged taste flourished, especially in the gendered space of female whims. In women, however, such intemperance was forgivable because weak wills were considered natural to females. The macaroni’s gravitation towards fashion, however, was seen as shamelessly “debauch’d with Effeminacy90 and the aurelian  88  This association I address more fully later in this chapter in reference to Susan Shapiro in “‘Yon Plumed Dandebrat’,” The Review of English Studies 39, no. 155 (August 1988): 400-412, who quotes from The Treasury: or Impartial Compendium, No. 3259 (London, 1771) that any macaroni was critiqued for being “ neither male nor female, a thing of neuter gender.”  89  Diana Donald in Followers of Fashion (2002) notes that in the eighteenth-century’s moral discourses “‘nature’ and ‘fashion’ were antithetical with the former standing for “truth, candour, beauty, and constancy of form” and the fashion being about “artifice, transience, and a corrupt kind of eroticism” (10). That some Linnaean tenets were seen as demonstrating fluctuation from conventional beliefs in relation to nature could have unsettling impact upon those who witnessed such ambiguity within the macaroni and natural history.  90  Kathleen Wilson, “The good, the bad, and the impotent: Imperialism and the politics of identity in Georgian England,” The Consumption of Culture 1600-1800: Image, Object, Text, eds. Ann Bermingham and John Brewer (London: Routledge, 1994), 243.  41  naturalist as macaroni raised related associations. Significantly the butterfly tricorn in the caricature could evoke the naturalist’s sexual affinity with women, his effeminacy, because the hat itself was in the form of a popular botanical collectible, the winged butterfly pea plant or what Linnaeus named the Clitoria ternatea.91 Moses Harris’s The Ruby Tyger, The SweetScented Pea (Figure 1.7) from his 1766 publication The Aurelian depicts the sweet-pea plant (Clitoria), its delicate and colourful wings spread like those of the numerous ruby tygers. Historian of science Francois Delaporte notes that Linnaeus, as with many other florals, recognized the flower’s womanly traits of “sweet fragrances, lively colors, [and] most elegant shape.” 92 Darly’s possible pun upon the naturalist-macaroni’s head-gear as the Clitoria plant as opposed to the requisite macaroni tricorn, suggests a loaded attack upon discourses in relation to macaroni masculinity, potential affinities with femininity, and the concern with the sexual basis of botanical practice.93 While the tricorn as butterfly plant or  91  Paul Frantz, “Nomenclatural Notes on the Genus Clitoria,” Castanea 65, no. 2 (June 2000): 85-92. Although other botanists such as Breyne in 1678 and Petiver in 1704 used the term clitoria ternatae to identify a plant, Paul Frantz points out that “the International Code of Botanical Nomenclature establishes Linnaeus (1753) as the official staring date for correct names.” Ternatea refers to one of the Moluccas Islands in east Indonesia (East Indies) from which the plant originated. Alan Bewell in “‘On the Banks of the South Seas’: botany and sexual controversy in the late eighteenth century,” in Visions of Empire, eds. David Miller and Peter Reill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) notes that Linnaeus in using sexual terminology for plants, named the butterfly pea plant, clitoria, and while he also suggests elsewhere in “A Passion that Transforms,” (2006) that this aurelian’s hat can be seen as a butterfly, he does to my knowledge make a connection of the hat to the butterfly pea plant.  92  Francois Delaporte, Nature’s Second Kingdom: explorations of vegetality in the eighteenth century (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1982), 140.  93  William Stearn in the Appendix to Wilfrid Blunt’s seminal biography of Linnaeus, The Compleat Naturalist, notes how Linnaeus’s choice of sexualized and anthropomorphic terms “amused some of his contemporaries but scandalized others” (245). Stearn continues by quoting from a letter written by Reverend Samuel Goodenough to Linnaean scholar J. E. Smith in January of 1808 wherein Goodenough, with apparent irony, states that “It is possible that many virtuous students might not be able to make out the similitude of ‘Clitoria’” (245). The use of the term and its possible implications for the naturalist were not obscure to those with botanical interests. Of further note is that Natalie Angier in Woman: An Intimate Geography (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1999) notes that “a second-century source suggests” that clitoris is a derivation of the Greek verb kleitoriazein meaning “to titillate lasciviously, to seek pleasure” (61), an association with aurelian in Darly’s image as possibly interested in sexual pleasure.  42  butterfly could also visually respond to both the sexual underpinnings of Linnaean classification and contemporaneous accounts that warned “there are men-butterflies…things that suffer themselves to be blown about by every wind of folly,”94 the point is that liaisons with foreign influences could not only corrupt but also work to undermine values that constituted the stability of masculine norms of British eighteenth-century society.95 That the aurelian macaroni’s hair or wig are in fact “writhing caterpillars,”96 —an interstitial stage of the butterfly—also raises the issue of change or transformation. As an aureolus or cocoon stage of development, the caterpillar curls could also be read as larva or maggots, that is, organisms that feed upon carrion. By analogy the image could suggest that this aurelian is a mere parasite that finds sustenance in the luxuriant excess of his gilded birthright while engaging with others of his “maccherone” ilk who were conversely seen in the 1770s and reported a such in popular accounts, as those of “gross understanding, fool[s], vulgar fellow[s].”97 Similarly in the eighteenth century, butterfly-catching in itself was viewed by some as a frivolous practice of idle minds.98 Called up here is the aurelian’s  94  Eliza Haywood, The Female Spectator, 3rd ed., Vol. 2 (London, 1744), 290.  95  The tricorn or Nivernois was named after the Duc de Nivernois, the French Ambassador to London from 1762-1763, at the end of the Seven Years War. See Hilda Amphlett, Hats (Chalfont St Giles: Sadler, 1974). Perhaps called up here could be a more political commentary, that is, the factious relations between Britain and France during the Seven Years War and the residual undercurrent of strained relations. That the aurelian wears a tricorn could heighten speculation around the mask of his couture and anxiety around his possible allegiances or susceptibility to French foreign influence, especially since his Grand Tour often took him there.  96  George, Catalogue of Political and Personal Satire, Vol. V, 135. Also see Bewell “A Passion that Transforms,” in Figuring It Out (2006) and Rauser, Caricature Unmasked (2008).  97  Baretti, Easy phraseology, 39-40.  98  See for example John Gascoigne Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment: Useful Knowledge and Polite Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994) and Rauser, Caricature Unmasked (2008).  43  alignment to the organic and aforementioned ‘dung and filth’, that is, unstable bodies on society’s margins who had the capability of transforming the social in unpredictable ways.99 Hair contributed to that transformative potential as well as the identity and categorization of an entity.100 In his 1758 edition of Systema Naturae Linnaeus categorized Homo Sapiens, and one of their defining characteristics was hair—Europeanus had long blond “flowing” hair, Americanus had “black straight and thick” hair, Asiaticus had “black” hair, and the Afer’s hair was black and “kinked.”101 These defining attributes conflate with issues with reference to sexual identity or ambiguity and the eighteenth-century fashion for wearing wigs.102 While British patricians wore wigs in public, macaroni fashion was characterized by “masses of artificial hair,” a factor associated with “superficial” tendencies and thus potential masculine ambiguity.103 Art historian Marcia Pointon argues that artificial hair, the wig, was an exemplar of stable patrician power, and the more ornate the wig, the more elevated the status.104 The aurelian’s extraordinary caterpillar curls, an exaggerated hairpiece here, are ironic for they do 99  Harris, The Aurelian (1766). See Footnote 79.  100  Alan Bewell”s “A Passion that Transforms” (2006) notes that the aurelian’s curls allude to Medusa and as such “raise anxieties” around “cross-gendering” and the naturalist, but gives no further explanation. I would suggest that in terms of my position on the aurelian’s discomforting ‘affinity’ that Medusa could refer to the notion of a dialectic status—the collision of beauty and horror, of creativity and destruction—to posit the aurelian as ambivalent, a trait shared with many of Linnaeus’s formulations and their manifestations in the natural world.  101  As quoted in Luke Lassiter, Invitation to Anthropology (Toronto: Altamira Press, 2006), 24.  102  See for Dror Wahrman, Making of the Modern Self: Identity and Culture in the Eighteenth-Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), Marcia Pointon, Hanging the Head (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993) and Angela Rosenthal “Raising Hair,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 38, no. 1 (2004).  103  A. Turberville, English Men and Manners in the Eighteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1926), 9598.  104  Pointon, Hanging the Head, 117. The size of the wig also held ambivalent overtones as suggested by Amelia Rauser, “Hair, Authenticity and the Self-Made Macaroni” in Eighteenth-Century Studies 38, no. 1 (2004): 101117. Here Rauser refers to the familiar “analogy between large wig and large genitalia,” but qualifies that in some macaroni images this notion can be “undercut by the suggestion of masculine overcompensation” (107).  44  not guarantee stature but have an undercurrent of ambivalent and reductive force. The macaroni who would ordinarily flaunt his opposition to paternal virtues by wearing “‘big hair”105 would seem to hypocritically subscribe to the very values to which he claims indifference. Furthermore, the aurelian’s curls that attract the viewer’s eye could also accentuate the disjuncture between the naturalist’s supposed practice of a focused look into natural phenomena and that of this dazed and ornamented narcissist whose gaze at the viewer might suggest his “wanton”106 desire is not just for natural history. The snail shells on the aurelian’s jacket further underscore equivocal sexuality. In the same family as Linnaean mollusca, gastropoda (snails) may generally look the same but they are diverse in terms of form, behaviour, and habitat. Those differences are evident in the snail’s sexual performance. Gastropoda engage in elaborate foreplay, parading and entwining their bodies during courtship, displaying their disproportionately large sexual organs, and hurling ‘love darts’ at one another.107 Eventually they inseminate one another for 105  As quoted in Rosenthal, “Raising Hair,” 10.  106  Gill Perry, “Staging Gender and “Hairy Signs”: Representing Dorothy Jordan’s Curls,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 38, no. 1 (2004): 145-163. Perry reaffirms that the “potential of curl” was to “evoke desire, and also to possess attributes of wantonness” (150). Such artifice is further complicated in that the kinds of wigs befitting privileged tastes like that of the aurelian macaroni were, as art historian Marcia Pointon notes in Hanging The Head (1993) made of women’s hair, often that of “harlots,” (121) an association that I suggest would imprint the aurelian with sexual improprieties and moral decay. Art historian Gill Perry points out that in the early 1770s actress Dorothy Jordan was renowned for a similar “mop of brown curls,” a potent sign of both her female sexual identity and her ability as a “natural” performer who easily morphed into roles of masculine gender (148). Perry also reaffirms the well established belief of the female performer with “the loose and lowest class” of society, a factor that in my discussion calls up unsettling association of the privileged aurelian with those of the lower orders. Such parallels of the aurelian to borderline bodies—through gender and class—could point to him as dangerously unstable and perhaps even an infectious entity. Surely such associations were borne out in the naturalist-macaroni’s apparent affinity for cross-dressing with floral patterns, ruffles, and wigs— elements that also registered the ‘feminine’ as historian Michèle Cohen has discussed in Fashioning Masculinity: National Identity and Language in the Eighteenth Century (1996).  107  Janet L. Leonard, “Sexual Selection: Lessons from Hermaphrodite Mating Systems,” Integrative Comparative Biology 45, no. 2 (2005): 355 and also in John Blatchford, “Garden Snails: Hermaphrodites Who Spear Their Partners During Courtship,” (August 18, 2007): http://othernvertebrates.suite101.com/article.cfm/garden_snails The dolichophallus (snail) translated means ‘long penis.’ Given my discussion around the aurelian’s wriggling caterpillar curls, the intertwining of bodies posited by the snails also calls to mind what Gill Perry has noted in his article “Staging Gender and “Hairy Signs” (Footnote  45  as hermaphrodites, snails have both male and female reproductive organs and can be reciprocal partners.108 The hermaphroditic snails on the naturalist-macaroni’s tunic from neck to knee serve as strategic satirical signs of his body’s sexual ambiguity, a factor confirmed in contemporaneous text where the macaroni is called “a creature dull and droney, Of doubtful sex, and called a Macaroni.”109 The macaroni’s ostensible affinity for ambiguous sexuality unsettled the conventional status quo and raised anxieties. In popular accounts, publics wondered would the macaroni “saunter into the City to show [him]self to the Brutes”110 or “make such large advances to the feminine gender that in a little time ‘twill be difficult to tell to which sex you belong.”111 The macaroni was thus critiqued for his being “a kind of animal, neither male nor female, a thing of neuter gender.”112 Indeed, as Robert Hitchcock’s popular play noted, this ambiguity around sexuality was manifest in the aberration of the hermaphrodite:  106), that is, that William Hogarth’s The Analysis of Beauty (1753) notes contemporary hair fashioning often featured the hair done “like inter-twisted serpents” (151). 108  Ibid., but specifically Janet Leonard’s “Sexual Selection: Lessons from Hermaphrodite Mating Systems,” 355-356. Leonard’s own studies and those she cites by others have shown that “aerial mating” by twisting and hanging from a tree is evident in land slugs. Amongst giant banana slugs “apophallation” is practiced, that is, “copulation is occasionally terminated by amputation of the penis of one or both individuals.” In another hermaphroditic group, that of the leech or sea slug, behaviour called “hypodermic insemination” occurs where individuals in “an attempt to ward off damaging the penis during insertion” injects sperm just under the partner’s “skin” (355).  109  Cited in N. Pearson, Society Sketches in the Eighteenth Century (London: Edward Arnold, 1911), 239. Susan Shapiro’s “‘Yon Plumed Dandebrat’: Male ‘Effeminacy’ in English Satire and Criticism” (1988) argues that the “most common associations with male ‘effeminacy’ were uxoriousness, foppery, libertinism, omnisexuality, [and ironically], asexuality, but only very rarely exclusive homosexuality” (401). The possible affinity of the aurelian macaroni to these many sexual types, I argue, underscored his equivocation or exclusion (exception) from the heterosexual norm, and thus embodied a flux and unpredictability that could pose a threat to the traditional male virtues thought to underpin stalwart nationhood.  110  John Cooke, The macaroni jester, and pantheon of wit; containing all that has lately transpired in the regions of politeness, whim and novelty. (London, 1773), 103.  111  Hitchcock, The Macaroni. (1773), 3.  112  From The Treasury: or Impartial Compendium, No. 3259 (London, 1771), 75 as quoted in Susan Shapiro, “‘Yon Plumed Dandebrat’,” 410.  46  But Macaronis are a sex Which do philosophers perplex; Tho’ all the priests of Venus’s rites Agree they are Hermaphrodites. 113 But in the Darly caricature, to what extent is the naturalist-macaroni a catalyst for new cultural consideration? In other words, do such images as Darly’s challenge the viewer, in the words of Foucault, to “find an adjustment” and move beyond “signs and similitudes [that] were wrapped around one another in an endless spiral?”114 Not to be overlooked is that since the early Renaissance hermaphrodites were categorized as monsters, and thus not human. As prodigies of nature, they call up Linnaean terminology of “Paradoxa (Monsters),”115 and an in-between sexuality was still attempted to be resolved through binary belief: they were either messages of God to indicate His displeasure or abstract signs of corruption within a culture.116 Medical treatises of the day challenged encoded beliefs about hermaphroditism. Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae in each of its ten editions consistently acknowledged the frequency of hermaphrodites in the botanic world. And, there was no rule that precluded zoological taxa, particularly Homo sapiens (man) from similar incidence. Linnaeus explained succinctly: entities having different sexual organs concurrently “were hermaphrodites...called  113  For full publication of this poem see Henry Bate Dudley, The Vauxhall affray; or, the Macaronis defeated: being a compilation of all the letters, squibs on both sides of that dispute, 3rd ed. (London: J. Williams, 1773).  114  Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (London: Routledge, 2002), 35.  115  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, 29.  116  That the hermaphrodite lacked the ‘essential’ sexual parts that were supposed to be divined through God’s creations also marginalized these individuals as unsanctioned entities.  47  hybrids (mixed).”117 The public responded with renewed interest in natural history but also with morbid fascination. In January of 1750, the Gentleman’s Magazine published graphic medical descriptions of the genital configurations of hermaphrodite Michael Anne Drouvert.118 What also lived large in British memory was the case of Marie/Marin le Marcis, a French hermaphrodite who was tried and convicted on charges of sodomy because she/he assumed the male persona in a relationship with Jeane le Febure. Their intention to marry was what triggered public outrage.119 Similarly, the Royal Society’s Philosophical Transactions focused its scientific gaze upon hermaphrodite Anna Wilde of Ringwood, Hamphsire, stating that she/he was only fit “‘for the view of the Learned’.”120 Sexual ambiguities such as those evident in the transgendered mobilities of Britain’s Hannah Snell (1723-1792) and her contemporary, the equally enigmatic Chevalier, or Madame d’Eon, marked sexual transformation as a site of both sensational fodder for public consumption and reconsideration of the nature of humanity. Thomas Laqueur argues in Making Sex that during the second half of the eighteenthcentury models of sexual difference shifted from a “one body” to “two body” model.121 No  117  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, 23. Similar exceptions were evident in categories of his Amphibia and Paradoxa (Monsters).  118  See Gentleman’s Magazine, Vol. 20 (London, January 20, 1750), 20-21.  119  Elizabeth Wahl, Invisible Relations: representations of female intimacy in the Age of Enlightenment (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1999), 25-30. Thomas Lacquer’s Making Sex (1990) extends the narrative of Marie/Marin le Marcis, the French hermaphrodite, and explains that her conviction rested upon her not providing the court with visible proof of an external penis. A Dr. Jacques Duval “probed his/her vulva and proved it not a clitoris by rubbing until it ejaculated a thick masculine semen”(137). This intervention saved Marie/Marin from execution, but called into question medical practice and violation of women/men. Marie/Marin eventually was allowed to adopt her new gender but not until age twenty-five. Until then, she was to forgo wearing woman’s clothing or engaging in intercourse with either male or females. Who monitored this and how is not known.  120  As quoted in Ruth Gilbert, Early Modern Hermaphrodites (London: Palgrave, 2002), 145.  121  Thomas Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender From The Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), 25-62.  48  longer homologues of one another where female genitalia was seen merely as “inverted” such that she was “a less perfect man,” categorization shifted to gender distinction where outside or inside genitalia was but a “diagnostic sign.”122 For hermaphrodites then, as Laqueur argues, what was pivotal is not “what sex they really are, but to which gender the architecture of their bodies most readily lent itself [while] maintaining the category.”123 The nature of humanity especially concerning the artificiality of classification challenged conventional thinking. Although society seemed fascinated, certainty was distanced. The porous boundaries that seemed to be surfacing, especially in relation to issues of sex and gender, heightened anxieties as well as provoked new considerations of masculinity. As a discursive space, The Aurelian Macaroni through natural history signaled a shift in society’s consideration of sexual difference or in the notion of Linnaean exceptions. Various public interests were unclear about these new considerations. Boundaries were often blurred as the notion of ‘exception’ was discussed through a generalized notion of ‘difference’ as anything that deviated from conventional social norms. For example, in many newspapers of 1772, reports concerning homosexual scandals, and in particular the trial of Captain Robert Jones for sodomy (for which he received a Royal pardon), demonstrated the competing debates about sexual categorization.124 There was no relief in the knowledge that former references to all types of macaronis, especially the term ‘molly or fop,’ literally meant  122  Ibid., 135.  