'A blaze of loyalty': The illuminations of Georgian London

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Britain's only remaining illuminations (in the true sense) are in Blackpool, where they are associated with trams, tableaux and tackiness.  But where did Blackpool, first lit up in 1879, get the idea for such a display?  Georgian London of course. 

The London illuminations of the 18th century are a small and almost forgotten element of the pageantry of the city.  This is a shame, because the evidence is that they were splendid.  An illumination was the mark of a celebration: some were city-wide with every public building lit up and many private houses, and some were specific to a family or business celebrating a birth or anniversary.  The point of an illumination was to make a building look spectacular.  Electricity has made such a process easier and now few major buildings are not lit up at night (albeit in a sickly sodium fashion), but without electricity how were such illuminations achieved?

The answer is with lamps and transparencies, as well as interior lighting.  Small lamps, protected by hurricane shades (and made specifically for outdoor use by glaziers) were placed all over the buildings in specific arrangements meant to highlight the buildings themselves, or to pick out patterns such as initials, names or shapes.  Transparencies were large painted sheets which would cover one face of the building, either to make it appear to be another building such as the Pantheon or to create the illusion that Britannia herself was sitting on the windowsill.  Specialist firms of painters created these enormous transparencies and the accounts of some of them are truly remarkable.  One of the largest London illuminations happened on the night of Friday, April 24th 1789 on the occasion of the celebratory procession to mark George III's 'recovery' from madness, when every wealthy household and every public building was ablaze in a display of patriotic support. 

We may safely affirm that the art and means of illuminating houses were never so compleat as at this day, from the improved form of the lamps and other circumstances, there never were in England more superb illuminations, than on the late and present occasions.

The details of these illuminations must be set in context: there was no light pollution in Georgian London, and whilst individual houses bore lamps doubling as street-lights at night the streets were dark.  To light a building for illumination would have been both extraordinary, and expensive (the newspapers estimated the April 1789 illuminations would have cost not less than 'half a million').  The following are just some of the spectacles staged that Friday night:

Such a blaze of light was never seen in the City since its foundation.  It will be the surest testimony for future historians to record how much KING GEORGE THE THIRD, was esteemed, and dwelt in the hearts of his people....The Horse Guards was illuminated with taste.  The front towards the Park was particularly fine.  The Army Office had pillars of green and white, supporting the crown and other emblems, very brilliantly illuminated....St James's-street was as luminous as ever...White's had a beautiful transparency from the Pantheon.  In the centre; the King in his coronation robes, sitting in the Coronation chair at the Abbey: the transparency was studded round with lamps, and over and on each side were stars, circles and festoons....

The descriptions of individual houses go on for a broadsheet page.  Some noble house, such as that of The Earl of Uxbridge are singled out (he had Vivant Rex et Regina spelled out in enormous blazing letters across the front of his house).  Josiah Wedgewood gets a mention for his tasteful transparencies.  The city synagogues of Leadehall Street and Bevis Marks were also illuminated in a show of support for the king.  Mr Stackpole's house is Grosvenor-place was picked out for not only being illuminated outside, but for having thousands of candles burning in candelabra and chandeliers inside, making the place seem 'ablaze with light'. 

The illuminations were not only for noblemen, public buildings or the super-rich: everyone who could afford to take part did and even some of the little illuminations are described.  These, of course, are my favourites.  Mr Angell, Mr Schneider, Mr Neale and Mr Wheeler are all singled out for their fine displays at their shops or homes, although clearly on a more modest scale to the grander buildings.  And finally, a mention revealing the creativity and individuality of 18th century London in a display that would look both modern and clever now:

Bland's music shop, also in Holbourne, had a singular curiosity; it was a transparency of God Save the King placed in the windows.

The newspaper was pleased to conclude that although the 'crouds that paraded through the street till a very late hour were incredibly large...there seemed to be more of curiosity and wonder than of riot and mischief'.

  

 

I owe this post to the lovely Simon Werrett, Associate Professor at the University of Washington who was kind enough to have a cup of tea with me recently and send me lots of things on the illuminations of Georgian London.  He is the expert on fireworks in history.  This is his book. 

The image is from the collection of the British Museum.

The Daredevil Aeronaut and Miss Letitia Ann Sage

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In 1766 Henry Cavendish's new work on hydrogen led to scientists and madcaps all over Europe experimenting with balloon flight.  The concept of little hydrogen balloons for amusement or communication purposes wasn't new, but it took a series of adventurers to take man into their air.  The most famous of all of these are the Montgolfier brothers with their balloon which ascended in Paris in 1783 and flew over five miles (they weren't the pilots) and in the autumn of the following year, the ballooning bug would hit London.

Vincenzo, or Vincent Lunardi came to England as a diplomat, but was more interested in flying.  He was 22 and dashing and determined to gain Royal permission to 'demonstrate' a manned balloon flight with the help of his 'partner' George Biggin, which was to take place on the Artillery Ground near Moorfields in September 1784.  It is recorded that more than 200,000 people turned out to see this demonstration - an almost impossible number, but safe to say the open ground was packed, and included Royals, a healthy chunk of the nobility and apparently a quarter of London.  Lunardi, a great showman made everything very dramatic, and also packed his cat and dog into the basket with him for company before releasing the tethers, whereupon the balloon rose 'with slow and gradual majesty into the air' to the disappointment of 'the splenetic' suggesting Lunardi had his detractors.  'He appeared composed, and as the balloon went up, bowed most gracefully, and calmly waved his flag to the admiring and wonder-struck spectators'.  It is hard to imagine the impact this flight had upon those who saw it.  It was regarded as a 'novelty' to the 'untutored mind' and to 'the man of letters it was an occasion of the most rational delight - thus to see a new element subdued by the talents of man'.  It wasn't all glamour though: the cat got sick and was let out when the balloon touched down briefly in North London before Lunardi finally landed near Ware, to a very surprised reception.

