Dealing with rheumatism & gout in 1834

Garlic

Loretta reports:

Last week, in response to my blog about curing gout with heavy drinking, a commenter expressed curiosity about treatments in the past for these ailments.

These two home remedies dating to 1834 (and let’s remember that many people never saw a doctor in their lives) came from one of my favorite sources, The New Female Instructor or Young Woman’s Guide to Domestic Happiness, a book I’ve cited before (here & here).

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Receipt for the Rheumatism.

Take of garlic two cloves, of ammoniac one drachm: blend them, by bruising, together; make them into two or three bolusses, with fair water, and swallow them, one at night, and one in the morning.  Drink, while taking this medicine, sassafras tea, made very strong, so as to have the teapot filled with chips.  This is general found to banish the rheumatism, and even contractions of the joints, in a few times taking.

Remedy for the Gout.

Gum Ammoniac

Mix two ounces of finely-pounded gum guaiacum, with three quarts of the best rum, in a glass vessel; stir and shake it from time to time.  When it has remained for ten days properly exposed to the sun, distil the liquor through cotton or strong blotting paper, and bottle the whole, corking it up tight.  The more is made of it at a time the better, as it improves by keeping.  The dose is a table-spoonful every morning fasting.  The bottles should be corked as closely as possible; but should not be quite filled, lest the fermentation of the liquor should make them burst.  This medicine must not be made with brandy, or any other spirit but good genuine rum.







Illustrations courtesy Wikimedia Commons.  Clicking on captions will take you to the Wiki page.

King William's private place

Loretta reports:

State apartments are all very well, and I can be easily awestruck by, say, a magnificent painted ceiling, or candle stands that tower over my head.

But the most fun for me in touring a historic site is looking into the less public spaces:  kitchens, for instance.  Wine cellars.  Bathrooms.

Not too long ago we looked into Queen Caroline’s (Caroline of Ansbach 1683-1737) bathroom at Hampton Court Palace.

Nowhere in my perambulations, however, did I come upon the King’s bathroom.  I did find his lavatory, though.

King William III (1650–1702) was not an extrovert.  He liked to be alone or with small groups of friends.  One of the places where he could have some privacy was what’s called the King’s Closet.  Here he’d meet with the privileged few and work at his modest-looking walnut desk.  His long-case clock nearby needs to be wound only once a year—highly advanced technology for the time.

And in this private area, not far away, and in plain sight between the jib doors* is King William's own actual close stool.  According to the brochure, “the Groom of the Stool was a senior courtier who not only ran the Bedchamber department but also had to personally attend the king on his ‘stool.’”

I leave you to surmise what attendance entailed.

*In architecture a jib door is a door made flush with the wall, without dressings or mouldings, often as a disguised or concealed door.—Probert Encyclopaedia of Architecture.

A Gothic Dairy

Loretta reports:


Dairies on country estates could be beautiful things.  This gives some insight into hygienic measures.
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HINTS ON ORNAMENTAL GARDENING
PLATE 7.—A GOTHIC DAIRY

The annexed design represents the decorated elevation of a picturesque building, suitable to a bay or garden recess, in which they are appropriately situated, and always pleasing: its interior embellishments should be of marble, relieved by glazed tiles; and if painted in the Gothic forms by which the spandrels of some of our cathedrals are tesselated, it would be in good taste and character; and the windows being judiciously ornamented with painted glass, the whole would be brilliant and agreeable.
 

The requisites for the perfection of a dairy are, coolness and the most delicate cleanliness, a perfect ventilation, and an aspect that will permit the sun to enter the apartment until its altitude would render the dairy too warm; for the damps which remain from the night cannot be too soon or too thoroughly evaporated ; and even the moisture consequent on the morning ablutions should be speedily removed, to prevent the effects of that degree of heat and moisture which in a hot day would else be consequent upon such neglect: on a similar account, this building ought not to be embowered too much by trees and shrubs, and care should be taken that no trees may be placed in its neighbourhood that can impart unfavourable tastes or scents to the milk and cream,which readily adopt incongruous flavours, and are very tenacious in retaining them.

A double roof is essential to the dairy, and a free current of air should pass between them, or no means will prevent the excess of heat, which in hot weather is fatal to its purposes, particularly if the floors are wet or very damp at the same time.
 