123  Ibid.  124  See Wayne R. Dynes and Stephen Donaldson, History of Homosexuality in Europe and America (New York: Garland Pub., 1992), Gillian Russell’s Women, sociability and theatre in Georgian London ( Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) and primary resources of London Evening Post, August 1-20, 1772 and September 15-29, 1772 at http://rictornorton.co.uk/eighteen/jones5.htm.  49  “effeminate sodomite.”125 The leap from naturalist macaronis to hermaphrodites was a convenient way to marshal anyone who seemed to defy logic, disrupt conventional order, or threaten the nation’s stability and by association, its image of nationhood. The naturalistmacaroni’s alleged indifference to masculine virtues, family values, and paternal instincts thus conflated with speculation concerning sexual slippage. Such ambivalences and ambiguities also surfaced through natural history’s new knowledge that spoke of unusual affinities or relatedness, and of sexual differences and systems that were artificially constructed. Lacquer has noted that the “weak, womanly male partner” whether “a pathicus, the one being penetrated; cinaedus, the one who engages in unnatural lust; mollis, the passive, effeminate one,” was considered “flawed” not because his actions violated “natural heterosexuality” but rather for their embodiment of “radical, culturally unacceptable reversal of power and prestige.”126 Whether aurelian, macaroni, or a subjectivity somewhere inbetween, this entity brought into public consciousness unsettling considerations regarding sexuality and its role in sustaining the power and prestige perceived to be keynote to British nationhood. Underpinning these anxieties as well would seem to be ongoing social tensions in relation to who exercised power over whom. Ambiguity around sexuality embedded within The Aurelian Macaroni intensified anxieties with reference to a generation’s capability to fulfill national expectations. Firstly, called into question was the ability to defend British virtues against the foreign insurrection whether that was ongoing friction with continental powers or unrest in the American colonies. Secondly, the naturalist-macaroni’s questionable commitment to fulfilling paternal 125  Cohen, Fashioning Masculinity, Chapter 2, passim. Also see Norton Rictor, Homosexuality in EighteenthCentury England at http://www.infopt.demon.co.uk/macaroni.htm.  126  Laqueur, Making Sex, 53.  50  and patrician duty was troubled by the knowledge that Britain’s landed establishment was caught up in a demographic crisis. This crisis, as historian Linda Colley argues, was characterized by families “not reproducing themselves,” by losing their estates, and ultimately being replaced by a new British landed establishment.127 Thirdly, anxiety was heightened by writers of the day who in likening dominant male sexuality to “a wonderful machine” equated vibrant manhood to the momentum behind Britain’s industrial drive and productivity.128 If popular accounts were accurate in their assessment of the macaroni as being a ‘thing’ of “weakness, softness, [and] delicacy,” 129 how could he father a stalwart nation or ensure economic vibrancy and cultural continuities? Uncertainty was also compounded by new medical science that implied ‘weak blood’ adjusted to “changes [that were] inheritable, and thus, in time produce[d] different species.”130 In Linnaean terms, this deduction translated as the aforementioned ‘blending’, ‘mixing’ and ‘future improvements’ that were addressed in Linnaeus’s publications,131 concepts that through analogy hinted at future slippages that could impact landed gentry’s political grip. Disciplining social behaviour and difference, no matter what class or gender, underpinned tensions around issues of self and nation. Held in tension were the science or biology of sex and the performance of gender. With that in mind, Darly’s caricature with its mockery of the macaroni-naturalist’s affinity for fashion excess, self-indulgent consumerism,  127  Colley, Britons, 156. Colley says that the failure to produce male heirs was evident in areas such as Yorkshire where “of the ninety-three baronetcies created between 1611 and 1880, fifty-one were already extinct by the latter date” (157).  128  John Cleland, Memoirs of a woman of pleasure, Vol. 1 (London: Thomas Parker, 1766), 42.  129  Shapiro, “‘Yon Plumed Dandebrat’,” 400.  130  Jacques Barzun, From Dawn to Decadence: 1500 to the Present (New York: HarperCollins, 2000), 455. Ominous hints at adaptation and evolution over time had not yet gained full momentum.  131  These are the aforementioned Species Plantarum, Systema Naturae, and Philosophia Botanica.  51  questionable political verve, and ambiguous sexuality would seem to be not only an attempt to reign in masculine defiance and reaffirm patriotic virtues, but on a broader level manage and control emerging exceptions, new social shifts, and even public exchanges in Britain’s transforming cultural terrain.  Conclusion I have argued that Darly’s The Aurelian Macaroni signals anxieties around cultural shifts in Georgian Britain. As a discursive site, the subject of Darly’s caricature, that is the aurelian and at a broader level natural history itself, exposed tensions especially in relation to notions of sexual difference and affinities that Linnaean formulations brought to the fore. Certainly Darly’s caricature opened up the paradox of Linnaean classification, namely, its prescribed grid seemed stable, but inherent exceptions pointed to a knowledge that was in flux. Both the aurelian and the Linnaean formulations for which he stood allowed for the emergence of new selfhoods, that is, the beginning of more porous definitions of sexuality, ones that merged with gender issues to redefine its socially dominant form—masculinity. On the threshold was the beginning of a different way of seeing, a change that in Foucault’s words saw power shifted from the individual to include all “‘living things” and were “ruled by processes and biological laws.”132 To this end, The Aurelian Macaroni is not just a caricature that exaggerated the excess of a commodity culture, the insouciance of youth, or the uncertainty wrought by new knowledge, but is a representation that signaled transformation in how one related to a changing world. The Aurelian Macaroni’s negotiation  132  Jeremy Crampton, Space, Knowledge and Power: Foucault and Geography (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2007),  6.  52  of natural history’s knowledge and its entangled terrains of selfhood is the threshold for entry into Chapter Two’s further exploration of botanophilia’s role in cultural transformation within Georgian Britain.  53  CHAPTER TWO New Dynamics in Natural History’s Domain Introduction The transition from fashionable hobby to productive global enterprise helped legitimate botany as a valid scientific pursuit. Botanizing gained popularity too through its conflation with Imperial mandates and the imagined fruition waiting in distant geographies. Linnaeus’s universally applicable classification system lent momentum to global plant pursuit, that is, botany’s outreach. Taxonomic order was seen to have the potential to contain and control the natural and unnatural, especially in these unknown new worlds. However, Linnaean tenets also generated uncertainty, and while exceptions such as affinities (see Chapter One) raised concerns, so did notions of hybridity. As outlined by the ‘father of botany’ in his Systema Naturae, such entities that had shared traits were “mixed.”1 Given that Linnaeus chose to explain his system by way of language that asserted human sexual relations, ‘mixity’, at the simplest of levels, could translate through analogy into social terrains that in turn provoked new considerations around the dynamics of sexuality and race. In this chapter I build upon Linnaeus’s formulations concerning similarity and difference to demonstrate how his term hybrid or mixed was at issue in relation to botany’s move into new social, political, and cultural domains. Linnaeus’s mixedness brought forth the idea of a combining of traits, a fusion of diverse elements, or a lack of uniformity. Such variation inherent to mixity teased out the concept of movement, that is, combining, circulating or interchanging in some way. As I will argue, those mobilities and their  1  Carolus Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, with an introduction and first English translation of the “observations,” (1735) 1st ed., trans. M. S. J. Engel-Ledeboer and H. Engel (Nieuwkoop: B. de Graaf, 1964), 23.  54  affiliation with naturalist practices underpinned public anxieties around botany’s outreach. Particular to my argument is that eighteenth-century visual culture that ranged from satirical prints to formal portraiture, themselves also mobile and circulating through middle and upper class viewers, captured this moment by allowing for discourses to emerge around botanical outreach and its relation to sexuality, class, and race. Exposure to wider worlds and its peoples was also impacted by the notion of hybridity that in contemporary terms points to what Homi Bhabha’s terms as ‘inbetweenness’, that is, “where difference is neither One nor the Other but something else besides, in-between.”2 This concept surfaces in images of this chapter that range from caricature to formal portraits displayed in the early 1770s by the Royal Academy’s Thomas Gainsborough and Benjamin West.3 As a caricature of renowned British naturalist Sir Joseph Banks, Matthew Darly’s The Fly-Catching Macaroni published in 1772 (Figure 2.1) takes up notions of the hybrid within the expanding sites of botany’s outward reach. Ostensibly for more polished palettes but still addressing botany’s hybrid trajectory, Benjamin West’s portrait Mr. Joseph Banks, (Figure 2.2) commissioned by Banks’s family and first displayed at the Royal Academy in 1773,4 depicted the well known naturalist Banks amidst his South  2  Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 2004), 313.  3  Benjamin West (1738-1820) was American born painter of portraits and historical subjects. Upon moving to Britain in the early 1760s, under the patronage of George III he painted the Royal family and later became a court-sponsored painter. His friendship with British painter Sir Joshua Reynolds led to their being two of the founding members of the Royal Academy of Arts in 1768. Succeeding Reynolds, West served as the second President of the Royal Academy from 1792 to 1805 and then 1806-1820. Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788) was a British landscape and portrait painter and member of the Royal Academy who also enjoyed the patronage of George III.  4  Andrew Potter, Research Librarian, via email message of November 20, 2009 (London: Royal Academy of Arts Library picturelibrary@royalacademy.org.uk). Mr. Potter indicated the painting, commissioned for Banks’s family, was first shown at the Royal Academy in 1773. It was also shown at the “1862 International Exhibition at South Kensington,” perhaps resonant even ninety years later of Banks’s profound agency within development of global and international botanical enterprises. Banks’s biographer Harold Carter in Sir Joseph Banks 1743-1820 (British Museum Publications, 1988), states that while the provenance of the painting is  55  Pacific regalia, markers of global claim. While others have examined this portrait in terms of Banks’s “cross-dressing” as an “appropriation of the power of an alien culture,”5 or as a form of connoisseurship of that culture,6 in my analysis I suggest the portrait, a staple through which empire was produced, helped mediate botany’s agency in cultural change and negotiate the naturalist’s unsettling mixity as bourgeois professional, scientific explorer, and cultural anthropologist. I also explore anxieties in relation to race and botany’s global enterprises through Matthew Darly’s caricature published in 1772, A Mungo Macaroni (Figure 2.3). This image of Julian Soubise, a freed black slave known as a “man about town,”7 opens up considerations of how Linnaean hybridity and eighteenth-century fears in relation to racial difference unsettled status quos. As a product of the triangular slave trade,8 Soubise, a former labourer in and now by-product of botanical outreach, unsettled various Britons I argue, with his potential to transform and as a result co-opt as well as possibly unclear, it was “very likely that West was commissioned by Robert Banks Hodgkinson,” the uncle of Banks (99). 5  Beth Fowkes Tobin, Picturing Imperial Power (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999), 87.  6  See Harriet Guest “Curiously Marked,” Painting and the Politics of Culture: New essays on British art, 17001850, ed. John Barrell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 101-134. Guest argues that in the West portrait Banks exhibits “ambiguity” by way of “absence of defining networks of social relations” (118). The importance of the “fashionable world” underpins Gillian Russell’s discussion of Joseph Banks in “Fashionable Sociability and the Pacific,” A New Imperial History, ed. Kathleen Wilson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 48-70. Patricia Fara in “Images of a Man of Science,” History Today 48 (October 1998): 42-49 does call Banks “a romantic young explorer” (42).  7  M. Dorothy George, Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires: Preserved in the Department of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, Vol. V (London: British Museum Publications Ltd., 1935), 120. In her commentary on William Austin’s engraving entitled The Eccentric Duchess of Queensbury fencing with her protégé the Creole Soubise (1773) (BMC 5120), George identifies Soubise as “one of the most conspicuous fops of the town” (120). Felicity Nussbaum in The Limits of the Human (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003) notes that in some versions of this image an alternate title is given, namely “The Duchess of Queensberry playing at folio with her favorite Lap Dog Mungo after expending near £10,000 to make him a—” (7).  8  As mentioned in this thesis’s Introduction, triangular trade refers to the commercial practice that saw resources shipped from England or North America to the West Indies where sugar was obtained and used to make rum, for example, and in turn was taken to Africa along with guns and tools to be traded for slaves. These slaves were then carried to the West Indies, North America or England to be sold as plantation labourers.  56  corrupt notions of Britishness. A representation within the tradition of academic art, Thomas Gainsborough’s 1768 portrait of former slave and writer Ignatius Sancho (Figure 2.4) exposes similar race anxieties concerning the black man’s capacity to penetrate hegemonic worlds.9 In this chapter, caricature’s earthy appeal is held in tension with portraiture’s more sophisticated eye to negotiate cultural unease around hybridities emerging in Georgian Britain’s cultural terrains.  A Green Slate: New Grounds for Re-visioning the Naturalist-Macaroni Botany’s reach beyond domestic borders into new botanoscapes10 gained legitimacy through an association with professional as opposed to amateur interests, with influential patrons and social networks, and with the potential usefulness of botanical resource. Under its banner of national progress and economic recovery, this outreach flourished. The pursuit of vegetal resource in distant geographies was also given momentum through a new form of naturalist, a disciplined yet dynamic scientific explorer. By establishing contact and taking plant resource from global locales to be acclimatized back home, these naturalist-explorers  9  This portrait was later engraved and used as the frontispiece to Sancho’s The Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho, An African (1782). Ignatius Sancho (1729-1780) was a well-known freed black Briton (and former slave) who distinguished himself as a gifted composer, writer, and drama critic. He was active in the abolitionist movement and in mentoring other freed slaves, one of whom was Soubise. In The Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho, An African published in 1782, over 150 letters by Sancho chronicle his experience as a slave, his family life, his political thoughts and activities in the arts, as well as contemporaneous events such as the Gordon riots of 1780.  10  As mentioned in the Introduction to this thesis, I have created the term ‘botanoscape’ to register the fluidities underpinning botanical sites and global enterprises. Arjun Appadurai in “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy,” from Colonial Discourse and Postcolonial Theory: A Reader, eds. Patrick Williams and Laura Chrisman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994) use the term ‘scape’ in relation to global cultural flow (often from colonial sites). His definition of ‘scape’ can apply to botanical spaces, that is ‘scape’ as the “fluid” nature of terrains, one that is contingent upon “perspectival constructs inflected by….the situatedness” of different sorts of subjectivities—social, political, and economic (328-329).  57  facilitated Britain’s subsequent claim to those geographies.11 Driving botany’s engine was Joseph Banks, a Linnaean naturalist whose influence in the development and advancement of natural history in Britain earned him the accolade of “‘The Liberal Patron of Science, and the Enlightened Cultivator of Natural Knowledge.’”12 His presence as botanical scientist aboard sailings to Newfoundland and Labrador in 1766 led to Banks’s most renowned voyage to the South Pacific locales from 1768 to 1772 as resident botanist aboard Captain James Cook’s Endeavour.13 This well published voyage of discovery opened up Britain’s imperial geobotanizing and global plant transfers. Indeed, by early 1773 Banks would oversee the Royal Gardens at Kew and manage its botanical specimens.14 As Britain’s chief engineer of  11  John Gascoigne in Science in the Service of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) calls Banks a “scientific explorer” although not Britain’s first and notes that promoting naturalists as part of voyages of discovery was a means by which governments could leverage funding in the name of “strategic and imperial advantage” (127).  12  As cited John Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment: Useful Knowledge and Polite Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 33. Banks served as Director of the Royal Gardens at Kew for over forty-five years, as well as President of the Royal Society (of Science), Vice President of the Linnaean Society, founding member of the Royal Horticultural Society, advisor to the East India Company and member of the Privy Council, all positions registering his importance to botany’s enterprises. See also A. R. Ferguson, “Sir Joseph Banks and the Transfer of Crop Plants,” New Zealand Journal 11, no. 2 (2008): 9-15.  13  Meant to imprint national pride and prowess, The Endeavour’s voyage was sanctioned at the highest political levels through George III’s personal “Promotion of Natural Knowledge” while being serviced by the Royal Navy at the King’s command according to Harold B. Carter in Sir Joseph Banks 1743-1820 (London: British Museum Publications, 1988). Posited under the mandate of “Discovery of the Southern Continent” and observation of the transit of Venus in June of 1769, the voyage would also accommodate botanical pursuit, and uniquely so through “a collaboration of civilian science under royal patronage…with private enterprise under Admiralty management” (74-75). The ‘Southern Continent’ was a phrase denoting Polynesia, Australia and ultimately New Zealand. Carter recounts that accompanying Banks were naturalists (Sweden’s Daniel Solander and Herman Spöring), botanical illustrators (Sydney Parkinson and Alexander Buchan), servants, horticultural assistants, carpenters, and Banks’s two greyhounds. Of note is that Cook’s Endeavour was not the first European ship to visit Otahiete. John Hawkesworth, literary scholar and writer of An abridgment of Captain Cook’s first and second voyages first published in 1773, points out that Captain Wallis of the British ship the Dolphin had landed in Tahiti, then known as Georges Island, and returned to England in May 1768. In addition, Emma Spary in Utopia’s Garden (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000) points out that French Captain Bougainville in the mid-1760s voyaged to Tahiti, known then by the French as ‘La Nouvelle Cythère’ or the New Island of Love. Also see Glyndwr Williams, “The Endeavour Voyage,” Science and Exploration in the Pacific, ed. M. Lincoln, (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1998).  14  Charles Lyte, Sir Joseph Banks: Eighteenth-Century Explorer, Botanist, and Entrepreneur (London: David and Charles, 1980), 172. Also see for example Ray Desmond, Kew: The History of the Royal Botanic Gardens (London: Harvill Press, 1995). Desmond reports that Banks collected and documented over 3600 species of  58  botanical enterprise, namely “one of the country’s foremost naturalists,”15 it is fitting that Banks should be a target of caricature’s social critique, a form that appealed to diverse interests. In 1772, Matthew Darly’s The Fly-Catching Macaroni of the same year (Figure 2.1), a satire of Joseph Banks displayed in the window of Darly’s popular Strand Street print-shop, The Macaroni Print-Shop (Figure 1.4), captured public attention.16 In dandified attire— ruffled shirt, hat with a plume, macaroni queue, and sword—this was the “flycatcher” Joseph Banks as has been identified by numerous scholars.17 In the image he wields round, bag-net rackets in an attempt to catch a butterfly, and all the while standing astride two globes labeled as the “Antartick Circle” and the “Artick Circle.”18 Underscoring the precariousness of his stance, an anxious grimace marks his face and animal ears—those of an ass—protrude plants, “bottles of pickled animals” as well as animal bone specimens such as those of the ‘kangooroo’ (88). As ‘Director’ of the Royal Gardens at Kew and President of the Royal Society (of Science), Banks established worldwide networks, his hand shaping Britain’s global trade initiatives and transfers of botanical product to colonies or back to Kew. As my thesis will discuss, Banks and his connections were instrumental in building Britain’s botanical empire and fulfilling the nation’s and Monarchy’s mandate of progress and ‘improvement’, and especially so in light of his close friendship with the King that historian Ray Desmond also addresses (889). 15  Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment, 9. Still today, historians such as Richard Holmes in his The Age of Wonder (London: Harper Press, 2009) acknowledge Banks as the “universal scientific patron that largely shaped and directed” Britain’s botanical global empire (57).  