Lunardi bonnets, fans and garters became all the rage and the charming Italian had quite a fan club.  One of his admirers was Letitia Ann Sage, and it appears the feeling was mutual for he offered her a trip in his next balloon attempt, in June 1785.  This one left from St George's Fields on the south side of the Thames, in a balloon painted with an enormous Union Jack.  George Biggin and a Colonel Hastings were supposed to joint the flight also, but the balloon was overweight and wouldn't take off.  Lunardi and Hastings gallantly stepped down and the balloon went up, leaving Miss Sage and Biggin to a fine lunch as they sailed North-West.  The balloon dropped into a field near Harrow, where Miss Sage and the Colonel were abused 'to a savage degree' by the farmer whose crops they crushed and they had to be rescued by a gang of boys from Harrow school who had come to see the balloon.

The balloon went on show in the Pantheon in Oxford Street, and aerostatic science became the wonder of the age. It is unlikely there will ever be another moment of human invention that will produce the sense of astonishment these first balloon ascents engendered in the watching population.  Even to those who would never grasp the new and constant scientific discoveries of the age these balloons were visible, exciting proof that the world was changing and almost anything was possible.

 

Alimony and Acting: The Life of Nosegay Fan

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Frances Barton was born around 1737 (although some say as early as 1731) near Vinegar Yard off the Strand, where her father had a shoe stall.  Her mother died when she was young and her father did not remarry.  Fanny had the good luck to be a very beautiful little girl, and her father and brother (who ran a pub in Stanway Yard later in life) sent her out to sell nosegays.  Her cheeky spirit and quick ear soon meant she was singing to the customers and reciting bits and pieces she had heard on the streets of Covent Garden.  The actors and actresses thought she was hilarious and used to put her up on a table and get her to sing or act for them and give her a few pence in return.  A shrewd girl, she began to learn passages from the famous poets and bring them forth to great amusement, and no doubt a few more pennies.  

Fanny then took work with a French milliner in Cockspur Street.  She must have had an ability with languages, as she apparently emerged from this employment speaking fluent French.  Her stay in Cockspur Street also introduced her to fashion, something that would serve her well for the rest of her life.  For a while, she had a friend whose boyfriend was an actor, and spent a lot of time in the theatres.  

This period of Fanny's life is hazy.  Some scholars have her down as a child prostitute at this stage.  I can see why they would draw this conclusion (especially with the later associations with Reynolds), but in the early 1750s Fanny was aged somewhere between 13 and 20.  The age of consent at the time was 12.  She seems to have continued in employment from the milliner to service as a kitchen maid in the North household, earning money on the side as a 'ballad-singer'.  Perhaps she also took money for sex.  Who knows?  I am in no way condoning teenage prostitution but as far as I can see Frances Barton was acting under no authority but her own and the tendency to brand attractive, assertive women as whores isn't exactly a concept limited to the Georgian period.  I would argue for the opposite being true.  I would argue that Fanny seems to have abandoned street and theatre working as she entered sexual maturity, for respectable work in a shop and household, in order to avoid becoming a prostitute.  There may have been an incident that told her it was time to find more secure work, or maybe she was smart enough to work it out for herself. 

By 1755 though, Fanny is on the stage.  She is a comic actress, a new kind of entertainer.  She dons outlandish outfits, breeches and sometimes fantasy costume.  Fanny is a hit.  Suddenly earning the heady sum of 30 shillings a week, she invested in education; learning languages, literature and music.  Then she married James Abington, trumpeter and music master.  Big mistake.  They went to Ireland.  Dublin only had two theatres at the time, and it appears Mrs Abington was queen of both of them.  Mr Abington got jealous, and finally they had to part, but not before Fanny had agreed to give him a pension for the rest of his life, and based upon her success.  Oh yes.

Fanny went on to become the mistress of Mr Francis Needham, an MP who furthered her hard-won education and happily showed her off in society.  In 1765, they came to England, and Needham died at Bath, with his mistress in attendance.  She quickly returned to the stage, where she was even more popular than before.

Once again, there are assertions that Fanny was living as a courtesan.  There are no clear attachments extant, but she was soon acting as a trendsetter and arbiter of taste, as a single woman.  By 1764, she was posing for Joshua Reynolds.  He depicted her as an actress, not a whore, unlike Kitty Fisher and Nelly O'Brien.  In 1781, she had a costume allowance from the Covent Garden Theatre for five hundred pounds a year.  If Mrs Abington was also selling sex, it was because she wanted to, not because she needed the money.  

Fanny took a house in Pall Mall and set about surrounding herself with the thinkers and wits of the day.  Horace Walpole, notorious bitch, thought she was great as did Samuel Johnson.  She had an ongoing feud/mutual admiration society with David Garrick, who quite rightly regarded her as both a prima donna and businesswoman (he signed his letters to her 'Yours very truly, when you are not unruly').  A mark of her popularity was the sell-out of her benefits.  Benefits were the night when one of the actors got most of the takings at the door, and her nights were always 'full to the rails'.  James Boswell once upbraided Johnson for braving the crush to attend Fanny's benefit, and Johnson turned on him with, 'When the public cares one thousandth part for you that it does for her, I shall go to your benefit too.'

