This edited article about the Titanic originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 668 published on 2 November 1974.

On the deck of the Titanic

Titanic sinks as her passengers attempt to escape the disaster in the inadequate number of lifeboats by Peter Jackson

The sinking of the Titanic by Graham Coton

The famous Titanic liner was certainly aptly named. At the time of the disaster, when she sank on her maiden voyage in 1912, she was the largest ship afloat, could carry 3,320 persons, and weighed 46,328 tons.

The Titanic was of an all-steel construction and inside her steel hull were watertight compartments, each 60 feet long, which were entered, one from another, through watertight doors. She was, it was claimed at the time, unsinkable!

Armed with this confidence in the ship, the pride of the White Star shipping line, the first passengers set sail from Britain for America on the Titanic’s first and last voyage.

The water of the Atlantic on the night of the disaster was very calm and flat. She was steaming at her top speed of 22 knots and making good time.

The icebergs which float south from the Greenland coast can be a great hazard to ships on the busy routes between Europe and North America. They chill the air around them so that they are often surrounded by a cloud of mist.

And on that fateful night of April 14, 1912, one of these treacherous icebergs could not be seen from the ship as it sailed happily along. It struck the Titanic a gigantic blow ripping a hole right along the ship’s side below the water line.

She took two hours to go down and during that time 652 passengers managed to get into the lifeboats, and a further 60 into collapsible boats. In all, 712 people were saved but 1,513 others perished. These included the famous journalist W. T. Stead and John Jacob Astor, the American inventor.

The tragedy of the disaster was that many more people could have survived. Less than twenty miles away from the stricken vessel was the Leyland liner Californian which could have come to the Titanic’s rescue had its radio operator been on duty. Only the arrival of the Cunard liner Carpathia 20 minutes after the Titanic went down prevented further loss of life.

As a result of the disaster, the first International Convention for Safety of Life at Sea was called in London in 1913. At this meeting rules were drawn up requiring that every ship should have lifeboat space for each person on board. The Titanic, incidentally, had only 1,178 boat spaces for the 2,224 on board. Also, that lifeboat drills be held during each voyage; and, since the Californian had not heard the distress calls of the Titanic, that ships maintain a 24-hour radio watch. The International Ice Patrol was also established to warn ships of ice in the North Atlantic shipping lanes.

This edited article about packaging originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 679 published on 18 January 1975.

Attractive packaging for confectionery was important for occasions like Easter, just as specific designer packaging was used to commemorate state occasions like Coronations, producing chocolate boxes, tins and of course, mugs.

If the packets we see in the shops today are a lot smarter though a little less individual than the packs of earlier generations, this could be due to the influence of professional package designers.

Such designers were almost unknown before the late 1920s, when they came into their own in America and in Germany. In England they were unknown until the early 1930s.

The first package design course in any English art school was included in the 1932-3 syllabus of Goldsmith’s College, London, and it was the first of many.

The designer of packs nowadays is concerned with the size and shape of the package, the choice of materials for it, the way it opens and closes, its colours, and its layout and lettering.

At times he has to compromise between his own idea of what is good design, what his client the manufacturer insists on having, and what the market researchers tell him is “what the public wants”. So a degree of similarity in many present-day package designs is only to be expected.

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This edited article about Elizabeth II originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 666 published on 19 October 1974.

Queen Elizabeth II at the Trooping of the Colour, by Clive Uptton

“The King has granted to her Royal Highness, the Princess Elizabeth, a commission with the honorary rank of second subaltern in the Auxiliary Territorial Service. Her Royal Highness is at present attending a course at a driving training centre in the south of England.” So ran an official announcement from Buckingham Palace in March 1945. The nineteen-year-old Princess was so enthusiastic about changing wheels, cleaning plugs, and greasing and maintaining vehicles, that Queen Elizabeth, her mother, once remarked ruefully, “Well, last night we had sparking plugs during the whole of dinner!”

Like other Windsors, the Princess wanted to do what she could for her country in time of war. In 1940, she made her first ever broadcast during Children’s Hour. She spoke especially to the children who were separated from their parents, sending them a message of encouragement. Later she registered for pre-service training as a Sea Ranger and it was at her own request that she was commissioned in 1945.

Although Elizabeth was not born to be monarch, she did not have the important role thrust upon her as had been her father’s case. She was only 11 when her uncle abdicated and from that time, she began the training necessary for an heir to the throne.

However, she remained “A most unaffected little girl” and when travelling in her father’s Coronation procession, it was obvious from her beaming smile that she was enjoying herself immensely. Like many other little girls she loved dogs and horses; joined the Girl Guides; was thrilled to be awarded a Life Saving Certificate for swimming; rode on the “Tube,” although this was a rare treat, and took part in a village concert. In fact, the Princess was quite a keen amateur actress and she and her sister, Margaret, took part in the pantomime which was at one time a feature of the Christmas celebrations at Windsor Castle.

