By the time Douglass spoke in Chicago, the idea of Haitian ‘voodoo’ as a murderous cult was lodged in the American public consciousness. As he noted, the features of this myth would have been familiar to many. According to scores of white writers at the turn of the 20th century, ‘voodoo’ was an imported African religion devoted to the worship of Satan incarnated as a snake. ‘Voodoo’ ceremonies, it was claimed, consisted of frenzied dances, sexual orgies and the ritual sacrifice of animals or humans followed by the consumption of their bodies or blood. The priests and priestesses of this imaginary faith were said to be the real rulers of Haiti, holding all its citizens – from presidents to peasants – in the grip of terror.

In 1901, claims about Haitian ‘voodoo’ coalesced in a widely reprinted newspaper report on the “demoniacal orgies” of this purported “devil’s cult”. Supposedly reproducing the findings of the famous American geologist and traveller Robert Hill, the author of the piece claimed not only that “large numbers of young children are offered up annually in Haiti as sacrifices to the Great Yellow Snake” but also that “mothers frequently dedicate their infants at birth to this purpose”.

The article provoked an incredulous response from Ebenezer Bassett who, as US minister to Haiti between 1869 and 1877, was the first black American diplomat. Having lived there for more than a decade, and speaking fluent French, Bassett – like Douglass – could claim authority on the question of Haitian religion.

As Bassett knew, “the whole story about cannibalism in Haiti is no more than a myth which, like other myths, has gained credence by persistent repetition”. Casting doubt on the veracity of the report, he noted that Robert Hill had refuted the existence of Haitian cannibalism in his recent Caribbean travel narrative, and that the claims of the article were “in full accord with – it is better not to say that they are probably based upon – Sir Spenser St John’s book”.

Lurid inventions

Spenser St John was a British diplomat and former chargé d’affaires in Haiti, and the book in question was Hayti, or, The Black Republic. First published in 1884, it made a deep impression on US journalism, providing the blueprint for a plethora of articles that, though claiming originality, did little more than summarise, in increasingly lurid terms, its lengthy chapter on “Vaudoux Worship and Cannibalism”.

Up to this point, I have placed ‘voodoo’ in quotation marks, not only to suggest that it was a figment of white imaginations but also to differentiate it from Vodou, the African-derived religion genuinely practised by Haitians. Much of this religion can be traced to west and west-central Africa. It contains elements of the religions practised during the era of slavery by the Aja and Fon peoples of the Bight of Benin (vodu is the Fon word for spirit), as well as of others from the kingdom of Kongo.

• Read more | Frederick Douglass escaped enslavement in 1838 – but here's why he was still far from true freedom

However, Vodou was not, as 19th-century white commentators claimed, a direct African import. It was a product of the New World melting pot – a dynamic blend of the religions of enslaved Africans and the Christianity of their European enslavers. In this respect, Vodou has much in common with other black diasporic religions including Cuban Santería, Brazilian Candomblé and Jamaican Obeah. Like those, Vodou helped people of African origin survive the brutality of Atlantic slavery.

In the Victorian age, white people on both sides of the Atlantic ignored the vibrant realities of Vodou, dwelling instead on its demonic imagined double: ‘voodoo’. Why were they so keen to defame Haitian religion? Frederick Douglass had the answer. “Haiti is black,” he declared in Chicago, “and we [Americans] have not yet forgiven Haiti for being black.”

Between 1791 and 1804, enslaved and free people of colour rose against the French colonial government of Saint-Domingue. The revolution resulted in the abolition of slavery and independence for the colony. Renamed Haiti, it became the world’s only black republic. Desperate to demonstrate that people of African descent were incapable of self-government, white supremacists spent the next century defaming Haiti, presenting it – in the words of Douglass – as a “very hell of horrors”.

As the 20th century approached, the idea that the world could be divided into races whose members shared the same essential traits was widely accepted. Thus, to opponents of black freedom in the US, Haitian ‘voodoo’ became proof that, without white control, black Americans would degenerate to savagery. As Douglass reflected, the black American could “never part with his identity and race”, meaning that the denial of Haitian civilisation was a denial of the “possibilities of the negro race generally”.

This backlash against black freedom explains why ‘voodoo’ first entered the American popular consciousness during the 1860s and 1870s, just as a series of constitutional amendments secured the abolition of slavery, along with the establishment of black citizenship and the enfranchisement of black men. As the author of an 1866 article in the Memphis Appeal proclaimed, ‘voodoo’ was “beginning to take hold among the negroes. Free them from the check which was once held over them, they have unlimited control over their baser passions, and now and then it bursts out, and proves that the worship of their barbaric fathers still runs in the blood of the Americanised negro.”

Deluge of discourse

Initially, Americans writing about ‘voodoo’ focused on Louisiana and, particularly, New Orleans. A former French colony, Louisiana had a sizeable French-speaking population well into the 19th century. In the 1790s and early 19th century, this population had been bolstered by the arrival of up to 25,000 refugees from the Haitian Revolution, well over half of whom were enslaved. It is thus unsurprising that a reference to “an African deity called Vaudoo” appeared in a New Orleans newspaper as early as 1820.

However, from the 1880s onwards, thanks to Spenser St John, attention turned to ‘voodoo’ in Haiti. The press was swiftly saturated with reports depicting the Caribbean republic as a “land of blood” – with articles bearing headlines such as: “Haiti, a Brooding Nightmare of Savagery, Bloodshed, Cannibalism”.

