The New Moon Motor Car for 1917

Loretta reports:

Nearly 100 years after the Czar of Russia gave the Prince Regent a droschki, the motor car was becoming available to those who weren't massively wealthy.  This doesn't mean the cars were cheap, especially the ones known for high quality parts and construction.

I'd never heard of the Moon Motor Car until I happened on an enquiry in the local newspaper.  Naturally, nerdy historical sleuthing was in order—and you'll easily imagine my excitement at finding advertisements like this one in a WWI-era magazine.

In case you were wondering about monetary values:  According to dollartimes, "$1.00 in 1916 had the same buying power as $21.28 in 2011."  In today's dollars, therefore, the "New 1917 Six-66" was $33,516.

—The World's Work, Volume 32, Advertisements for August 1916.

An elegant vehicle for August 1820

Loretta reports:

In case you were wondering what sorts of gifts emperors gave kings, here’s an example—and another nice illustration of a Regency-era vehicle.

~~~
Plate: 9.—A RUSSIAN DROSCHKI.

We inserted in our number for January last (p. 43)*, a notice of a gift received by his present Majesty from the Emperor of Germany: it consisted of a four-wheeled carriage, called a droschki,** with Ackermann's patent moveable axles.

The annexed engraving is made from a drawing of a vehicle in many respects similar, and also called a droschki, received by his Majesty very recently from the Emperor of Russia. The chief point of difference between this carriage and that sent by the Emperor of Germany is, that the former only accommodates one person in the body ; but the shape, as will be seen, is peculiarly elegant, and the whole is of the most excellent workmanship. It is to be remarked, that although carriages of this convenient description are rare in Great Britain, yet in Russia they are extremely common, and are used by all classes, from the Emperor himself down to the humblest citizen.
—Ackermann’s Repository, 1820

*I searched in vain for this.  The first volume of Ackermann's for 1820 (Jan-June) isn’t yet up at Google Books. 

**Also spelled droitska, droshky.

How safe does this phaeton look to you?

Loretta reports:

After my blog about the allegedly Perfectly Safe Vehicle, I thought readers might like to see a phaeton in action.  The one Willoughby drives in this clip from Sense and Sensibility is an earlier version, called a High Perch Phaeton, and it's the type of vehicle the Prince of Wales (later King George IV) drove in his salad days.

A perfectly safe vehicle for 1819

Loretta reports:

Those of us who need to transport our aristocratic characters hither and yon are always excited to find detailed illustrations of fashionable vehicles.  A phaeton was analogous to a Ferrari—but not nearly as safe.  Whether this later version is as safe as claimed is anybody's guess.  You can read a fascinating testimonial here.
~~~
Plate 3.—A LIGHT PHAETON WITH PATENT MOVEABLE AXLES.
The plate which accompanies the present article, represents one of the most elegant, and, at the same time, one of the safest vehicles of the kind ever constructed. The accidents so frequently occurring to phaetons upon the old construction, were so frequent, and generally so inevitable, as to have led to their almost total disuse; but the important improvement in them by the application of Mr. Ackermann's Patent Moveable Axles, is likely to bring them again into fashion with gentlemen who are fond of the exercise of driving their own horses with perfect security.

Independent of the other beauties of the vehicle represented, its peculiar shortness and compactness are particularly striking: in a phaeton upon any other plan, this would undoubtedly be a disadvantage in all respects but appearance; for the inevitable consequence would be, that in turning and what is called locking, the carriage must be overturned. The following letter from the builder of this phaeton, to Mr. Ackermann, the proprietor of the Patent Moveable Axles applied to it, will sufficiently explain this singular advantage.

—Ackermann's Repository, July 1819

A Little Man Causes a Huge Traffic Jam: Tom Thumb in London, 1844

Susan reporting:

In the mid-19th c., there was no bigger celebrity in the world than Charles Sherwood Stratton (1838-1883), better known by the stage name of General Tom Thumb.