Frances Abington continued to live in a fashionable and very popular way long after she had given up the stage.  She died in her home in Pall Mall in 1815, an old and very successful lady.  Brava!

Hester Bateman: Illiterate Widow to Lady Tradesman

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Ask anyone vaguely interested in the metalwork of the 18thC for the name of a female silversmith and nine times out of ten they'll reply, 'Hester Bateman', and not without good reason.  Hester is rightly famous for being an illiterate widow who took her late husband's business by the scruff of its neck and forged a dynasty of successful silversmiths; she is wrongly famous for being an artisan who actually manufactured any of the pieces bearing her name.  Many collectors and historians delight in the concept of an uneducated widow hammering out some of the prettiest pieces of Georgian silver, but as much as the history-lover in me wants to believe, the evidence simply isn't there.

Hester Needham was born in late 1708.  On the 20th of May, 1732 she married chain-maker and wire-drawer John Bateman at St Botolph's in the City.  His trade was not a particularly illustrious one, but it was steady work in the 18thC.  They had five children: two girls followed by three boys.  In 1760, John Bateman died and left everything to his 'loving wife'. In the Spring of the following year, Hester attended Goldsmiths' Hall to sign the appropriate registers to take over her husband's business and register her own mark, a pretty HB in script.  She signs with a small, thick H.B., plainly pressing too hard on the quill.  Her early output consisted mainly of domestic spoons and forks, of no particular merit, but marking a significant departure from her husband's chains and wire.

Many who argue Hester was physically responsible for the things that bear her name cite the fact that her husband left her his bench tools.  True, but they were bench tools for chain-making and finishing wire, not dies for spoons and forks and so this leaves two options: either Hester's silversmith sons Peter and Jonathan were making the new goods with new equipment purchased specifically for said, or they were buying them in from elsewhere and having them marked as Hester's.  Either way, she wasn't sitting at the bench.  

Soon, Hester graduates onto large items such as tea and coffee pots, known as holloware, indicating her client base was growing and wanting more from her.  Her production of these pieces coincided with the new manufactories producing early silver-plated wares in Sheffield and Birmingham, and there is definitely a large element of machine-production in her later work.  This is not necessarily a criticism, as the bulk of the work was still done by hand, but many of the borders and decorative motifs on her pieces are the work of machines, not men.  It is an interesting parallel that Hester's husband John would have used heavy machinery in producing his wires, so she was already familiar with the concept of machine manufacture.

There is a pretty, feminine quality to much of Bateman's work.  The proportions are good, and she was working within the styles of the day.  Bang on trend, as those fashion people say.  Coupled with the cheap and cheerful tea-ware were important commissions for larger and more valuable pieces.  I have no doubt that she was a persuasive saleswoman and a dominant character.  My feeling, after almost a decade of contact with her work, is that her son Peter was probably instrumental in the design and manufacture of all her output.  Peter appears to have been the driving force behind the business and upon Hester's retirement in 1790, he registered a mark with his brother Jonathan.  

The Peter and Jonathan Bateman hallmark is one of the rarest and most sought after, for the simple fact that it lasted only four months in 1791.  Jonathan was already sick with what is now believed to be leukaemia and he died only weeks into their partnership.  If Jonathan did indeed die of leukaemia, it is likely he would have been weakened for a long time, making it impossible to sit at a bench and work resistant metals, so his role in the business was probably more to do with paperwork or marketing.  Peter took on Jonathan's widow, Ann as his partner and the business continued successfully, again pointing to Peter's ability.

Hester died in their house at 107 Bunhill Row in 1794, her lasting fame assured. Quite how she managed to go from chain-maker's wife to the producer of solid gold teapots, and even judaica for an important synagogue is a mystery.  It is highly unlikely that the great and the good were making their way to Clerkenwell to commission items from the widow of a low-grade workman, so her links within the retailing world must have been strong.  In time, more details of Hester Bateman's life will emerge, and her trading links will become apparent.  Until then, her work and life must be assessed with an eye to the practical rather than the whimsical, an attitude Hester herself would no doubt have taken.

Princess Serafina: London's First Recorded Drag Artist

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This post is the first in a short series on the history of homosexuality and transgender people in 18thC London to celebrate LGBT History month.  I like to think the blog constantly celebrates every individual who contributed to making London one of the greatest European cities of the 1700s but this is my small addition to an excellent cause.  

On the 5th of July 1732 Thomas Gordon was indicted for robbing one John Cooper, of Number 11, Eagle-court, the Strand.  The two men had taken a walk together in Chelsea Fields 'to a secret place', and Gordon had threatened Cooper with a knife unless he gave up all his clothing and his jewellery and changed it with Gordon's.  At first, it appeared to be one of those robberies that happens late at night on Clapham Common, between two previously unacquainted gentlemen.  The vast majority of such crimes are never even reported let alone prosecuted even in these 'enlightened' times, so the fact that John Cooper brought this to trial in 1732 is quite astonishing.  The trial that followed was to be even more incredible.

Gordon had left Cooper with the words that if he 'charged him with Robbery, by and by', he would in turn tell the authorities Cooper had given him the 'Cloathes' as payment for 'Buggery'.  (Cooper's clothes are closely detailed as fine masculine apparel, and this fact was to become central later on.)  Bizarrely, the two men walked back to Piccadilly together, where Cooper shouted for two passing men (it must have been about dawn by this point) to restrain Gordon.  Bundling him into yet another all-night pub, they had a shouting match in which Cooper accused Gordon of theft, and Gordon made good on his threat to announce to his detainers that he had been paid for services rendered.  