It is tempting to see this deluge of discourse as a reflection of US imperial designs on Haiti, which it occupied between 1915 and 1934. However, at the turn of the 20th century, Haitian ‘voodoo’ was most often invoked by white-supremacist Democrats who argued that Jim Crow laws and regulations – which, enacted from the late 19th century, disenfranchised black Americans and enforced their segregation from white people – were necessary to prevent similar savagery at home.

The peak of interest in Haitian ‘voodoo’ coincided with legal efforts to destroy the black vote in the South. Beginning with Mississippi in 1890, and ending with Georgia in 1906, southern legislatures drew up new state constitutions containing a plethora of voting restrictions. These were intended to disenfranchise black Americans without contravening the 15th Amendment of 1870, which made it unconstitutional to deprive the vote on the basis of race. In the halls of Congress, Democrats, including the Mississippi senator Hernando Money, cited the work of St John as supposed proof that the black American was no more than a “veneered savage”. To the architects of Jim Crow, ‘voodoo’ was an ideological weapon.

Depictions of Haitian ‘voodoo’ worship, a potent brew of sex and violence, helped to sell newspapers in an age of sensationalist journalism. At the same time, they reinforced racist notions that everybody of African descent was inherently bestial, criminal and hypersexual. Depictions of orgiastic worship chimed with the myth that white women were in constant danger of the black ‘beast rapist’, which was used to justify Jim Crow and fuel violence against black Americans.

• Read more | The Haitian Revolution: the enslaved Africans who rose up against France

In a 1914 speech to Congress, the notoriously racist Mississippi senator James Vardaman made the connection explicit. St John, he claimed, had presented a “disgusting story of the worship of the voodoo and cannibalism, which he says is as common as [black] sexual crimes in the southern states of this republic”.

Frequently portraying black worshippers as beasts and demons, the language used in depictions of Haitian ‘voodoo’ was dehumanising in the extreme. Written portrayals were sometimes accompanied by lurid illustrations, such as A Voodoo Sacrifice, published in the Los Angeles Herald in 1905. A depiction of child sacrifice, the illustration included a worshipper with grotesquely ape-like features as well as a reptilian figure fixing the newspaper reader with an accusatory gaze, suggesting that she or he was an unwelcome witness to secret black rites.

Fears of black resistance

While ostensibly justifying Jim Crow, American depictions of Haitian Vodou betrayed acute white fears of black resistance. African-derived spiritual beliefs and practices played a part in almost every slave uprising in North America and the Caribbean. In 1822, protective charms were allegedly distributed among those involved in South Carolina’s Denmark Vesey conspiracy, named after a free black man convicted of planning a major uprising of enslaved people. In Jamaica a little over 60 years earlier, the use of similar charms during the massive slave insurrection known as Tacky’s Revolt prompted a British crackdown on Obeah.

For late 19th-century white Europeans and Americans, however, the dangerous character of black religion was most associated with the Haitian Revolution. By the end of the century, the idea had been enshrined in Haitian mythology that the revolution began with a Vodou ceremony in a forest named Bois-Caïman, during which a pig was sacrificed and a blood oath sworn.

Though Vodou certainly galvanised the Haitian Revolution, the reality of the Bois-Caïman ceremony has been debated by scholars, some of whom question the sources upon which the story is based.

White supremacists, however, had no interest in questions of historical accuracy, instead portraying Vodou as a death cult bent upon the annihilation of the white race. This accusation chimed with the widespread view that political equality in the US would lead to race war. In 1908, the San Antonio Light published what it claimed was a genuine Vodou chant invoking racial extermination, but which was almost certainly the product of a journalist’s fevered imagination.

O-he! Papa Damba!

Down with whites and with mulattoes!

Burn them, shoot them, drown their women!

Help your blacks, your poor black children

Circulated by those seeking to justify Jim Crow, tales of ‘voodoo’ sacrifice and cannibalism were shot through with white anxiety. These sanguinary stories may have facilitated a kind of psychological displacement. In other words, real white violence against African Americans was projected as imaginary black murder in the service of Satan.

In the turn-of-the-20th-century South, racial violence assumed unimaginable dimensions in the form of spectacle lynching: black Americans were tortured and murdered before white crowds that could number in the thousands. According to statistics compiled by the NAACP (the civil rights organisation founded in 1909 as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People), at least 1,902 black Americans were lynched between 1890 and 1910. The affinities between these all-too-real rituals and fictional ‘voodoo’ ceremonies seem more than superficial, especially if we note – as many historians have – the religious symbolism and sacrificial dimensions of spectacle lynching.

• Read more | Suing for equality: how Sarah Mae Flemming began the legal fight against segregation

This reign of racial terror troubled many white people, undermining their sense that they stood at the summit of human civilisation. Condemning the 1904 lynching of Luther Holbert of Mississippi, one newspaper editor wrote that “[t]he negroes, in their most bestial state of voodooism, could be guilty of nothing more savage and brutal.” The editor’s conclusion deliberately inverted the racist language of Democratic politicians such as Hernando Money. “The white man is given to much boasting,” that journalist reflected, “but in many instances he is but a thinly veneered savage.”

‘Voodoo’ gripped the public imagination because, while fuelling the violence upon which Jim Crow was built, it allowed many white Americans to imagine that it was not themselves but others who lived in a “land of blood”.

David G Cox is a lecturer in modern American history at the University of Southampton. His research for this article was supported by a British Academy Mid-Career Fellowship

This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine

Alice Roberts: I’ve long been fascinated by this historical period, especially in Britain, where written records are scarce. This book grew from my interest in burial archaeology, shaped by excavations I took part in 20 years ago on a Welsh cliff. Bones were eroding from the cliff face, and we uncovered cist graves – stone-lined, coffin-like structures – some dating from as early as the fifth century. One grave even had a stone lid carved with a simple cross. These early Christian burials sparked my curiosity.