16  Notable for being fashionably in the news, Banks was also the subject of another Matthew Darly print published in 1772, The Botanic Macaroni (BMC 5046). Here Banks is shown as scrutinizing a flower specimen but also displaying, as Dorothy George notes in A Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires in the British Museum (1935), his “gouty leg,” perhaps attesting to his high living. Biographer Harold Carter informs that this gout kept Banks wheelchair bound in his later years. The only other Darly work on Banks is the engraving published in 1773 (see Footnote 70 of Chapter One)—double cameo portraits of Banks and his mistress, “The Circumnavigator” and “Miss B----N” (BMC 5146).  17  Frederic Georg Stephens, Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum: Political and Personal Satires, Vol. IV (London: British Museum Publications, 1883), 782. Stephens’s study identifies this image as “The Fly-Catching Macaroni (Sir Joseph Banks).”  18  See Michael Salmon’s The Aurelian Legacy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000) for descriptions of various butterfly nets. Salmon interestingly points out that chasing butterflies has a long history with illustrations by Jehan de Grise from the mid-fourteenth century Flemish manuscript The Romance of Alexander as the “earliest known depictions of people chasing butterflies” (68).  59  beneath his tricorn. The text “I rove from Pole to Pole, you ask me why/ I tell you Truth, to catch a—Fly,” would seem to mock Banks as master naturalist of Britain’s global plant pursuit.19 In 1772, Banks was in the public eye for his famed journey on the Endeavour, and his status as collector, scientific explorer, and confidante of George III had been registered in his new role at Kew Gardens.20 The print acknowledges this publicity and at one level attests to Banks’s dedicated spirit of rigorous inquiry and productive work.21 As the inimitable botanical explorer of the South Seas, Fellow of the Royal Society, and cultural icon at the tender age of twenty-three, Joseph Banks represented the new face of botanical enterprise. But caricature’s purpose of mockery and censure would suggest that this landscape was not as harmonious as it first might seem. Perhaps calling up John Locke’s notion of the tabula rasa from his An Essay Concerning Human Understanding of 1690, the Banksian era posited a clean slate but an unknown one, and as such knowledge, imagination, and botany’s reach were about to be written upon new lands that would require deft negotiation of 19  Stephens, Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, 782. Stephens makes clear that this is indeed Banks after he and his colleague and friend, naturalist Daniel Solander returned firstly from the South Pacific (Antartick Circle) in June of 1772 and then from their subsequent short journey to the northwest coast of Scotland and Iceland (Artick Circle) in November of 1772. Richard Drayton in Nature’s Government (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000) indicates that Banks contributed £10,000 of his own money to the Endeavour’s expedition (66).  20  For Banks’s role at Kew and friendship with George III see John Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment, 1-28 and Ray Desmond, Kew: The History of the Royal Botanic Gardens (London: Harvill Press, 1995), 85-93.  21  The eminent French naturalist Georges Cuvier in his “Historical Eloge of the late Sir Joseph Banks, Baronet, President of the Royal Society,” read to the Royal Academy of France on April 2, 1821 but also published in The Edinburgh New Philosophical Journal, Vol. 2 (Edinburgh: October-December, 1827), spoke eloquently and admiringly of Banks’s momentous contribution to science, his tireless “energy,” and his being at the vanguard of botanical advances (1-21). On another note, although Banks was a man of some financial means having inherited land from his ‘squire’ father, he was not of the surfeit, aristocratic set. Ray Desmond notes in Kew: The History of the Royal Botanic Gardens that when Banks entered the college of Christ Church at Oxford he did so as a “gentleman-commoner” (85). Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall in Men and Women of the English middle class, 1780-1850 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987) argue that “the single greatest distinction between the aristocracy and the middle class was the imperative for members of the latter to actively seek an income rather than expect to live from rents and emoluments of office while spending their time in honour-enhancing activities such as politics, hunting or social appearances” (20). Banks liked the physical work of natural history and that separated him from elite types.  60  challenges ranging from national skepticism to other cultures and their influences. These tensions within botany’s expansion are positioned, I suggest, through the ambivalences embedded within the caricature’s unmarked backdrop. Firstly, in The Fly-Catching Macaroni while the fly-catcher’s stance astride two globes might be masterful to some, to others the pose could translate to ‘out of balance’— that is, connoting a critique of the eighteenth century’s insatiable appetite for celebrity and addiction to passing fads. Certainly state funding given to the Endeavour is here trivialized as serving only to swat or catch ‘flies’.22 Perhaps this explorer’s straddling of two globes could remind viewers of Banks’s reputed sexual conquests in Otaheite, of discomfort over monies wasted on planet gazing, and of looking to plants as salvation for Britain’s crumbling economy.23 Similarly called up could also have been allusions to polarized cultures, that is, troubling differences between British codes and practices in ‘primitive’ new worlds. As one example that was reported in London papers, Banks’s journal of January 16, 1770 told of encounters in New Zealand where “the Indians have the custom of eating their enemies,” proof of which was offered to Banks by way of human bones “gnawed but not intirely pickd off.”24 Or perhaps at another level as noted by historian Noah Heringman, Darly’s The FlyCatching Macaroni could parallel other representations such as Thomas Burnett’s  22  For funding of Endeavour see Harold Carter, Sir Joseph Banks 1743-1820 (London: British Museum, 1988), 58-65. On another note, ‘flies’ was an insider term for butterfly. However, while that might be the reference here, butterfly collecting was considered by many to be an idle pursuit. (See Chapter One of this thesis.)  23  Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment, 9. According to Gascoigne, the Navy Board was skeptical of civilian involvement in the voyages of discovery and complaints were forward to the First Lord of the Admiralty of Banks’s attitude of self-entitlement, and that every effort should be made to accommodate him (9).  24  Joseph Banks, The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks 1768-1771. Vol. I., ed. J. C. Beaglehole (London: Angus and Roberston, 1962), 455. For a discussion of the clash of European and Maori culture see A. Salmond, Two Worlds: First Meetings between Maori and European 1642-1772 (Auckland: Viking, 1991).  61  frontispiece to his geologic treatise The Sacred Theory of the Earth of 1681 (Figure 2.5),25 that in turn could point to deeper social slippages. In Burnett’s frontispiece, Christ stands at the apex of two globes, reaching outward, His body is turned in forward momentum—a position that seems evident in Darly’s caricature where Banks similarly twists with arms raised in open invitation or sweeping benediction. Is society abandoning religious belief to be indoctrinated by botany’s celebrity and its promised redemption from economic woes? Was the caricature pointing to awareness of the on-going tension between science and religion that saw new taxonomies challenge established beliefs at a time when how worlds evolved was still at the apex of public consideration? Secondly, the tabula rasa in this caricature marks out another shift, namely, that botanical collecting was slowly shifting from the fanciful pastime of the idle rich to that of serious entrepreneurs and their individual efforts. That cultural repositioning was in part mobilized by Banks and his rejection of aristocratic travel tours to France and Italy: “‘Every blockhead does that; my Grand Tour shall be one round the whole globe.’”26 In the spirit of Linnaean apostles who traveled the world in pursuit of plants and in Banks’s own description of Linnaeus as “that God of my adoration,”27 Banks balanced botanical discovery with the  25  The comparison was drawn to my attention through Noah Heringman’s article, “‘Peter Pindar,’ Joseph Banks, and the Case Against Natural History’,” Wordsworth Circle 35:1 (Winter, 2004): 21-30. In this short article, Heringman suggests that the “stance invites comparison with Burnet’s frontispiece,” but does no comparison himself. Fundamentally, Burnet’s Sacred Theory of the Earth explains the Earth’s development with reference to Noah’s flood. Burnet was something of a radical in that he proposed a theory that saw “the flood” as waters that were buried deep beneath the earth’s crust, an explanation that didn’t align with religious belief. He also showed the earth’s development in ‘circles’ of the earth, perhaps an allusion to his belief in the cyclical nature of time (that contradicts Biblical time) and that as quoted by Burnet in Stephen Gould’s Time’s Arrow, Time’s Cycle (London: Harvard University Press, 1987), “If space is infinite, we may be at any point in space. If time is infinite, we may be at any point in time” (49). These revolutionary formulations that turned worlds upside down could be a parallel to Joseph Banks’s radical new approach to unveiling new worlds through botanical outreach.  26  Quoted in Edward Smith, The Life of Sir Joseph Banks: President of the Royal Society with some notices of his friends and contemporaries (London: J. Lane, The Bodley Head, 1911), 16.  27  Joseph Banks to Jean Florimond Boudon de Saint-Amans (alias Amand), February 27, 1792 in Neil  62  economic utility of various resources. Here, the unmarked backdrop accentuated what we come to know: Joseph Banks made botanical claims in the untapped geographies of the South Seas, namely Otaheite (Tahiti), Australia, and New Zealand through his travels with Captain James Cook’s Endeavour (1768-1771).28 As key naturalist, Banks became pivotal to the movement of natural history’s resources, the negotiation of differences in other cultures, the ambivalences of transnational agendas, and shifting national mandates.29 Significantly then, this “fly-catching” macaroni demonstrates a kind of hybridity or mixity that lent itself to actively engaging in a web of inter-relationships. Put another way, Banks came to master global outreach by way of a Linnaean tenet found in Philosophica Botanica of 1751 that saw “All the taxa show relationships on all sides, like the countries on a map of the world.”30 Negotiating botany’s global grid seemed Banks’s forte. Yet if so, should “a fly-catching macaroni” be the mediator of a new global interface that saw unexplored regions waiting to be stamped with Britain’s imprint? To be remembered is that ventures abroad, such as the recent and relentless Seven Years War (1755-1763), may have resulted in Britain’s gain of new territory but at a monumental human and financial cost.31  Chambers, ed., The Letters of Sir Joseph Banks: A Selection, 1768-1820, (London: Imperial College, 2000), 143. 28  Disciplined scientific inquiry marked out the naturalist’s purpose aboard, as evidenced in the technologies and books carried in the Endeavour’s Library of Natural History’: Linnaeus’s Species Plantarum, Systema Naturae, and Regnum Animale and Buffon’s Histoire Naturelle.  29  Spary, Utopia’s Garden, 76.  30  Carl Linné, Philosophia Botanica, trans., Stephen Freer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 40. Also see Gunnar Eriksson, “Linnaeus the Botanist,” Linnaeus: The Man and His Work, ed. Tore Frängsmyr (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 98.  31  Nancy Koehn in The Power of Commerce (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994) indicates that Britain spent £160 million in simultaneous maritime and continental strategies, a figure that was double of what Britain’s gross national product was in 1760, and in twentieth century terms would be analogous to the United States, for example, having a $10 trillion cost for fighting a war (5). John Brewer notes in The Sinews of Power (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1989) that the huge cost of the Seven Years War was felt through rising taxes and  63  Banks’s mediation of the two globes thus not only notes and plays with the renowned naturalist’s control of new botanical ventures but depicts a pivotal moment wherein diverse worlds—national and global, scientific and aesthetic, mechanical, and material—united to manage changes mobilized by botany’s outreach. This skillful mediation of the old with the new appears to be subtly referenced in The Fly-Catching Macaroni through the carving of Minerva’s owl on the hilt of Bank’s sword. The owl, a well-known sign of Minerva the Roman goddess of wisdom, sits atop the sword as if guardian of the naturalist and representative of the learning embedded within botany’s new enterprises. Associations with Minerva and the stability of classical traditions could go far in easing public anxiety around natural history’s associated mobilities such as penetrating paradise, defiling Edenic worlds, rupturing ‘natural’ order, and posing challenges to a fixed Chain of Being.32 In Darly’s The Fly-Catching Macaroni, the naturalist as a dynamic mediator of the old and new, is also shown within a precarious state, potentially unbalanced as global outreach is reduced to swatting at ‘flies’. Within this frame, the naturalist emerges then as a ‘mixed’ or hybrid subjectivity, that is, one who is not fixed in one world or the other but somewhere in between.  prices, particularly for example, “a twenty-six per cent increase in the wholesale price of a barrel of beer” (158), a cost that would impact a cross-section of Britons. 32  Linnaean taxonomies and practitioners followed what is referred to today as a “nested hierarchy,” that is, at the simplest of levels, group relationships (species, genera, orders, classes and kingdoms) that were nested one within the other, each level of equal rank, “none was higher than any other,” as noted by Jonathan Marks, Human Biodiversity: Genes, Race, and History (New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 1995), 7. This view contravened conventional chains of being that ranged from the highest orders (social, political, economic, or religious) at the top down to the lowest orders at the bottom. Through social analogy, such potential upturning of encoded class hierarchies could raise anxieties for publics who wanted the certainty of maintaining their status quo.  64  Ordering New Terrains The new terrains were also ambivalent. Distant geographies intrigued the British for their apparent unsullied abundance, curious cultural practices, and as potential for botanical resource and enterprises. Conversely however, these sites with their seemingly transgressive rituals or new mixities posed a risk to the imperial nation. In The Fly-Catching Macaroni, the butterfly for which Banks reaches could metaphorically reference the beginning of a pivotal cultural shift that saw Britain’s commitment to harvesting global resource. Banks recounted in his journal and later retold to those in London salons of how, in May of 1770 in Otahiete, he came upon “4 acres crowded with them [butterflies]: the eye could not be turnd in any direction without seeing millions…a velvet black to blue…with many brimstone colourd spots.”33 Such a proliferation signaled broader resource potentials within distant locales, for example Otaheite’s breadfruit, the hemp of New Zealand, or trade exchanges emerging from any of the “3000 plants, 110 new genera and 1300 new species collected” during the Endeavour’s voyage.34 As historian John Gascoigne has established, Banks viewed imperial botanical sites as “emporium[s] of raw materials” that would benefit “national self-sufficiency and autonomy.”35 Here, it would seem, Banks as part virtuosi botanist and part bourgeois merchant tapped into Linnaeus’s notion of oeconomia, that is, the  33  Banks, The Endeavour Journal, Vol. 2, 1-2. The beautiful and prolific butterflies speak to Otaheite’s exotic allure—its geographic body feminized and penetrated for botanical riches. The diaries of Lady Mary Coke’s (1727-1811), an eighteenth-century writer and socially connected aristocrat, reference the attendance of Banks and Solander at fashionable London salons upon their return from the Endeavour, and how they narrated stories such as these of their travels.  34  William Stearn, “A Royal Society Appointment with Venus in 1769: The Voyage of Cook and Banks in the ‘Endeavour’ 1768-1771,” Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London 24, no. 1 (June 1969): 85. According to Richard Holmes in The Age of Wonder (2009) this journey also realized the collection of over 500 animal skins and skeletons as well as many native artifacts (43).  35  Gascoigne, Science in the Service of Empire, 106.  65  utility of plants for human use.36 But such impressive botanizing, as I will argue, was not without a darker underbelly, namely, uncertainties around marshalling new mobilities and knowledge in distant and domestic terrains, as well as controlling emerging mixities that seemed to contest British norms. As a ‘fly-catcher’, a hybrid entity not quite in new worlds or old, Banks by 1772 would seem to have effected a workable middle ground. He negotiated interchanges at the highest of levels, specifically with King George III, yet navigated successful exchanges with other naturalists, botanical illustrators, and horticulturists. Nonetheless, such successes were not without criticism. Contemporaneous critic Peter Pindar condemned Banks’s botanizing as opportunistic. In one of his satirical poems “Sir Joseph Banks and the Emperor of Morocco” Pindar attacks the naturalist’s celebrity as ludicrous, suggesting that praises of Banks are sung only by toadies and “Insectmongers.”37 Pindar mocks Banks’s botanical intentions and puns upon the pursuit of a Monarch as perhaps this naturalist’s effort to secure Monarchical patronage: “with tears” Banks “cry’d…To unknown fields behold the Monarch fly!/ Zounds!  36  Tony Aspromougos in The Science of Wealth (London: Routledge, 2008) reaffirms that Linnaeus’s definition of oeconomia as formulated in Oeconomia Naturae of 1749 meant “the science of natural products and their ‘use’ for human life” (29). Linnaeus promoted the “utility” of plants as a way to help secure his nation’s selfsufficiency and autonomy as acknowledged in Lisbet Koerner’s Linnaeus: Nature and Nation (1999). Also see Staffan Muller-Wille in “Nature as Marketplace,” History of Political Economy 35 (2003): 154-172 and Margaret Schabas, The Natural Origins of Economics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006).  37  Peter Pindar, “Sir Joseph Banks and the Emperor of Morocco,” in The Works of Peter Pindar, Vol. 2 (London: Reprinted for J. Walker, 1794), 511. Noah Heringman in “‘Peter Pindar,’ Joseph Banks, and the Case Against Natural History’,” Wordsworth Circle 35, no. 1 (Winter 2004) notes that Peter Pindar (John Wolcot) between 1772 and 1797 published at least fifteen lampoons of Joseph Banks (22). According to Edward Smith in The Life of Sir Joseph Banks (1911), Peter Pindar (1738-1819), was a pen name for John Wolcot, M.D., an unsuccessful London physician who made his mark by writing entertaining satires upon various subjects. This particular poem appeared formally in a folio published in 1788 but was thought to be in circulation well before that date. “Sir Joseph Banks and the Emperor of Morocco” in some publications is accompanied by an engraving which is unsigned and without a caption. The image evokes Darly’s Fly-Catching Macaroni in that Banks similarly holds butterfly bat-rackets in his hands while he reaches and seemingly flails at a butterfly just beyond his reach. In this engraving however, Banks appears to be in a small botanic garden upon whose plants and attending gardener he tromps in his rabid pursuit. An image can be seen through a link at International League of Antiquarian Booksellers: http://www.ilab.org/db/book17_708_292.html.  66  Not to catch him, what an ass was I!”38 Pindar maintains his critique of the naturalist in another satire entitled “Advice to the Future Laureat” where he advises young elites in search of ‘success’ to “Go to the fields, and gain a nation’s Thanks/Catch grasshoppers and butterflies for Banks.”39 Notably, Banksian biographer Edward Smith argues that Pindar’s metaphorical allusions to ‘the Monarch’ and ‘a Nation’s thanks’ refers to George III’s patronage.40 Perhaps also unsettling to a nation still struggling under taxation from war involvement was the puzzling generosity of the notoriously thrifty George III and his eagerness to enable financing for ‘scientific’ venture like that of the Endeavour’s voyage. That drive toward botanical discovery and enterprise was seen to underpin George III’s appointment in 1773 of Banks as Director and Chief Supervisor of the Royal Gardens at Kew.41 Pindar’s apparent mockery and skepticism over Banks’s meteoric rise to prominence would seem to echo public speculations concerning this “de facto director’s” opportune friendship and subsequent business dealings with the King.42 Clearly, new world botanizing  38  Pindar, “Sir Joseph Banks and the Emperor of Morocco,” 206.  39  Ibid., “Advice to the Future Laureat,” 452.  40  Smith, The Life of Sir Joseph Banks, 178. Pindar’s use of the phrase “go to the fields” is not transparent. For example, literary historian Noah Heringman in “‘Peter Pindar,’ Joseph Banks, and the Case Against Natural History,’” argues that for Wolcot (Pindar), Banks’s specimen-hunting “mark[ed] him as a country squire masquerading as a philosopher,” and that Pindar’s lampoons in general signal objection to Banks’s “amateurism” and his “influence” with the King (25-26).  41  According to Edward Smith in The Life of Sir Joseph Banks, Banks “conceived the notion of making Kew the depository of every known plant” useful to people of Europe and under his guidance Kew became known as the “Mecca of Botanists” (94-95). Also see Richard Drayton’s Nature’s Government (2000), Ray Desmond’s Kew: The History of the Royal Botanic Gardens (1995), and John Gascoigne’s Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment (1994). As cited in historian Richard Holmes’s The Age of Wonder (2009) Banks established more than 50,000 trees and shrubs at Kew many of which were ‘naturalized’, for example, monkey-puzzle trees, magnolias, and sequoia evergreens (56).  