The Flying Footman, "all air like a Mercury," c 1770

Susan reporting:

The local high school's spring sports teams must have begun training, because straggling packs of teenagers are to be seen each afternoon running along the sides of the roads. All of which reminds me of a specialized kind of footman that was once considered indispensable: the running footman.

Chosen for their endurance as well as their speed, running footmen served several purposes. On journeys, the running footman ran ahead of his master's coach to announce his arrival at inns or other houses. In a time when bad roads were a part of all travel, he could run forward and return with reports on conditions ahead. He could be sent to carry important messages or packages, or to summon a physician in an emergency. For some masters, the running footman was also considered a status-symbol for sport, and like a prized thoroughbred horse or dog, and raced against other footmen with hefty wagers on the outcome.

As a combination long-distance runner and bike-messenger, running footmen could be fast indeed, with the best ones recorded as covering seven miles in an hour, and capable of running sixty miles in a day – although, like horses, no one expected them to do this day after day. Costume and livery varied, but a long staff in the hand was a constant, used as a symbolic mark of the position, as a pole to help leap over brooks, and as a weapon to fend off dogs. It also could carry refreshment. The decorative, silver-headed top of the staff often had a small compartment for wine, or, in some cases, to carry a hard-boiled egg.

As roads improved in the 19th c., running footmen gradually disappeared – though they do live on in the names of several famous English pubs and taverns. (The illustration, above, comes from a pub sign, which explains why the footman appears to be running through a vineyard!) The following comes from the Recollections of Irish actor and dramatist John O'Keeffe (1747-1833), published in 1826:

[My Lord's running footman] I have often seen skimming or flying across the road; one of them I particularly remember; his dress, a white jacket, blue silk sash round his waist, light black-velvet cap, with a silver tassel on the crown, round his neck a frill with a ribbon, and in his hand a staff about seven feet high with a silver top. He looked so agile, and seemed all air like a Mercury: he never minded the roads, but took the shortest cut, and by the help of his pole absolutely seemed to fly over hedge, ditch and small river. His use was to carry a letter, message, or despatch; or, on a journey, to run before and prepare the inn, or baiting-place, for his family or master, who came the regular road in coach and two, or coach and four, or coach and six: his qualifications were fidelity, strength, and agility.

For more about running footmen, see one of our favorite on-line resources, Chambers' Book of Days.

How to subscribe to the Minerva Library in 1807

Loretta reports:

Nerdy History people can learn a lot from the advertisements in early 19th century women's magazines.  Unfortunately, while the magazines are easy enough to find online, only a few contain the advertising pages.

This one came from one of those rare copies, the 1807 La Belle Assemblée.

Was this expensive?  For some, prohibitively so.  To give an idea of the subscription costs:

First, a little background.
Before decimalization—
£1 = 20 shillings
1 guinea = 21 shillings

 Using one system of valuation, £1 comes to about £70 in today's money  (or about $110).

Looking at value in terms of wages:  The highest paid servant in a household, according to The Complete Servant, was "A French Man-Cook." For this position, the authors recommend a salary of 80 guineas (£84) a year.  At the other end of the scale, one of the lowest paid in the household, a nursery maid, got 7 guineas/year.  And this was in 1825, when wages had risen quite a bit.

The Footman

Loretta reports:

I suspect the reality of the footman’s life lies somewhere between this satirical and rather cruel portrait and the job description in The Complete Servant—with the latter approaching nearer the truth.
~~~
... notwithstanding the stately gait with which he moves—staff in hand after his lady— notwithstanding his gold laced hat his gold or silver epaulets, his plush inexpressibles, his silk stockings, and well polished shoes . . . the cruel world regards him . . . with risible contempt . . .

 My lord duke of “below stairs” seems to be aware of this . . . When behind the coach, he rolls from side to side with consequential dignity, and keeps dancing upon his toes, to shew, as it were, the elasticity of his muscles.  In pedestrian attendance upon those whose bread he eats, he throws back his body even something beyond the perpendicular, and measures his steps with exactness and deliberation.  Every muscle of his face is composed, his eye never wanders, until his lady enters the confectioner's and haberdasher's shops; then “John” relaxes the rigidity of his attitude, leans forward upon his staff of office, and if happy enough to encounter his shadow in fine clothes, luxuriates with mincing accents, in anecdotes of the kitchen.  Perhaps some public house door stands invitingly open; if so he looks cautiously about him, and seeing the lady busy cheapening shawls, slips in for a moment, and returns with a complexion improved by the internal application of “blue ruin.”  The footman, however, is a person of some consequence; he does the honours of the hall, converses with noblemen, drinks with stable-keepers and dog-fanciers, and, if Swift was not much astray, prevents the physical decay of noble families.  There is always a smile upon his lip when in the presence of his superiors; and never refuses the doing of a kindness—when paid for it.

This, however, is only the description of the class; there are many individual exceptions; and there are few families who cannot boast of faithful servants.  In general, however, they furnish nothing but food for the writers of comedy, and subjects for the painter; Mr George Cruiksbank has left the lovers of pictoral accuracy nothing more to desire in this respect.
—George & Robert Cruikshank, The Gentleman's Pocket Magazine, 1827

~~~

More on footmen here & here.

