An Enterprising Mantua-Maker Saves her Apprentice, 1711

Isabella/Susan* reporting:

The following tale of an ingenious, avenging London mantua-maker (dressmaker) saving her young apprentice from a false seducer is from The Spectator (1711), an influential daily publication founded by Joseph Addison and Richard Steele. Most likely these events are pure fiction, not fact, and the "author", the felicitously named Alice Threadneedle, is also likely male. But it could have happened....

   It is the ordinary Practice and Business of Life with a Set of idle Fellows about this Town, to write Letters, send Messages, and form Appointments with little raw unthinking Girls, and leave them after Possession of them, without any Mercy, to Shame, Infamy, Poverty, and Disease. Were you to read the nauseous Impertinences which are written on these Occasions, and to see the silly Creatures sighing over them, it could not but be Matter of Mirth as well as Pity. 

   A little Prentice Girl of mine has been for some time applied to by an Irish Fellow, who dresses very fine, and struts in a laced Coat, and is the Admiration of Seamstresses who are under Age in Town. Ever sine I have had some Knowledge of the Matter, I have debarred my Prentice from Pen, Ink and Paper. But the other Day he bespoke some Cravats of me: I went out of the Shop and left his Mistress to put them into a Band-box in order to be sent to him when his Man called. When I came into the Shop again, I took occasion to send her away, and found in the Bottom of the Box written these Words, "Why would you ruin a harmless Creature that loves you?" then in the Lid, "There is no resisting." I searched a little farther, and found in the rim of the Box, "At Eleven of clock at Night come in an Hackney-Coach at the End of our Street." 

   This was enough to alarm me; I sent away the things, and took my Measures accordingly. An Hour or two before the appointed Time I examined my young Lady, and found her Trunk stuffed with impertinent Letters, and an old Scroll of Parchment in Latin, which her Lover had sent her as a Settlement of Fifty Pounds a Year. Among other things, there was also the best Lace I had in my Shop to make him a Present for Cravats. I was very glad of this last Circumstance, because I could very conscientiously swear against him that he had enticed my Servant away, and was her Accomplice in robbing me: I procured a Warrant against him accordingly. 

   Every thing was now prepared, and the tender Hour of Love approaching, I, who had acted for myself in my Youth the same senseless Part, knew how to manage accordingly. Therefore after having locked up my Maid, and not being so much unlike her in Height and Shape, as not to pass for her, I delivered the Bundle designed to be carried off to her Lover's Man, who came with the Signal to receive them. Thus I followed after to the Coach, where when I saw his Master take them in, I cryed out, "Thieves! Thieves!" and the Constable with his Attendants seized my expecting Lover. I kept myself unobserved till I saw the Crowd sufficiently encreased, and then appeared to declare the Goods to be mine; and had the Satisfaction to see my Man of Mode put into the Round-House, with the stolen Wares by him, to be produced in Evidence against him the next Morning. 

   I have been contented to save my Prentice, and take a Year's Rent of this mortified Lover, not to appear further in the Matter. This was some Penance; but, Sir, is this enough for a Villany of much more pernicious Consequence than the Trifles for which he was to have been indicted? Should not all Men of any Parts or Honour, put things upon so right a Foot, as that such a Rascal should not laugh at the Imputation of what he was really guilty, and dread being accused of that for which he was arrested?....

Above: The pretty mantua maker, published by M. Darly, London, 1772. Lewis Walpole Library, Yale University.

* Why two names? Here's the answer.