42  In Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment (1994) historian John Gascoigne calls Banks the “de facto Director” (1). Ray Desmond in Kew (1995) points out that Banks was able to use “British merchants in Lisbon to organize the smuggling of Merino sheep into Portugal” and from there bring to Britain for the King (90). This procedure was taken because according to Richard Drayton in Nature’s Government (2000) King George “imported merino sheep, the object of a Spanish royal monopoly, through Banks’s secret help” (87).  67  did not elide old world politicking and patronage. At a time when war, political rupture, and urban decay seemed relentless, anxious viewers might side with both Darly as caricaturist and Pindar as literary satirist in seeing the madness in Royal sponsorship of fly-catching missions and in patronage of a naturalist with rather vacuous scientific qualifications. Banks’s hybrid character was further highlighted through other details within The Fly-Catching Macaroni. His discreet queue aligned him with elite sensibilities—judges, aristocrats, and kings wore wigs. Edward Beetham noted in his contemporaneous Moral Lectures on Heads that without a wig, the head was a “simple, naked, unembellished appearance,” and the man was thus an object of ridicule and distaste.43 Yet, for this flycatcher, the wig held contradictions. On one hand, it was associated with polite taste, but conversely the wig incited anxiety as a known carrier of disease such as infestations of lice, blight from the potato powder used on it, or smallpox.44 These associations, notes art historian Marcia Pointon, were seen to be a result of wigs being made from the hair of society’s moral ‘dirt’ such as prostitutes, rural girls, or dead bodies.45 Ironically, in an effort to separate oneself from the lower ranks and appear as elite patriarchs, the male wig-wearer cross-dressed with hair of socially inferior females, a practice that emasculated them through the very economies of that lower class.46 Such ambivalences spoke of masculinity as a site of ambiguity and mixity. High art representations of imperial enterprise offered more assured depictions of the naturalist. In the portrait of Mr. Joseph Banks (Figure 2.2) displayed in 1773 at the British 43  Edward Beetham, Moral Lectures on Heads (Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 1780), 3.  44  Marcia Pointon, Hanging the Head, (London: Yale University Press, 1993), 120-124.  45  Ibid.  46  Ibid.  68  Royal Academy,47 Benjamin West, history and portrait painter, represented that transitional moment when botany moved into the territory of valued enterprise and largely so at the hands of Banks as a productive man of science.48 West’s portrait, as numerous commentators have noted, depicted Banks as a young naturalist-explorer surrounded by the markers of his South Pacific discovery and claim.49 On the surface, the portrait seems to securely contain new worlds within British ideals through reference to Banks’s military attire, and the staples of elite portraiture—neoclassical pillars and drapery that provide the backdrop for his figure.50 Safely framed by these British traditions, Banks is wearing and pointing to his cloak made of  47  As confirmed by Andrew Potter, Research Librarian at The Royal Academy of Arts, 2009. See Footnote 4 of Chapter Two of this thesis.  48  Joanna Woodall in Portraiture: Facing the Subject (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1997) argues that portraiture’s reference to classical or “antique authority” contributed to depicting “progressive intellectual endeavour” and that portraits of the individual often demonstrated “notions of exemplary virtue” (4, 15). Jeremy Black in Eighteenth-Century Britain 1688-1783, 2nd ed. (London: Palgrave, 2008) argues that “social stability” was linked with “portraiture” by “emphasizing the power and immutability of the elite leadership of society” (163).  49  Aspects of West’s portrait as various registers of Joseph Banks’s global travels have been discussed in Patricia Fara, “Images of a Man of Science,” History Today 48 (October 1998); Gillian Russell’s “Fashionable Sociability and the Pacific,” A New Imperial History, ed. Kathleen Wilson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Harriet Guest, “Curiously Marked,” Painting and the Politics of Culture, ed. John Barrell, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992); and, Jeremy Coote and Sophie Forgan in Curiosities from the Endeavour, Exhibition at Captain Cook Memorial Museum Whitby, 2004. My exploration follows a different path to those historians mentioned above. I point to Banks’s interest in the “technologies” of the South Pacific cultures as markers of that ‘exotic’ culture’s remarkable sophistication in terms of their innovative strategies and use of tools by which to manufacture products out of botanical resource. Coote and Forgan’s article does mention “tools” in general, but does not address specifics other than noting that “bamboo nose flutes and a wooden-handled bone chisels” are not apparent in this portrait of Joseph Banks but were characteristic of South Pacific culture. Also see Neil Chambers, ed., The Letters of Sir Joseph Banks: a selection, 1768-1820 (London: Imperial College Press, 2000).  50  Jeremy Black in The British and the Grand Tour (London: Dover, N.H.: Croom Helm, 1985) posits that many grand tourists had “their portraits painted, often in elevating poses in classical surroundings,” a representation that was sent home as marker of their exposure to a classical education abroad (214). Patricia Fara in “Benjamin West’s portrait of Joseph Banks,” Endeavour 24, no. 1 (March 2000) has subsequently noted that “Grand Tourists often brought home portraits as souvenirs of those returning from their Grand Tour showing them in heroic poses against classical ruins” (1). Banks is similarly positioned as such in this portrait of him as an “imperial scientific explorer”(1).  69  flax,51 a resource that Banks was instrumental in having transplanted to Britain from New Zealand.52 Notably, at his feet is a book opened to an illustration of Phormium tenax, or New Zealand flax.53 Perhaps his pointing gesture purposefully aligns Banks with those poses and noble ideals embedded within the classical tradition while conversely negotiating the dynamics that validated the naturalist’s botanical explorations.54 As hybrid here, Banks bridges old and new worlds—aesthetic and terrestrial. Possession, however, was not just vegetal but cultural. In West’s portrait, Banks stands and slightly bows to the viewer as if presenting both flax cape and the variety of objects with which he is surrounded to his British patrons and the King. These objects speak of distant and exotic customs and the remarkable industry and technologies to be subsumed and transformed. West has depicted the Tahitian adze, a Maori long club (taiaha), a paddle, baskets, ceremonial white dog-hair neck ornament, a Maori amulet (hei tiki), and a bark cloth beater.55 These objects point to  51  As noted in a description of portrait at British Museum website http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/search_the_collection_database/search.  52  See Chambers, The Letters of Sir Joseph Banks, 83-85 and Gascoigne, Science in the Service of Empire, 119121.  53  Banksian biographer, historian Harold Carter in Sir Joseph Banks (1988) notes that in this portrait at Banks’s feet is an open folio that shows the drawing of the planta utilissima, that is, the New Zealand flax plant (99). A. R. Ferguson also identifies the image as New Zealand flax in “Sir Joseph Banks and the Transfer of Crop Plants,” New Zealand Journal 11, no. 2 (2008): 9.  54  For a discussion of gesture and in particular the ‘Hand-in-Waistcoat’, see Arline Meyer, “Re-dressing Classical Statuary: The Eighteenth-Century “Hand-in-Waistcoat” Portrait,” The Art Bulletin 77:1 (1995): 45-64.  55  See Footnote 49 of Chapter Two of this thesis. As mentioned, my exploration of Banks’s hybridity here is through a perspective that recognizes his ability to shed beliefs about Britain’s assumed technological superiority and see the intuitive, co-operative, and productive capabilities of the Otahietians. In his journal of the Endeavour voyage edited by J. C. Beaglehole, in June of 1769 Banks says that their technological ability “exceeds belief” and is similar to “the best workman in Europe” (Vol. 1, 303-304). These comments are in particular reference to Otahietian funeral monuments, the marai which were pyramid-like structures that were “118 by 110 paces,” the cornerstone of which was “4 feet 7 inches by 2 feet 4 inches” (Vol. 1, 303). The marai’s stone steps were inlaid with coral. With no “quarry” within distance, Banks marveled that the Otahietians found and “could raise so large a structure without the assistance of iron tools to shape their stones or mortar to join them” (Vol. 1, 304). These monuments also had elaborate altars upon which offerings, namely dogs, pigs, fruits, and flowers were made to their gods.  70  indigenous know-how: tool making, house construction, transportation and navigation, religious rituals, aesthetic sensibilities in carving skill and creating ornamentation for costumes, and converting plants into useable cloth for clothes or containers. Such innovation seemed to elude some British viewers who continued to see Otaheitians as “noble savages” or infantilized the “natives” as quaint curiosities.56 These perspectives would seem to reflect what Michael Adas has emphasized in Machines as the Measure of Men: Science, Technology and Ideologies of Western Dominance (1989), that in the eighteenth century images of a culture’s technology were used to assert western superiority at a time of imperial expansion.57 West’s portrait seemingly bespoke empire propaganda by positing Banks, the naturalist, as taxonomizing the world, marketing bio-power, mastering colonial industry, and subsuming indigenous knowledge.58 Here, the center of botanical enterprise was not an effete macaroni, but a multivalent hybrid, that is, a new kind of naturalist with an interdisciplinary mix—part geographic surveyor, botanical prospector, political negotiator, network administrator, and cultural ethnographer. 56  Such beliefs may have been in part prompted by the writings of eminent eighteenth-century philosopher JeanJacques Rousseau who not only published an explanation of the Linnaean systems, Letters on the Elements of Botany (written in the early 1770s but translated by naturalist Thomas Martyn in 1787) but is credited for being instrumental in the circulation of the phrase “noble savage,” a concept of the unsullied ‘natural’ man in such sites as the Caribbean islands. In an ambivalent way, however, there may be here in this image a subtle allusion that calls up the kind of “transmutations” that Rousseau spoke of in his Second Discourse of 1755 as quoted in Nicholas Dent’s Rousseau (New York: Routledge, 2005) where in explaining the notion of ‘noble savage’ Rousseau challenges the reader to consider “how shall man hope to see himself as nature made him across all the changes which the succession of place and time must have produced in his original constitution” (58-59). Roxann Wheeler in The Complexion of Race (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2000) argues that “the primary form that eighteenth-century racism took was the conviction that people in remote parts of Europe and Asia, most of all Africa, all of American and the Pacific were inferior because they had not become commercial people as quickly or as easily as Europeans” (301). In the eighteenth-century print culture, Africans were cast generically as the ‘noble savage’ as evident in Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko, a narrative that was staged in London and played popularly to audiences well into the 1760s.  57  See Michael Adas, Machines as the Measure of Men: Science, Technology and Ideologies of Western Dominance (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989).  58  For discussion of the mobilizing agency underpinning plants, see François Delaporte, Nature’s Second Kingdom: Explorations of Vegetality in the Eighteenth Century, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1982), 136-174.  71  Although wrapped in registers of ‘exotic’ difference, for informed viewers the West portrait might also call to mind new tenets around humankind’s productivity, in particular, Adam Smith’s The Theory of Moral Sentiments of 1759 that suggested those whose interest might seem to be motivated by “selfish interest” (one of many types of “different passions”) were indeed “led by an invisible hand” through which these individuals would share with “the poor the produce of all their improvements.”59 West’s portrait opened up these productive new understandings around botany, that is to say, the shift of its terrain from that of virtuosi hobby to rigorous scientific inquiry and new ‘science’s’ elevation to productive enterprise that in turn anticipated “improvements”60 which would bring national fruition. But as this chapter has argued, mixities unsettled. For example, while flax was much needed to refurbish canvas sails of crippled British war ships, the indigenous dress, tools, and ephemera in West’s portrait suggested sophisticated indigenous technologies that conflicted with Britain’s assumed superiority over remote locales.61 In addition, exposure to exotic worlds could also posit dangerous temptation and moral mixity. For example, in June of 1773, the same year that West’s portrait was exhibited, The London Magazine featured an article on the inhabitants of Otaheite and reported that during the gifting of plants and cloth to Banks, an Otaheitian woman took up “her garments all round her to the waist…with an air of perfect innocence and simplicity.”62 The article also detailed the Polynesian “pleasures of the Arreoy”, that is, a tribal custom where “every woman is common to every man” and  59  Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments, 2nd edition (London: A. Millar, 1759), 283-284.  60  Drayton, Nature’s Government, Chapter Four.  61  See Footnote 55 of this chapter for Banks’s acknowledgement of Otaheitian technological expertise.  62  London Magazine. Or Gentleman’s monthly intelligencer. Vol. 43 (London, June 1773), 265-267.  72  where unwanted offspring at birth are “murdered.”63 Exposing such cultural difference to the ship’s crew or even publics in England raised fears that this seemingly moral mixity might co-opt and corrupt stalwart British values.64 Proof of this potential decay emerged already at home through an increase of “erotic” publications whose sexual analogies materialized through botanical, nautical, and utopian landscapes,65 as well as through moral erosions in marriages to which George III responded with his Royal Marriages Act (1772), or ultimately by way of radical, educated female voices—bluestockings—who allegedly unsexed themselves through demands for new freedoms and mobilities.66 West’s portrait of Mr. Joseph Banks, where the naturalist ‘brings home’ Otaheitian objects and bows deferentially to patron and viewing public, safely contains such associations.  63  Ibid.  64  Carolus Linnaeus, Reflections on the study of nature; and a Dissertation of the Sexes of Plants, trans. J. E. Smith (Dublin: L. White, 1786), 55-56. Linnaeus suggested that plant hybridity was the result “a genus [or type] was nothing else than a number of plants sprung from the same mother by different fathers,” what some of society saw as the promiscuous sexual mixing of males and females. Importantly he goes on to question whether these “species are the offspring of time,” thus planting the idea of development of a species over time, a concept that had shifted from his very early formulations that had been couched in the notion of ‘fixity’ by God. Linnaeus stresses the point of hybrid potential by saying that in terms of inheritance, the “mule offspring is the exact image of its mother in its medullary substance, internal nature, or fructification, but resembles its father in leaves” (54-55). Positing the female as determinant of new generations was unsettling to those who did not want to consider alternatives to a male hegemonic system.  65  See Julie Peakman Mighty Lewd Books: The Development of Pornography in the Eighteenth Century (London: Palgrave, 2003); Karen Harvey, Reading Sex in the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); and, Amy M. King, Bloom: The Botanical Vernacular in the English Novel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).  66  Elizabeth Montague founded the Blue Stockings Society midcentury in response to elite women and their advocacy for education, exposure to learned texts, political awareness and expanded knowledge, such as botany. Later in the century such influential voices as Mary Wollstonecraft in A Vindication of Rights of Woman (London: J. Johnson, 1792) through botanical analogy encouraged women to free themselves from society’s gendered conventions. Also see Nicole Pohl and B. Schellenberg, eds., Reconsidering the Bluestockings (San Marino: Huntington Library, 2003).  73  Botany Helps Order New Regimes Theorist of science Bruno Latour has noted that “how to be familiar with things, people and events which are distant,” is to make them “mobile, stable, and combinable.”67 Certainly Banks demystified botany’s enterprise by making Captain Cook’s Endeavour, during their voyage of discovery from 1768 to 1771, into a floating laboratory, a site that provided a stable and secure place to document, preserve, and store plant specimens, that is, to amass herbariums.68 The ship had been well equipped with botanical reference books, diaries, and illustrations for ready reference to established knowledge and methods that could help familiarize naturalist with ways to process foreign plants or environments.69 Routines underpinning the work of classifying modeled order and control of new knowledge. In a world where a profusion of new botanicals or foreign geographies could provoke uncertainty, botany’s systematics provided a stabilizing paradigm. Innovative use of botanical resource moved in tandem with Linnaean oeconomia, that is, the “science of natural products and their use for humans.”70 This is evident when Banks  67  Bruno Latour, Science in Action: How to Follow Scientist and Engineers through Society (Milton Keynes: Open University Press, 1987), 220- 223. Also see David Philip Miller, “Joseph Banks, empire, and “centers of calculation” in late Hanoverian London,” Visions of Empire: Voyages, Botany and Representations of Nature, eds. David Philip Miller and Peter Hanns Reill (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996).  68  To preserve shape, form and color of the plants that are collected in the field, the specimens (or seeds) are mounted between sheets of paper and pressed and dried. The specimens are labeled according to date, physical attributes, location found, and habitat (earth quality, altitude, humidity). The sheets of specimens are then filed into a protective case to minimize deterioration. David Philip Miller’s “Joseph Banks, empire, and “centers of calculation” in late Hanoverian London,” from Visions of Empire (1996) explores how Joseph Banks managed to make himself a “center of calculation” through his widespread involvement in diverse botanical activities.  69  Richard White in Inventing Australia (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1981) quotes English naturalist, John Ellis’s letter to Linnaeus on their day of departure on the Endeavour. In that letter, Ellis mentions that “no people ever went to sea better fitted out for the purpose of Natural History,” by way of the “library, machines for catching and preserving insects” and numerous other tools, casks, and telescopes (5-6). Also see Patrick O’Brian, Joseph Banks: A Life (London: William Collins Sons Co. Ltd., 1987).  70  Staffan Müller-Wille, “Nature as marketplace: The Political Economy of Linnaean Botany,” History of Political Economy, Volume 35 (2003): 154.  74  encouraged lemon juice as a solution to the Endeavour’s scurvy problem. He described in his journals how he “flew to the lemon juice” as a means “to prevent the scurvy,” a tactic that cured “swelld gums and some pimples inside my [Banks’s] mouth.”71 As a result, lemons, cabbage for sauerkraut, and wort juice were deemed as vital to health and survival of naval crews.72 Good health, after all, ensured a productive crew and continued transport of goods for the nation’s coffers. As historian David Mackay has established, since naval prowess was seen to directly correlate with Britain’s naval and military prowess and thus the nation’s political stability, the naturalist’s solution to scurvy received high praise by way of the Admiralty’s adoption of this dietary regime for all its future voyages.73 A regulated ship was a healthy ship, and as a microcosm for Britain itself, capable leadership was key to establishing social harmony.74 Natural history’s discipline and curatives, therefore, seemed to promise some stability when moving from one world geography to another. Yet, worries persisted in relation to controlling pollutions such as disease, foreign penetrations, or cultural slippages thought to underly social decay. For example, from London coffeehouses to private salons, one public fear was the exposure to what Banks’s observed in Otaheite as “the dreadfull Contagion– 71  Banks, The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks 1768-1771, Vol.1, 251. While in Brazil in December of 1768, Banks writes extensively about the ‘Limes, Sweet Lemons, citrons, Plantanes, Mangos, Mamme apples, and casshou’, all of which are prolific.  72  David Mackay, “Banks, Bligh and Breadfruit,” Science, Empire, and the European Exploration of the Pacific, ed. Tony Ballantyne (London: Ashgate, 2004), 150-153. Health reform was also for naval war ships, not just commercial vessels.  73  David Mackay, In the Wake of Cook: Exploration, Science, and Empire, 1780-1801 (London: Croom Helm, 1985), 40-44.  74  Christopher Lawrence in “Disciplining Disease” from Visions of Empire, eds. David Miller and Peter Reill (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) states that “small-scale means of ordering the world were the norm in many eighteenth-century contexts: estates, ships, and small manufactories.” As such, he goes on to say that “the paternalistic world of Cook’s ships was seen as a model of how order and health should be maintained” not just on board, “but in society at large” (82).  