Modern readings of this minutely-documented trial are based around Cooper's outrageous alter-ego, but there are valuable insights to be gleaned from the reception the news of male prostitution garnered in the Piccadilly pub: the two men who had detained Gordon were unfazed, but told Cooper that if he were proved a liar and if it was simply a sex transaction gone wrong, then he would be liable for their time.  Cooper agreed to reimburse them if he was not successful in prosecuting Gordon.  From the quality of his clothing, and his confident demeanor, Cooper was neither poor nor ignorant, and was certainly not fazed by the threat of being outed, even if he was aware that his temporary employees were not quite on his side, as they would later trip him when Gordon escaped.

The case came to trial, and both stuck to their stories.  Such tales were not uncommon in the 18thC, but it was a rare for them to have their day in court, and those present watched avidly as an odd tale unfolded.  The keeper of the Piccadilly alehouse testified that the men arrived in his establishment and argued about the loose change that had been in the pockets of the clothes they had exchanged, and drunk at least four pints of beer together.  Edward Pocock, who had stumbled upon the pair at their 'secret place' in Chelsea Fields testified that the two were putting on their clothing when he chanced across them, and behaved very 'loving'.   He also begged some forgiveness for his accuracy as he had been drinking and was so drunk upon returning home that he fell asleep in his clothes.  Well, it had been a public holiday after all.

Tom Gordon was widely acknowledged by the witnesses as a bad lot, and this is probably why he ended up at trial.  John Cooper was a fixer for the richer members of Gay London when they desired an assignation: when they fancied a drummer boy, or a market labourer, Cooper was the man to 'smooth the way', with fine words and the soft clink of a guinea or two.  I think there is little doubt he was homosexual, although his gender-specific behaviour is more interesting in context.  Jane Jones the laundress came to the witness box, and casually referred to Cooper, the prosecutor, as 'Princess Serafina'.  The adoption of female names was not unusual in the gay subculture of Georgian London.  Jones agreed with the general opinion of Gordon as a bad lot, but was sad that a simple case of 'Sodomity, what ever that is' had to come to court.  

On a different note, Mary Holder was the proprietress of the alehouse where the two men drank together, and Mary Poplet was the landlady of the Two Sugar-loaves in Drury Lane where they finally ended up after their quarrel.  Poplet, who was a neighbour to John Cooper and his official employers, the Tulls, gave this account of his character:

I have known her Highness a pretty while, she us'd to come to my House from Mr. Tull, to enquire after some Gentlemen of no very good Character; I have seen her several times in Women's Cloaths, she commonly us'd to wear a white Gown, and a scarlet Cloak, with her Hair frizzled and curl'd all round her Forehead; and then she would so flutter her Fan, and make such fine Curt'sies, that you would not have known her from a Woman: She takes great Delight in Balls and Masquerades, and always chuses to appear at them in a Female Dress, that she may have the Satisfation of dancing with fine Gentlemen. Her Highness lives with Mr. Tull in Eagle-Court in the Strand, and calls him her Master, because she was Nurse to him and his Wife when they were both in a Salivation (salivation was a mercurial cure for syphilis); but the Princess is rather Mr. Tull's Friend, than his domestick Servant. I never heard that she had any other Name than the Princess Seraphina.

Three more women of the neighbourhood were to give evidence, and all knew John Cooper as Princess Seraphina, and all knew he had fallen out with Tom Gordon.  It seems little more than an argument about sex that got out of hand, so to speak.  Tom Gordon was known to turn a trick or two, and the Princess was known to enjoy the company of a gentleman, or two.  The case is quite unique in terms of the 18thC, and one can only imagine the sniggering upon the sidelines.  There are however, some facts that stand out in this case, and are worth serious consideration in terms of 18thC attitudes towards transgender individuals.  The female witnesses uniformly refer to the Princess as 'she'.  John Cooper earned his official living as a nurse, an exclusively (as far as history is concerned) female occupation.  He regularly wore women's clothes, and was clearly tolerated, if not wholly accepted within his home community.  He was certainly sufficiently at ease in female clothing to sally forth in such to balls and social events, where he hoped to meet the 'fine gentlemen'.

 

Tom Gordon was acquitted, but I think this is more to do with the fact that it was almost certainly a sexual engagement that had ended in a quarrel.  That John Cooper felt secure enough within his own environment, and the justice system, to pursue a conviction is telling.  He may well have felt forced into a corner, but I think it unlikely he would have taken the case to court over a suit of clothes if he had felt his life were at risk.  After the trial, John Cooper drops out of sight, something for which I think he was probably very grateful.  Apparently he was fond of the masked balls in Vauxhall Gardens, where it was the rage for the men to dress as women and vice versa, and that's where I like to think of him, with her curls and her fan, taking a break from his day job of nursing London's sick.

 

p.s. I would advise anyone interested in the primary texts of 18thC LGBT history and its scholarship to visit http://rictornorton.co.uk/ as a valuable and free online resource for the study of history and sexuality.  More details on the things going on this month to raise awareness can be found at www.lgbthistorymonth.org 

The Warwick Vase: The History Behind the Norman Brookes Challenge Cup.

Today Roger Federer, the most successful male tennis player ever to grace an international court raised a solid silver trophy.  It's big, handsome and just a little bit ugly; it's the Warwick Vase.