What's at the makeup counter in the 1820s

Loretta reports:

Thanks to Frances Grimble’s splendid compilation, The Lady’s Stratagem, (which I’ve referred to/raved about here, here, here, and here), I’ve discovered several terrific resources dealing with historical dress and manners in the early 19th century.  One was The Duties of a Lady’s Maid (1825).

Among other things, the book offers a clue to how matters stood regarding makeup.  The contents make it clear that it was acceptable for women—and not just actresses and harlots—to wear make-up.

Though the author recommends making beauty aids at home—and offers many dire warnings regarding toxic ingredients—ladies could and did buy them from their favorite perfumer.

One could buy rouge in dishes, of which there were two kinds, Portugal-made (superior & costlier) and London-made.  One could also buy small cakes of rouge-tinged Spanish wool (I’m picturing felt, but welcome explanations from our experts)—the London-made being superior to the Spanish-made.

There were also color papers.  One variety was rouge-tinged paper, “chiefly for the convenience of carrying it in a pocket-book.” Another, from China, came in fragile 3” diameter “large, round, loose cakes.”  The wool that holds the rouge is described as being “like carded wool,” and apparently, the color flaked off easily.

China also provided color boxes, which “contain each two dozen of papers; and in each paper are three smaller ones, viz., a small black paper for the eyebrows; a paper of the same size, of a fine green colour; but which, when just arrived and fresh, makes a very fine red for the face; and lastly, a paper containing about half an ounce of white powder (prepared from real pearl), for giving an alabaster colour to some parts of the face and neck.”

Mouse fur eyebrows not included.

Illustrations courtesy Wikimedia
Top: Katsushika Hokusai, A bowl of lip rouge, a mirror in a case, and a packet of face powder.

Bottom:  Mignot Parfumeur, illustration from Journal Universel 16 décembre 1854—by Monsieur Gilbert Randon.

Mrs. Jane Ebrell, 18th c Housemaid & Spider-brusher

Susan reporting:

The great country houses of the past required equally great staffs to support and maintain them. As always, there were good and bad masters and mistresses, and good good and bad servants – but surely the relationship between the Yorke family of Erddig, Wrexham, and their staff was unique.

Beginning in the 18th c, generations of workers loyal to the family were memorialized in verse and in portraits (first paintings, then photographs) that hung in the house. The portraits include coach boys, carpenters, butchers, footmen, and maids, and form a rare, respectful glimpse at the men and women rarely noticed by history.

Mrs. Jane Ebrell, left, was eighty-seven when her portrait was commissioned by Philip Yorke I (1743-1804) in 1793. One of the few women honored, she was a housemaid, and is shown sitting outside her cottage with the tools of her trade - a broom and a mop – as well as a pet dog. While Mrs. Ebrell is not specifically mentioned in family ledgers, other maids in the Yorke household at the same time were paid £2-3 a year, and likely Mrs. Ebrell's wagers were similar.

The over sized scroll draped across Mrs. Ebrell's apron is inscribed with a poem (one of a number of "crude-ditties") composed in her honor by Philip Yorke. What it may lack in literary merit it more than makes up for in admiration:

To dignifie our Servants' Hall
Here comes the Mother, of us all: 
For seventy years, or near have passed her,
since spider-brusher to the Master;
When busied then, from room to room, 
She drove the dust, with burhs, and broom
Anyd by the virtues of her mop
To all uncleanness, put a stop:
But changing her housemaiden state,
She took our coachman, for a mate;
To whom she prov'd an useful gip,
And brought us forth a second whip:
Morever, this, oft, when she spoke, 
Her tongue, was midwife, to a joke,
And making many an happy hit,
Stands here recorded for a wit:
O! may she, yet some years, survive,
And breed her Grandchildren to drive!

For more about the servants at Erddig, I heartily recommend one of my favorite books about life on a British estate from the 18th c to the mid-20th c: The Servants' Hall: The Domestic History of a Country House by Merlin Waterson. Though now out of print, it's widely available used. For more about Erddig itself (a National Trust property), check out the National Trust blog, Treasure Hunt - glorious pictures of a glorious old house.

