Born Catherine Sawbridge on the 23rd March 1731, she gained an informal education in her father’s library alongside her brother at their family home in Kent. She moved to London in 1760, upon her marriage to Dr George Macaulay and three years later published the first of her extensive eight volume History of England that spanned from the succession of James I to the Revolution. Part way through the third volume of her history, her husband passed away, leaving her widowed with a single daughter (Catherine Sophia) from the marriage. She remained in London for a while, before moving to Bath in 1774 where she met her second husband William Graham. The marriage caused scandal. As the brother of her physician, son of a saddle maker, and only a mere Surgeon’s Mate1, William was considered beneath Mrs Macaulay. They remained together until her death on the 22nd June 1791 at the age of sixty at their home in Binfield on the Thames, near Windsor. In her memory, William dedicated a memorial to her in the local parish church nearby.Continue reading “Mrs Macaulay – The Historian In Petticoats – Britain’s First Female Historian”
News cycle filters through the pictures again,
muted buzz of static from the back of the set
perched high above an empty bar,
upturned stools kicked up like drunk legs.
Cigarette burnt low he flicks the butt wide,
watches it sail, scatter ash, splutter in the sink,
tap drip, dripping in that constant aching manner
of fists drumming against windows caving in.
Could comment on the old school tactics,
another plague, a new spin on the old classic.
Some times the old tricks do work best,
even if they stop short of razing it all to dust.
Tonight we are being challenged to write War Poetry, which immediately brings back memories of studying Wilfred Owen’s Selected Poems for A Level English Lit. However, war is something that always seems to exist somewhere at any point in history, and all too often conflict is much closer than we would like to believe.
Their heads bob like drinking birds,
of course, of course, of course.
Necks pulled up from their collar bones.
I have never seen throats so open
as when your snout is at their jugular
the gleam on bright white teeth
masked by sheer magnetism.
Tonight’s quadrille prompt had me a little stumped to begin with. Then I started writing about iron filings, got stuck fifteen words in, and wrote this quadrille instead. I even got to bring out one of my own sketches to use for the feature image.
Misfortune comes in sets of threes,
but recently I’ve lost count of the omens
darkening these skies.
Understanding is important,
but so is justice, and memory to carry change
past the span of sympathetic anger.
All power in this world is man-made,
the bricks still sticky with greased fingerprints.
We were supposed to know better.
Always just sort of truly set
these ways wobble wonderfully,
or is it woefully?
Uncertain if they’re certain
about the shape
of the course
This is what has been done.
Not quite as pictured.
A very quick poem before I head to bed tonight. It was my first night back on the judo mat, so I’ve only just got home, but I didn’t want to miss the Quadrille night. Can’t wait to read the others tomorrow.
(P.S, I almost think this might count as a political poem… huh… not really done one of those before.)