75  venereal disease.”75 Underpinning such worries was an implied failure of leadership, in general, to maintain control over its citizens. These fears around sexual temptation and moral slippages surfaced during Banks’s Endeavour’s voyage. According to Banks, Tahitians allegedly had a fondness for iron “nails above every other thing,” and as a result the Endeavour crew solicited sexual favours from native women in trade for nails.76 Ultimately, with some ship parts actually collapsing because of pilfered nails, sanctions were put in place: taking “spike nails was punished with two dozen lashes.”77 Preserving moral order, at least on the outside, was key to civil order. Noteworthy, however, was that the British seemed only concerned for their own welfare, health, or commodities and not for what was being done to the Tahitians. Here, The Fly-Catching Macaroni could seem to point to a rather disturbing aspect of outreach, namely, the mutability of moral virtue in the pursuit of commodity desire. Whether lemons or libertine sex, an unsettling acquiescence to foreign influence was implied as well as the feared impact of prescription to it. As social anthropologist Mary Douglas has noted elsewhere, “the processes of ingestion portray political absorption,”78 and here, the explorer’s susceptibility to disease or moral temptation stood as signs of potential disorder and possible betrayal of British ideals. Botany had the potential to quell economic and social ills back home, but concurrently securing those resources posed temptations that contradicted the perceived stability of British values. 75  Banks, The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks 1768-1771, Vol. 1, 375.  76  John Hawkesworth, An abridgment of Captain Cook’s first and second voyages, 7th ed. (London: G. Kearsley, 1793), 207. In his An account of the voyages undertaken by the order of His present Majesty for making discoveries in the Southern Hemisphere, 2nd ed. (1773), Hawkesworth reported that on Captain Wallis’s 1766 voyage of the Dolphin “Chastity [was] not considered a virtue…and the size of the nail that was demanded for the enjoyment of the lady, was always in proportion to her charms.”  77  Ibid., 30.  78  Mary Douglas, In Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London: Ark Paperbacks, 1984), 4.  76  While Banks seemed himself a mixed strain who could negotiate the ambivalent worlds of scientific discovery and exotic fruition or of economic botany and anthropological study, for publics at home what really intrigued were tales from the peripheries that spoke of moral mixity and hinted at sexual adventure. Sexuality, natural history, and Joseph Banks fueled public interest following his return from the Endeavour voyage in 1772. Especially in regard to Otaheite, Banks regaled publics with accounts of what seemed morally ambiguous practices. He spoke of “stripping off my European clothes” to merely a “small cloth round the waist” and being unashamed of his “nakedness” for the two Otaheitian women with him “were no more covered” than he.79 Whether imagined as rakish adventure or moral decay, these accounts fueled public discourse around sexuality and moral virtue in relation to botany’s outreach. Exotic practices, however, continued to intrigue as well as disturb.80 A case in point reported by John Hawkesworth’s account in the early 1770s of Captain Cook’s First and Second Voyages that was based upon Banks’ journal, referred to a kind of free love, that is, the aforementioned ‘arreoy’ of Otaheite.81 Bank’s journal stated that the practice embraced “free liberty in love, without a possibility of being troubled or disturbd by its consequences.” 82 In other words, any progeny would be dispensed with, or as Banks  79  Banks, The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks 1768-1771, Vol. 1, 289.  80  According to contemporary historian Richard Holmes in The Age of Wonder (2009), numerous popular accounts of Banks appeared in the Westminster Journal and Gentleman’s Magazine that lionized his activities along with those of fellow naturalist, the Swede Daniel Solander. In addition, Dr. John Hawkesworth’s 1773 Account of the Voyages Undertaken to the Southern Hemisphere (1773) capitalized upon Banks’s journal entries that spoke of Banks’s fascination with a particular native woman named Otheothea, with the practice of tattooing, and with rituals of dance.  81  John Hawkesworth, An abridgment of Captain Cook’s first and second voyages, 7th ed. (London, 1793) states that the during the “Arreoy” women dance to “excite the desire of the male sex, and which are often gratified upon the spot. In case any of the women prove with child [they] may destroy the helpless infant as soon as it is brought into the world” (46).  82  Banks, The Endeavour Journal of Joseph Banks 1768-1771, Vol. 1, 351.  77  put it “smotherd at the moment of their birth.”83 These alleged native practices titillated yet also registered as morally dissolute. Polygamy and infanticide were un-British and complicity in the form of participation tainted values that could shatter stability. Or were they? Transcripts from trials at the Old Bailey in London, for example, attested that infanticide practiced by women who were labeled as “‘butcher[s] of their own bowels’,”84 was not uncommon across classes and in urban and rural sites.85 Perhaps what emerged as disturbing was that the cultural divide thought to distant Britons from ‘primitive’ worlds had resonance in Britain’s homeland. Otaheite’s apparent moral flux could also be seen to materialize in the private transgressions amongst the nation’s elite women: the elderly Duchess of Queensbury’s dalliance with former slave, Julius Soubise,86 Lady Grosvenor’s much publicized affair with the Duke of Cumberland, and the adulteries of gentry’s Mrs. Arabin and Lady Anne Foley whose infidelities played out “in shrubberies.”87  83  Ibid.  84  As quoted in Lawrence Stone, The Family, Sex and Marriage in England 1500-1800 (New York: Harper & Row, 1979), 297.  85  Allyson May, “Infanticide Trials at the Old Bailey,” Women and History ed. Valerie Frith (Toronto: Coach House Press, 1995), 19-49.  86  See Felicity Nussbaum, The Limits of the Human (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).  87  Sarah Lloyd, “Armour in the Shrubbery: Reading the Detail of English Adultery Trial Publications of the 1780s,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 39, no.4 (2006): 421-442. Julie Peakman in Mighty Lewd Books (2003) argues that “the flowering shrub or shrubberies” was “a metaphor for the female sex organs.” Peakman cites as evidence Philogynes Clitorides’s (thought to be Thomas Stretzer) Natural History of the Frutex Vulvaria, or Flowering Shrub (London: 1732). This publication is a graphic, thirty-five page exposé of the ‘superior’ attributes of the English female’s sexual organs, particularly that of a small vagina as being preferable to that of other European women. Continuing through metaphor, mentioned here too are debates between “Naturalists and Botanists” pertaining to the “degeneracy of our Trees of Life; how much then, beauteous Ladies, must the whole Nation be obliged to your indefatigable Endeavours to restore their Vigour by inoculating none but the finest Plants upon your flowering Shrubs” (Preface). George III responded to moral mixity not only through his own marital fidelity, but in his reforms around the Royal Marriages Act of 1772. These statutes criminalized illegal royal marriages and focused a panoptic eye upon moral equivocation nationwide. The focus upon moral decay and reform led by George III had political implications especially in colonial botanical sites such India and in the corruptions within the East India Company, a troubling enterprise that I do not attempt to reconcile here. New ventures in botanical enterprises in Otaheite, for example, would certainly ease the ongoing concerns around the complicated and exploitative relations with India and the negotiations of the East India Act that  78  Cultivating Botany’s Popularity Concerns regarding issues of sexuality, Joseph Banks, and the mixity of virtue and vice were given published form in the year following Darly’s caricature of the fly-catcher.88 The Town and Country Magazine in 1773, for example, warned about botany’s sexual tenor and Banks as the dangerous conduit: That curiosity which leads a voyager to such remote parts of the globe as Mr B—will stimulate him when at home to penetrate into the most secret recesses of nature…it cannot be supposed that the most engaging part of it [nature], the fair sex, has escaped his notice; and if we may…conclude from his amorous descriptions, females of most countries that he has visited, have undergone every critical inspection by him.89 In other words, exploration of nature and sexuality abroad drew parallels to similar exploration at home. But this observation would seem to be double-edged. As much as publics worried about botany’s threat to sexual mores, casting Banks as heroic adventurer began in the early 1770s but was not passed until 1784. Historian Arthur Burns in Rethinking the Age of Reform: Britain, 1780-1850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) states that disillusionment with England’s moral dearth, as observed in politician Henry Grattan’s words in 1770 that the age was “so luxurious, so venal and so unproductive,” found vent in the early 1770s “in a campaign against venality, corruption, and abuse in the East India Company, seen to be embodied in the person of Robert Clive who committed suicide in 1774” (82). 88  According to Banksian scholar John Gascoigne in Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment (1994), Banks “amours in Tahiti” were widely exploited by Grub Street satirists (50). Alan Bewell, Noah Heringman and more recently historian Sam George has noted in Botany, Sexuality and Women’s Writing (2008), the 1779 poem attributed to James Perry entitled Mimosa or, the sensitive plant dedicated to Mr. Banks clearly evokes Banks sexual intrigues by likening his search for new “sensitive plants” to that of seeking out females “that is, the vagina,” and the females he encounters worldwide are “fascinated by the amazing qualities of the English mimosa, his ‘sensitive plant’ (the penis)” (109). The mimosa plant was known for its sentience, not unlike the prized Venus flytrap plant (Dionaea muscipula) which had caused sensation for its visible response to touch, that is, as reported in the Annual Register of 1775, 2nd ed. (London, 1777) their ability to “close their leaves, and bend their joints upon the least touch: and this has astonished us” (93). Erasmus Darwin in Phytologia (London: J. Johnson, 1800) wrote of how the “Venus’s fly-trap closes its leaves…and pierces them [insects] with prickles” and that their “muscles must be endued with nerves of sense as well as motion” (Section 8, p. 133). The Venus flytrap also held sexual overtones—its nickname being that of “tipitiwitchet, or twitching fur stole” with its “touch-sensitive, flesh-colored leaves” drawing “predictable analogies to predatory female sexuality” according to Thomas Hallock in “Male Pleasure and the Genders of Eighteenth-Century Botanic Exchange,” The William and Mary Quarterly 62, no. 4 (October 2005): 697-718.  89  Town and Country Magazine; or Universal Repository of Knowledge, Instruction, and Entertainment, (September 1773), 457-458.  79  and rake did much to increase interest in the botanical. Here, through the caricature of Banks as a macaroni, printmaker Darly leveraged the notion that ‘sex sells’, an old adage that when united with the opportunities of botany’s outreach could be seen to reshape “private vice into public virtue.”90 Rakishness as defined in eighteenth-century popular accounts, was likened to “lascivious, obscene” behaviour, that unbecoming of a civilized man.91 Such portrayal calls to attention the Linnaean taxonomy of Systema Naturae that posited a familial relationship between man and animal in their classification as Anthropomorpha and later as Primates.92 In respect to Darly’s macaroni caricature, the fly-catcher’s animal hybridity visually plays out through the ‘ass’ or mule ears that prick out of his tricorn, a notion given further texture by way of Edward Beetham’s various editions in the 1770s and 1780s of Moral Lectures on Heads that noted “macaroni” derived from “the Greek Onos which signifies an ass.”93 While this allusion calls up Linnaeus’s example of the hybrid as “mule offspring,”94 at this point I  90  Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, 117.  91  The Attic Miscellany; and characteristic mirror of men and things. 3rd ed., Vol. 1 (London: Bentley and Co., 1791), 80. In The Fly-Catching Macaroni, Banks’s amorous adventures and ‘animal’ associations are called up through his ‘ass’ ears. It is notable that The Repository: or Treasury of Politics and literature of 1771 also described the ‘animal’ tendencies of macaronis by reporting that they were described as “a kind of animal [that] wenched without passion.”  92  Linnaeus, Systema Naturae, n.p. and Systema Naturae, Tenth Edition, 18. Interestingly, this formulation would seem to anticipate the man/animal evolutionary link. French naturalist, Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon, (Director of the Jardin du Roi in Paris) authored the 36-volume Histoire Naturelle (1753). In Histoire Naturelle Vol. 5 (London: J. S. Barr, 1792) Buffon argued an evolutionary hypothesis of a ‘single-family’ model that linked horses and asses. Therein he posited that these families “can only have been formed by crossing, successive variation…that the monkey belongs to the family of man, and he is a man degenerated; that man and the monkey had but one common origin, like the horse and the ass; that each family, as well in animals as in vegetables, come from the same origin…one species…has produced all the races of animals which now exist” (184-185).  93  Beetham, Moral Lectures on Heads, 29-31.  94  See above Footnote 92. Linnaeus in his early treatise on Sexes of Plants that establishes foundational thoughts on hybridity, makes reference to the offspring of mixed parentage as “mule offspring.” See Linnaeus, Reflections on the study of nature, 54.  80  focus upon the association of ass, mule, or donkey ears to sexual conquest and moral equivocation. Antiquity underscored the sexual voracity of the equus asinus or donkey. Vase paintings of sixth-century Dionysiac scenes clearly depicted the donkey as “invariably in a state of sexual arousal—a beast with a bacchanalian appetite.” 95 According to historian of sexuality Patricia Crawford, language of sexual encounter in Britain’s eighteenth century “was of evacuation…and satisfaction,”96 and a man’s activity in the sexual act was crudely described as leaving “nothing standing but his ears.”97 In addition, young men who showed no sexual restraint were likened to “wild asses.”98 Were the fly-catcher’s erect ass ears a visual pun upon his dangerous sexuality—an unbridled animal lust masked by privileged sensibilities? Like other macaronis who were “a kind of animal [that] wenched without passion,”99 Banks was reputed to have left women with “more shock waves in their hearts than in his.”100 The very public break of his alleged betrothal to Harriet Blosset in the 1770s was a case in point. According to Banksian biographer Harold Carter, Miss Blosset, perhaps in “targeting of Banks” with “her amorous darts,” misinterpreted the naturalist’s  95  Guy Michael Hedreen, Sirens in Attic-Black-figure Vase-painting: Myth and Performance (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1992), 17. Matthew Darly would have known about vase decoration and design. He was an “Ornamental Architect” himself and had published a book in 1767 entitled Sixty Vases by English, French and Italian Masters that was followed by an exhibition of works according to Constance Simon in English Furniture Designers of the Eighteenth Century (1907).  96  Patricia Crawford, “Sexual Knowledge in England 1500-1750,” Sexual Knowledge, Sexual Science, eds. Roy Porter and M. Teich (London: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 99.  97  John Addy, Sin and Society in the Seventeenth Century (New York: Routledge, 1989), 133.  98  George Fox, A Journal, or Historical Account of the Life, Travels, Sufferings, Christian Experiences and Labour in the Work of the Ministry…George Fox (London: J. Sowle, 1709), 254.  99  The Repository: or Treasury of Politics and literature. Vol. 1 (London: J. Murray, 1771), 75.  100  Carter, Sir Joseph Banks, 67.  81  “embarrassed” courtesy as an “understanding” between them.101 Contemporaneous botanical writer and publisher Dr. Robert Thornton, author of The Temple of Flora (and subject of Chapter Three), wrote that the break was a “mortifying disappointment” to Miss Blosset and her mother, and chastised Banks for favouring “uncultivated climates...a flower, or even a butterfly” over this lady.102 Given sociologist Richard Sennett’s observation that the deviation from social norms is “a field for the disclosure of personality,” it follows then that even if Banks were not wholly culpable, polite society would see his manners as uncultivated.103 Nonetheless, the incident is significant for its indication of a principle shift in the larger field of masculine politesse. With less tolerance for violence, wrongful acts were no longer righted through duels but now moved to more litigious resolution.104 Thus, this ‘misunderstanding’ was resolved by a £5000 award to Miss Blosset’s for the cost of “worked waistcoats for her absent beau.”105 And with that Banks, having claimed that botany was his mistress, went on to father an illegitimate child with his other mistress, a “Miss B—n.”106  101  Ibid., 67-69 and 150-152.  102  From James Lee, An Introduction to Botany, 4th Edition, (London: J. F. and C. Rivington, 1788) as cited in Charles Lyte, Sir Joseph Banks, 147. According to Lyte, this excerpt is from a brief biographical sketch written by Robert Thornton to James Lee, who was ‘guardian to the young lady.’ His attack extended to Banks’s eventual wife, Dorothea Hugessen, a ‘weighty lady’ who without a dowry of ‘sixty thousand pounds, double the sum might not have procured her any other husband.’ Here too Banks’s motivation is cast as mercenary in the service of pursuit of his botanical interests.  103  Richard Sennett, The Fall of the Public Man (New York: Alfred Knof, 1977), 190.  104  Rosemary Sweet, “The Ordering of Family and Gender in the Age of the Enlightenment,” Ordering the World in the Eighteenth Century, eds. Diana Donald and Frank O’Gorman (London: Palgrave, 2006), 131.  105  As quoted from Lady Mary Coke’s Journals, 1771 in Charles Lyte, Sir Joseph Banks, 147. That the betrayed Miss Blosset eventually married “a virtuous clergyman,” Dr. Dessalis according to Lady Coke’s journals, seemed to accentuate Banks’s offensive behaviour.  106  Carter, Sir Joseph Banks, 151. Carter submits that in a letter of November 10, 1773, Johann Fabricius, a naturalist-colleague organizing Banks’s entomological collection, wrote Banks to send his “compliments and wishes,” suggesting “if the child was a boy he’d be clever and strong like his father [Banks], and if a girl, she will be pretty and genteel like her mother.” According to Carter, from 1775-1778 Banks had an ‘acknowledged mistress’, Mrs. Sarah Wells, who was well-known and accepted amongst Banks’s friends and who often hosted salons at Banks’s home in Soho. Carter hints that Sarah Wells quite likely was the mother of this child. In 1779  82  While this rakish naturalist may have distanced himself from effeminacy, his retraction spoke of the common touch, a trait for which hybridity and botany were scapegoats. Underpinning this anecdote of apparent rakishness were deeper anxieties concerning social slippages. The ass ears of the naturalist in The Fly-Catching Macaroni could call up wider erosions of sexual virtue seen amongst polite sensibilities: philandering fops, bluestocking activists, excessive consumer avarice, and political betrayals.107 Such insidious decay was no less threatening to a wider public who witnessed corrosion in aspects of their everyday life. As urban centers and London grew, so did attendant poverty, hunger, disease, and crime.108 Venereal disease remained an ongoing register of such change, an especially worrisome issue in light of its widespread seepage throughout the nation’s defenders, Britain’s military and naval service,109 and Britain’s mounting confrontations with the American colonies as evident in the Boston Tea Party and Massacre of the early 1770s. Social slippages whether in the mixedness of new sensibilities or the diversity of emerging  at age thirty-six, however, Banks married Dorothea Hugessen, a twenty-year-old heiress. They and his sister, Sarah, shared a permanent household. Of note as well, Matthew Darly’s print, “No. XXV Miss B—n and No. XXVI The Circumnavigator, Oct. 1, 1773” (BMC 5146) depicts two bust portraits in cameo frames of “Joseph Banks and the mysterious Miss B---N, allegedly “the daughter of a gentleman of fortune who…lives with great decorum as Banks’s mistress” as documented by Dorothy George in Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires, 132. 107  In addition, papers such as the London Courant cited by Valerie Frith in Women and History (1995) noted changes that had begun in 1770s where women’s debating societies openly condemned the Salique (Salic) Law. The Salic Law “was the rule that certain aristocratic and dynastic families barred women and descendants of the female line from succeeding to titles and offices” (170). This law, if changed, could begin to rupture the prescribed right of all property and inheritances to go to males.  108  Richard Brown in Society and Economy in Modern Britain 1700-1850 (London: Routledge, 1991) recounts that internal migration grew rapidly after 1750. In particular, London and its environs grew from “575,000 to a population of 900,000 by 1801” with the influx largely fueled by industrial change or failed crops. Some 14,000 mainly Irish Catholics populated this area in the 1780s (420).  109  Linda Evi Merians, The Secret Malady (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1996), 154. George III encouraged the supposed reforms on brothels and prostitution by way of his continued support for the Disorderly Houses Act of 1752, and enactment that according to Michael Braddick in Negotiating Power in Early Modern Society offered substantial money to those who would give evidence against neighbouring bawdy houses.  83  colonial powers spoke of fluctuation and change and began to redefine Britain’s cultural terrain.  