Strange English Dining Customs & Furniture

Loretta reports:

~~~

There are some customs here not quite consistent with that scrupulous delicacy on which the English pique themselves.  . . . Drinking much and long leads to unavoidable consequences. Will it be credited, that, in a corner of the very dining room, there is a certain convenient piece of furniture, to be used by any body who wants it. The operation is performed very deliberately and undisguisedly, as a matter of course, and occasions no interruption of the conversation. I once took the liberty to ask why this convenient article was not placed out of the room, in some adjoining closet; and was answered, that, in former times, when good fellowship was more strictly enforced than in these degenerate days, it had been found that men of weak heads or stomachs took advantage of the opportunity to make their escape shamefully, before they were quite drunk; and that it was to guard against such an enormity that this nice expedient had been invented. I have seen the article in question regularly provided in houses where there were no men, that is, no master of the house ; the mistress, therefore, must be understood to have given the necessary orders to her servants,—a supposition rather alarming for the delicacy of an English lady.

—Louis Simond, Journal of a Tour and Residence in Great Britain, During the Years 1810 and 1811, Volume 1 (1817 edition).

Seventeen years later, Prince Pückler-Muskau writes to his beloved Lucie about “one strange custom . . . a relic of barbarism which is extremely repugnant to our notions of propriety.
“This struck me especially today when an old admiral who, clad in his dress uniform, probably on account of Lord Melville’s presence, made use of this facility for a good ten minutes, during which period we felt as if we were listening to the last drops from a roof gutter after a long past thunderstorm.”

Illustration:  James Gillray, A Voluptuary under the horrors of digestion, 1792. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

Friday Video: A Portrait of the Regency

William Elmes, Triumph of Love and Folly, 1812

Loretta reports:

Usually on Friday, we offer short video clips.  This one, recommended to me by one of our readers, is definitely not short—and it’s only the beginning of a fine series.

But Lucy Worsley, who’s entertained us before, does a marvelous job of bringing history to life, and—perhaps more important for Nerdy History People—she goes behind the scenes, talks to experts, and even dresses up like a Regency dandy (with the aid of Ian Kelly, the author of one of my favorite biographies, Beau Brummell:  The Ultimate Man of Style).

This is Part One of a three-part BBC series: Elegance and Decadence - The Age of the Regency.

Illustration courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA.  Please click on caption to view the LOC page.

 Readers who receive our blog via email might see only a black rectangle or a square where the video ought to be.  To watch the video, please click on this link to the  Two Nerdy History Girls blog.

The world of crime & criminals—Rowlandson & Weegee

Loretta reports:

We Nerdy History girls do a lot of compare and contrast between Then and Now, in fashion especially, but also in terms of human behavior.  While in New York City on Saturday,  I went to the International Center of Photography, to see, among other things, Murder is My Business, an exhibition of photographs by the famous mid-20th C tabloid photographer Weegee, one of my personal favorites.  As I walked through the exhibition, oddly enough, I found myself comparing and contrasting these stark black & white photos to the work of one of the great illustrators of the Regency era, Thomas Rowlandson.

Weegee, At an East Side Murder, 1943. © Weegee/International Center of Photography.

Now, let’s be clear here.  We’re not going to find Weegee’s blood and guts tabloid sensationalism in early 19th century art.  But what struck me, once I got past the starkly lit murder victims and pools of blood, were the spectators.  In some photos, we see people reacting to the crime or accident—tearful, horrified, fainting, laughing, smirking, blasé—every shade of emotion.  Looking at a photo of bystanders at a murder scene, it’s startling to see people shrugging it off, or glancing at a corpse over their newspapers, or even grinning at the camera.

Yet I saw as well a direct connection to one of the early 19th century’s chroniclers of London life, Rowlandson—and in particular, his many illustrations dealing with criminal courts and executions.  When executions were done publicly, they attracted mobs of spectators, and in Rowlandson’s works, we see some of the same range of emotions as in the Weegee photographs.  An example is An Execution at Newgate, 1803.    

Thomas Rowlandson, Dr. Syntax Attends the Execution, 1820, courtesy Yale Center for British Art

Weegee captured life in the not-privileged part of New York.  Rowlandson took on life high and low, yet his crowd scenes, at Newgate and elsewhere, show the same variety of behaviors and emotions.  It seemed to me that only the outer trappings—the clothes & the environment, have changed, though not as much as you'd think—but the people?  Not at all, it seems to me.

More about the Weegee exhibition, here and here.

Prowling London at Midnight

Loretta reports:

“Of all the bucks in this buckish age,” The English Spy declares, “your London buck is the only true fellow of spirit; with him life never begins too early, or finishes too late.”

This is a very short excerpt from four London gentlemen’s nightlong journey.  After hanging out with the racing fraternity, they’re working their way down to ever sleazier establishments.  The authorities busted the last one, and our boys had a narrow escape.  Nothing daunted, they continue their lark.

Illustration by Robert Cruikshank

~~~

There is something very romantic in prowling the streets of the metropolis at midnight, in quest of adventure; at least, so my companions insisted, and I had embarked too deeply in the night's debauch to moralize upon its consequences. . .

"There is yet, however, one more place worthy of notice," said Crony; "not for any amusement we shall derive from its frequenters, but, simply, that it is the most notorious place in London." Thither it was agreed we should adjourn; for Crony's description  . . . was quite sufficient to produce excitement in the young and ardent minds by which he was then surrounded. I shall not pollute this work by a repetition of the circumstances connected with this place, as detailed by old Crony, lest humanity should start back with horror and disgust at the bare mention, and charity endeavour to throw discredit on the true, but black recital. The specious pretence of selling shell-fish and oysters is a mere trap for the inexperienced, as every description of expensive wines, liqueurs, coffee, and costly suppers are in more general request, and the wanton extravagance exhibited within its vortex is enough to strike the uninitiated and the moralist with the most appalling sentiments of horror and dismay. Yet within this saloon (see plate) did we enter, at four o'clock in the morning, to view the depravity of human nature, and watch the operation of licentiousness upon the young and thoughtless.

A Newgate turnkey would, no doubt, recognize many old acquaintances; in the special hope of which, Bob Transit has faithfully delineated some of the most conspicuous characters, as they appeared on that occasion, lending their hearty assistance in the general scene of maddening uproar. It was past five o'clock in the morning ere we quitted this den of dreadful depravity, heartily tired out by the night's adventures, yet solacing ourselves with the reflection that we had seen much and suffered little either in respect to our purses or our persons.
—The English Spy, Part 2, 1825

A Freshman at Oxford Discovers Smoking, c. 1850

Susan reporting:

Leaving home for college or university has always represented a big step towards independence and adulthood. But it's not only Knowledge that draws youthful students. Temptation, in every form, has also proved most attractive to young scholars freed for the first time from the guidance of home and parents.  While Animal House would have us think otherwise, this is nothing new. As long as there have been universities, there have been tales of misbehaving students.