More recently, I visited an excavation at Llantwit Major, where archaeologists are investigating what may be Britain’s earliest monastery, possibly dating to the fifth century. This raised further questions: why was Christianity spreading so early? And who was behind it?

Rather than relying on broad generalisations, my book focuses on individuals: the people who carried Christianity across regions, and their motives. A story that began with burials in Wales led me across the Roman world from Istanbul (formerly Constantinople) to Alexandria, aiming to find out how Christianity spread so widely, and what that reveals about the fall of the western Roman empire.

Christianity presents itself as a faith for the powerless, but your book suggests that it was adopted by urban elites in its early centuries. How does this challenge the mythology surrounding its origins?

It stands in stark contrast, really. It’s a tricky point, because those writing about Christianity were necessarily literate members of the elite. So, from the outset, we’re seeing a movement that appears to have spread among relatively well-off individuals.

By the fourth century, it had clearly reached the highest echelons of Roman society. Emperor Constantine had begun to take notice, convening a council of bishops in AD 325. But even in the earliest years, this was a movement involving influential figures.

Take Saint Paul – or Saul, as he was originally known. One of his first actions was to meet the governor of Cyprus – not preaching to the poor but engaging with powerful individuals in the Roman empire who had the means to support him. The governor then sent him back to what is now Turkey to reconnect with his family. It seems that Paul recognised that patronage by adopting the governor’s name, ‘Paulus’ – which is a very Roman thing to do when offered someone’s backing.

What’s your take on Constantine? Is it right to describe him as the ‘Christian emperor’?

It’s not as straightforward as it seems. We have a biography written after his death by Eusebius, who explicitly claims that Constantine was Christian and experienced a conversion on the way to the battle of the Milvian Bridge. Eusebius describes Constantine having a vision and carrying a Chi-Rho [a combination of chi and rho, the first two letters of the Greek word for Christ] into battle, supposedly with Christ supporting him.

It’s quite striking, because at that point the context is entirely military: Christ becomes someone you want on your side as you move to defeat the emperor in Rome and claim sole rule. (Constantine was never destined to be emperor; he effectively eliminated the other three rulers until he was the last man standing.) Eusebius asserts that Constantine’s conversion occurred en route to that decisive battle. Afterwards, Constantine erected a triumphal arch in Rome. If the vision and conversion had truly occurred en route to the Milvian Bridge, you might expect some Christian symbolism on that arch – but there’s none. Instead, it’s full of traditional Roman iconography.

What’s important to remember is that none of this history comes to us without agenda. Any written account, then or now, reflects the perspective of its author. Eusebius – a bishop – clearly had reasons to portray Constantine as a committed Christian. However, when you examine Constantine’s broader communications – particularly coins, which were vital tools of imperial messaging in a largely illiterate empire – you see something different. His coins continued to depict Roman gods including Sol, to whom he appeared especially drawn, well after his supposed conversion.

That led me to investigate the Chi-Rho more closely. More than 1,000 different coin designs were minted during Constantine’s reign, and only a handful bear the Chi-Rho. Even on those coins, it appears in subtle ways: on a military standard, on a helmet – all very martial in character.

• Read more | “The Roman empire cannot have been governed by a series of psychopaths. It would not have survived”: Mary Beard on Roman Emperors

What surprised me most was discovering the Chi-Rho’s ancient origins. The symbol appears in pre-Christian literature and papyri. There’s even one on a Greek bust dating back to a time before the supposed birth date of Jesus Christ. The most plausible explanation from the papyri is that Chi-Rho was originally an abbreviation for the Greek word archōn, meaning ‘ruler’, not Christos as Eusebius claimed.

So even if Constantine did carry the symbol into battle, did it mean Christ? Or was that the first time anyone interpreted it that way? Up until then, it meant something else entirely. And we can’t even be sure he used it in the battle. Another contemporary account says he carried a cross, not a Chi-Rho.

Why do you think the early Roman church was able to so deftly fill the power vacuum as imperial rule declined?

Christianity didn’t invent itself as an empire from nothing: it adapted existing Roman structures. Early on, it functioned like a collegium – a Roman guild – offering social support, patronage and mutual aid, just as Roman professional associations did. This model suited the well-to-do among Roman society, and helped embed Christianity within everyday life.

As elites adopted Christianity, it became tightly woven into their world. Roman aristocrats were educated in the liberal arts, and expected to govern provinces and cities. Over time, church institutions began to provide this same education, adding scripture to the traditional Roman curriculum, the cursus honorum, which fast-tracked noble-born Roman men into various civic offices. Christianity thus became the default cultural and ideological framework for elite careers.

By the fifth century, bishops had effectively become city administrators, assuming roles once held by imperial officials – such as distributing the grain dole. Rather than creating something entirely new, Christianity absorbed and continued Roman civic functions.

This fusion made the church remarkably resilient. As the western Roman empire fragmented, Christian bishops continued running cities. In Gaul, for instance, elite families retained their status across the Roman, Visigothic and Frankish regimes. Individuals such as Saint Sidonius Apollinaris exemplify this continuity, remaining influential under the shifting political circumstances.

It’s unlikely that anyone at the time consciously planned to create a resilient ideological-administrative system that could survive the empire’s collapse. They were probably more concerned with preserving their own careers and ensuring opportunities for their children. For instance, elite Roman families would have been thinking pragmatically about how to secure a future for their sons amid instability.