Although part of the above observations are at variance with the usual practices in the business of the dairy, a little reflection will shew the propriety of adopting them. 

—Ackermann's Repository, August 1821

Laundry never ends...continued

Loretta reports:

A reader asked about bleaching yards in urban areas.  Not a good idea.  Beau Brummell used to send his laundry out to the country (bear in mind that "country" could mean Kensington in his day).  I did find another approach, although I'm still puzzled about where, exactly, the linens were hung to dry.
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TO MAKE TOWN-WASHED LINEN WHITE,
In large towns, where linen cannot be exposed to the air and sun upon the grass, let it be steeped, for some time before it is washed, in a solution of oxymuriate of lime Let it then be boiled in an alkaline ley.* Linen or cotton thus treated will not become yellow by age.
--From The complete servant, by Samuel and Sarah Adams, 1825

As to the fine fabrics another reader asked about. . .
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Velvets.
When the pile of velvet requires to be raised, it is only necessary to warm a smoothing iron, cover it with a wet cloth, and hold it under the velvet; the vapour arising from the wet cloth will raise the pile of the velvet, with the assistance of a whisk gently passed over it.  For spots and stains in velvet, bruise some of the plant called soap-wort, strain out the juice, and add to it a small quantity of black soap.  Wash the stain with this liquor, and repeat it several times after it has been allowed to dry.  To take wax out of velvet, rub it frequently with hot toasted bread.
--from The New Female Instructor
You 'll find a whole chapter on “The Art of Laundering and Scouring” in Frances Grimble's The Lady’s Stratagem: A Repository of 1820s Directions for the Toilet, Mantua-Making, Stay-Making, Millinery, & Etiquette. It covers every kind of material and specific solutions for cleaning various colors and “reviving” colors.

For more, check out Susan’s blog about an old-time dry cleaning method.

*Ley could mean lye or it could be used more generally to refer to a cleansing agent.  I saw some examples of ash-ley in receipts for cleaning.

Illustration: Mulberry velvet Evening Dress & Plaid Swiss Gingham morning dress from The Court magazine & monthly critic and lady's magazine, Volume 8, 1836 (fashions for January).

Laundry never ends

Loretta reports:

In connection with Susan’s blog about an 1800 white muslin gown,  a reader asked us a lot of questions about hygiene and laundry.
How often did they bathe?
How often did they wash their clothes?
How did they?
How would they have laundered one of those huge silk or velvet dresses?
How many dresses did they have?

The answers would take up many blogs.  We’ve already written a bunch about bathing (click the bathing label at right).

Today and Friday I’ll offer a few paragraphs of the dissertation one could write about laundry.

As Bill Bryson points out in At Home: A Short History of Private Life, “Because there were no detergents before the 1850s, most laundry loads had to be soaked in soapy water or lye for hours, then pounded and scrubbed with vigor, boiled for an hour or more, rinsed repeatedly, wrung out by hand or (after about 1850) fed through a roller, and carried outside to be draped over a hedge or spread on a lawn to dry.”  By the 19th century, what had once been a seasonal, then monthly job, became a weekly one.

This offers a clue why Christina Hardyment, in Behind the Scenes: Domestic Arrangements in Historic Houses, says our idea of Monday as washday is misleading.  That was the day the washing was started—otherwise it might not get done by the end of the week, when people wanted to put on their Sunday best.

According to The Complete Servant,  “The foul linen is given out to [the laundry maid] on Monday morning, and returned clean, on Friday night or Saturday morning.—Wages from £8. to £15. a year.”

Hardly a princely sum for a hot, stinking, exhausting job (laundry maids had muscles!).  In large households, the work kept a team of laundry maids busy all week.  Only consider what they’d be washing: a week’s worth of tablecloths, napkins, towels, sheets, pillowcases—IOW all the household linens used by family and servants—along with most of the clothing, including shirts, everybody’s underwear, caps, neckcloths, aprons.

And that’s only the washing.  What about the ironing?

More to come on Friday about those velvets and other things . . .