Recently Loretta introduced us to an Oxford freshman of 1825. Published a generation later in the 1850s was Mr. Verdant Green: Adventures of an Oxford Freshman. Written by Cuthbert M. Bede (a pseudonym - what a surprise! - of  Edward Bradley, an English clergyman and novelist), young Verdant experiences all the highs and lows of every first-year student. One of Verdant's greatest revelations is smoking, which he encounters to prodigious excess. In fact, nearly every illustration of student life like the ones shown here includes at least one young gentleman puffing up a storm.

But then, let's read Verdant's introduction in a classmate's rooms:

"A great consumption of tobacco was going on, not only through the medium of cigars, but also of meerschaums, short dhudheens of envied colour, and the genuine yard of clay; and Verdant, while he was scarcely aware of what he was doing, found himself, to his great amazement, with a real cigar in his mouth, which he was industriously sucking, and with great difficulty keeping alight. Our hero felt that the unexpected exigencies of the case demanded from him some sacrifice; while he consoled himself by the reflection, that, on the homoeopathic principle of "likes cure likes," a cigar was the best preventive against any ill effects arising from the combination of the thirty gentleman who were generating smoke with all the ardour of lime-kilns or young volcanoes, and filling Mr. Smalls' small room with an atmosphere that was of the smoke, smokey. Smoke produces thirst; and the cup, punch, egg-flip, sherry-cobblers, and other liquids, which had been so liberally provided, were being consumed by the members of the party as though it had been their drink from childhood; while the conversation was of a kind very different to what our hero had anticipated, being for the most part vapid and unmeaning, and (must it be confessed?) occasionally too highly flavoured with improprieties for it to be faithfully recorded in these pages of most perfect propriety."

If you'd like to follow more of young Verdant's adventures, the book is available here through Google. I found it particularly amusing that the copy scanned came from the Harvard University library, where no doubt many of the same shenanigans took place.

Many thanks to our friend Patrick Baty for reminding us of Mr. Green's colorful exploits.

The Oxford Freshman 1825

Loretta reports:

~~~

TAKING POSSESSION OF YOUR ROOMS.

     Ascending a dark stone staircase till the oaken beams of the roof proclaimed we had reached the domiciliary abode of genius, I found myself in the centre of my future habitation, an attic on the third floor: I much doubt if poor Belzoni, when he discovered the Egyptian sepulchre, could have exhibited more astonishment. The old bed-maker, and the scout of my predecessor, had prepared the apartment for my reception by gutting it of every thing useful to the value of a cloak pin: the former was engaged in sweeping up the dust, which, from the clouds that surrounded us, would not appear to have been disturbed for six months before at least. I had nearly broken my shins, on my first entrance, over the fire-shovel and bucket, and I was now in more danger of being choked with filth.
     "Who inhabited this delightful place before, Mark?"
     "A mad wag, but a generous gentleman, Sir, take notice, one Charles Rattle, Esq., who was expelled college for smuggling, take notice: the proctor, with the town marshal and his bull dogs, detected him and two others one night drawing up some fresh provision in the college plate-basket. Mr. Rattle, in his fright, dropped the fair nun of St. Clement's plump upon the proctor, who could not understand the joke; but, having recovered his legs, entered the college, and found one of the fair sisters concealed in Mr. Rattle's room, take notice. In consequence he was next day pulled up before the big wigs, when, refusing to make a suitable apology, he received sentence of expulsion, take notice."

     "He must have been a genius," quoth I, "and a very eccentric one too, from the relics he has left behind of his favourite propensities."
      In one corner of the room lay deposited a heap of lumber, thrown together, as a printer would say, in pie, composed of broken tables, broken bottles, trunks, noseless bellows, books of all descriptions, a pair of muffles, and the cap of sacred academus with a hole through the crown (emblematical, I should think, of the pericranium it had once covered), and stuck upon the leg of a broken chair. The rats, those very agreeable visitors of ancient habitations, were seen scampering away upon our entrance, and the ceiling was elegantly decorated with the smoke of a candle in a great variety of ornamented designs, consisting of caricatures of dignitaries and the Christian names of favourite damsels.
—The English Spy [Part 1.], 1825.
Illustrations from the book, courtesy Project Gutenberg

Men Behaving Badly: Captain Dollupson

Courtesy Yale Center for British Art

Loretta reports:

~~~

CAPTAIN DOLLUPSON OF THE ARMY.

Captain! thou abominable d—d cheater, if captains were of my mind they would truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earned them.      Shakspeare.

A LARGE dirty personage, with scratched cheeks and bloody cravat, calling himself 'Captain Dollupson of the Army,' was charged with having assaulted one of the dismounted horse patrol.

The 'captain,' it seems, by way of a little 'life,'* was amusing himself with a knot of costermongers in a back yard behind Little Russell Street, Drury Lane; and doing his utmost to 'knock up a mill' between two of them. The costermongers, however, would not 'come to the scratch' to please the captain, who thereupon felt his choler rise; and the costermongers venturing to laugh at his captainship, he boldly seized one of them by the cravat, and twisted it so that the poor costermonger was all but strangled. The others rushed to the rescue of their companion, and the captain's face was sadly scratched in the scuffle. At this moment the patrol passed by the end of the yard, and having been told what was the matter, he observed that the captain ought to be ashamed of himself, whereupon the magnanimous captain darted upon him and knocked him down by a tremendous blow' on the eye.