Of course, reducing everything to economics would be simplistic. Christianity was also a compelling system of ideas and belief. Many were genuinely devout, drawn to the religion for spiritual reasons, whereas others were more focused on its social and political benefits. These different motivations coexisted and contributed to Christianity’s development. There was no single way to be a Roman Christian.

Is this Roman-ness still evident in Christian practice and ritual?

The fact that the pope still rules from Rome and has the title of Pontifex Maximus (the most senior priestly rank in the ancient Roman religion), together with the church’s use of Latin and its adoption of imperial purple, all perpetuates this legacy. Plus, high-ranking members of the church are often canonised, echoing the Roman practice of deifying emperors.

I traced some of these continuing rituals in my earlier books. When writing Buried (2022), I looked at Roman graveside feasting rituals, particularly at a burial in Caerleon, south-east Wales. A pipe from the surface was used by mourners to pour libations into the grave while holding feasts there – not just on the day of the funeral, but also nine days and 50 days afterwards, as well as on set days for honouring the dead.

When I mentioned this pipe burial to my Russian friend Natasha, who grew up in Siberia, she exclaimed: “We did that!” She described a day when families would gather with food in cemeteries, the adults drinking vodka. She believed this was a Russian Orthodox celebration called ‘Parents’ Day’. When I researched further, I discovered that it mirrored the Parentalia festival of the ancestors in the pre-Christian Roman calendar.

• Read more | Roman gods and goddesses: 17 of the most important deities of ancient Rome

These traditions carried over into Christian practice. And such customs persist in both the Greek and Russian Orthodox calendars, as well as in the Catholic church and the Church of England. For instance, the moveable feast known as Pentecost occurs 50 days after Easter; elements of Pentecost recall Rosalia, an ancient Roman summer day of the dead, when graves were decorated with roses. It’s another example of Roman traditions persisting in Christian ritual to this day.

A few weeks ago, I happened to be in Orvieto, Italy, on Pentecost. A friend told me to look out for the medieval procession, so I stayed to watch. It was remarkable – people in full medieval dress parading through the streets to the cathedral, and women carrying great armfuls of flowers. The tradition continues.

What was the relationship between Christianity and pre-existing faiths and philosophical thought?

The early Christians were Jewish, and Christianity emerged within a Hellenistic-Roman context. These influences were deeply intertwined. Greek philosophy played a huge role in shaping Christian ideas but, from the start, theology was diverse and fragmented.

To maintain unity and authority, the early church had to suppress doctrinal splits. Councils such as that at Nicaea (now İznik, Turkey) in AD 325 were about enforcing consensus, not simply defining belief. Still, divisions continued: between east and west, and, much later, Protestant and Catholic, because interpretation remained contested.

Claims of Christianity’s radical uniqueness are often overstated. There are strong parallels with other cults, such as that of Mithras, and even Roman emperors’ devotion to a single god in the classical pantheon suggests a tendency towards monotheism. The term ‘paganism’ to describe non-Christian beliefs is a Christian invention, originally derogatory, which implied that the individuals who adhered to such beliefs were rustic or not ‘soldiers’ of Christ. We still use it for lack of a better alternative, though it defines by exclusion.

The idea that Christianity invented charity is false, too. Roman society valued public service, and philanthropy was expected, especially from the elite. Caring for the vulnerable was essential to civic life. What Christianity did was adapt to the needs of growing urban centres. As cities expanded and poverty increased, the church offered a system to manage – not eliminate – urban destitution. Supporting the poor served both moral and political aims, helping to extract wealth from the rich while reinforcing the church’s influence.

How important were Roman bishops and saints in entrenching the hegemony of Christianity more widely?

That was very evident in the Celtic west, where Christianity was spreading as the Roman empire disintegrated, in locations that the empire never fully reached – places such as Ireland. You see early Christianity spreading through individuals with very Roman names – including Patricius, otherwise known as Saint Patrick.

There are fascinating tales of voyaging saints, often travelling in small coracles, sometimes even with stone coffins. These journeys were just a continuation of what the elite were already doing. They were extremely well connected. In the hagiographies and accounts of these voyages, the saints are rarely heading to places where no Christian has ever been.

By the time we hear about these saints, they’re visiting other Christians, often kings. These so-called ‘missionary’ journeys often involved being welcomed at royal courts. It’s always been about nobility and the interconnectedness of powerful families. Some of these saints were bishops, some kings; some began as generals and became bishops.

Take, for example, Germanus of Auxerre. He remained rather military in outlook. At the request of the bishop of Rome, he travelled to Britain to deal with the growing divergence in Christian practice, which was causing concerns that the British might splinter away from the church in Rome. So Germanus was sent to bring them back in line, arriving with troops and even joining some battles.

It’s striking how these figures, often romanticised as humble ascetics, were anything but isolated. They didn’t retreat from the world; instead, they established themselves close to the seats of power – for example, Saint Cuthbert on Inner Farne island, overlooking Bamburgh Castle.

Do you think it’s time we stopped talking about the ‘fall of Rome’ and start seeing it more as a rebrand?

I absolutely do. You’ve hit the nail on the head. This is essentially the thesis of my book. The Roman empire, particularly in the east, continued for another thousand years until the Ottomans entered Constantinople in 1453, marking its end.

When the Ottomans took that city, the sultans declared themselves to be the Qaisar-e-Rum (‘Caesars of Rome’). In other words, they saw themselves as the inheritors of that legacy. In the west, the empire officially disintegrated in the fifth century but, as we’ve discussed, much of its culture endured and was repurposed by those who filled the power vacuum.

If we define the empire as the emperor, then that connection is severed. But if we understand the empire as the broader system – its administration, education and social hierarchy – then that continues under the Roman church.