Most sporting trophies started life as the nearest big lump of cheapish and suitably gaudy silver that came to hand, but the Warwick (as it's known) is a little different.  The 18th century saw the heyday of the Grand Tour, and the English enthusiasm for the antiquities of the ancient world.  Rome was a particular focus for the young men who travelled to the Continent and whilst there they met up with various people who both showed them the sights and acted as agents for procuring a little, or a large piece of history to take home with them.

 

One of these fixers was Gavin Hamilton.  Ostensibly an artist, he was a skilled negotiator and succeeded in getting some astonishing antiquities out of Italy during the late 18thC.  The marble Warwick Vase was found in marshy ground on the site of Hadrian's Villa at Tivoli in 1771, and Hamilton rapidly secured permission to excavate it.  It was in a poor state of repair and mostly smashed, but it has the diameter of a modern paddling-pool and was exceptionally rare.  Hamilton got it out of the ground and with the help of the famed artist Piranesi and a large block of Carrera marble, reconstructed its original appearance (see the image in the gallery).

 

Sir William Hamilton, husband of Emma, was the buyer of the pieces and he had it repaired, with the replacement segments hewn from a block of Carrera marble.  William Hamilton was not only a collector, he was a speculator and he wanted to sell the vase when it was restored.  He hoped to raise some interest from the recently established British Museum but they could muster neither funds nor enthusiasm for the gigantic piece.  In the meantime, Piranesi published his famous book of Classical designs in 1778, securing the reputation of the vase.  Still no buyer was found, and Sir William deemed it too large to sit in any house he could ever afford.  He sent it to his nephew, George Greville, Earl of Warwick.  George was cash-rich, but wasn't going to set the intellectual or artistic world alight.  He initially placed the vase on the lawn in front of Warwick Castle, where the fashionable set visited to see it.  He then had a faux-Gothic greenhouse built to house it, and described it as 'Grecian'.  

 

The Warwick Vase would remain at the castle for the next two centuries.  It came to symbolize the Grand Tour, early civilization and sophistication, and sheer grandeur.  The symmetry of the vase, its proportions and detail appealed to the Regency taste, and the aristocracy clamoured for George to allow them to copy it.  He finally agreed and the Royal Goldsmiths and Jewellers Rundell and Bridge were commissioned to create solid silver versions in varying sizes, to be used as ice buckets and wine coolers.  Paul Storr, the finest ever English silversmith created the most exceptional versions in the second decade of the 19thC.  The Vase was made in cast-iron, stone and also marble, for homes and also for gardens.  There are cast-concrete versions available in posh garden centres instead of gnomes.

 

During the Victorian period, many different versions, sizes and proportions of the Vase were produced, but only the most faithful and accurate are highly valued today.  In 1978, after a disastrous century for the Warwicks, the castle was sold to The Tussauds Group and many of its works of art were sold off.  The Vase was not highly valued enough for a London museum to raise the funds to buy it.  This was probably a grave mistake.  They allowed it to be sold to the Met in New York, but then the government refused to grant it an export license.  It was resold and it is now housed in the Burrell Collection in Glasgow.  

 

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Best Cutt Bone and Seconds of Same: The Role of Whaling in the Fashion Industry of Georgian London

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Whaling: however you look at it, modern sensibilities tell us it's a bad thing (unless you are from Japan, where if it has fins and isn't a plane it's going on the menu).  In the 18thC, smaller populations and lack of technology meant it was only possible to hunt something to extinction within a restricted habitat, like the British wolf and the Dodo.  The vastness of the oceans equated to an endless bounty in the 18thC consciousness, as well as an otherness that could not be conquered.  Whaling was regarded as a perilous occupation, and whatever we now think about the industry, it takes a hard heart not to admire the courage of the men who pursued it, often at the cost of their own lives.

The whale oil industry is most often cited at the reason for hunting whales in the 18thC. Whale oil was highly prized for lamp oil, and beauty products, as well as perfumes and industrial uses (it is an excellent fine oil for lubricating the metal parts of small machinery). However, it is a little known fact that for most of the century, the trade in whalebone provided more than half of the whaling industry's income. Whalebone was the preferred material used for stiffening corsets, stays and trusses. This post looks at just how highly Georgian London valued a good corset.

The whale most commonly landed during the 18thC was the Greenland Right whale; up to 80 feet in length and frequently weighing over 100 tons, it was a formidable opponent.  Whales were still learning about the dangers of man at this proud moment in our history and so did not flee upon sight of a ship.  When the whaling ship sighted its prey, six small boats of around six men each were launched and rowed out to the whale where it cruised on the surface.  It was harpooned by the lead boat, with the other boats rapidly attaching their lines once it was determined the harpoon was secure.  Should the whale choose to dive, and was of sufficient size, strength or terror, it would take the lead boat with it.  For some reason, this happened less often than one might imagine, but the whales did drag the boats along the surface.  As it did so, the men launched further harpoons, or lanced the whale to increase blood loss.  In most cases it appears the whale simply gave up, and lay in a confused and frightened state until it bled out, kept afloat by its blubber and lungs.  The men would then wait with the carcass until the whaling ship caught up with them.  They might be miles away, freeing cold, wet and possibly in the dark if the chase had gone on for some hours.  When reunited, the whale's body was bound to the side of the ship and the stripping began.  Whale blubber was removed in large pieces and packed in ice in the ship's hull.  The most skilled workers were sent up to the head to remove the baleen.