Networks and Flows of Communication Despite Banks’s apparent rakishness, botany flourished in part through his very public role in mobilizing what political and colonial commentator of the 1770s Abbé Raynal called a “revolution in commerce” where continents or “two hemispheres” were joined via “communication of flying bridges.”110 While those ‘flying bridges of communication’ that optimized botany’s outreach are evoked by the two globes that Darly’s botanist straddles, the conduits of communication had three major forms: the written in the form of Banks’s letters and library, the oral such as salons, and the technological in terms of botany and Banks’s skilled workers. These discursive flows served as antecedents to modern ‘virtual spaces’ of shared information and networking, and thus merit further consideration. Firstly, an inter-network of communications that bridged naturalists from around the world was evident in the sheer volume of Banks’s written correspondence. Surviving correspondence amounts to well over 20,000 letters, 14,000 of which were to Banks, an indication of how central he was to botany’s outreach. 111 Here text in the form of his letters took on strategic agency as an information site through which Banks exerted and maintained control of botanic place, product, and process, and by which his reach became worldwide.112 110  See Raynal, Abbé, A philosophical and political history of the settlements and trade of the Europeans in the East and West Indies, Vol. 4., trans. J. Justamond (London: T. Cadell, 1776), 473. Also quoted in Emma Rothschild, “The Politics of Globalisation Circa 1773,” OECD Observer, Sept. 1, 2001.  111  Chambers, The Letters of Sir Joseph Banks, xvii.  112  Banks had wide international network of naturalist interests ranging from academic to commercial worlds: kings, aristocrats, socialites, scientists, sea captains and horticulturalists. His letters and diaries show the diversity and of his contacts: King George III (friend, confidante, patron, and business partner), Sir Hans Sloane  84  Exchanges of seeds and plants involved over 120 plant collectors and specifically the commission of twenty-one plant hunters whom he sent global at the annual salary of £150.113 Seeds or plant samples arrived via letters from distant practitioners such as Upper Canada’s Catharine Parr Traill or Mungo Park in Senegal. These botanical specimens were part of a remarkable private herbarium and botanical library at Banks’s Soho residence that held 22,000 books, 30,000 dried specimens of some 3600 species, 1400 of which were new to British botanists.114 As such, Soho was a nexus for the interchange of botanical knowledge and product among international naturalists, horticulturalists, artists, collectors, and students of natural history.115 Banks’s letters and library as ‘bridges of communication’ were key to a shift in how botanical information was shared and disseminated. Despite his apparent hybridity that located him between scholarly inquiry and practical application, Banks could not be overlooked as pivotal to mobilizing and valorizing botanical inter-networking. Secondly, salons or au courant ‘chat rooms’ in private homes, country estates, and clubs were also spaces of sociability through which botanical knowledge was disseminated and circulated. Salons and celebrity went hand in hand. For example, upon returning in 1772 (British Museum founder), William and Caroline Herschel (astronomers), Dr. Joseph Priestly (discoverer of oxygen), Erasmus Darwin and the Lunar Society, Carl Linnaeus Jr., Daniel Solander (Linnaean ‘apostle’), Georg Ehret (botanical artist), Mary Delaney (artist and confidante of Queen Charlotte), Dr. Jonas Dryander and Josiah Wedgewood (commercial giants), the Duchess of Portland (collector), William Curtis (Curtis’ Botanical Magazine), Fanny Burney (writer), Antoine Jussieu and Buffon (French classifier/botanists), Francis Masson (explorer/collector). Global partners and collectors for Kew were men such as Mungo Park (West Africa), Allan Cunningham (South America), Archibald Menzies (North America) and Anton Hove (India). 113  Andrea Wulf, The Brother Gardeners: Botany, Empire and the Birth of an Obsession (London: William Heinemann, 2008), 220.  114  Ibid., 195 and also Natural History Museum, London at http://www.nhm.ac.uk/nature-online/science-ofnatural-history/biographies/joseph-banks/index.html. Banks’s sister, Sophia transcribed, documented, and organized his 30,000 herbarium at Soho.  115  Banks’s home at 32 Soho Square became known by many of his contemporaries, including Carl Thunberg the former Linnaean apostle but by the 1770s known as the ‘father of South African botany, as the “Academy of Natural History” as cited in Phillip Ritterbush, Overtures to Biology (1964) and John Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment (1994).  85  from their Endeavour, Banks and fellow naturalist David Solander were feted in a wide range of celebrated homes—from that of politician Lord Sandwich to writer Dr. Samuel Johnson. The hook of sun, sex, and imagined sin did not harm the cachet of seeing the returning heroes and hearing first-hand their tales of exploration. Thus, Lady Mary Coke, salon hostess and well-connected observer of the eighteenth-century social scene, recorded in her journal of August 9, 1771 that “the people who are most talked of at present are Mr. Banks, and Doctor Solander…their voyage round the world… is very amusing.”116 Paradoxically, the naturalist seemed as much a commodity as the botanicals he amassed and equally ironic was that his promotion and that of botany was furthered through female “fashionable sociability.”117 Indeed, tales of exotic exploits and discoveries were shared face-to-face through salons hosted by influential women such as pre-eminent natural history collector, the Duchess of Portland Margaret Cavendish or renowned botanical artist Mary Delany.118 As conduits of information, the salon’s mobility, its discursive nature, and the visibility of being seen mixing with the elite helped showcase botany’s web of political agency. Polite sociability and networking obscured underpinning anxieties that still associated botany with the  116  As quoted in Charles Lyte, Sir Joseph Banks, 146.  117  This term is used in Peter Clark, British Clubs and Societies 1580-1800: The Origins of an Associational World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 39, 192. This is not to discount, however, Banks’s connections with a diverse male fraternity through such clubs as Dr. Samuel Johnson’s Literary Club. As noted by John Brewer in The Pleasures of the Imagination (London: HarperCollins, 1997) this club was for well-read and informed members (economist Adam Smith, historian Edward Gibbon, orientalist William Jones) of which Banks was one, and was concerned with expanded worlds through narratives and knowledge of its members. It was politically neutral (44-45). For female influence also see Gillian Russell’s “An Entertainment of Oddities: Fashionable sociability and the Pacific in the 1770s,” A New Imperial History, ed. Kathleen Wilson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).  118  Ann B. Shteir, “Women in Botany,” Women and History: Voices of Early Modern England, ed. Valerie Firth (Toronto: Coach House Press, 1995), 167. Women were pivotal in the exchange of natural history’s knowledge through their all-female debating societies. The names of these societies were La Belle Assemblee, the Female Parliament, the Female Congress and Carlisle House Debates for Women. To some, however, that women played such a pivotal role in the dissemination of botanical knowing, still hinted at botany’s reputation as a feminine sphere.  86  feminine119—ruptures that spoke of a shift in narrow Euro-centric definitions of manly activity as called up by Banks’s bridging of domains. The third area that demonstrated botany’s outreach through networks was within the practice itself. The Fly-Catcher Macaroni could remind the viewer that behind the naturalist’s allegedly autonomous practice was a succession of skilled practitioners. For example, Peter Collinson and John Fothergill were deft merchants of botanical goods.120 In the British North American colonies, Collinson was a valuable contact for flax, hemp, and wine while Fothergill established crops of coffee and breadfruit in the West Indies. Illustrators of natural history were equally invaluable. Sydney Parkinson, family friend of Fothergill, was hired by Banks to serve as a botanical illustrator aboard the Endeavour voyage. His 674 drawings and 269 paintings of plants documented important discoveries.121 Whether aboard voyages of discovery or within the Royal Gardens at Kew, men with ‘practical’ skills such as artists, travel guides in foreign geographies, horticulturists for plant preservation, draftsmen and carpenters for new technologies contributed largely to the momentum of botanical enterprise. Aboard voyages of discovery, ‘in-house’ skilled workers crafted skylights, irrigation systems, and in some cases designed stoves to ensure the survival of fragile species. Noteworthy is that botany’s demand for innovative technologies hooked public interest back home. Elite as well as bourgeois Britons were fascinated by exotic plants and hothouses. As noted in popular accounts: “Stoves of great men, and those in publick (sic) 119  See Sam George, Botany, Sexuality, and Women’s Writing 1760-1830 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008) and Ann Shteir, Cultivating Women, Cultivating Science (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996).  120 121  Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment, 75-80. Natural History Museum, UK at http://www.nhm.ac.uk/jdsml/nature-online/endeavour-botanical/about2.dsml  87  life, present the astonished spectator with the chief produce of the whole globe.”122 Here, elite upper class and middle class interests joined ranks as both pursued skilled knowledge of greenhouse workability, crop irrigation, and vegetal disease control. As well, botanical interests saw polite taste join force with manual labour in searching for, digging, hauling, and preserving specimens. To many, this shared interest in botanical technologies and goals of productivity spoke of natural history’s ‘bridging communication’ and stabilizing nationhood. While the practical hands-on work of plant discovery and its skilled helpers did much to curry botanical enterprise as a site of harmony, such activities opened up a space of potential slippages.123 Contemporaneous accounts recognized Banks as “The Liberal Patron of Science and the Enlightened Cultivator of Natural Knowledge,” but botany’s association with labour-oriented middling ranks had nagging anxieties.124 Botany’s more inclusive domain of ‘mixed’ interests, aptitudes, and skills echoed Linnaean tenets that posited underpinnings of hybrid variations and change. For a wider public, the possibility of having to negotiate such shifts was discomforting. But change was at hand, especially given that George III set the uncertain national tone in the early 1770s by endlessly mixing and botanizing amongst the “country folk” and making gestures of solidarity with “agrarian patriots” rather than attending to the ruptures in the American colonies.125  122  William Hanbury, A complete body of planting and gardening. Containing the natural history, culture and management of deciduous and evergreen forest-trees, Vol. 2 (London, 1770-1771), 496.  123  Stephen Copley in “The Fine Arts in Eighteenth-Century Polite Culture,” Painting and the Politics of Culture: New Essays on British Art 1700-1850, ed. John Barrell (Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1992), cites the Earl of Egremont, George Wyndham as an example in 1780s of a ‘working’ landowner’ (Petworth) revered for his projects outside Petworth estate—community schools, estate housing, and running water, all of which were seen as social responsible because they helped ensure families were not separated (240-249).  124  Quote by A. Watt [1786] as cited in Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and The English Enlightenment, 33.  125  Drayton, Nature’s Government, 88-89.  88  This anxiety around the mixing and mobility of classes via botany’s outreach gives Darly’s The Fly-Catching Macaroni some of its resonance. Not only might bourgeois and upper-class viewers be reminded of the nation’s economic dependence upon skilled labour, but also of the emerging shifts in the attitudes of agri-workers whose demands for new knowledge defied their relegation to invisible status. What follows is such a voice in 1771 in the pages of the Town and Country Magazine of Knowledge, Instruction and Entertainment, a publication usually meant for an elite readership. Not only does the author of the published letter demonstrate the appeal and widespread accessibility of Linnaean taxonomies and botany but this labourer’s voice, in this publication, would seem to register a worrisome shift in class relations. Sex, sustenance, and posterity that are common ground here and shared between the privileged and the labourer, gives a discomforting edge: I Has the misfortune not to be larned, and so I takes the liberty of riting to you to know what is meant by the Sexes of Plants…A gentleman has made book about it, but I does not comprehend it. He says as how they makes love to one another…young turnips, and young cawliflowers…I’m no skollard, that’s for cartin, but I sometimes thinks as how these gentle-men, who are much more larneder, hardly knows what they be talking… if you will clear this matter up to my satisfaction, I’ll send you a good fat turkey. I takes in your Town and Country Magazine, and am main pleased with it.126 Could this letter be fiction—a planted satire merely meant to mock the new botany cult and its apparent move to a more mixed public sphere? Literacy separated the polite world from the uncultured, but here interest in Linnaeus’s ‘Sexes of Plants’ seemed to dissolve that divide and pose a shared interest in botanical knowing. Of note is that by the 1750s, with the rise of the middle class, “the male literacy rate was around sixty percent and female literacy was about forty percent,” a trajectory that saw the new class of reader as being “the middling 126  Thomas Meadowcroft, “On The Sexes of Plants,” Town and Country Magazine of Knowledge, Instruction, and Entertainment (London: January 14, 1771), 73. This appears in Meadowcroft’s letter to the Editor.  89  sort, somewhat below the traditional reader that was the gentry and professional.”127 And while this letter may not be from a typical middling type, importantly it points to concerns around botany as a legitimate site for discourses around sexual knowing.128 This interest had wide appeal, but not without anxieties. The writer’s defiant edge—whether part of a satirical joke or not—is borne out in his demand that an explanation be to his satisfaction. Perhaps the tone of righteous entitlement runs more deeply and raises anxieties around labour unrest that had begun to emerge in response to failed domestic harvests, hunger, and family separations that occurred as a result of land reforms such as the Enclosure Acts (1760-1820).129 Out of jobs, land divided, families displaced, and for some gleaning rights revoked, food would be a central issue over which labourers were willing to rally and riot.130 This letter would seem to point to a growing awareness that expanding knowledge, especially botanical knowing, while having the potential to solve issues around hunger and poverty also opened up the visibility of ‘other’ classes, in turn signaling potential shifts in power relations.  Anxieties Move into Uncharted Domestic Terrains The anxieties discussed above in relation to disease and absorption, new knowledge, and class mixing surfaced further in the nation’s domestic terrains. Concerns over the impact 127  Jan Fergus, Provincial Readers in Eighteenth-Century England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 6668.  128  As noted earlier in this thesis, Michel Foucault in The History of Sexuality (1988) has established these discursive sites as spaces of “knowledge to be gained from sex and the right to speak about it” (6).  129  Black, Eighteenth-Century Britain 1688-1783, 34-37. Black gives as example several uprisings against Enclosures—those in Scotland on the Cromartie estates in 1766, in Ireland’s Cork, Kilkenny, and Limerick counties in 1769-76, and in Northamptonshire in England during the same years where there was widespread resistance that materialized through “petitions, threats, attacks on gates, posts, rails, and other crimes” (36).  130  Ibid. Black confirms, as have other historians, that wood-gathering and gleaning were now defined as crimes and as such convictions for these now illegal activities were becoming commonplace as evident during the 1770s and 1780s in Berkshire.  90  of botany’s outreach in Britain would emerge again in caricature in these years through Matthew Darly’s A Mungo Macaroni published September 10, 1772 (Figure 2.3). The label ‘mungo’ was a loaded term that had appeared in reference to a character in Isacc Bickerstaffe’s 1768 comic opera, The Padlock, a popular play that appealed to mixed bourgeois and upper class audiences.131 ‘Mungo’ was a deprecating name for a black slave stereotype—a passive but much exploited servant who was always at the whim of the owner’s beck and call, or in playwright Bickerstaffe’s words, a “Mungo here, a Mungo dere, Mungo everywhere.”132 A Mungo Macaroni, published and displayed in the same year as the fly-catching satire of Banks, referenced a fashionable newsworthy, the former black slave Julius Soubise (1754-1798). Soubise was known as the pampered protégé and rumored paramour of Catherine Hyde, Duchess of Queensbury (1701-1777).133 Identified only as A  131  Bickerstaffe’s The Padlock was an extremely popular production—54 productions in the 1768-1769 season alone. The lead role of Mungo, a black servant played in blackface by the white Charles Dibdin, provided comic relief as a foil to the witless Don Diego, Mungo’s acerbic old master. The Padlock traced the storyline of Cervantes’s El Celoso Extremeno, “The Jealous Estrmaduran.” The play tells of an aged Don Diego who ‘adopted’ the young Leonora in hope to make her his bride. Diego padlocks Leonora in his house (that already has grills on the windows), takes the key, and leaves instructions for his ‘Mungo’ to keep watch while he makes goes to make arrangments with Leonora’s parents. In Don Diego’s absence, Leonora takes up with a passing young man, Leander, a situation enabled by Mungo. Don Diego was duped by Mungo. Whether a metaphor for sexual betrayal or around the politics of racial relations, the opera would seem to present Mungo as rising above popular stereotypes to be characterized as smart, compassionate and virtuous, a certain contrast to the plotting Don Diego. The Padlock exposes social tensions around the nature of captivity and liberty, submission and rebellion, and betrayal and trust to depict shifts from a binary divided to a more textured worldview.  132  Issac Bickerstaffe, The Padlock: A Comic Opera (London, W. Griffin, 1768), 12. Also see Patricia Bradley’s Slavery, Propaganda, and the American Revolution (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1999) for a perspective upon the ‘mungo’ and macaroni in discourses around the American Revolution.  133  George, Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires, Vol. 5, 82 and 120. According to Felicity Nussbaum in The Limits of the Human (2003), Soubise was named by his patroness, the Duchess of Queensbury, after “a hero of the Seven Years’ War”, Charles de Rohan, Prince de Soubise (1715-1787), who “served in the court of Louis XV and Madame de Pompadour,” (7) an association I speculate was also unsettling for its French ‘sympathies.’ The Duchess ‘adopted’ Soubise in 1764 from her cousin, Captain Stair-Douglas, who owned a slave ship upon which he was transporting the boy whom he had originally called ‘Othello’ and known by that name for a time. The aristocrat’s practice of taking or ‘adopting’ young black children as projects was not uncommon. Dorothy George also documents caricaturist William Austin’s published drawing in 1773 The Duchess of Queensbury and Soubise of the teenaged Soubise and his patroness, the Duchess of Queensbury, (by this time in her late 60s) in a public fencing match, a parody of Angelo’s famous L’Ecole des Armes of 1772. With his epee touching her heart, the balloon’s text reads “Mungo here, Mungo there, and Mungo everywhere,” a reference  91  Mungo Macaroni, Soubise can be seen as representational of an emerging new hybrid, an inbetween racial subjectivity that was becoming more visible in Britain’s landscape, but not seen or acknowledged by many. Not only were such former mungos caught between their black heritage and their eventual status as ‘freed’ individuals but still imprinted by enslavement, their mobility was contingent upon the limitations meted out by Britain upon their humanity. In Darly’s caricature, the mungo wears the macaroni fashion of dapper white breeches and topcoat. A tiny tricorn, sword, and walking cane complement his elegant but unsettling presence, for in 1772, a black macaroni was relatively rare.134 The blank backdrop, like that reminiscent of natural history illustrations, seems to accent that he was merely a typical specimen as does the generic and non-descript ‘a’ in the image’s title. The anonymity of this mungo macaroni would seem a deliberate slight however, for this was indeed Julius Soubise, an accomplished fencing master and equestrian, renowned Don Juan, and recognized devotee to opera, the theatre, and music.135 Soubise’s hybridity was evident through his being a mulatto, the son of a white father and an enslaved Jamaican mother. Additionally, although a  here could call up, through my reading of Felicity Nussbaum’s The Limits of the Human, an allusion to their rumoured sexual intimacy, that is, his symbolic ‘sword’ piercing her heart. 134  There are relatively few drawings evident in Dorothy George and Frederick Stephens’s eleven volume compilation of Catalogue of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum that have “negroe” images, but if so, often young men such as pages, or groomsmen, or servants appear. The only other reference to “mungo” is in relation to Jeremiah Dyson (1722-1776) in, for example, The State Jugglers of 1773 (BMC 5109). Dyson is not black nor has African heritage, rather he was the Clerk to the House of Commons whose mediation of debates within the House earned him a comparison to a “Mungo,” a reference made by an opposition MP. Perhaps also called up is an allusion here to Dyson’s sexuality as established by George Rousseau in Perilous Enlightenment (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1991). Although sexual promiscuity is sometimes associated with the ‘mungo’ stereotype, as Rousseau documents Dyson’s was known rather for his homosexuality. Dyson belonged to a “homosocial university club” where he met his “lover” poet, Mark Akenside and where they developed a very “close friendship” with the “Handsome and well made Jamaican, Mr. Freeman” (109-137).  