Above left:  Rowlandson, Washing Day.
Below right: Women at work in an unidentified laundry, possibly in Boston, c. 1905. Courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

The latest in kitchen ranges for the Regency era housekeeper

Loretta reports:
Here's a rare look at an ultra-modern kitchen range of the Regency era.
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The Annexed Plate is intended to represent a material improvement in the boiler attached to the kitchen range, manufactured by Mr. James Walker, 41, New Bridge-street, Blackfriars; and it explains the various purposes to which it can be applied, without consuming more fuel, or requiring more attention, than a common range. The superiority of this boiler to all others, for tho same purposes, will be made evident by inspecting the plan. It occupies the whole of the left-hand side of the range, and also the back, both forming one entire vessel; so that a quantity of water is always kept boiling when there U a fire in the range, by the superfluous heat that would otherwise be applied only to the back; and also, by this means, a very considerable expense is saved, as the additional consumption of fuel, by flues, is thus rendered unnecessary. 

As all others have either a copper or iron plate boiler at the back of the range only, the water cannot be made even warm without a large portion of additional fuel; for, in this case, flues will be necessary, and besides this, the heat is drawn off from the front of the fire, which prevents meat from roasting without a constant supply of fresh coals. On the contrary, with Mr. Walker's boiler, a flue can scarcely ever be wanted, except it be to supply an adjoining bath, or the washing troughs. A large quantity of boiling water, constantly ready for use, is certainly a valuable acquisition to all families for various purposes; it has even been found particularly serviceable in cases of sudden illness, when a bath has been required in the middle of the night, as the boiler retains its heat for at least seven hours after the fire is extinguished. And, as the pipes will convey the steam to any part of the house for heating the sitting-rooms and the bath, or for any other purpose for which steam may be wanted, it is evident that this is the most convenient and economical plan for the application of heat to domestic uses that has yet been invented.

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(Unfortunately, I had saved the lovely prints a while back but failed to note the original source for them.  My hunt this time produced the above text from The Monthly magazine and British register, Volume 46, 1818)

Useful & Necessary: The Bourdaloue

Susan reporting:

Most modern museum-goers who spot these two porcelain vessels in a display case would assume they were serving pieces. They're certainly pretty enough for an elegant 18th c. table, especially the one with the family crest on the side.

But necessity has always been the mother of invention, and often of design that's both handsome and useful, too. Consider the spreading hoops of an 18th c. lady, draped with yards and yards of costly silk petticoats, and then consider maneuvering all that yardage each time nature called.

There was a solution. These are two examples of bourdaloues, chamber pots designed specifically for women. With the assistance of a lady's maid, they could be slipped beneath skirts and petticoats, employed while standing, and then discretely carried away. Other versions were more utilitarian and fashioned of tin or leather, and intended to make long journeys by carriages bearable. Even when skirts shrank in size towards the end of 18th c., the bourdaloue was deemed too practical an item to abandon, and they remained in use throughout the Victorian era.

Where did the name come from? Legend says the name was taken from a celebrated 17th c. French Jesuit priest named Louis Bourdaloue (1632-1704), whose sermons were so infamously long that ladies came to church prepared. Not many historians accept this explanation. Even given that people were more frank about bodily needs in the past than they are now, it's very doubtful a well-bred French lady would relieve herself in her pew. Though no one now seems to know for certain, it's likely to be either something garbled in translation, or one more sly English insult aimed at the French.


Top: Bourdaloue. Made by Andrew Stevenson Factory, Cobridge, Staffordshire, England; 1816-30.
Below: Bourdaloue with lid. Made in Jingdezhen, China; 1790-1820.
Both from the collections of Winterthur Museum & Country Estate

Labor-Saving Devices: The Geneva Fluter

Susan reporting:

As I've mentioned before, I'm a sucker for a good flea market. Last weekend I was prowling the goodies in Lancaster County, PA, and discovered this antique labor-saving device.

The rocker-like device is called a Geneva Fluter (it proudly says so right there, embossed on the top in raised letters), and many late 19th c. women would probably have recognized it. The fluter is a specialized kind of "sad iron", used to press the fluted ruffles on linen cuffs and collars and other trim. (Here's more about historical

ironing.)