His worship made some remarks upon the unofficerlike amusement of the noble captain, and then called upon him for his defence.

• Your worship,' replied he, 'this scoundthrell, who had no business whatever to intrude himself among us, called out to me " Come here, blubberhead, and I'll whop you!" That was language, your worship, which no gentleman could put up with, and therefore I knocked him down.'

'And, therefore, you will put in bail for your appearance to answer it at the Quarter Sessions,' rejoined the magistrate; and the captain was instantly removed by the turnkey, but not before some of the costermongers had offered to prove that he was not called 'Blubberhead' by any body; and that every body called him 'Thickhead.'

His worship observed that the distinction was immaterial, and other cases were called on.

*This was when blood-shedding, blackguardism, and debauchery, was called 'life.'
     —More Mornings at Bow Street: A new collection of humorous and entertaining reports, 1827

Illustration: Rowlandson, A black Leg Detected Secreting Cards, courtesy Yale Center for British Art.

Men Behaving Badly: Bucks & Bloods, 'flown with insolence and wine'

Susan reporting:

As Loretta and I have often observed (here and here are only a couple of examples), the life of an English gentleman in the past could be pretty sweet. To be young, rich, and titled was licence to run wild each night through London with few, if any, consequences, and contemporary sources are filled with justified outrage at what these bucks and bloods got away with.

Clearly the excesses of the night have taken their toll on the young rakehell, left. His stockings are ungartered, his wig's on backwards, and he requires the assistance of his friend and a chairman to cover the short distance between his sedan chair and his door. The servant who has waited up for his return takes his hat and sword from his friend, and her lack of surprise proves this is not an exceptional occurrence. This print's title says it all: Two Bloods of Humour, returning from the Bagnio, after having kept it up.

It's obvious how the anonymous writer of the satirical except, below, feels about this kind of behavior:

"The noblest exploit of a man of the town, the highest proof and utmost effort of his genius and pleasantry is The Frolick. This piece of humour consistes in playing the most wild and extravagant pranks that wantonness and debauchery can suggest; and it is the distinguishing characteristick of the Buck and Blood. These facetious gentlemen, and whenever Champagne has put them in spirits, sally out 'flown with insolence and wine' in quest of adventures. At such a time, the more harm they do the more they show their wit; and their frolicks like the mirth of a monkey, are made up of mischief...The present race of Bucks commonly begin their frolick in a tavern and end it in the round-house, and during the course of it, practice several might pretty pleasantries. There is a great deal of humour in what is called beating the rounds, that is, in plain English, taking a tour of the principal bawdy-houses; breaking of lamps and skirmishes with watchmen are very good jests; and the insulting of dull sober fools that are quietly trudging about their business, or a rape on a modest woman are particularly facetious. Whatever is in violation of all decency and order is an exquisite piece of wit; and in short a frolick and playing the devil bear the same explanation in a modern glossary."
     -- "Frolicks of BUCKS and BLOODS", from The Connoisseur, Feb. 6, The London Magazine, 1755

Above: Two Bloods of Humour, returning from the Bagnio, after having Kept it up, published by Carington Bowles, London, 1772, copyright The Trustees of the British Museum.

It's a boy! or a girl! Celebrating baby in 1826

Loretta reports,

In 1826, a lady describes a Westbury custom that follows the birth of a child.

~~~

Sugared Toast.

In "these" parts of the country, it is the custom, when a lady shall have been " as well as can be expected," for thirteen or fourteen days, for the husband to enjoy what is called "the gentleman's party," viz: all his friends, bachelor and Benedict, are invited to eat "sugared toast," which, (as the cookery-books always say,) " is thus prepared"— Rounds of bread are "baked," (videlicit toasted,) each stratum spread thick with moist sugar, and piled up in a portly punch bowl, ready for action: "strong beer," (anglice, home-brewed ale,) is in the mean time heated, and poured boiling hot over the mound of bread; which is taken immediately to the expectant guests . . . How they contrive to emancipate the toast from the scalding liquid, I never could, by any effort of ingenuity and research, decide to my own satisfaction. A goodly slice you know, sir, it would be entirely impracticable to achieve; for in half a minute from the time of the admission of the "hot beer," the toast must be "all of a swam," (as we elegantly say here,) and, resembling the contents of the witch's cauldron, "thick and slab." Whether a soup ladle and soup plates are in requisition on the occasion, I am equally unable to ascertain; but on final dismissal of this gentlemanly food, (for I by no means would insinuate that the congregation is limited to one act of devotion,) they magnanimously remunerate the "nurse," by each putting money into the empty bowl, which is then conveyed to the priestess of their ignoble orgies! Of all the " mean and impotent conclusions" of a feast, defend me from that, which pays its "pic nic" pittance to an old crone, who is hired to attend the behests of the "lady," but who by some strange mutation becomes the directress of the " gentleman's" revels, and the recipient of the payment from his guests, for "sugar’d toast!"