135  Edward Scobie, Black Britannia: A History of Blacks in Britain (Chicago: Johnson Publishing, 1972), 93. Soubise was educated in music (violin), fencing, and equestrian skills. He was an instructor at the academy of the celebrated Italian riding and fencing master, Domenico Angelo.  92  man, he was still treated as a blackamoor child, that is, in historian Edward Scobie’s words, a “spoilt…black darling”—a pet acclimatization project of sorts kept by aristocrats in eighteenth-century London.136 Freedom provided by his benefactress, the Duchess, could not completely erase this mungo’s other hybridity, that is, his position as a by-product or offshoot of botanical outreach. In other words, Soubise, once a child-slave from Britain’s West Indian sugar plantations was recycled as human resource in slavery’s triangular trade, only to be recast as a freed mungo. Here emerges the ‘other’ face of botanical prowess, that is, black human resources that were spin-offs of botanical claim. Even in 1770, Britain’s increased economic wealth was said to be largely the result of the African slave trade.137 But the movement of slaves opened up disturbing new considerations. On one hand, The Mungo Macaroni hinted at the black man’s stimulus to economic growth, but concurrently alluded to his presence as a threat to the status quo especially through his ability—here in terms of macaroni fashion and sexual dalliance—to penetrate aristocratic circles, defy moral parameters, and activate abolitionist empathies.138 A Mungo Macaroni unveiled debates and anxieties around this uncharted path.  136  Ibid., 89-91. Scobie explains that ‘Black darlings’ were ‘blackamoors’ or black children who were ‘adopted’ (bought, given, traded) to Georgian aristocratic families. If they showed promise, they were educated and tutored in music, riding, and fencing. Scobie also reports that because of Soubise’s physical attractiveness, he was painted and sculpted by artists such as Thomas Gainsborough as was Ignatius Sancho, and by Johann Zoffany.  137  Wheeler, The Complexion of Race, 14.  138  Felicity Nussbaum in The Limits of the Human (2003) quotes elite socialite Lady Mary Coke’s diaries and observations that Soubise’s had countless “sexual conquests,” frequent visitations to “nunneries” (the slang term for brothels), and it was rumoured he had impressive “manly parts and abilities.”(8, 208). According to Nussbaum, Soubise’s sexual antics eventually caught up with him. He was accused of raping a woman and was sent to Calcutta, India by the Duchess. The Duchess allegedly died two days later. Soubise spent 21 years in India and died at the age of 44 on August 25, 1798 in a riding accident.  93  Darly’s caricature also opens up debates and anxieties concerning race mobility. For viewers, Soubise’s stark white attire that was so easily assimilated into the white background of the print left only his black face as a reminder of Jamaican roots and hybrid threats. Perhaps the blank backdrop whitewashed a central fear, that is to say, the burgeoning black populations in Britain, products of triangular trade for the most part, that had reached approximately 20,000 by the late 1760s.139 In addition, Darly’s informed viewership would connect a mungo macaroni with Bickerstaffe’s popular comedy The Padlock of four years earlier in 1768 and its rather clever protagonist, the black Mungo, who outwitted his white master.140 This characterization perhaps hinted at a deeper public concern around the issue of loyalty that the play addressed, that is, that the passivity, assumed by various Britons, as stereotypical of the ‘Negroe’ was indeed a disguise that posed uncertain implications. After all, public memory recalled the violent uprisings of Jamaican plantation slaves in the 1760s that saw owners and managers attacked and sugar production crippled. The mandate of the rebel leader, Tacky, had been “the entire extirpation of the white inhabitants,” a tactic borne out in reports of widespread human carnage and razed estate houses and cane fields.141 A Mungo Macaroni’s seemingly smooth integration of a dapper black man-about-town could therefore image new anxieties in domestic terrains.  139  Scobie, Black Britannia, 63. Scobie also notes that by the late eighteenth century 45,000-50,000 blacks lived throughout Britain (63). Important recent studies of an awareness of the triangular trade in slavery and its links to the British economy include Geoff Quilley and Kay Dian Kriz’s An Economy of Colour (2003) and the more recent study by Kay Dian Kriz, Slavery, Sugar, and the Culture of Refinement (2008) which exams print culture, satire, and high art to demonstrate the anxious awareness of slavery and its impact on Britain.  140  For a full discussion of the plot see John R. Oldfield, Popular politics and British anti-slavery, (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995), 30-32.  141  James Walvin, Black Ivory: A History of British Slavery (London: HarperCollins, 1992), 269. See also Kay Dian Kriz, Slavery, Sugar, and the Culture of Refinement (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008).  94  Such fears around race and class were further teased out through specific aspects of the mungo macaroni’s attire. In A Mungo Macaroni, the lack of a wig for Soubise could be telling. As noted in Chapter One, fashion defined the macaroni’s identity and his excesses allowed for membership into this group of anti-establishment outsiders. The macaroni’s wig was significant in signaling gilded taste and brotherhood. Thus, a macaroni without a fashionable wig was indeed no macaroni at all—a pariah. On the surface, A Mungo Macaroni would seem to suggest that the hybrid Soubise belongs to the macaroni fraternity, but alternatively what surfaces is that as a black man he was an outsider even amongst outsiders. Importantly, the wig was also a marker of patrician authority, dignity, and autonomy.142 Soubise himself wore no wig, and in popular accounts was identified as having “woolly hair” typical of “the Woolly and the Long-hair’d Blacks” with author Lady Montague adding as a racist comparison, “the same general Kind as Mastiffs, Spaniels, Bull-dogs.”143 Again, Soubise is in that interstitial space of belonging, but not belonging. On one hand, as a “petproject blackamoor” he enjoyed a certain status and protection that could avail mobility in parts of society.144 On the other hand, that same label registered a degradation that appeared in popular print, namely, “a fashionable woman hath two Implements about her, a Blackamoor, and a little Dog,” a taut allusion to ownership and subjectivity.145 Such parallels  142  Pointon, Hanging the Head, 120-124.  143  From Lady Mary Worley Montague’s travel writings in Theresa Braunschneider, “The Lady and the Lapdog,” Humans and Other Animals in Eighteenth-Century British Culture: Representation, Hybridity, Ethics, ed. Frank Palmeri (London: Ashgate, 2006), 46.  144  See Edward Scobie, Black Britannia (1972) and Felicity Nussbaum, The Limits of the Human (2003). Nussbaum recounts that despite his being the alleged lover of his 60 year-old benefactress the Duchess of Queensbury, Soubise was the known paramour of the renowned writer and abolitionist Charlotte Smith.  145  From The Character of a Town Miss (1675) as quoted in Srinivas Aravamudan, Tropicopolitans: Colonialism and Agency, 1688-1804 (Durham: Duke University Press, 1999), 34. These dialectic positions perhaps emerged in A Mungo Macaroni through Soubise’s subaltern status as possibly inscribed by the detail of the chained dog’s head affixed to his macaroni sword. Historian Keith Thomas notes in Man and The Natural  95  of Soubise to woolly-hair’d dogs can evoke what historian Richard Sennett’s observes as a central problem for the outsider in the city, that is, “how to arouse belief among those who do not know you.”146 Both hair and absent wig would seem to suggest hybrids who were neither one nor the other, had restricted mobilities, and in terms of the macaroni satires and London’s fashionable elites, were registered as marginalized entities. Hybridity’s threat to the stability of established class hierarchies played out one other way in the details of the caricature of A Mungo Macaroni. It was not uncommon for print culture to accentuate the physical features of black subjects. The exaggeration of Soubise’s facial features and the representation of a potbelly would seem to underscore what Frances Reynolds later claimed in 1785 about those of African descent: “defect of form and complexion [was] a strong obstacle to their acquiring true taste” and signaled a “defect they may have in their intellectual faculties.”147 The caricature of Soubise with his fine fashions, polished manners, floral scents, and reputation for relentless skin bleaching, 148 in fact relied  World (1984) that chains and “silver padlocks for blacks or dog” were commonplace in the eighteenth century (44). As a vicious pun it would seem, Darly positions the sword’s head such that Soubise’s firm grip and the shape of the canine’s head raise phallic associations that in turn tease out beliefs around this black man’s sexual prowess and his prescribed role in the Duchess’s household. 146  Sennett, The Fall of the Public Man, 49. Sennett explains that generating believability is key, that is, the outsider “penetrating barriers familiar to and used by insiders.” Given that Soubise enjoyed freedom of movement and activity, it may be that his “woolly hair” can call up what Shane White and Graham J. White argue in “Slave Hair and African-American Culture in the Eighteenth-and Nineteenth-Centuries,” Journal of Southern History 61 (1995), that is, that amongst slaves in eighteenth-century America, woolly hair signaled a “flaunt” or affirmation of distinction “and difference even defiance [in] an attempt to revalorize a biological characteristic that white racism had sought to devalue”(58).  147  Frances Reynolds, An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Taste, and of the Origin of our Ideas of Beauty (London, 1785), 26.  148  The effort to redefine cultural terrains is also brought to the fore by The Mungo Macaroni whose pains to camouflage his birthright speaks of a new kind mixity in a different light. Julian Soubise, the subject of A Mungo Macaroni, was known to use the caustic oil of the Jamaican cashew-nut “to skin [his] face” and acquire a lighter tone as reported in Patrick Browne, The civil and annual history of Jamaica. Containing I. An Accurate description of that island. II. An history of the natural productions. Vol. 1 (1789), 226-227. In addition, Monk of the Order of St. Francis, Nocturnal revels: or, the history of King’s-Place, and other modern nunneries…with the portraits of the most celebrated demireps…of this period (1779) notes that Soubise’s effort to shift colours as pointed out in a publication of 1779 was literally enacted through his use of “washes, cosmetics, and other  96  on debates that had begun to question views about the nature of humanity and that in turn threatened traditional racial divides around the notoriety associated with Soubise in the early 1770s. The caricature’s physical deformation had a problematic currency given contemporaneous debates on the relation of the human races to apes, which was topical at this time.149 Linneaus’s taxonomy argued differently. Linnaeus posited that Homo Sapiens, a species inclusive of all mankind, had four distinct types with none ‘above’ the other, but rather were based upon place of origin, not colour.150 This belief was to be further supported by formulations of anatomist, Johann Blumenbach (1752-1840) who having coined the term beautifying medicines, to wash a Blackamoor white” (221). Darly’s satire of Julian Soubise as A Mungo Macaroni had additional power in that lightening one’s skin troubled because of its link to bourgeois white female vanities. Parallels to female practices also could imply emasculation of the black male, and perhaps for good reason. Soubise was a notorious philanderer and thus a challenge and threat to white male sexual prowess. Attempts to erase his colour and camouflage his Jamaican mien by way of the botanical perhaps spoke of Soubise’s effort to transcend a widespread eighteenth-century belief that literary historian Michelle Cliff in The Land of Look Behind: Prose and Poetry (Ithaca: Firebrand Books, 1985) has termed a “hierarchy of shades” (59). This hierarchy is a classification that equated ‘white’ with hegemonic privilege and a subaltern’s colour with no power and no culture. Writer Oliver Goldsmith’s History of the Earth and Animated Nature, Vol. 2 (London: J. Nourse, 1774) would seem to corroborate these public sentiments in his observation that “the chief differences in man are rather taken from the tincture of his skin than the variety of his figure” (212). Apparently, British ideals around race were focused more upon similarity than equality, and despite mixities that had begun to populate new terrains, blacks were still marginalized as different, subordinate, or even dangerous. To ‘wash a Blackamoor white’ could also underscore eighteenth-century tensions around Linnaean formulations, in particular his theory that an entity’s development was merely an adaptation to “location or climate,” and that organisms do not differ much according to Linnaeus in Philosophia Botanica (1751) “unless compelled by dire necessity” (235). To suggest that difference was only a surface problem—in the skin—and shaped by climate rather than anatomical conditions, complicated popular belief that wanted fixed racial divisions. In addition, also unsettling was Linnaeus’s aforementioned “nested hierarchy” as explained by historian Jonathan Marks in Human Biodiversity as “several classes, none ‘higher’ than any other…but of the same level,”(7) a construct that could be seen as obscuring presumed black inferiority. 149  By midcentury, debates intensified between monogenists (those believing that the human family had a single origin) and the opposing polygenists (who believed in multiple species origins). In conjunction with Linnaean tenets that classified man (Homo) and ape (Simia) in the same family order of Anthropomorpha and later as Primates, such images fueled concerns around the porous borders between man and ape. See Footnote 148 of this Chapter. Lisbet Koerner in Linnaeus: Nature and Nation (1999) cites and quotes Linnaeus’s famous letter of February 14, 1747 to Johann Georg Gmelin, a German explorer, that asks whether he (Linnaeus) should “call man ape or vice versa” (87). In 1754 Linnaeus endeavoured to reconcile this issue by stating that other scientists also grappled with finding “any distinguishing mark by which the Apes can be separated from humans” (87). Physician and anthropologist Johann Blumenbach’s (1752-1840) craniometrical research resulted in his division of humans into five varieties. These varieties over-lapped. Ultimately, Blumenbach found no bodily difference between Caucasian and Negro—they shared a unity, a common humanity.  150  According to Linnaeus there were four types of Man from four continents—Americanus, Asiaticus, Africanus, Europeanus.  97  caucasian saw similarities between Africans and Caucasians in “‘understanding, natural talents, and mental capacities’.”151 Such claims were disturbing for their contravention to the traditional racial divides of white and non-white populations.152 Britain’s shifting demographics also played a role in the topicality of the mungo macaroni. For example, Edward Long, a former Jamaican planter in his Candid Reflections of 1772 warned that the British nation’s terrains were too “embronzed with the African tint,”153 while anti-abolitionist Samuel Estwick’s tract of 1772 outlined a law to “preserve the race of Britons from stain and contamination” of blacks.154 Further evidence of shifts in the cultural landscape seemed to surface through the politically charged case of 1772 involving black slave James Somerset. Here, rights of black slaves were recognized and ownership of slaves was somewhat regulated through a legal ruling that stated “‘no master” in England “was allowed…to take a slave by force to be sold abroad because he deserted his service.”155  151  As cited in Bruce David Baum, The Rise and Fall of the Caucasian Race: a political history of racial identity, (New York: New York University Press, 2006), 76.  152  See also Nicholas Hudson, “‘Nation’ to ‘Race’: The Origin of Racial Classification in Eighteenth-Century Thought,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 29, no. 3 (1996): 247-264.  153  Edward Long, Candid reflections upon the judgment lately awarded by the Court of King’s Bench, in Westminster-Hall, on what is commonly called the negroe-cause, by a planter (London: Lowdnes, 1772), 55. Not to be forgotten is that by the mid-1760s Britain’s black population in major ports such as Bristol, Liverpool and London had frighteningly reached 20,000 according to J. R. Oldfield in “The ‘Ties of soft Humanity’,” The Huntington Library Quarterly 56, no.1 (Winter 1993): 1-14.  154  As quoted in James Walvin, Questioning Slavery (London: Routledge, 1996), 85.  155  Ibid., Chapter 5, and National Archives of Britain, James Walvin, “Black Presence: Asian and Black History in Britain, 1500-1850,” at http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/pathways/blackhistory/rights/slave_free.htm. The status of blacks as property underpinned the Somerset ruling of 1772. James Somerset, a black slave and property of Charles Stewart, had been transported to England. He ran away but was recaptured on Nov. 26, 1771 and Stewart forced Somerset’s transport back to Jamaica. Granville Sharpe, a British abolitionist, said this was unlawful and helped secure a writ of habeas corpus that ordered Somerset’s return to appear before a British court. Lord Chief Justice Mansfield ruled that James Somerset was unjustly treated and was to be ‘discharged’.  98  While slaves were not freed as some Britons had believed,156 some recognition of black rights seemed to have begun. Increased evidence of mixity and the potential of a black population to negotiate and indeed excel in Britain’s cultural landscape were particularly evident in the accomplishments of Ignatius Sancho (1729-1780), an ex-slave from Africa. In the eighteenth century, literacy was “a sign of European eminence,”157 a category that Sancho justifiably joined through his articulate production of letters, diaries, narratives, and plays. Similarly, he distinguished himself as a respected theatre critic and music composer, and was viewed by his white contemporaneous literati as “a rarity—a man of utter integrity and strength of character.”158 Further recognition of Sancho as erudite was sealed by the posthumous publication of The Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho, an African in 1782. Thomas Gainsborough’s portrait of Ignatius Sancho (Figure 2.4) painted at Bath on November 29, 1768 when Sancho was in the employ of the Duke of Montague, 159 and which was later to become the frontispiece engraved by Francesco Bartolozzi for Sancho’s Letters, depicts a poised, bourgeois gentleman—a polished and socially sanctioned individual, albeit one whose gaze does not directly engage with the viewer.160 In this representation, Sancho seems the distinguished patriot—composed and clear-eyed, a tidy coif, and a classically cut black jacket with gold buttons, red vest, and white shirt. His clothing denotes the transformation from African slave 156  As quoted in Adam Hoschschild, Bury The Chains (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2006), 50.  157  Wheeler, The Complexion of Race, 238.  158  As cited in Scobie, Black Britannia,100.  159  Vincent Carretta and P. Gould, eds. Genius in Bondage (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2001), 136.  160  In Portraiture: facing the subject (1997), Joanna Woodall suggests that “gaze polities” were along gendered lines and a direct look was a breach of propriety, especially for subordinate subjects such as women, or interestingly here, perhaps black men whose status, like that of women, was below that of white males.  99  to mobile and sophisticated Briton. That Sancho’s right hand is positioned inside his vest conveys, as historian Arlene Meyers has argued in a different context, that the sitter can be aligned with “men of breeding.”161 Sancho thus appears as a model of British refinement: patriarchal, learned, enlightened and industrious.162 But Sancho’s activities could also have ambivalent overtones. That he embodied British virtues and mentored other blacks in transforming their African roots, for example, Julius Soubise discussed earlier in this chapter. Notably, Sancho admitted that despite his achievements he was still a hybrid, that is, “his complexion” made him “utterly unqualified” to serve in public office.163 He also referred to himself as a ‘Blackamoor’, but expressed his fury for “the unchristian and most diabolical usage of my brother Negroes—the illegality— the horrid wickedness of the [slave] traffic.”164 As contemporary historian Markman Ellis has noted, for those who were equivocal about abolition, Sancho’s influential voice could be seen as “culturally combative… transgressive and radical.”165 That potential for radical dissent was heightened through white supporters who saw themselves as similarly oppressed. Such were the Irish who were stigmatized with blackness because of their “Celtish origins” and the labouring poor, that is, the blackened coalminers and chimney sweeps.166 As a result, fears 161  Meyer, “Re-dressing Classical Statuary: The Eighteenth Century “Hand-in-Waistcoat” Portrait,” 45-64.  162  Sancho had been taken in by the Duchess of Montague and upon her death in 1751 was left an annual allowance of £30. He managed his money well and in 1774 set up a grocer’s shop in fashionable Mayfair, an establishment patronized by his friends such as the famous actor David Garrick and writer Samuel Johnson.  163  Ignatius Sancho as quoted and cited in Gretchen H. Gerzina, “Ignatius Sancho: A Renaissance Black Man in Eighteenth-Century England,” The Journal of Blacks in Higher Education 21 (Autumn 1998): 107.  164  Ibid. Sancho’s interest in abolition was borne out in Thomas Cooper’s (1759-1839) Letters on the Slave Trade (1787) where Cooper noted “the Letters of Ignatius Sancho” had many passages on abolition.  