Though born a large baby, Stratton mysteriously stopped growing at the age of six months, and remained 25 inches tall and fifteen pounds for most of his life. His diminutive size made him a curiosity, and at the age of five, he was taken under the enterprising wing of showman P.T.Barnum, a distant cousin. Barnum taught the boy to sing, dance, and impersonate famous people, and soon he launched young Charles - now renamed Tom Thumb - on a hugely successful American tour as an entertainer. In 1844, Barnum and Tom Thumb crossed the Atlantic and took Europe by storm. The tiny boy was an instant sensation in London, where he performed twice before Queen Victoria.

Barnum concocted elaborate stunts to create interest in his young protege. In London, Barnum ordered the famous miniature Tom Thumb carriage. Though perfectly proportioned for its occupant, the body of the carriage was only twenty inches in height, painted blue and white, and drawn by a team of Shetland ponies. The coachman and footmen were boys in livery.

Barnum was delighted by the crowds the small carriage attracted as it traveled slowly through the London streets."His carriage, ponies & servants in livery...kill the public," he boasted gleefully to a friend. "They can't survive! It will be the greatest hit in the universe, see if it ain't!" Barnum's prediction wasn't empty hyperbole; it was reported in 1847 that the receipts of the European tour were an astounding £150,000.

But at least a few Londoners failed to see the charm in Tom Thumb's carriage. This sour letter appeared in The Times on 24 December 1844, during that first European tour:

STREET NUISANCES.
To the Editor of The Times.

Sir – I was passing along the Poultry this morning upon business of importance when my progress was arrested by a crowd of people, and the roadway was also blocked up by a confused mass of vehicles of all descriptions.To my surprise I found that the cause of all this stoppage and crowd was the wretched dwarf, called by his showman Tom Thumb! who was being slowly drawn along in a little carriage. Surely the police ought to interfere to prevent such nuisances as these. Here, at the busiest time of the day, under the very nose of the Lord Mayor, was the whole traffic of the city impeded by a showman's cart.... Tumblers and mountebanks are not allowed to exhibit their feats in public thoroughfares; but what do we gain in point of convenience if they are permitted to evade the law by creeping along at a snail's pace? The "Obstruction" to traffic constitutes the nuisance, whether that obstruction be complete or partial. Both Her Majesty's Government and the coporation of London are exerting themselves at the present moment to facilitate the buisness of this great town; but twice as many new streets as are now being made will not suffice, if they are to be invaded ad libtum by dwarfs and giants, cheap tailors and disinterested upholsterers, vendors of native oysters and dispensers of miraculous pills....

Above: Portrait of the Dwarf Tom Thumb, Stepping into his Carriage, c. 1870, London Stereoscopic Company
Below: P.T. Barnum and General Tom Thumb, c. 1850

We'll Take the Demi-Landau

Susan reporting:

Because it's such a splendid, sunny day, I thought we'd take our demi-landau out for ride in the park.

Well, okay, so it's not exactly ours. It's part of the Colonial Williamsburg carriage collection, and the oldest of the original (not replica) ones. Also known as a diligence or chariot, the demi-landau was a variety of private carriage popular well into the 19th c. With a single seat facing forward (an ordinary landau is larger, with two facing seats), they offered passengers an unobstructed view for traveling, particularly if driven by a postilion on horseback. According to our favorite CW driver Susan Cochrane (and our driver for today), postilion is also easier on the driver; it's much more comfortable to ride in as saddle for a day's journey than on a hard coach box.

The convertibles of their day, demi-landaus featured a folding leather top, or head, that could be folded back while the front part of the carriage was removed to make it open. Those S-shaped pieces on the top are part of the folding mechanism, and on a fancy carriage these might be silver-plated. (Those S-shaped bars can also be seen today on certain customized sedan automobiles, where they're called "landau irons.")