~~~

Note:  I’ve edited mercilessly, since this is another example of the early 19th C preference for the longest and most convoluted way of saying something.  The long version is here in Hone’s Every-Day Book for October 17.

Illustrations:  Above left:  P.F. Sokolov, Mother and Baby 1826, courtesy Wikimedia Commons.
Below right:  Thomas Rowlandson, Naval Officers, courtesy Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.

King George IV & the paparazzi of his day

Loretta reports:

My recent blogs about King George IV and Lady Worsley got me thinking about the media’s influence on our attitude toward historical figures.  Sir Richard Worsley tried to make a life for himself after the crim. con. case, but it haunted him for the rest of his life, thanks to the caricatures.  Displayed in print shop windows and print sellers’ umbrellas, these reached a great many more people, from all walks of life, than did newspapers and printed reports of legal proceedings.

King George IV had a similar problem.  He “had the great misfortune to live through the golden age of English caricature from 1780 to 1830 when the high and mighty were not spared.”*

“No account betrays the impact of satirical iconography on memory and hence on verbal caricature more obviously than Thackeray’s”**  (Beerbohm’s essay tackles Thackeray’s version of history.)

“Even now Gillray’s and Cruikshank’s prints more deeply influence our sense of the prince than any contemporary textual description.  Modern attempts to rehabilitate George IV’s reputation as connoisseur or statesman in effect still do battle with the caricatures.”**

The years I’ve spent researching his world lead me to the same conclusion.  I keep finding myself comparing and contrasting.  That nasty divorce case, for instance.  So I wonder why Henry VIII, who went through six wives, isn’t a bigger villain.  He executed two—and their bad conduct was mild compared to Caroline’s, as England belatedly discovered.

As to libertines, I reflect on Charles II.   He had a harem of mistresses, yet frequented brothels.  He showered his favorites with riches.  (Susan can tell you how many ships it took to carry the Duchess of Portland’s stuff back to France).  He begat many bastards, and gave most of the males dukedoms or earldoms.  He got the nickname the Merry Monarch.

Edward VII was a serial adulterer, too.  But “Punch never hinted at his philandering.  It was left to the French magazines, which did not circulate in Britain, to show him frequenting brothels, fondling naked prostitutes, smoking and drinking to excess.”*

“Unlike George IV, Charles II and Edward VII left behind them no enduring monuments for which the nation could be grateful.”*

They didn’t leave behind so many caricatures, either.

*Kenneth Baker, George IV A Life in Caricature.
** Vic Gattrell, City of Laughter.

Illustrations:  George, Cruikshank, Merry making on the regents birth day, 1812.
(Published by W Benbow) The Kremlin in commotion - or - the Grand Lama sick of the horn cholic, 1820. Both prints courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA.

King George IV—some alternate views

Loretta reports:

The recent Friday funny video about King George IV  had me wondering, as always, Why?  Why, after he died, had so very few anything good to say about him? Why during his lifetime was he so mercilessly lampooned?  Why did so few defend him?  Why hasn’t the view of him mellowed with time?  Yes, we know all the bad stuff:  the mistresses, the marriage fiascos, the drinking, gluttony, and extravagance.  But he was hardly the first Prince of Wales or English monarch to behave badly.  Why is he judged so harshly?


Craving a little balance, I offer today some of the more sympathetic views that Kenneth Baker, in his wonderful book, George IV: A Life in Caricature,* includes in his introduction.

The Duke of Wellington:  “The most extraordinary compound of talent, wit, buffoonery, obstinacy, and good feeling—in short a medley of the most opposite qualities with a great preponderance of good—that I ever saw in any character in my life.”

The Princess Lieven:  “ . . . if remembered it was only to criticize his morals.  It is in the middle and lower classes especially that this side of his character has left a very unfavourable impression . . . which overshadows much that was striking and brilliant in his reign.  His glory is forgotten and his vices exaggerated.”

Walter Scott:  “in many respects the model of a British monarch—has little inclination to try experiments or government otherwise than through his ministers.” 

J.H. Plumb (the historian):  “Few kings have been so hated or so mocked or had their virtues so consistently ignored.”

We can thank him for some of London’s most beautiful architecture and that splendid fantasia, Brighton’s Royal Pavilion.  He made the Royal Collection one of the world’s finest.  “He was a generous patron of English literature . . . the best educated of any English monarch—his rivals being Henry VIII and Elizabeth I.”  Baker has more to say about his good qualities—and for a lengthy, and very interesting defense, here’s Max Beerbohm’s 1894 essay.

Next week, I’ll have something to say about the numerous caricatures.

*NHG Library recommendation.