From her eighteenth birthday, Elizabeth engaged in an increasing number of public duties. In March 1944, she went on a two-day visit to Wales with the King and Queen (her first civic tour). The Princess, for the most part, remained in the background but occasionally she would chat with girls of her own age. In December 1944, she took her first leading role in an important national event when she launched Britain’s newest battleship, “The Vanguard.”

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This edited article about originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 705 published on 19 July 1975.

The Public Readings Charles Dickens gave by flickering gaslight in Britain and America were a phenomenal success. Picture by Neville Dear

The fashionably dressed audience applauded enthusiastically as the curtain went up. Most had paid heavily for their seats, some as much as £5, which was a lot of money in 1870. But none regretted it. It was money well spent to hear the great Charles Dickens reading from his own works.

Dickens stood there in the glare of the gas lights, a grey-haired, bearded man in a perfectly tailored evening suit with diamonds gleaming in his shirt front, but looking a good deal older than his 58 years. Then, as the house lights went down, Britain’s greatest living author began to speak. Within a few minutes, no fewer than thirty members of the audience had fainted.

It was not unusual. The medical attendants who set about rendering first aid had known what to expect as soon as they had read the programme. Even veterans of the Crimea were likely to feel distinctly queer when Charles Dickens read one of his bloodthirsty episodes, because he always made it sound even worse than the real thing.

Reading in public from his own work was something that Dickens started quite late in life.

In an age when most writers were men of culture and education, Charles Dickens stood alone as a poor boy who had made good.

Fortunately, Charles Dickens’ personal success came early. By the age of 24 he was producing “Pickwick Papers” by instalments and selling 40,000 copies of each. Almost overnight he had become the most talked about author in the land.

The temptation to follow up “Pickwick Papers” with another funny book must have been considerable, but Dickens had no intention of trying to repeat a success. His second book, “Oliver Twist”, was a good deal grimmer, but again it was hailed as a masterpiece. From then on, his fame was assured.

By the time he was 41, Charles Dickens was a prosperous and highly respected man, married with a small regiment of children and a wardrobe full of expensive clothes. Professionally, he had reached the top. What else was there to do for a man who could command £1,000 for a single short story?

“Why not read extracts from your books in public?” someone suggested. Delighted with the idea, Dickens tried out his first “reading” to an audience of 2,000 in Birmingham Town Hall, and overnight Dickens the spellbinder was born.

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This edited article about American customs originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 618 published on 17 November 1973.

Thanksgiving Day way out West in the 1840s by Angus McBride

In New York the crisp bright day has faded into a crisp, starlit evening. In Alaska it is snowing, and has been for days. Los Angeles is smothered in smog. In the deep South summer still lingers.

In New York it is five o’clock. Offices and shops are closing and the rush is on to the railroad stations, airports and freeways. In Alaska and Los Angeles it is still early afternoon, but already there is a steady trickle of traffic from the cities. Railroad stations are thronged. Harassed mothers clutch bulging suitcases, carrier-bags and small, excited children. Breathless dads join them with minutes to spare.

It is the fourth Wednesday in November and all America, it seems, is on the move. But not quite all. At the end of all those journeys is a house where people are “staying put;” where the loads that have been carried throughout the day have been not suitcases, but shopping baskets, loaded with autumn fruit and vegetables. Here the kitchens are humming with activity and warm with delicious smells, for the meal that is being prepared, and will be eaten tomorrow, is the great traditional American feast: Thanksgiving.

This is the day when every American who can, goes home, maybe to the next street to visit parents or grandparents he, or she, meets every day; but perhaps to a family half-a-continent away, unseen for a year. To most Americans it is more important to make this journey for the fourth Thursday in November than it is to be home for Christmas.

It all began more than three centuries ago, when the Pilgrim Fathers, surprised and deeply grateful to find themselves still alive after a hard and perilous year in the New World, gave thanks to God for their survival.

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This edited article about French customs originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 617 published on 10 November 1973.

The storming of the Bastille happened on the 14 July 1789, a date which would be celebrated as the anniversary of the French Revolution, by Sep E Scott

A rocket streaks upward to the darkening summer sky sprinkled with the first, faint stars. A wave of “Ooooos” and “Aaaaaaahs” follows it. Someone whistles as the rocket explodes in a shower of gold and silver. A child laughs, and claps its hands excitedly. Suddenly Catherine wheels are spinning, Roman candles flaring, balls of purple, green and gold spiral and whirl.

A man’s deep voice bursts into song. It is the Marseillaise, France’s national anthem:

“Allons enfants de la patrie.
Le jour de gloire est arrive.”

The crowd around him cheers, links arms and sways in time to the music, joining in with a great roar as another rocket swoops upward with a hiss:

“Aux armes, citoyens.
Formez vos bataillons.”

As the night-sky darkens the stars brighten, the fireworks glitter more vividly and the music grows louder. Accordions wheeze out the latest tune from the top ten; street-organs grind out traditional tunes. Everyone sings whichever bits of tune they can hear from the nearest instrument.