Made from cast iron, the fluter would have been propped before the coals in the hearth to heat. The piece to be ironed would be moistened and laid over the grooved base. Then, with a potholder wrapped around the handle, the heated iron would be rocked over the cloth, and with a hiss of steam, the linen would be perfectly pressed with rows of narrow flutes or pleats.

The weight of the iron and the heat would do most of the work, and compared to pleating and pressing the narrow ruffles individually, this

truly must have been a labor-saving device. Still, there also must have been plenty of room for error and scorching, and the learning curve must have involved considerable trial and error, plus a burn or two.

Made by a foundry in Geneva, IL, that specialized in household goods, the popular hand fluters were manufactured from 1866-1920, and were exported around the world. Once only wealthy ladies with maids and laundresses could have such skillfully ironed linens. Now women of the rising middle class wished to be fashionable, too, and the Geneva fluter took its place in households across America.

My flea-market fluter came with a base that's of a later date (after 1890) that was made in Philadelphia, not Geneva, but the principle's the same. The top plate with the grooves opens, and iron slugs, heated before the hearth like the fluter, would be placed inside to heat the grooves above it. Here's the more elaborate fluter that originally accompanied the base.

Still, mismatched or not, I thought I'd try it out. Not with linen; I'm afraid of that "patina" of old rust and corrosion, nor do I have an open hearth. But I did run a strip of printer paper across the grooves, and viola! Perfectly fluted, ruffled printer paper.

Keeping an 18th c. House with Susanna Whatman: The Cook

Susan reports:

Like most women of the past, Susanna Bosanquet Whatman (1753-1814) led a life that history would regard as unremarkable: she married well and happily, bore several children, and died after a long, industrious life. (She also had her portrait painted by George Romney, left.) She would be completely forgotten today except for a small volume she wrote for her own use that has miraculously survived.

The Housekeeping Book of Susanna Whatman was written in 1776, soon after her marriage to James Whatman, the prosperous owner of several paper-making mills. At twenty-four, she was now the mistress of Turkey Hill, her husband's substantial estate in Kent. Despite her youth, Susanna had been well-trained by her mother, and knew how to run a large household and manage a staff of servants, and like a modern-day CEO, she kept a manual of job descriptions, responsibilities, and how exactly she liked things done.

It's a happy myth that the grand households of the past were maintained by an unchanging staff of loyal servants. In reality, servants frequently came and went for many reasons, and most ladies kept books like Susanna's to make such transitions as seamless as possible. Few other such housekeeping books have been preserved, however, which makes Susanna's so important, and also so informative. As a sample, this is only the beginning of the Cook's responsibilities:

When a new Cook comes, much attention is necessary til she is got into all the common rules and observances such as the care above mentioned: filling the hog pails: washing up butter dish, sallad bowl, etc.: giving an eye to the scowering of saucepans by the Dairymaid: preserving the water in which the meat is boiled for broth: keeping all her places clean: managing her fire and her kitchen linen: making good bread, etc. Such things are material points, and of more consequence to be first attended to than any part of the cookery, except the quite common attentions of cleaning the fish properly, roasting and boiling in a proper manner, and warming up the servants' breakfasts.

The Cook should see that heavy things are not set in the Scullery upon the plates and dishes. She may always call back a servant whom she sees do it, or if they leave bones or hard things such as spoons etc. in a dish, and then put other dishes on it.

The Cook should have all proper kitchin linen and keep it good and mended....

A certain order or method is necessary at dishing up, and there is no excuse for waiting for a second course, the Kitchin being so near, as the Housekeeper may always have any of the maids to assist the Cook at the going in of the dinner. This teaches the Cook to contrive, and be quicker....

There should be a place in the Kitchin for everything kept there, otherwise it will be lost or mislaid without being missed, and [this] holds good for every other department and saves many things and much trouble.

And all this is only from the first page regarding the Cook! More to come about Susanna's other servants in future posts....

Pressing Matters: Yes, Ironing

Susan reports:

In our age of t-shirts and jeans and general acceptance of being comfortably rumpled rather than starched and pressed, ironing is fast becoming another lost art on the home-front (though both of us NHG do recall ironing pillow-cases as girls, oh, in the last century.) But two hundred years ago, ironing was considered essential: how else to keep those gentleman's shirts crisp, or the ruffles on a lady's shift or cap charmingly perky instead of limp as old lettuce?