Illustrations:   James Gillray, A voluptuary under the horrors of digestion, 1792 July 2d.
Courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA
King George IV 1821, Courtesy Wikimedia.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Georgian Gentleman

Loretta reports:

The playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan is best remembered today for his plays The Rivals and The School for Scandal.  There's a good deal more, as his bio indicates:  a man who packed at least a couple of normal lifetimes into one.  Yet he’s by no means atypical of the Georgian era.  Many of his contemporaries were hard-living, hard-drinking men who could write, speak several languages, make speeches in Parliament, and party all night—even into what in that time was deemed old age. 

~~~

"To return to Sheridan at Brighton in the year 1805. His point of difference with the Prince being at an end, Sheridan entered into whatever fun was going on at the Pavilion as if he had been a boy, tho' he was then 55 years of age. Upon one occasion he came into the drawing-room disguised as a police officer to take up the Dowager Lady Sefton * for playing at some unlawful game; and at another time, when we had a phantasmagoria at the Pavilion, and were all shut up in perfect darkness, he continued to seat himself upon the lap of Madame Gerobtzoff [?], a haughty Russian dame, who made row enough for the whole town to hear her.

"The Prince, of course, was delighted with all this; but at last Sheridan made himself so ill with drinking, that he came to us soon after breakfast one day, saying he was in a perfect fever, desiring he might have some table beer, and declaring that he would spend that day with us, and send his excuses by Bloomfield for not dining at the Pavilion. I felt his pulse, and found it going tremendously, but instead of beer, we gave him some hot white wine, of which he drank a bottle, I remember, and his pulse subsided almost instantly. . . . After dinner that day he must have drunk at least a bottle and a half of wine. In the evening we were all going to the Pavilion, where there was to be a ball, and Sheridan said he would go home, i.e., to the Pavilion (where he slept) and would go quietly to bed. He desired me to tell the Prince, if he asked me after him, that he was far from well, and was gone to bed.
* Isabella, daughter of 2nd Earl of Harrington, and widow of the 9th Viscount and 1st Earl of Sefton.
—The Creevey papers, 1904

~~~

(Since there's quite a bit more to this episode, I've linked to the specific page this time.)

Illustration:  James Gillray, Uncorking old sherry, 10 March 1805.  Courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

"All the Virtues of Man without his Vices": Lord Byron's Dog Boatswain, 1803-1808

Susan reporting:

There's nothing like a devoted dog to bring out the best in people. Queen Victoria could be chilly and distant with her human subjects, but her dogs always received considerable affection. The poet George Gordon Noel, 6th Baron Byron (1788-1824) was better known more his many lovers than for his faithfulness – except when it came to his dog Boatswain, left.

Byron loved animals. As a student at Cambridge, he famously rebelled against a rule forbidding pet dogs in lodgings by keeping a pet bear instead. Throughout his life, he kept an ever-changing menagerie of pets that included cats, horses, peacocks, a badger, a goat, geese, a heron, a fox, a parrot, and four monkeys.

But Boatswain was his favorite. A black and white Newfoundland (though in paintings he looks more like a modern border collie), Boatswain was equally devoted to Byron. When Boatswain was tragically attacked and bitten by a rabid dog, Byron insisted on nursing Boatswain himself, heedless of the risk, and grieved deeply at the dog's inevitable death. "Boatswain is dead!" he lamented to a friend. "He expired in a state of madness...after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last, never attempting to do the least injury to anyone near him."

Though in dire financial straits, Byron erected a costly marble monument over Boatswain's grave on the grounds of Newstead Abbey, and drew the inscription from his poem Epitaph to a Dog.

   Near this Spot
   Are deposited the Remains of one
   Who possessed Beauty without Vanity
   Strength without Insolence
   Courage without Ferocity
   And all the virtues of Man without his Vices
   This praise which would be unmeaning Flattery
   if inscribed over human Ashes
   is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
   BOATSWAIN a DOG,
   Who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
   And died at Newstead Nov. 18 1808

It was Byron's great desire to be buried with Boatswain, and he expressed that wish in his will. But by the time he died, Newstead had been sold to another owner, who did not wish his home to become the final resting place of the famed poet, nor have it overrun with his grieving admirers. Byron was instead buried in his family's vault in the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Hucknall. One hopes that he and Boatswain are finally joined in spirit, if not in fact.

The romantic painting, right, by Ford Madox Brown was completed long after the deaths of both Byron and Boatswain. Inspired by Byron's semi-autobiographical poem The Dream (1816), it shows Byron with his first lover, Mary Chaworth. While she represents lost love and thwarted dreams, it's ever-faithful Boatswain who stands for loyalty.

Above: Lord Byron's Dog Boatswain (1803-1808) by Clifton Tomson, 1808
Below: Byron's Dream by Ford Madox Brown, 1874

A Double Elopement in 1823

Loretta reports:

This story was interesting, partly because of girls’ ages, and partly because it was a double elopement.  The bit in parentheses, I think, tells us something about what was going on, and makes the tale more poignant than it seems at first glance.  If we bear in mind, too, that an elopement left a girl without the financial protection that marriage settlements provided, we’re left with plenty to ponder regarding the back story as well as the couples' futures.

~~~

Elopement.—The elopement of the two Miss W——'s from Staffordshire, has excited a strong sensation in that and the adjoining counties. These ladies being nearly connected with the first families in England and Wales, and the youngest only sixteen years of age. It seems, that being at Bath last winter for the completion of their education, (having lately lost their mother) they were closely beset by two young sons of Mars, and to avert the threatened danger, were sent to the house of their aunt, Mrs. A—, who is separated from her husband, and resides in the neighbourhood of Stafford. Here, as it was more than suspected, an attempt would be made to carry them off, they were accompanied by two trusty female servants; but all the eyes of Argus were wanting ; for watching an opportunity, they got out of the drawing-room window, and ran for two miles into the turnpike road, where a coach and four, with their happy swains, awaited their arrival. Their aunt followed them as soon as she could procure four post-horses, but relinquished the pursuit at Newcastle; the lovers having got two hours a head of her in their road to Gretna Green. We understand the parties are safe returned, properly linked in the bands of wedlock.—Globe and Traveller.

—The Rambler's magazine, Volume 2, 1823.
Illustration:  Richard Dagley, Taking Amiss, 1821, courtesy Ancestry Images.

Men Behaving Badly: The Duke of Devonshire is Thoughtlessly Clumsy, 1782

Susan reporting:

One of the lessons of history is that being born to a dukedom doesn't guarantee nice-guy status. Despite being graced with a string of titles, an immense fortune, one of the most beautiful British houses (Chatsworth) for his country place, and one of the most charming ladies of the Georgian era as his duchess (Georgianna Spencer Cavendish), William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Devonshire (1748-1811) was, by all reports, something of a boor.

Perhaps because he came into his title at sixteen, the Duke seemed mired in a life-long, self-centered adolescence. Observed the famous letter-writer Mrs. Mary Delaney: "The Duke's intimate friends say he has sense, and does not want merit...[but] to be sure the jewell has not been well polished: had he fallen under the tuition of the late Lord Chesterfield he might have possessed les graces, but at present only that of his dukedom belongs to him."

The following anecdote of the Duke's behavior dates from 1782. It was recorded by the novelist Fanny Burney, who apparently agreed with Mrs. Delaney's appraisal of His Grace. (FYI, a glass lustre was an elaborate and costly form of candle stand, often decorated with cut-crystal drops. Here's an example of an 18th c. pair.)

"Miss Monckton...told us one story extremely well worth recording. The Duke of Devonshire was standing near a very fine glass lustre in a corner of a room, at an assembly, and in a house of people who, Miss Monckton said, were by no means in a style of life to hold expense as immaterial, and, by carelessly lolling back, the Duke threw the lustre down, and it was broke. He showed not, however, the smallest concern or confusion at the accident, but coolly said, 'I wonder how I did that!' He then removed to the opposite corner, and to show, I suppose, that he had forgotten what he had done, he leaned his head in the same manner, and down came the opposite lustre! He looked at it very calmly, and, with a philosophical dryness, merely said, 'This is singular enough!' and walked to another part of the room, without either distress or apology."

Above: William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Devonshire, by Pompeo Batoni, 1768

Detestable Duels & the Lower Class of Officers, 1750

Susan reporting:

Thanks to Loretta, we've explored many excerpts from early 19th c. ladies' magazines. Men had their own reading material, too. The Gentleman's Magazine was founded in 1731 and ran uninterrupted for nearly two more centuries, until 1922.

The contents of the 18th c. editions clearly catered to the tastes of a Georgian gentleman, including military, judicial, & political news, scientific observations, indignant letters, poetry in Latin, and round-ups of births, deaths, marriages, and executions.

But in light of Loretta's post yesterday outlining the classes & orders of English society, I found this excerpt from the May, 1750 issue particularly interesting. What begins as a general tirade against dueling quickly morphs into a tale of the just deserts served to duelists "of the lower class of officers." To this author, there was a world of difference between honorable, well-bred officers who had served abroad and those described as "pests of human society" – all of whom meet their well-deserved (and most convenient) fates by the end of the paragraph.

From OLD ENGLAND, May 12
Of Duelling...

The detestable practice of dueling calls aloud for restriction. It has been observed to prevail generally after a bad peace: immediately after that of Utrech, some of the lower class of officers, call'd Derby Captains*,  (McManus, McNeal, Hardiman, Scroggs, and Marriot) were the pests of human society, and obtruded themselves into company merely to quarrel; insomuch, that their brother officers took all opportunities of shunning them.
    Mr. McManus was sent to the West Indies as lieutenant of a company, where he continued his pestiferous quarrels, to the great annoyance of the plantation, 'till a stout planter, after the greatest provocation, gave him such a drubbing as put an end to his iniquity and his life together. McNeal, taking an opportunity to salute a gentleman in the road, finished his travels at the gallows. Hardiman, after making a havock among the Irish, of whom he had killed no less than five in duels, and not very fairly, died, to the surprize of all, in his bed. Scroggs and Marriot fortunately quarrelled together, and were artfully, and I think wisely, spirited up against one another, for the good of mankind, into a duel, and dy'd very gallantly by their own swords....

* Derby Captain: "There was a house in Covent Garden for many years remarkable for selling Derbyshire ale, which was cheap, and much drank at that time by the neighbours, and others who frequented the house. The long calm which succeeded the Peace of Utrecht, reduced a great number of officers who had been in the Duke of Marlborough's wars; and, as they had but a scanty provision to live on, those who settled in London...found great convenience in frequenting this house; which they did in time to the amount of such numbers, that they were called, by way of cant name, 'the Derby Captains.'" - Memoirs of Charles Macklin, 1804

Above: French Smallsword Duelists, c. 1740. 
I have no idea exactly why the two hot-tempered combatants in this illustration are being handed their swords by a motley-clad fool – though having a clown stand between duelists does seem appropriate.

Wife for sale in Lincolnshire

Loretta reports:

I’ve posted before about wife selling, but this one I hadn't seen before, came directly from a ladies’ magazine rather than a compendium, and was particularly interesting regarding the conditions of the sale.  I'm still scratching my head, wondering if it was a wife sale or a wife rental.
~~~
LINCOLNSHIRE. One of those scenes which are a disgrace to the police, lately took place at Spilsby. One Thomus Sowden, of Wainfleet, publicly exposed his wife for sale in Spilsby market, and sold her for five guineas, a larger sum than we have heard a wife to bring at a public sale for some time past. One of the engagements in this disgraceful bargain, was, that the husband should have the liberty of visiting her at what time he thought proper, without let or molestation. After the conclusion of the sale the parties retired to a public-house, where for five days and nights they feasted upon the fruits of the bargain; but at length tired out by the powerful influence of Morpheus, like pigs, they all retired to the same stye, certainly the fittest place for this unnatural trio.  We are astonished the magistrates do not interfere upon these occasions, and prevent such public insults to the morals of the people. Surely they are punishable for an offence contra bonos mores, if by no other statute.