Demi-landaus were the most widely used form of personal carriage. Their smaller size made them useful for maneuvering narrow city streets as well as for country roads, and the smaller size also made them more economical. A nicely appointed demi-landau cost around £115. This was still out of the price range of the vast majority of 18th c. Englishmen, but for the rising middle class, a demi-landau was often the first prestigious step in "keeping" a carriage. Regency fans take note: Jane Austen and her characters would have been completely at home in a demi-landau, too. For more about carriages of all kinds, including up-to-date prices for 1794, check out William Fulton's Treatis on Carriages: Comprehending Coaches, Chariots, Phaetons, Curricles, Whiskeys, etc.

But enough talk. Here's another of my mini-videos to give you a short ride in the CW demi-landau. Take special note of how those folk of the middling sort, riding packed together in a public conveyance, will all gawk at you in envious wonder as you pass them in your solitary splendor.

For more about other carriages at Colonial Williamsburg, see here, here, and here.

What Every 18th c. Aristocratic Child Is Whining For This Spring

Susan reports:

There's nothing children like more than tooling around in their own set of wheels. Just as today's kids have their miniature cars (can you believe that that American-made classic, the Cozy Coupe, is celebrating its 30th anniversary this year?), so the lucky children of affluent parents in 18th c. England and America had their own tiny carriages, too.

This splendid toy chariot, made by the carriage builder of Colonial Williamsburg, is a replica of an 18th c. riding toy. It features a padded leather seat and the same turning mechanism being used for full-size carriages. The bench-style seat is slung on leather straps for an easy, rocking motion that's similar to the springs used in coaches. The red-painted wheels were high-fashion, and on the side of the seat is painted a pineapple, the same kind of family emblem that would have decorated carriage doors. This little chariot would not have been pulled by an animal, but by other children, and the handle is covered with leather for a good grip.

To be sure, this was not a common plaything. Ordinary folk didn't own carriages or coaches, and their children didn't have miniature chariots, either. But for the fortunate children who did, riding toys like this must have been a blast.

Because the chariot is a replica and not an antique, it's been road-tested by countless children visiting CW. You can see the chips in the paint and the wear on the wheels; in fact, when we took this photograph, the chariot was in the stables, waiting for a seasonal tune-up. But by spring, I'm sure it was back out on the grass, ready for another year of pushing, pulling, and squabbling over who gets to ride and who has to pull. Somethings never do change, do they?

Another Carriage, plus More Substantial Steps

Susan reports:

To follow up on our discussion of the carriages in Colonial Williamsburg, I'm adding two more photographs.  

True, we were duly dazzled by Lord Dunmore's carriage.  But I didn't want to leave you thinking everyone else was trudging through the dust on foot.  There are several other carriages in the CW collection that are every bit as handsome as His Excellency's, even more so, depending on your taste.  Here's another, left, that Loretta and I particularly like.  The original's owner was a prosperous Virginian; rich indeed, but not titled. That bulging curved piece along the back is a sword case (opened from inside the carriage) for stashing your blade, ever-ready in case of an attack by a highwayman or other nefarious 

person -- though the CW interpreters do admit that by the late 18th c., that little compartment is more for style than for actually carrying weapons.  Pretty cool, though, and sounds so much more romantic than, say, a glove compartment.

I know most of us (including Loretta and me) regarded those folding carriage steps on Lord Dunmore's carriage with trepidation.  I'm sure we had company among 18th c. ladies, too, who had to maneuver those steps in wide skirts and heeled shoes.  But there was at least one alternative, to be found in the stable yard of the Governor's Palace (and at grand houses across England as well): these sturdy brick carriage steps, right, made to the exact height of a carriage's door.  Over two hundred years later, you can still almost hear the sighs of relief from Her Ladyship and her daughters....

And Even More about Lord Dunmore's Carriage

Susan reports:

Alas, Blogger went into picture-overload, and I must split up these carriage images from the TNHG trip to Colonial Williamsburg. Here are the last handful of Lord Dunmore's carriage.