• Read more | Religion in Roman Britain: spreading the word of the gods

You’re a former president of Humanists UK and one of Britain’s best-known atheists. How did that shape your approach to this foundational era of Christian history?

I hope it didn’t, because I’m trying to approach this history by meeting people on their own terms and understanding why this set of ideas was being spread. In the book, I focus mainly on the political, economic and cultural perspectives.

In some ways, that means I’m not approaching it from a position of personal investment in the ideas themselves, though I’m fascinated by them. I know a fair bit about them, having been brought up as a Christian, and being immersed in that tradition. I’m especially interested in where those traditions come from – for example, how some church festivals today trace back to pre-Christian times.

I think Christianity is a compelling and important part of our culture. As society becomes more secular, and biblical knowledge declines, we risk losing sight of Christian history. Yet there’s still, I feel, a tendency to obscure the history of early Christianity, treating it as if it simply appeared fully formed.

For me, it’s about cultural evolution: understanding where it began, who adopted it and who helped spread it. I hope I’ve explored that as objectively as possible.

Alice Roberts is an anthropologist, broadcaster and author, based at the University of Birmingham. Her newest Channel 4 series, Roman Empire by Train, will air early in 2026. She will be touring the UK with her new book, Domination, from August to November. alice-roberts.co.uk/tour

This article was first published in the September 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine

Maria (Mary) of Modena was in labour. Soon the room in St James’s Palace began to fill: some 70 people crowded in to watch the queen give birth. There was no screen to shield her, and the bedcurtains were kept open as she screamed in pain: “I die! Oh! You kill me! You kill me!”

Her cries were so terrible that many said they could hardly bear to listen. Yet the king – James II & VII – exhorted the members of his council to come nearer, to look more closely. He had heard the rumours that the pregnancy was fake, and was determined to ensure that no one could say this child was not born of the queen.

The sight of so many faces so close to Maria was overwhelming; she could not give birth with so many men looking on her, she said. But while James stooped to cover her face with his periwig, the rest of her body remained on full display – and everyone present witnessed that crucial moment.

That evening, the London Gazette reported the news to the citizens of the capital: “This day between 9 and 10 in the morning the Queen was safely delivered of a PRINCE.” Protestant England now had a Catholic heir – and a constitutional crisis.

It did not take long for the crisis to unfold. To keep the queen warm as her labour began, a serving woman had placed a bedpan full of hot coals under the blankets. That simple act prompted whispers that a child had been smuggled in – and, whether or not anyone believed the rumour, it provided sufficient pretext for seven politicians and nobles to invite William of Orange to invade England, launching the episode now widely known as the ‘Glorious Revolution’.

If Queen Maria of Modena is known today, it is for these events of 1688. But behind the story of political upheavals lies another tale – of an Italian Catholic princess who, at just 15 years old, was sent to a Protestant country that feared ‘popery’ more than anything else. There she would marry a man 25 years her senior, heir to the English throne. It is the story of a young woman whose purpose in life was seen as the breeder of heirs, but who deserves to be viewed as far more than merely a Catholic womb.

Dynasty in decline

Maria Beatrice d’Este was born on 5 October 1658 in Modena, around 23 miles north-west of Bologna in northern Italy. Though once a great ruling dynasty, by the mid-17th century the Estensi family was much in decline. Maria’s father died when she was not yet four years old, leaving her two-year-old brother, Francesco, to take his place as Duke of Modena, with their mother, Laura, acting as regent. A formidable and highly educated woman, Laura kept her children at what Maria later called an “awful distance” from her, and was determined that both of them would be scholars.

Much of Maria’s education took place in the convent attached to the palace, and she felt at home in that life of devotion to God, in a place of education, community and friendship. While still a child, she determined that she would become a nun. Unbeknown to her, events unfolding in England would soon change the course of her life.

Anne Hyde, the first wife of James, Duke of York – younger brother of King Charles II – died in 1671. Her body was hardly cold before talk turned to James’s remarriage. Charles’s nine-year marriage to Catherine of Braganza had produced no children, so James was the heir to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland, and would have to make a dynastic match with one of the princesses of Europe. James sent his trusted friend the Earl of Peterborough as ambassador extraordinary, to find him a wife and future queen. After many months of searching, Peterborough encountered a portrait of a beautiful young girl, and wrote to James and Charles that he had “found his mistress and the Fortune of England”.

• Read more | Alternate history: what if James II and VII had kept his throne?

The fact that Maria wanted to become a nun mattered little to these powerful men. When she told Peterborough that she would rather throw herself in the fire than marry James, he replied that he “could not believe… that she was made for any other end than to give Princes to the World”.

Tellingly, another powerful man had taken an interest in the match: Pope Clement X. He informed Maria by letter that, in marrying James, she would open herself “to a vaster field of merit than that of the virginal cloister”: by bearing Catholic heirs, she could bring England back to the true faith. After reading this letter, she cried for three days – to the extent that she was held down by force. Peterborough merely wrote that: “The princess at last gave herself up to the will of her friends.” Over in England, James sent a note to his daughters, Mary and Anne, explaining that he had “found a new playfellow”. They were 11 and 8 years old, respectively; Maria was 14.

Controversial match

Maria arrived at the hedonistic court of the ‘Merrie Monarch’ in 1673, completely unprepared for what she encountered there.

“I cannot yet adapt myself to this state – a state to which, as you know, I have been opposed,” she wrote to her former mother superior. “Many nights I weep and grieve and cannot get rid of this melancholy.”