—La Belle assemblée, Volume 1, 1810 (May)
Illustration:  Thomas Rowlandson, Selling a Wife, courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

A Shocking Beauty Revealed: Sarah Goodridge & Daniel Webster

Susan reporting:

There were few professional painters in New England in the early 19th century, and fewer still were women. But for Sarah Goodridge (1788-1853), becoming an artist was never in doubt. One of nine children of a Massachusetts farmer, Sarah taught herself to draw by copying pictures from a book on her mother's sanded kitchen floor. Determined to support herself as an artist, she and her sister moved to Boston in 1820, where Sarah was exposed to other artists' work. Her own work improved, and soon her miniature portraits – exquisitely painted on ivory – were much in demand. Through her commissions, she was soon supporting not only herself, but her aging mother and other family members as well.

But one subject stood out from the others. Daniel Webster (1782-1852) was a lawyer and politician who came to sit for his portrait, as was proper for a man on the rise. But what wasn't proper was the romantic friendship that soon blossomed between Daniel and Sarah. Daniel was a married man with three children, and a liaison with an artist was hardly the best thing for his career. Yet still the two apparently continued to see each other, and she painted a dozen more portraits of him over the next twenty-five years. As is often the case, she preserved his letters to her, while he, more mindful of his reputation, destroyed hers.

When his first wife died in 1828, Sarah's hopes rose. Following a popular trend in England for lovers to exchange miniatures of a beloved's eye or lips, Sarah painted a special miniature to remind Daniel of her charms. Instead of her eyes, however, she offered this much more intimate glimpse of her bared breasts, and likely her heart as well.

But the man known to his enemies as "Black Dan" chose ambition instead of love. Serving his first term as a U.S. Senator and perpetually in money difficulties, he needed to make a more advantageous match. In 1829 he married Caroline LeRoy, a wealthy, well-connected young woman from New York. Yet even this marriage wasn't enough to destroy his friendship with Sarah, and she continued to execute his commissions, traveling twice to see Daniel in Washington, DC.

Sarah never married. When her failing eyesight forced her to give up her painting, she retired to a Massachusetts farm, where she died in 1853 after a stroke.

No one now knows the true depth of Daniel's feelings towards Sarah. But when he died after a fall in 1852, the miniature of her breasts - known now as Beauty Revealed - was discovered among his personal belongings.

Many thanks to Barbara Wells Sarudy, who introduced me to Sarah Goodridge and her miniatures on her excellent blog, 19th Century Women. Please check it out, and discover quite a few wonderful 19th c. artists unjustly overlooked by posterity. 


Above: Self-Portrait by Sarah Goodridge, 1825
Below: Daniel Webster by Sarah Goodridge, 1825

More from Helen Rowland

Loretta reports:

From the era of Downton Abbey, more from Helen Rowland.

~~~
A man weddeth a woman in order to escape loneliness, and immediately thereafter joineth a club in order to escape the woman.

He marryeth a damsel because she appealeth to his "higher nature", and spendeth all the rest of his days seeking after those who appeal to his lower nature.

A woman is cast down with doubts lest a man doth not love her; but a man never troubleth his soul, as to whether or not a woman loveth him, but as to whether or not he wanteth her to love him.

Behold, an honest woman may cheat at cards, but never at love; but he considereth himself an "honorable man" that never cheateth at a game of poker though he never playeth fair at the game of hearts.

Go to! Think no man in love while he flattereth thee and extolleth all thy ways; but, when he beginneth to moralize and to criticise thy hats, then mayest thou plan thy trousseau.

When he saveth thy life it may be for chivalry's sake; but when he carryeth an umbrella to please thee it is for love's sake.

Be not set up when a man giveth thee the key to his heart, for, peradventure, upon the following day, he may change the lock!

Then, how shall a woman understand a man, since they are all cut upon the bias!

Verily, verily, by turning him around , my Daughter, and reading him backward, even as a Chinese laundry ticket!


The sayings of Mrs. Solomon: being the confessions of the seven hundredth wife as revealed to Helen Rowland, 1913