The jaw of the Right Whale is up to 18ft long, about 12ft high and 8ft wide.  It is lined with baleen plates, the ones at the front being the same height as the jaw (the largest recorded up to 15ft) and more than a foot wide, but only half an inch thick.  The interior of the baleen is lined with coarse hairs to filter the plankton the whale feeds upon.  These plates were removed by men with specialist tools.  Any damage such as nicks, cuts or cracks seriously affected the value.  The baleen to oil ratio of any catch was reckoned at about 1:20, but with over half the income coming from the baleen, it was the prized asset.  It was carefully packed for the journey home.  

The whaling ships pitched up as close to the City of London as they could, where the main warehouses, dealers and shops were between Three Cranes Wharf and Throgmorton Street.  The dealers descended upon the ships and examined the catch, then the whalebone was removed for processing.  Whalebone processors are often dismissed as low-skill workers.  This seems unlikely, given the value of their raw material, and that there are men whose occupations were solely to make the extremely sharp stripping, cutting and finishing tools for the whalebone industry.  The bones were cut to standard lengths, and could be further finished by the stay-makers by trimming, steaming and shaping.  The Throgmorton Street area was known for its 'Bone-Shops' where bundles of expensive whalebone could be purchased.

Stay-making was a complex job, and required both men and women to run a successful shop.  A new set of stays was an investment, and a woman would only make that investment about once every three years, although maintenance was ongoing.  She would attend the stay-maker's shop, where she would be measured, in her shift, by the stay-maker.  She could request the presence of a lady, or that the lady did the measuring, if she wanted to.  She would then sit and discuss the shape she wanted with the stay-maker.  She might show him a print, or a portrait, or describe an actress or new fashion.  The basic pattern for stays is much the same throughout the first three quarters of the 18thC, until they become shorter towards 1800.  The stays of most ordinary women were sewn by seamstresses, who fashioned them from brown linen and stitched them with packthread (and extremely strong thread, about the gauge of heavy nylon thread for a sewing machine).  When the basic shape was constructed to the required measurements, the stay-maker would drawn out the lines for the channels in which the whalebone would sit.  He would then steam and set the whalebone into the required shapes, accommodating the flare of the hips or achieving the rounded waist look, and the seamstress would sew the channels.  To give an idea of the strength of the garment, and the whalebone, it was deemed impossible for a woman to 'stuff a corset', as female hands are simply not strong enough to force the bone into the channels.  The customer returned and the fit was tried.  If it was suitable, she would choose materials both to cover and to line the stays.  Less well-off women did not have them covered, only lined.  The lining was usually light linen, often doubled on day-wear and tacked in, so that it could be replaced at regular intervals.  Stays would lace at either the front or the back; no good having a back-lacer if you were a confirmed spinster with no one to help you in or out of it.

Breaking in a new pair of stays was a big job, and another of the reasons women preferred to keep the same pair and have them re-lined regularly.  New orders were relished by the stay-makers, but maintenance provided a large part of their income.  They made alterations for weight gain/loss and pregnancy, as well as for growing girls and changes in fashion.  Extant diaries belonging to stay-makers show their high regard and close confidences with their female customers, who clearly trusted their integrity and talent.  They discussed the pretty materials that would make the best show and match an existing wardrobe.  In their new whalebone stays, their whale ambergris-fixed scent, and their whale spermaceti lip-gloss the ladies of Georgian London must have looked a 100 guineas.

Outside fetishism, there is no modern equivalent to an 18thC stay-maker and this is a shame.  A greater shame is that whaling did not die out with corsetry.

For the bones of this article, I am greatly indebted to the pioneering scholarship of Lynn Sorge-English.

The Importance of Foundation Garments: A peep up the skirts of Georgian London

 

Any girl worth her salt knows underwear is of vital importance.  I am not particularly interested in fashion, as anyone who has ever met me will be able to testify, but I am interested in daily life and the observations of costume in this post are based on my knowledge of Georgian London as ordinary working wear has not survived in any great quantity.  Beautiful silks and tabbies in patterns too complicated to be easily changed with fashion were packed away and passed down to others and have now made it into museums, but ordinary wools, linens and cottons were cut down for smaller sisters, babies and eventually, rags.  If you know more about 18thC fashions than me, please do comment and correct any inaccuracies. 

The female inhabitants of London in the 18thC had the top half sorted as far as underwear went.  They wore a calf-length shift of fine linen which could be of elbow or 3/4 length on the arms.  Over that went stays.  Stays were usually made of calico and 'boned' to stop them buckling when one bent down.  Some of them are only boned on either side of the laces to prevent tearing (more usually for younger girls, or pregnant women) and serious tight-lacing was more common during the Victorian period, and stays can be tightened or loosened within reason.  Constant lacing throughout childhood, even of a modest sort created an enviably defined waist and inch measurements for young women were often in the low twenties.  I doubt working women such as shopkeepers and housemaids laced themselves up very tightly, but firmly enough to give support (and they also do marvels for the posture and general shape).  Stays are remarkably form-fitting and surprisingly comfortable, without the lumps and bumps created by bras.  If you were reasonably well off, a petticoat would have gone over the shift and the stays.  If you worked inside, it could be pretty; if you worked outside, it would be shorter and plainer, and so out of the worst of the filth, but washable if it did get soiled.  Over the top went the gown.  It might be cut away to show the petticoat, or it might not.  Or you might wear a masculine style jacket and a skirt.  For a long time, women tied a fat cloth sausage, known as a bum-roll just beneath their waists and put the skirt on over it.  This made the skirt full without thick layers beneath, and hid the shape of the hips.  A maid or a food retailer would then have an apron tied about her waist with the front flap pinned firmly over her chest.  Various accessories such as shawls or a gauzy fichu could be used to fill in a bold neckline during the day, or in modest company.  