The match caused controversy. Cruel and scurrilous pamphlets circulated, in which it was hoped that she would “be envenom’d with the pox” and to “die before 20, rot before 16”.

But though young in years, Maria was resourceful. She learned English quickly, and began to navigate court politics by using the kind of soft power for which the Estensi family was so celebrated – notably, through patronage of the arts. The poet John Dryden wrote verse in her honour, Dutch artist Peter Lely painted her portrait, and the court was filled with the sounds of Italian opera – “the first that had been in England of this kind”, according to renowned diarist John Evelyn.

As her friendship with her stepdaughters burgeoned, Maria encouraged their talents for singing and dancing by commissioning The Masque of Calisto. This was a lavish spectacle even by the standards of the Restoration court, and the princesses – along with Maria’s favoured maid of honour, Sarah Jennings (later Sarah Churchill, Queen Anne’s ‘favourite’) – took the starring roles.

Shortly before the masque’s first performance, Maria gave birth to her first child. It was not the hoped-for boy, but the infant’s parents were overjoyed, and named her Catherine Laura – Catherine after the queen, Laura after Maria’s mother. Soon after, Maria had her daughter baptised in her rooms – as a Catholic. When her brother-in-law, King Charles II, learned what she’d done, he smiled and patted her hand. That was all very well, Charles said, but the child would be raised in the English church, so she would have to be baptised again, as a Protestant.

This experience gave Maria a concrete understanding of her position at court for the first time. Her children were not just her own, but children of the crown; though she gave birth to them, she had no say over their upbringing. (Tragically, Catherine Laura did not live long; though Maria was pregnant a total of 12 times, only two of her children survived to adulthood and one outlived her).

• Read more | How glorious was the Glorious Revolution?

Maria’s own life as Duchess of York was one of constant uncertainty, as anti-Catholic feeling intensified. Parliament was increasingly divided into two factions, Tories and Whigs; the former supported hereditary monarchy, while the latter was implacably opposed to James ever becoming king. Meanwhile, tensions were rising more broadly in London. The years after Maria’s arrival in England were marked by two plots. The first, the so-called ‘Popish Plot’ of 1678, was a series of accusations by the fantasist Titus Oates, who claimed to have unearthed treasonous Catholic plans to kill the king. Despite being a complete fabrication, it resulted in imprisonments and the execution of some of Maria’s close friends, and she and James were sent into exile – first in Brussels, then in Scotland.

The second plot was real, and came shortly after James and Maria’s return to court in 1682. Had it been successful, the ‘Rye House Plot’ of 1683 would have seen Charles and James assassinated, with James, Duke of Monmouth – Charles’s favourite illegitimate son – made king.

It was over the years following the Rye House Plot that Maria was finally able to recreate something of the life of female friendship and intellectual endeavour that she had enjoyed in the convent in Modena. Two of her maids of honour, Anne Kingsmill (later Finch) and Anne Killigrew, were prodigiously talented: both were poets, and Killigrew was also a painter. Among her maids more generally, Maria encouraged a culture of learning and intellectual endeavour, and both Annes produced work in her honour.

Two pieces in particular provide a snapshot of this shared creative life, both depicting Maria as the goddess Venus. The first, a collaboration between Kingsmill and Killigrew, was a masque entitled Venus and Adonis – a proto-feminist retelling of the classical myth. The second was Killigrew’s painting Venus Attired by the Graces, featuring both Annes among the Graces. A new dawn of women’s art and poetry seemed on the horizon.

A Catholic queen

On 6 February 1685, Charles II died suddenly, aged 54. Maria mourned him deeply – though was wary of displaying her grief in public. “I was so greatly afflicted by the death of King Charles that I dared not show how much,” she wrote, “lest I be suspected of hypocrisy.” Despite their worries about the reception they might encounter, James and Maria were welcomed as the king and queen. This gave her an opportunity for greater patronage: the writer Aphra Behn wrote a celebratory coronation ode, and Anne Killigrew painted coronation portraits. Then tragedy struck again in April when Killigrew died of smallpox, aged just 25.

The new king, James II & VII, had learned all the wrong lessons from the execution of his father, Charles I; he thought that anyone who disagreed with him was against him, and believed that all of parliament were his enemies. His longstanding mistress, Catherine Sedley, was made a countess, and seemed to hold more influence over him than anyone, including his wife. It was said that Maria “loves her husband in all sincerity” but that “she is an Italian, and very proud”. She decided that, unlike queens who had come before, she would not tolerate this situation, and told James to choose: his mistress or his wife. If he continued his affair, she would leave England. “Give her my dower,” she told him. “Make her Queen of England, but let me see her no more!” If James was surprised by this outburst, he would soon be even more astonished when he encountered Maria’s priests, all on their knees, begging him to send away his mistress and save his soul. Overwhelmed, he agreed.

These growing tensions were heightened by the absence of a male heir. Maria had not been pregnant in three years so, at the end of August 1687, went to Bath to take the waters in search of fertility. Her treatment became a form of popular entertainment: members of the public flocked to the galleries to watch her bathe as an Italian orchestra performed. Almost immediately afterwards Maria became pregnant but, no sooner had she found out, rumours began – fuelled (perhaps even started) by King James’s daughter Anne, whose own anti-Catholicism had turned her against her father and stepmother.

Hot coals in a bedpan

After the keenly observed birth of Prince James Francis Edward in June 1688, the rumours only intensified. Some said that the pregnancy had been a hoax; others claimed that Maria had miscarried, or that the child had been a girl and replaced with a boy. All agreed that the child, who was given the title of Prince of Wales, had been smuggled into the room in a bedpan, even though at least two Protestant witnesses saw the bedpan full of hot coals at the beginning of the labour.