I mentioned previously that the carriage sits high above the ground.  To give you perspective on this, I asked Coachman Susan to stand beside the door – that would make for quite a jump up or down!  

Fortunately, a footman is always at hand to unfold these little built-in steps to the pavement.  They fold and unfold quickly, with a satisfying clatter, not unlike a Jacob's Ladder toy.  I imagine that it was probably a nice, showy move for a footman to make, unfolding them before His Lordship stepped out.

This carriage was one of the perks of being a royal governor, much like a limo and driver would be to an ambassador today.  To show exactly how grand Lord Dunmore was, here's his full title: His Excellency the Right Honourable John Earl of Dunmore, His Majesty's lieutenant and governour general of the colony and dominion of Virginia, and vice admiral of the same.

More on Lord Dunmore's Carriage

Susan reports:

More from the TNHG trip to Colonial Williamsburg, specifically having to do with Lord Dunmore's carriage.  Here are several more photos that will explain what a thousand words might not.  

This is a close-up of the latch on the carriage door, showing how in fact it does open only from the outside. It's a beautiful, substantial bit of brass, kept bright by His Lordship's staff.  It turns to open, and for security's sake, it takes considerable muscle to operate.  Yes, one could reach from the window to open it from the inside, but it wouldn't be easy.  In this photo, you can see (or rather, can't see) how exquisitely the coach is constructed; the opening of the door is to the left of the latch, barely visible beside the gilded moulding.

Here's another photo of the side of the door, showing the latch's locking mechanism.  You can also see the thickness of the door itself, wide enough to support the channel into which the door's glass window (not in place here) can be lowered.

Because of Blogger's limitations, the rest of these pictures appear in the next blog.  Sorry for the inconvenience!

What We Learned on a Carriage Ride

Susan reports:

Loretta explained our "research ride" in Colonial Williamsburg so well yesterday that all I can do is continue.  The carriage rides may seem an extravagance, an additional $12.50 to the CW admission ticket, but for us TNHG, it really was research.  

Really.

I'm not referring to the historic facts about carriages and coaching. I mean the visceral things that our characters might have experienced.  For one, it's not a very comfortable way to travel.  Even in a "luxury" carriage such as the one belonging to the Royal Governor (that's the exterior of the carriage, above left), it's a bumpy, bouncing ride over modern roads and gravel paths.  I can't imagine how badly passengers would be jostled over the course of a long journey over country roads.  It's a noisy way to travel, too; iron-bound wheels crunch and scrape, the carriage's suspension creaks and groans, and the horses'  hooves do indeed go clip-clop.  Nor is an 18th c. carriage particularly spacious. Clearly those ladies and gentlemen were  slender folk, especially considering the amount of space the ladies' hoops must have occupied. 

Oh, and all those feisty heroines who impulsively fling open carriage doors and leap to the ground: couldn't have happened.  For one thing, there's no latch on the inside of the door.  For another, it's a mighty big drop to the ground from the carriage.  You NEED those little folding steps and a helpful footman besides. Without them, that heroine is going to break her ankle at the least, and her neck at the worst. 

But there's good stuff as well.  You're raised up so high above the road that there are splendid views all around.  If you are fortunate enough to be riding in a carriage with a peer's arms painted on the door, you'll have bystanders bowing and curtsying in acknowledgement and taking photographs. And as Loretta

demonstrated earlier, it's the perfect height for conducting conversations with accompanying gentlemen on horseback.  

More, of course, to come.  In the meantime, here's a link to a short video clip about the horses in Williamsburg.  

Many thanks to our favorite coachman/interpreter, Susan, (a coachman being called a coachman even when she's a coachwoman) shown here in His Lordship's livery with her team – that's Matthew and Mark, and yes, Luke and John are employed elsewhere in CW – before the Dunmore carriage.