People pour in and out of restaurants or cluster at pavement cafes; children play under the tables or chase each other round and round them. Street hawkers hoarsely advertise candy-floss and ice-cream; merry-go-rounds turn; showmen lift weights, juggle with balls, rings, plates and Indian clubs. The smell of food hangs under the plane-trees and the roadway is a sea of dancing figures.

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This edited article about the Gunpowder Plot originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 882  published on 9 December 1978.

The arrest of Guy Fawkes by Ron Embleton

The day Francis Tresham sat down and wrote a letter to his brother-in-law, he could hardly have guessed what a momentous impact his words would have on every schoolboy and girl in Britain for the next 300 years and more.

And who, you may ask, was Francis Tresham? He was the man who gave us our Guy Fawkes’ Day.

Tresham never very much liked the plot from the moment he was persuaded to join it. The more he thought of it, the less he liked it. A fortnight before the big bang that was planned to send King James I and his Parliament to oblivion, Tresham decided to betray the plot.

Why? Once, scholars thought that Tresham wrote his letter of betrayal to Lord Monteagle, his brother-in-law and a prominent Catholic, because he knew that Monteagle would be in the House at the opening of Parliament, and he was determined to save him.

Recently, however, it has been suggested that Tresham had already told Monteagle of the plot. They both agreed that Tresham should write the letter so that Monteagle could show it to his political friends and warn them, and also so that the plotters would have time to escape. That is possibly why Tresham did not sign his letter.

However that may be, in the afternoon of 26th October, 1605, there was a knock on the door of Monteagle’s house in Hoxton, a busy parish just outside the walls of London. Monteagle’s servant, a man named Ward, went to answer it. On the doorstep he saw a tall man wearing a cloak. Keeping his face covered all the time, the stranger handed over the letter that betrayed the Gunpowder Plot and then turned abruptly on his heels.

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This edited article about Cardinal Wolsey originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 881 published on 2 December 1978.

The ailing Cardinal Wolsey stops at Leicester Abbey on his way to be tried for treason, and dies three days later. Picture by Peter Jackson

This week sees the anniversary of the death of a great prelate who opposed King Henry VIII’s wishes – Cardinal Thomas Wolsey.

Wolsey was Thomas More’s predecessor as Henry’s right-hand man.

Extravagant, loose-living and ambitious, Wolsey hardly gave the impression of a humble, religious man. He was also very proud, and used to speak of “I and my King”.

Such a man could hardly fail to make enemies, and they all gathered round when he fell out with Henry VIII over his divorce from Catherine of Aragon.

Summoned to London to face a charge of high treason, he died on the way at Leicester on 29th November, 1530.

3 July marks the anniversary of the rebellion of Kent peasants in 1450 led by Jack Cade, arriving at London Bridge.

Jack Cade cutting the ropes to the drawbridge at London Bridge. Illustration by William Francis Phillipps

Cade had organized the issue of a manifesto, The Complaint of the Poor Commons of Kent, in the spring of 1450, listing grievances against the government, ranging from the ever increasing tax burden, corruption and enemy raids caused by the Hundred Years’ War in France.

Some 5,000 rebels gathered at Blackheath in June and marched on London, setting up headquarters in Southwark before crossing the bridge. Cade declared himself Lord Mayor of London whilst the King sought refuge in Warwickshire. Many of the rebels began looting the capital before retreating to Southwark.

The next day, further battles broke out at London Bridge, lasting all day before the rebels were forced to retreat. Persuaded to bring and end to the fighting, Cade was granted a pardon by the King, which he then revoked. Cade fled to Lewes but was overtaken by Alexander Iden, who killed him and later claimed a reward of 1,000 marks.

Many more pictures relating to rebels and rebellions through the ages can be found at the Look and Learn picture library.

3 July marks the anniversary of the Battle of Sadowa, also known as the Battle of Koniggratz,  in 1866.

A bayonet charge by Prussians at the Battle of Sadowa

This was the decisive battle in the Austro-Prussian War in which the Kingdom of Prussia defeated the Austrian Empire. It took place near the towns of Koniggratz and Sadowa in Bohemia, now the modern-day Czech Republic.

The Prussians had pushed part of the Austrian army back and inflicted a severe defeat on the forces under Austria’s Ludwig von Benedek. Ordered to make a last stand by Emperor Franz Josef, the 240,000 troops of the Austrians met the Prussian Army of the Elbe (39,000) and First Army (85,000). The Austrian superiority in numbers and artillery held the Prussians for some time and tried to press home at attack. However, a further 100,000 Austrians of the Second Army arrived having marched all morning to reach the battle. This swung the battle in favour of the Prussians, who broke through the Austrian lines. Benedek then ordered a retreat.

The battle involved the largest number of troops of any European battle up to that time. The Prussians lost 9,000 men, killed, wounded or missing; the Austrians lost 44,000, with half that number being prisoners. An armistice was signed three weeks later.

Many more pictures relating to famous battles can be found at the Look and Learn picture library.