The seven men who wrote to encourage the invasion by James’s nephew and son-in-law, William of Orange, exploited these rumours, including in their letter the claim that the child was an imposter. William ensured that his fleet landed on 5 November – a day on which effigies of the pope were ritually burned in bonfires.

Fearing for their safety, James and Maria took their baby and fled into exile at the court of Louis XIV in France. They never stopped believing they might be able to get back the throne. But it wasn’t to be, and they remained at Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the rest of their lives. Here, freed from the obligations of queenship, Maria could once again devote herself to patronage of the arts and of women’s education. In some ways, her life had come full circle: she became the patron of a convent of the Visitation – the same order that she had wanted to join as a child.

Maria outlived her husband by 17 years, bearing him another child in exile. She “has been overwhelmed with calumnies,” James said of Maria on his deathbed. “But time, the mother of Truth, will I hope, at last make her virtues shine as bright as the sun.”

MARIA'S MOMENTS

The times and travails of a Catholic queen

1658: Maria is born on 5 October at the Ducal Palace (right) in Modena to Duke Alfonso IV d’Este and Laura Martinozzi

1662: Maria’s father dies and her two-year-old brother, Francesco, becomes Duke of Modena. Laura is appointed regent until he comes of age 1673: On her 15th birthday, Maria begins the journey to England to take her place as Duchess of York, escorted by her mother

1675: Maria’s first child, Catherine Laura, is born in January but dies in October. Racked with grief, Maria suffers the first of multiple miscarriages 1678: Titus Oates comes forward with tales of a Catholic conspiracy against Charles II, and in 1679 Maria and James are sent into exile. While she is away, Maria’s four-year-old daughter, Isabella, dies in London 1682: The court of James and Maria returns to England. Maria’s new maids of honour include the poet Anne Kingsmill and the poet/painter Anne Killigrew 1685: Charles II dies on 6 February. James and Maria’s coronation is on 23 April

1688: Maria gives birth to James Francis Edward Stuart on 10 June, an event dubbed the “baby in the bedpan myth”. It is the catalyst for the so-called Glorious Revolution – the invasion of Britain by William of Orange

1689: With Maria and James in exile in France, William and his wife, Mary (James II’s daughter), are crowned as joint monarchs of England, Scotland and Ireland on 11 April 1718: Maria dies in Paris on 7 May. She is buried at the convent in Chaillot, of which she has been a patron while in exile

Breeze Barrington is a cultural historian specialising in the artistic cultures of the 17th century. Her new book is The Graces: The Extraordinary Untold Lives of Women at the Restoration Court (Bloomsbury, July)

This article was first published in the August 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine

Dr Young is a historian and folklorist specialising in the history of religion and belief, and also particular expert on the Baltic. With my inaugural arboreal embrace, I was following in the footsteps of the people that Francis has been studying in his most recent book, Silence of the Gods: The Untold History of Europe's Last Pagan Peoples (Cambridge University Press, 2025). It’s a cracking read, and a revelation if, like me, you could do with being much better informed about the historical and religious story of the peoples living in the geographical northern and eastern margins of Europe.

In Silence of the Gods, Francis outlines how in the Baltic region, parts of the far north towards the Arctic, and an area of what’s now Russia today, non-Christian practices persisted for centuries after the church had become established across the rest of the continent. It wasn’t until 1387, as he explains, that Lithuania, the last pagan country in Europe, became officially Christian.

Even after this, non-Christian practices persisted for centuries in the region, certainly into the 18th century, and in some places, to the present day. Given the wide spread of space and time we’re talking about, you won’t be surprised to hear that the actual nature of these pagan practices was varied, from shamanism in the far north, to polytheistic veneration of pantheons of multiple gods and spirits, to animism, and to worship of sacred places.

Woodland wonder

On that latter point, these sacred places often involved woodland: forests, groves and clearings, or particular trees. Indeed, Francis explained to me that in Lithuania the celebration of trees continues to be a national obsession to this day. Seeing wonder in woods is not something unique to the Baltic though – it’s a broader human condition.

“There is something about an ancient tree, a living being that is so much older than us, and has seen all the generations pass. Somehow that is in and of itself a focus of the sacred. I think you see these patterns again and again in Europe's indigenous religions,” explains Francis. “Many of the concerns that people have now about the environment, they actually can be connected to much older and more primal anxieties about deforestation, which are not just to do with climate change, but are to do with a sense in which deforestation or the felling of trees or the transformation of your environment is somehow depriving you of an ancient place of the sacred.”

Back to the Baltic countries, the question is “why did these places and people not succumb to the temptation of Christianity like the rest of Europe?”. Francis’s answer is that it’s partly a language barrier, and partly a factor of geographical remoteness and sparsity of population. But also, it’s because many of the people in these areas lived a less settled way of life, a form of nomadic agriculture, which meant that a religion born of settled city-states didn’t hold much appeal.

That all meant that for centuries across Europe, there were people who were able to engage with their spirituality in a much more individual and creative way than generally was the case elsewhere on the continent. Where the Christian rules of religious observance were written down, it was harder for people to be inventive in their approach to worship.

Now, that’s very interesting, but what can we learn from this? Does this offer any insights into ways that we might live happier, or maybe more meaningful lives today? You can guess the answer is yes, because otherwise this article would end in a disappointingly abrupt way around about now.