The majority of stockings in London were hand-knitted until the end of the Georgian period.  The machines were large, complicated and breakable and in the end only marginally more productive than a good hand-knitter sitting at home, who could produce about one pair a day in wool or silk.  Stockings were tied up with garters, usually a silk ribbon or a wool band with a little give in it so that it could be tied tight.  I have tried tying stocking both above and below the knee.  Above the knee is prettier, but gravity is a nuisance and they usually sag.  I'm fairly sure most women would have worn their stockings gartered below the knee, especially those who walked a lot.  Men who wore their own hair long instead of a wig (notable exceptions being Frenchmen, who wore their hair cropped fairly short and almost always went without a wig) would use garters, a token from a wife or girlfriend if they had one, to tie their hair back.  

We have reached the one garment for which there is an alarming lack of 18thC evidence: knickers. Charles Ist wore pants, both long and short, depending upon the weather, as did Samuel Pepys.  Apparently, things were different for the girls.  Titillating pictures of the 18thC reveal the coquette raising her skirts to reveal nothing beneath.  Many costume historians are certain women wore nothing beneath their shifts.  Well, I don't agree.  Little girls wore knickers, boys and men wore knickers; why on earth wouldn't women wear knickers?  It's not as if they were worried about VPL.  Agreed, it's a fine and dandy principle, rendering every lady an available little minx, but commando is not a practical daily option.  If you are anything like me and female, there are also a few questions you might have, which I hope I have answered here.  

Pretty, long knickers exist from about 1800 onwards, usually without a gusset, although lots of material so that when you were wearing them, they didn't actually look 'crotchless'.  It also meant you didn't have to fumble about around your waist for the drawstring ribbons in a dim bog-house.  I think these are the most practical possibility for women during the 18th century, although I am also fairly sure that young couples of modest means probably had 'linen' that they both wore, particularly during the cold weather.  All linens were boiled with a soap mixture to remove stains and keep them nice and white.  All but the poorest people could afford a large enough pan and some soap to boil their linens, which is as effective a way of cleaning them as any other.  I take exception to the accusations of poor hygiene in Georgian London and the assumption that we only achieved any notion of personal hygiene with the invention of anti-perspirant and showers.  More on laundry, bath-houses and Georgian deodorant next week.

 

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'Crowly, who is now grown a great lion and very tame': The Tower Menagerie

It has long been traditional for foreign dignitaries to make gifts of the exotic creatures of their kingdoms to the countries they visit.  In this way Britain acquired a polar bear from Norway in 1252.  He was at first allowed to roam about the Tower of London, but when he became huge his keeper was given a muzzle and a chain and they were sent to spend their days outside, fishing and bathing in the Thames.  Many of these animals were a burden to the recipient, and often quietly hived off to parklands where they lived out shortened lives.  However, by the time England had begun to squabble over a fair proportion of the globe under Elizabeth Ist, the animals were arriving thick and fast.  Ever the public relations guru, Elizabeth improved the menagerie and had it opened to the populace on high days and holidays.  

In 1603, James Ist overhauled the menagerie again, providing much larger cages for the animals, running water 'for the Lyons to drinke and wasche themselves in,' and a viewing gallery so that visitors could look down upon them in safety.  Lions were the obvious choice as a gift for England, being as fond of them as an emblem as we are. During the Georgian period the Tower contained up to eleven lions at any time, although sadly the cubs tended not to survive the shedding of their milk teeth for some reason.  As lions of similar origin (Bengal and Cape seem to be the two clearest labels) were housed together, the females were regularly pregnant, and therefore their temperaments were naturally changeable.  The male lions were regarded as the tamer of the two and Samuel Pepys records going to the Tower on the 11th of January 1660 to see 'Crowly, who is now grown a very great lion and very tame'.  When young, all the lions were allowed out to play in the Tower grounds, much to the amusement of the visitors, who patted and played with them.  The Duke of Sussex was particularly fond of a brother and sister who had been fostered by a goat, and he visited often to see them.  In 1729 the cost of 'seeing the lions' was threepence, a figure that rose to ninepence by the end of the century.  Dead cats and dogs were used to supplement the feed of the big cats and free entry could be had for anyone bringing one of either.  In 1741, the guide to the Tower included an introduction to the lion Marco, his wife, Phillis and their son Nero.  The lions roared at dawn, and before their feed arrived, which consisted of eight to nine pounds of raw beef daily, excluding any bones and any dogs or cats.  Given the acoustics of the Tower, this must have been quite a racket, and audible for some distance.  On Sunday, the Tower was closed to visitors, and the keepers noted that the lions would often roar all day until someone came and paid them some attention.  