In most genteel households, ironing fell to the laundress. Not only would she be responsible for pressing the family's personal linens, but also tablecloths, napkins, and bed linens, too. Often the mistress's finest linen would be ironed by her lady's maid, or even the housekeeper –

whoever could be most trusted with a hot iron.

Two kinds of irons were in common use in the 18th-19th centuries. Shown at right are flat-irons or sad-irons (the 'sad' part comes not from a weary laundress, but from an archaic word for solid.) These were in fact solid pieces of cast iron that were propped before the hearth to heat. Considerable experience was required to judge the temperature and to keep the face of the iron free of cinders and soot. Two irons at a time were recommended: one to use, and a second to be heating.

Every laundress had her own method for judging an iron's proper temperature, but the most common was spitting on the iron's heated face to see how fast the spit would sizzle away. Accidentally scorching or burning a hole in a costly garment or large linen was grounds enough for dismissal, and most housekeeping books of the time contain all sorts of cautionary suggestions.

Slightly less hazardous were box-irons, like the one being demonstrated above left by the tailor in Colonial Williamsburg. These irons were wedge-shaped boxes with a sliding-door on the back. A fitted iron insert, called a slug, would be heated and slipped inside. The advantages were that the heat would be more evenly distributed, the face of the iron could remain spotlessly clean, and several slugs could be kept heating at once to insure a near-constant source of heat. An average box-iron weighed about four pounds; the weight made ironing easier, and helped press the cloth with less muscle. Larger box-irons could hold live coals inside, and were called charcoal-irons.

In addition, there were specialized irons for certain tasks. Ruffles and pleats required custom-shaped irons with a bewildering array of names – crimping, goffering, fluting, ruching, qulling, and puff irons – that described the shape they were intended to create. Tailors and mantua-makers had their own irons, too. At left are the long, eight-pound tailor's irons, used to press open seams. These were called geese, not only because of their long handles like a goose's neck, but also because of the hissing sound that a hot iron made when pressed onto dampened cloth.

Check out this site for more about crimping and pressing ruffles and pleats. I also reccommend The Housekeeping Book of Susanna Whatman, written by an upper-class 18th c. English lady as a guide for her servants and what she expected of them, day by day. It's one of my favorite sources for domestic history: very informative, but also exhausting.

The price of service

Loretta reports:

Imagining Byron in the Palazzo Mocenigo, "working" on his poetry, got me thinking about money. Like other Englishmen, he found most of continental Europe easier on his pocketbook. (It's believed that one of the reasons for his crazy behavior, which led to the dissolution of his marriage, was money, a prime cause of marital turmoil today.)

Let us contemplate the wealth of the Regency era upper classes. Browsing in The Complete Servant, by Samuel & Sarah Adams, Butler & Housekeeper, first published in 1825, we find that a "Gentleman and Lady with Children" in possession of an annual income of £3000-4000 could afford "Nine Female and eleven Male Servants; viz.--A Housekeeper, Cook, Lady's-Maid, Nurse, two House-Maids, a Laundry-Maid, Kitchen-Maid, and a Nursery-Maid; with a Butler, Coachman, two Grooms, Valet, two Footmen, two Gardeners, and a Labourer.”

What's £3000 worth today? Depending on the measure you use, the amount varies from around $225,000-550,000. If you want to know why it varies, here's the place to investigate. One less finicky way is to simply multiply by 60 and then convert pounds to dollars. It takes you to the same general vicinity.

The housekeeper would be paid about 24 guineas. A year.

A guinea was twenty-one shillings (old style shillings, before the switch in 1971 to a decimal system), or one pound plus one shilling. Do not ask me to explain British money. At least not in this post. I only wanted to give a little basis of comparison, between our gentleman's annual income and the incomes of his various servants.

The butler would be paid about 50 guineas a year.
A nursery maid would be paid 7 guineas per year.

Hardly princely sums. But let's bear in mind that the household servants were fed, housed, and clothed at the employer's expense. He paid their medical bills and, usually, an annuity when they retired. As jobs went in those days, service wasn't a bad job.

But of course, it was better to be the master or mistress, and when I think of time-traveling, I do not picture myself as the scullery maid.