Spiritual societies

“When we delve into the history of spirituality in this marginalised area of Europe, we find something which I think is a lot more interesting than these prepackaged spiritualities. And that is people who have effectively found themselves cut off from other religious traditions and therefore they’ve forged their own, largely in a response to the environment in which they live,” says Francis. “I find that a rather refreshing perspective on religion, and on spirituality, from which perhaps we can draw some life lessons for today.”

Before we carry on, it’s probably worth clarifying the difference between spirituality and religion. There are many answers to that, but in Francis’s view, it’s this: “Spirituality tends to refer to an awareness and connection with the numinous that does not necessarily have to have any link to organised religion. And religion in the way that we tend to talk about it in everyday speech (in Britain at least) tends to be to do with some kind of organised worship of a deity.”

So when we’re talking about these non-Christian people in northern Europe, spirituality seems a more appropriate word. How that spirituality was actually manifested is hard to get at, because in the absence of a literate tradition, we are relying on second-hand accounts of their practices from Christian writers. Clearly we should be mindful that we’re looking through that lens. The fact that literacy wasn’t embedded in their cultures is a key element in the story though, according to Francis:

“The creativity does come from the absence of a literate tradition because clearly that pins down things like rituals and beliefs and stories in a way that an oral culture tends not to. But I think the creativity also arises from the challenges that they faced in that their traditions were constantly being disrupted by attempts to convert them to Christianity, none of which really worked until quite late on in the story. If you are constantly enduring this kind of cultural attrition, you have a choice: you can capitulate, or you can devise your own way. What I find really interesting about these people is that they chose to find their own ways of being spiritual.”

Sacred trees

It seems that the spirituality of these non-Christian people was malleable and reactive, able to flex under pressure from external sources. Let’s go back to these sacred trees. From the late 15th century onwards, Christian missionaries recognised that there were still people worshipping trees in the Baltics, and so chopped them down to put a stop to it. That didn’t work.

“There’s one remarkable source that describes how these people developed a ritual for making new sacred trees. Now, it seems highly unlikely that this was part of their original tradition because the whole point of a tree being sacred is that it’s very, very old. It’s sacred because it’s always been there, and goes way, way back to your ancestors who also worship it. But if your sacred trees are constantly being cut down, you need a way of making new ones,” explains Francis. “So, according to this account, people in Latvia would go to a sacred tree that had been cut down. They would recover a branch or some part of the tree, and ask the permission of the tree that had been cut down to make a new sacred tree. It had to be of the same species as the original tree. They would ask the permission of that tree if it would become a new sacred tree, and then touch it with the branch of the tree that was originally sacred. That would make the new tree into a sacred one. And that, to me is extraordinary.”

Becoming a tree-hugger

Clearly a big part of the story is the persistent importance of the veneration of the natural world to these people. That’s something that has been lost, or at least denuded, in the Christian west, for want of a better way of describing it. I’m not a practising Christian, but I’ve read Tom Holland’s Dominion, and I buy into the idea that western morality and values are the inescapable product of Christianity. If I want to break free of that and find a bit of personal, creative, spirituality, it feels like trees are the way to go, in the spirit of Francis’s Latvian branch communicants.

And thus, I went and hugged a tree. It wasn’t a great tree or an ancient tree. And it wasn’t even my favourite tree, the Scots Pine, which I’ve always found to have a particularly satisfying shape. It was an oak tree, in a little woodland down the road from my house. I talked to it a bit and asked it if it minded me hugging it. It didn’t reply. It’s a tree after all. But it didn’t drop any acorns on my head so I think we were in accord. I quite enjoyed hugging it. It was a warm day, and the experience was somewhat cooling. It was pleasantly scratchy on my face. I lingered for a minute or two in a woody embrace, and thought about stuff that was on my mind. I pondered on the strength of the trunk and the roots that no doubt extended some distance beneath my feet.

“Most people will have memories of a particular place that's very significant to them, or perhaps a particular kind of tree which they find particularly beautiful or have a personal connection to: places which have some kind of numinous power,” suggests Francis. “And what if you didn't just leave that in the realm of a happy and pleasant memory. What if you actually imbued that with the sacred? What if you went that extra step of fashioning your own way of thinking about what is sacred?”

I didn’t get as far as imbuing my hugging tree with sacrality, but I think it was a nice ritual (I’ve got an upcoming article in this series on the importance of ritual, so I’ll come back to that). I felt a little bit of a sense of arboreal power, which just made me reflect on myself a little more deeply than I ordinarily might. If that’s creative spirituality, I think it’s quite helpful. It certainly wasn’t a bad thing.

This builds on something that Professor Ronald Hutton told me in an earlier Life Lesson from History, when he opined that now is the perfect time for us to DIY our own religions, and that’s the benefit we get from living in a modern disenchanted world. I got a similar sense from Francis: “You can think about spirituality in a more personally creative way than simply going through a kind of shopping list and deciding ‘which of these spiritualities that I found online should I go with?’. I would encourage people to be creative and to explore the potential of spirituality as something which they fashion themselves as well as something which you might inherit from a tradition.”

So the tradition I’m fashioning is to hug a tree. It’s not a new idea, I know. I’m not the first tree-hugger. But it gave me something a bit different, and maybe I’ll refine the ritual as time goes on. I salute the historical peoples of the pagan north and east of Europe, and Dr Francis Young, for reminding me that spirituality is in our gift to explore and fashion as we wish. Now, more than ever, we need to find connection with the natural world around us. So hug a tree, if you like, or do something else, but be spiritually creative and curious, and see where it takes you.

This article is part of HistoryExtra's new Life Lessons from History Substack newsletter. Subscribe to the newsletter for more articles and podcasts exploring the ways in which history can help us live better, happier, healthier or more productive lives.