Above: Mrs Jane Ebrell (b. 1706) former Housemaid and 'Spider-brusher', aged 87 by John Walters of Denbigh (1721-1797) Collection: Erddig, Wrexham; image © National Trust Collections

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

Jonathan Swift's Directions to Servants, 1731

Susan reporting:

We've explored the trials and expense of servants, as well as advice for a mistress determined to keep her servants in line. Fans of the series Downton Abbey will also have their notion of what happened in the servants' hall.  But none of those view the master-servant relationship with quite the caustic wit of essayist, novelist, poet, and cleric Jonathan Swift (1667-1745). His satiric "handbook" Directions to Servants, published in 1731, was one of his last completed pieces, and reflects what must have been a life-long trial with servants. Below is an excerpt:

   "The general place of rendezvous for all servants, both in winter and summer, is the kitchen; there the grand affairs of the family ought to be consulted, whether they concern the stable, the dairy, the pantry, the laundry, the cellar, the nursery, the dining room or my lady's chamber; there, as in your own proper element, you can laugh and squall and romp in full security.
   "When any servant comes home drunk, and cannot appear, you must all join in telling your master that he is gone to bed very sick, upon which your lady will be so good-natured as to order some comfortable thing of the poor man or maid.
   "When your master and lady go abroad together to dinner, or on a visit for the evening, you need leave only one servant in the house, unless you have a blackguard boy to answer at the door and attend the children, if there be any. Who is to stay at home is to be determined by short and long cuts, and the stayer at home may be comforted by a visit from a sweetheart, without danger of being caught together. These opportunities must never be missed, because they come but sometimes, and all is safe enough while there is a servant int he house. 
   "When your master or lady comes home, and wants a servant who happens to be abroad, your answer must be that he is but just that minute stepped out, being sent for by a cousin who is dying.
   "If your master calls you by name, and you happen to answer at the fourth call, you need not hurry yourself; and if you be chided for staying, you may lawfully say you came no sooner, because you did not know what you were called for.
   "When you are chided for a fault, as you go out of the room and downstairs, mutter loud enough to be plainly heard; this will make him believe you are innocent...."

The nightmarish print, above, is by Thomas Rowlandson (c. 1807) and illustrates another passage from the Directions, offering this choice advice for footmen:
  "If you are bringing up a Joint of Meat in a dish, and it falls out of your hand, before you get into the Dining Room, with the meat on the ground, and the sauce spilled, take up the meat gently, wipe it with the lap of your coat, then put it again into the dish, and serve it up; and when your Lady misses the sauce, tell her, it is to be sent up in a plate by itself. When you carry up a dish of meat, dip your fingers in the sauce, or lick it with your tongue, to try whether it be good, and fit for your Master's Table."

One Fine Footman, c. 1813-29

Susan reporting:

Recently I visited a dandy (literally!) costume exhibition at the Philadelphia Museum of Art called The Peacock Male: Exuberance and Extremes in Masculine Dress. Despite that academic title, the clothes on display were anything but stuffy. There were male peacocks of every variety, from silk-embroidered court suits to gaudy mummer's costumes to day-glo psychedelia.

Much of the exhibition's clothing had been designed and worn with the intention of displaying wealth, rank, or personal expression. This coat, left, does all three - but not for the wearer. It's a livery coat worn by a footman or groom in the service of Austrian statesman Prince Klemens Lothar von Metternich (1773-1859). Metternich was a titled, cosmopolitan diplomat best known for his part in the negotiations of the Congress of Vienna. He would have wished his servants to be dressed in livery that not only reflected his family's rank and status, but also his own power, and all with an awareness of international fashion, too. Most likely the footman who wore this coat would have been chosen for his height and appearance as well as his footman-skills, making him the perfect human accessory to the prince's personal magnificence.

The coat's yellow wool has been fulled to give it a plush, velvet-like surface, and then almost completely covered by satin and velvet braid woven especially for the prince's livery. The design features a repeat of three scallop shells (they read more like skulls in the picture, but they ARE scallop shells), symbolizing pilgrimage, that was drawn from the Metternich coat of arms. The Metternich arms also appear on the cast brass buttons. The coat would have been worn with a matching yellow waistcoat and breeches; though this style of male dress was old-fashioned by 1815, livery often clung to older styles as a way of reinforcing its ceremonial purpose.

Now imagine being helped from your carriage by a footman dressed like this....

Above: Livery Coat for a Servant of Prince Klemens Lothar von Metternich, 1813-29. Fulled wool plain weave, satin and cut and looped velvet (lampas weave) ribbon, cast brass buttons. Made in Austria. Philadelphia Museum of Art

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.
~~~
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. . .
~~~
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

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....

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.