Other big cats kept in the menagerie included tigers (Dicka was recorded as a cub in 1741), leopards (a single Willa in the same guide), 'hunting-leopards' as cheetahs were known, lynx and ocelot.  Visitors commonly agreed that the ocelot was the prettiest cat, but that the cheetah the most affectionate.  The cheetahs were led about the grounds on leashes in pairs for exercise and as a spectacle.  There appears to have been a great deal of respect for the natures of the animals, and 'responds to kindness' is regularly noted.  Animals that did not show any such response included the famous grizzly bear, Old Martin, who was an old man in 1823, but still regarded his keepers as 'perfect strangers' and would no doubt prove dangerous should he be allowed out.  Allegedly, Martin died in 1838, aged well over a hundred years old, but I imagine this was Martin mark two or three.  Other dangers included the hyena and the jackals.  I'd imagine they were pretty ripe in summer as well.  The disconsolate solitary mongoose was made happy by the addition of a friend, and the two slept together, interlacing 'their limbs and tails in a singular fashion' so that they can each see over the other's back, 'and like that fall comfortably asleep'.

The area I would happily avoid would be the monkey enclosure, or 'The School of Monkeys' as it was known in the 18thC, which lay in an outer yard near the Lion Tower.  Chimps occasionally cannibalize the young of their most vulnerable mothers for fun, baboons are vicious and the smaller the monkey, the more it looks at you as if it wants to kill you as soon as you turn your back.  A marmoset in a drummer jacket would not have been my pet of choice; I'd have spent all my time hiding from it.  The visitors to the Tower didn't always like the monkeys either, particularly the baboon, who 'becomes disgusting in habits as he advances in age.' In 1753, the guidebook issued a warning about one of the baboons had become expert in throwing missiles and would 'heave anything that happens to be within his reach with such Force as to split Stools, Bowls and other Wooden Utensils in a Hundred Pieces'.  Not only were the baboons disgusting in their habits, they 'were gay, playful and docile; but as he grows older he becomes intractable, malicious and ferocious'.  As far as I can discern, there were no apes in the Tower Menagerie.  The monkeys were removed in 1810 for 'one of them having torn a boy's leg in a dangerous manner'.

There was usually an elephant in the menagerie, and it was almost always an Indian one.  The English understanding of the temperament and requirements of the elephant seems to be very limited from the documents I have seen.  They were largely judged to be inferior to a dog or a horse in understanding, yet they were observed to play by spraying things with water from their trunks, and Mr Cops, one of the better, and later keepers at the Tower was convinced of their 'wisdom'.  Quite how they found out that elephants are 'fond of wine, spirits and other intoxicating articles' is probably best consigned to the past, but the elephant rations contained a gallon of wine daily until the closure of the menagerie.

The bird house must have been unspeakably noisy, with macaws, cockatoos, eagles, owls and all manner of ornamental and song birds and sadly, some seabirds, who must have suffered due to their large size and the confinement.  It was noted that few developed their full plumage in captivity.  

Kangaroos and emus wandered about in the grounds, sometimes confined and sometimes not.  The Royal Park at Windsor had quite a stock of freely roaming kangaroos, and they were breeding successfully at the Tower sometime before 1820.  An aside in an account of the Tower Menagerie of this period notes that there were various parklands around England where kangaroos were present in some quantity, so they were not quite as much of a novelty as I would have imagined.  

By far my favourite account of an animal in the Tower is from the 1820s, when a zebra was recorded in the menagerie.  Zebra are stubborn, and remain wild under all but the most confined circumstances (such as being bred in circuses), and the Tower zebra had retained her character, suffering the indignities of her confined state with a tolerably good nature, provided she got her reward:

The subject of the present article, which has now been about two years in the Menagerie, will suffer a boy to ride her aboiut the yard, and is frequently allowed to run loose through the Tower, with a man by her side, whom she does not attempt to quit except to run to the Canteen, where she is occasionally indulged with a draught of ale, of which she is particularly fond.  

The Menagerie was much improved by Mr Cops, and during his tenure, it became clear that it was no longer acceptable to house animals in such conditions as the Tower afforded.  The menagerie, housed 280 animals by 1832, mainly in the Lion and Tower was finally closed in 1835, when the animals left to form the basis of the collection for London Zoo.

 

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Patches, Beauty Spots and What They Mean-

After yesterday's post I thought we'd have some light entertainment.  From around 1760 onwards, patches or beauty spots became fashionable wear for both ladies and gentlemen (they'd never really gone out of fashion for women after 1600).  Personally, I think believe very few men would have worn them, and then only the ones seriously interested in fashionable dress.  The idea that they were used to cover massive blemishes is perpetuated mainly by Hogarth's sense of humour, but no doubt people pushed the boundaries a bit.  

Patches were made from fine black velvet, although sometimes the very poor used mouse-skin.  They bought them ready made as heart-shapes, ovals, crescent moons, stars and diamonds.  They were a perfect piecework industry for children and older women confined to the home and were sold alongside fans and hair ornaments in the London shops.  To stick them on, a mixture of glycerin and other ingredients, including extract of sturgeon swim-bladder was used (exactly the same as court-plaister).

Patch boxes were common gifts between girls and also as little love tokens.  They were made with lots of different places and sentiments on top, and were a cheap, pretty gift.  The basic box shape worked for either patches, or snuff, but snuff boxes have different themes (such as racing), and no mirror in the top.  

A definite 'patch language' is unlikely because you would wear one wherever you had a smallpox mark, or a spot and so on.  At the huge parties I'm sure people did conform to some code, but fashions probably came and went so rapidly it was impossible to keep up.  As far as one does exist, here it is:

the middle of the forehead - dignified
the middle of the cheek - bold
heart shape to the right cheek - married
heart shape to the left cheek - engaged or committed to a lover
touching edge of lower lip - discreet
on nasolabial fold - playful
near corner of the eye - on the look out for a new 'friend'
beside the mouth - will kiss but go no further

And so on....

 

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