165  Markman Ellis, “Ignatius Sancho’s Letters: Sentimental Libertinism and the Politics of Form,” in Genius in Bondage: Literature of the Early Black Atlantic, eds. Vincent Carretta and Philip Gould (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 2001), 212.  166  Nussbaum, The Limits of the Human, 151.  100  around hybridity and its various mixities played out through xenophobic reactions to Scottish and Catholic Irish immigrations to England that had risen to about 40,000 by 1780.167 Resistance by any group—voices angry about race, class, or religious persecution—unsettled British ruling authority especially in the 1770s during the uprisings in the American Colonies.168  Conclusion Resources from botanical outreach may have been seen as anodynes for social problems, but they cultured discontents as well. Britain grappled with a changing cultural terrain that featured a more ‘mixed’ version of nationhood. Mobilities emerged and new levels of visibility surfaced to unveil tension between the desire for botanic product and anxieties around difference. Linnaean notions of hybridity or mixity gave momentum to new understandings that helped negotiate difference and diversity in wider worlds. For eighteenth-century viewers, both caricature and academic high art such as the portraits of Gainsborough and West, embed tensions with reference to this aspect of global outreach. While Darly’s caricatures discussed in this chapter mocked their respective subjects, reciprocal seeing put the viewer under similar scrutiny so that he or she might self-consciously examine his or her own fears and limits. While these images and the portraits by West and Gainsborough’s attest to fascination with exotic product and geographies, such representations also stand as indices of anxiety  167  Linda Colley, Britons: Foreign the Nation 1707-1837 (London: Pimlico, 2003), 329. The Catholics were feared for their long-established Jacobin affiliations already mentioned in Chapter One.  168  Historian Patricia Bradley in Slavery, Propaganda, and the American Revolution (1999) notes that Bickerstaffe’s The Padlock had over 40 performances in the colonies by the mid-1770s and the term ‘mungo’ and ‘macaroni’ emerged within American revolutionary discourses to call up issues around political loyalities.  101  around emerging porous boundaries in terms of gender, race, and class that had the potential to change the complexion of nationhood. Such discourses play out in new ways within the botanical terrains explored in Chapter Three.!  102  CHAPTER THREE Virtual Paradise, Mutable Kingdom: Troubling Nationhood in the Botanical Illustrations of Dr. Robert John Thornton’s The Temple of Flora. Introduction In late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century Britain, Carolus Linnaeus’s classificatory system continued to fascinate Britons, in particular, his formulations based upon sexual difference and their exceptions as well as promised ‘fruition’ that underpinned botany’s utility and displays of vibrant nationhood. A grasp of that knowledge was evoked through botanical illustration but so too were attendant anxieties specifically in relation to aspects of Linnaean knowledge that pointed to exceptions, that is, possible variations that were not fixed, but variable or changeable, and could impact the national landscape. My exploration of these tensions is framed through a unique botanical publication, Dr. Robert John Thornton’s (1768-1837) A New Illustration of the Sexual System of Carlos von Linnaeus (1797-1807).1 This work was published in three separate parts. In his 1797 Prospectus, Thornton indicated that in tracing the “philosophic principles of Botany,” the first part of his publication would address the plant’s “anatomy” and functions of its parts including “the Sexual relationship.”2 Part two would address food of plants and principles of  1  Thornton’s publication was entitled as ‘new’ so that it would be distinguished from John Miller’s An Illustration of the Sexual System of Linnaeus published in 1777. According to historian Ray Desmond in Great Natural History Books and Their Creators (London: British Library and Oak Knoll Press, 2003), Chapter 10, while Thornton had conceived A New Illustration of the Sexual System of Carlos von Linnaeus as early as 1791, published the first two parts of this work by 1797, and commissioned botanical plates for the third part in 1798, not until January 1, 1799 did Thornton issue a title page for The Temple of Flora, the third part of the entire publication.  2  Robert John Thornton, Prospectus of The New Illustration of the Sexual System of Linnaeus (London, 1797), 1.  103  agriculture. In the third part, The Temple of Flora: Or, Garden of Nature, allegorical scenes and “elegant, picturesque” botanical plates would illustrate twelve classes of the Linnaean sexual system and “render [botany] to every one’s comprehension.”3 My discussion focuses upon select images from this third part often simply called The Temple of Flora.4 Accompanied by verses of renowned poets and identified by Dr. Thornton as a “National Botanical Work,”5 I argue that various plates from The Temple of Flora folio can be seen as sites that evoke troubling transformations within the monarchical state, issues in relation to governance, patrimony, sexuality and gender, and shifts in the fabric of both the empire and nation. As with the range of images explored in previous chapters, botanical illustrations in Thornton’s The Temple of Flora responded to British botanophiles who were eager to botanize by using Linnaeus’s sexual system of classification. And while these botanical illustrations were also mobile and circulating and offered immediate “specimens” through which to play out scientific discovery, potential subscribers to the publication would also be  3  Ibid.  4  Robert John Thornton, The Temple of Flora, or, Garden of Nature. Part 3 (London, 1799-1807). The plates were hand-coloured (aquatint, stipple and line, mezzotint), expensive processes that spoke of aesthetic and technological expertise. Future references to this third part will be truncated to The Temple of Flora. I have used this publication, also catalogued under the title The Temple of Flora: garden of the botanist, poet, painter and philosopher, at the Natural History Museum in London. I have also worked from The Temple of Flora, ‘with plates faithfully reproduced from original engravings and the work described by Geoffrey Grigson with bibliographic notes by Handasyde Buchanan,’ ed. G. Grigson (London: Collins, 1951). The illustrated plates I use in this thesis are from a digitalized format of Thornton’s The Temple of Flora at the University of Wisconsin website: http://digicoll.library.wisc.edu/cgi-bin/DLDecArts/DLDecArtsidx?id=DLDecArts.ThornTempFlo, as are references to Thornton’s text that accompany the plates.  5  Robert John Thornton, Dr. Thornton’s national botanical work (London: C. Whittingham, c.1800), 2. The poets involved in Thornton’s The Temple of Flora were members of elite circles: Poet Laureate Henry James Pye, Anna Seward, (‘Swan of Lichfield’), Bernard Shaw (playwright), George Dyer (sympathizer to French resistances) and Erasmus Darwin (polymath and grandfather of Charles Darwin).  104  attracted by the possibility of viewing images that Thornton had advertised as produced by “the finest Artists of this Country.”6 In this chapter, I nuance Linnaeus’s focus upon sexual difference or exceptions through the concept of variation, that is, what Linnaeus became aware of as the potential of variability within a species.7 Because of commonalities that were seen as shared between aspects of the natural world and that of human society, I argue that the idea of change that underpinned notions of Linnaean variability was able to call up uncertainty—a lack of stability, control, or predictability—that by association could threaten social codes or order. Put another way, the Linnaean system had the potential to unseat the familiar by posing uncertain change to conventional status quos. By taking up themes of nation, governance, sexuality, and gender, this chapter explores how various illustrations within The Temple of Flora, emphasized by Thornton in his Prospectus as a “NATIONAL HOMAGE (sic) to Linnaeus,” 8 address troubling shifts around the Linnaean concept of variety that in turn seemed to materialize as potential mutability in social realms.  6  Robert John Thornton, M.D., March 1, 1799 will be published The New Illustration of the Sexual System of Linnaeus (London, 1799), ii. Thornton’s key artists were Philip Reinagle (1749-1833), landscape painter who painted eleven images, portraitist Peter Henderson (fourteen images) and ‘moon-scape’ painter, Abraham Pether (1756-1812) (two images). As stated in his aforementioned Prospectus of The New Illustration of the Sexual System of Linnaeus (London, 1797), Thornton had 597 subscribers to the folio, 583 among which he claimed were “Kings and Potentates, English and Foreign Nobility, Gentry, Medical Gentlemen” (1).  7  Tod Stuessy, Plant taxonomy: the systematic evaluation of comparative data (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), 139. Stuessy notes that through Linnaeus’s botanical investigations and his horticultural experience in the tulip trade, he became aware of the differences that could result or occur in a species by way of human efforts (139). As is evident in the “Methodus” a broadside included in Systema Naturae, these ‘deviant’ forms Linnaeus saw did not deserve the rank of ‘species’ but instead were given that of ‘variety’ or ‘variations’. Stuessy also points this out. Early in his investigations Linnaeus posited a more fixed notion of species divined through the hand of God. However, in the writing of what he calls his dissertation on “The Sexes of Plants” in 1729 he did acknowledge the potential for variability in species by way of plant sexuality by stating that, “a genus [or type] was nothing else than a number of plants sprung from the same mother by different fathers” (55-56).  8  Thornton, Prospectus, 1.  105  Thornton’s The Temple of Flora consisted of a lavish title page, a portrait of Linnaeus, a portrait of well-known botanist Erasmus Darwin, three portraits of Thornton, four hand-painted allegorical scenes, and twenty-eight colored engravings of botanical plants.9 Thornton explained that in an effort to “render the Science of Botany as simple as possible,” only twelve of Linnaeus’s twenty-four classes would be illustrated.10 Significantly, Thornton’s floral plates differed radically from botanical images found, for example in studies from Moses Harris’s The Aurelian: or, natural history of English Insects of 1766 (Figure 1.1) where plants and insects in were rendered on a blank white ground enabling the morphology and symbiotic relation of plants, flowers, and insects to be the focus of attention. Instead, as the author himself pointed out, The Temple of Flora initiated a new strategy of placing botanical specimens within a landscape setting.11 This innovation had been announced in Thornton’s earlier Prospectus of 1797, when Fellow of the Royal Society and President of the Edinburgh College of Physicians, Dr. Rutherford was quoted to the effect  9  Initially, Thornton had envisioned more botanical illustrations. In Great Natural History Books and Their Creators (2003), Ray Desmond notes that Thornton had a “confused concept of the folio’s structure,” but in total there seemed to be a goal of ninety-one botanical plates and twenty-six portraits (115). Costs were prohibitive, however, and the folio was downsized considerably.  10  Thornton, Prospectus, 1.  11  Robert John Thornton, M.D. Advertisement to the New Illustration, 6. Art historian Charlotte Klonk in Chapter 2 of Science and The Perception of Nature: British Landscape Art in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (London: Yale University Press, 1996) and William W. Blunt and William Stearn in Chapter 18 of The Art of Botanical Illustration (London: Antique Collectors, 1994) have commented on the innovative use of Thornton’s landscape backdrops which were unique in eighteenth-century botanical illustration. In the seventeenth century, floral illustration was diagrammatic—a specimen on a blank backdrop— flat, fixed, isolated, and unnatural. While stem, flower, and leaves were usually visible, there was no evidence of roots, terrain, or natural life, that is, no context for its subjectivity. Blunt and Stearn give mention of one publication, Crispjin van de Passe’s Hortus Floridus (1614), as anticipating Thornton’s strategy. Passe’s drawing of the Saffron crocus, for example, had the plant surrounded sparingly with foliage, butterflies, and field mice.  106  that the folio surpassed “in Elegance and Splendour” any prior works offered in memory of Linnaeus.12 Charlotte Klonk has noted in her discussion of Thornton’s plates that the specimens pictured in the folio had all been introduced to Britain over the course of the eighteenth century.13 A key feature of Thornton’s publication, however, was that landscape backdrops made reference to a characteristic climate, topography, and season of bloom associated with each specimen. The Snowdrops and the Crocus (Figure 3.1), that opened the series of florals for example, was pictured in a frozen rural countryside. And as Klonk points out, Thornton’s plates of the Hyacinths and Tulips depict both within landscape settings that alluded to Holland as the country that played a key role in the cultivation of these bulbs.14 Significantly several of the plates emphasized more exotic specimens, that is, both plants and regions accessed through imperial expansion and exploration.15 Indeed, the publication played to current patriotic and national interests in the 1790s and first years of the 1800s with the texts accompanying several of the plates referencing Britain’s recent conflicts with France in both the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars and evoking continuing imperial interests.16  12  Thornton, Prospectus, 1. Rutherford was also cited for praising Thornton’s work as being accessible to “everyone.” Everyone, of course, meant a more sophisticated bourgeois or refined upper-class subscriber who had money, time, interest, and ability to import exotic seeds and bulbs, and pursue the leisurely delight of botanical exploration.  13  Charlotte Klonk in Science and The Perception of Nature: British Landscape Art in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (London: Yale University Press, 1996) states that “all plants shown had been introduced into England by the end of the eighteenth century” (49).  14  Ibid., 57.  15  Such plates from Thornton’s folio as the Curious American Bog Plants, The Sacred Egyptian Bean, The Chinese Limodoron, Indian Reed Cowslip, South American Winged Passion-Flower or the South African Artichoke Silver-Tree all point to Britain’s plant pursuit and acquisition from foreign climes.  16  As I will discuss more fully such plates as Tulips (Figure 3.5) and The Blue Egyptian Water-Lily are touch points for this exploration.  107  The Temple of Flora has been a frequent touch-point for scholars.17 Klonk for example has devoted a long and invaluable chapter to the work in her study Science and the Perception of Nature.18 However, while Klonk’s account discusses Thornton’s career and that of the artists who illustrated the plates, her analysis of the illustrations focuses primarily on their incorporation of the reigning aesthetic categories of the period—the beautiful, the sublime, or the picturesque.19 In contrast my own exploration takes a different approach by examining how the value of Thornton’s folio was not only as a template of floral classification.20 I argue that the folio’s floral depictions, unique landscaped backdrops, and accompanying text and poems stand as valuable registers of what was in fact a shifting national landscape. Indeed, as I pursue in this chapter, both images and texts served as conduits through which political and social mutability and variation were acknowledged and diffused. Several decades ago, historian Clive Bush’s commentary on both Linnaeus and Robert Thornton pointed out that Linnaean “laws of botany” in giving definition to the natural world, by analogy could be seen to point to social paradigms, what Bush calls “laws  17  Discussions range from descriptive accounts of picturing plants, the folio’s content, and Thornton’s struggle to see it to publication as in Ray Desmond’s Great Natural History Books and their Creator of 2003, Wilfrid Blunt and William Stearn’s The Art of Botanical Illustration of 1994, and Lys De Bray’s The Art of Botanical Illustration (Bromley: Helm, 1989), to more critical exploration of Thornton’s various scientific interests as in Martin Kemp’s Seen/Unseen (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006. There are also a wide variety of texts that have used The Temple of Flora’s plate, Cupid Inspiring Plants with Love of 1805 by Philip Reinagle, as an iconic register of the interest Britons have for plants and gardens.  18  Klonk, Science and The Perception of Nature, Chapter Two.  19  Ibid., Chapter Two, passim and 37.  20  See for example W. Blunt and W. Stearn, The Art of Botanical Illustration (London: Antique Collectors, 1994). Blunt’s evaluation of the work as an historian of botanical illustration acknowledges that The Temple of Flora was “probably the most famous of florilegia,” but he argues that the work had “little botanical value” (236).  108  of society,” a parallel that has been taken up as well by other historians of science.21 With this in mind, my inquiry investigates how the illustrations and texts of Thornton’s folio registered the botanical in relation to social and political tensions in the last years of the eighteenth century.  The Imprint of Botanophilia Natural history books had enjoyed popularity throughout the century: John Ray’s Historia Plantarum (1704), Elizabeth Blackwell’s The Curious Herbal (1739), William Curtis’s Flora Londinensis (1777), William Aiton’s Hortus Kewensis (1789) and James Smith’s Introduction to English Botany (1790-1813) are but a few works that attest to the love of plants. These records of vegetal life were chronicles of national pride, in other words, evidence that Britain as a prolific garden was a leader in scientific knowledge, global resource acquisition, and agricultural innovation and expertise.22 Robert Thornton’s The Temple of Flora also celebrated and capitalized on botanophilia serving at once as endorsement for plantsmen and nurseries involved in botanical enterprise, as vicarious travel to ‘exotic’ climes and the intimacies of botanizing, or as ready, portable specimens for practitioners of Linnaean classification.23 Noteworthy too is that with botanophilia’s  21  Clive Bush, “Erasmus Darwin, Robert John Thornton, and Linnaeus’ Sexual System,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 7, no. 3 (Spring 1974): 297. See also Janet Browne, “Botany for Gentlemen: Erasmus Darwin and ‘The Loves of the Plants’,” Isis 80, no. 4 (December 1989): 592-621; Alan Bewell, '"Jacobin Plants": Botany as Social Theory in the 1790s', The Wordsworth Circle 20:3 (Summer 1989): 132-39; and Londa Schiebinger, Nature’s Body: Gender in the Making of Modern Science (New Brunswich, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2004).  22  See for example Richard Drayton’s Nature’s Government: Science, Imperial Britain and the ‘Improvement’ of the World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000).  23  Thornton references several plantsmen and growers in his publication. In particular reference to The Temple of Flora’s plates The Aloe and the Tulips, see Klonk, Science and The Perception of Nature, 49. It would seem that Thornton fully prescribed to Linnaean aphorisms from Carl Linné, Linnaeus’ Philosophia Botanica, trans., Stephen Freer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). That is to say, Aphorism 332 from Philosophia  109  increased popularity botanical illustration acquired a more refined association as a leisure activity, that is, as “an elegant pursuit” of virtuosi collectors.24 Such association with more elite tastes was curried through two connections formative to Thornton’s folio, first that of landscaped backgrounds and second an association with the eminent natural historian Erasmus Darwin.25 As noted above, Thornton’s The Temple of Flora was the first publication of its kind to use background scenery for the floral image. In Thornton’s words, the resulting “elegant, picturesque” plates would not only express the “different gradations of the flowers, but will generally have, what has not been before attempted. Back-Grounds expressive of the situation to which each naturally belongs.”26 The picturesque alluded to by Thornton in the quote above was defined by the Reverend William Gilpin in his 1794 essay as a “composition [that] consist[ed] in uniting in one whole a variety of parts.”27 As commentators on the picturesque have noted, the  Botanica (1751) states that “Pictures should be drawn in the natural size and position” (283), a tactic evident in The Temple of Flora where, for example, Reinagle’s The Night-Blowing Cereus is of lifelike size. Secondly, in Aphorism 333, Linnaeus states that “The best pictures should show all the parts of the plants, even the smallest parts of the fruit-body” (284). This technique is certainly evident in such spectacular exposure of pistils and stamens as in Peter Henderson’s The White Lily (1800) or The Quadrangular Passion-Flower (1802) and Philip Reinagle’s The Superb Lily (1799) and The Blue Passion Flower (1800). 24  Thornton, The Temple of Flora, no page. Also see John Gascoigne, Joseph Banks and the English Enlightenment: Useful Knowledge and Polite Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 57-118.  25  Erasmus Darwin was a physician, natural historian, philosopher, inventor, abolitionist, prolific poet and pioneer of evolutionary ideas that were advanced by his grandson, Charles. He was the founding member of the influential Derby Philosophical Society and Lunar Society of Birmingham to which leading literary, scientific and industrial leaders belonged and met ‘on the full moon’ to share ideas. Biographer Hesketh Pearson, in Doctor Darwin (New York: Walker, 1964), notes Darwin’s diverse innovations: “sketches for lamps, telescope stands, knitting-looms, surveying machines, water-closets...inventions from an organ to electricity to wooden chessmen, from a double-furrow plough, to an artificial bird” (30).  26  Thornton, Advertisement to the New Illustration, 6.  27  William Gilpin, Three essays: on picturesque beauty; on picturesque travel; and on sketching landscape: to which is added a poem, on landscape painting, 2nd ed. (London: R. Blamire, 1794), 19-20. The picturesque’s ‘smooth, rich’ varie