To the Curious in Vegetables: A Brief History of the Pineapple in London

I like pineapple; it feels as if it's doing you good.  Pineapple is a helpful fruit.  It's also one of those imports which lost all its exoticism in the late 20th century when we were force fed it with condensed milk and now that fresh pineapple is so readily available it doesn't have quite the desirable edge it once did.  In Georgian London though, pineapple was very desirable indeed.  The first imports are unknown, although Elizabethan adventurers encountered it.  In 1675, Charles II was pictured receiving a pineapple, supposedly the first successfully cultivated on English soil, from his gardener John Rose.

After that, there is something of a scramble for second and third place between John Blackburne of Orford in Lancashire (who died in 1787 aged 96) and the gardener to Sir Matthew Decker (who died in 1749).  Mr Bradley, horticulturalist, believed it to be Decker's gardener, as published in his Monthly Treatises of Husbandry and Gardening &c., 'Observations on the Management of the Pine Apple & other West Indian Plants by a new Invented stove', advertised in the Evening Post of 28th January 1724.

In 1735, twenty-one year old American Robert Hunter Morris accompanied his diplomat father on a trip to London and on the 30th of June visited a friend's garden of 'luctutious plants' (does this mean succulents?), which included 'the pineApple, of which he had a great many and they seemed to flourish Very well.  They grew in pots of Earth which were Set in a bed of Tanners bark'.  Incidentally, Robert was an interesting young character, who was very conscious of his father's welfare and notes many tiny details about London life that would otherwise be missed.  His London diaries are short and worth a read if you come across them. 

An article on education in the London World during 1755 makes casual reference to the pineapple thus:

Through the use of hothouses...every gardiner that used to pride himself in an early cucumber, can now raise a pineapple.

By 1772, pineapples were no longer only for those with hothouses of their own.  They were available to purchase at the markets, and also as plants to take home and try out for yourself, or with which to stock a nursery.  I love the sound of Andrew Moffett's 'Pinery' on Grange Road in Southwark, where 'Fruiting and Succession Plants' were to be purchased of the largest and sweetest sort, guaranteed 'free of Insects'.

As the 18th century went on, the pineapple became a common theme on dishes, plates, teapots, tea caddies and even in architecture.  Many believe it symbolizes hospitality.  By February 1798, any problems with environment had clearly been overcome, as Mr William North, at his Nursery near the Asylum in Lambeth, Surrey, was advertising new forms of dwarf broccoli above his pineapple plants.  The advertisement from the Morning Chronicle is in the gallery and worth a read because of the insight into 18th century horticulture, and gives rise to the excellent title of this post.  It is interesting to see that by this stage, the pineapple was worthy only of a nota bene but also interesting to see that a London tradesman was content to advertise not only the largest selection in England, but also in Europe:

The largest collection of Pine-Apple Plants and Grape Vines in Pots for the Hot-house, &c., in Europe, with every other article of the first quality in Horticulture.

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The Cries of London: Street-Traders of the 18thC

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Hark! How the the cries in every street
Make the lanes and allies ring:
With their goods and ware, both nice and rare,
All in a pleasant lofty strain;
Come buy my gudgeons fine and new.
Old cloaths to change for earthen ware,
Come taste and try before you buy.
Here's dainty poplin pears.
Diddle diddle diddle dumplins, ho!
With walnuts nice and brown
Let none despise the merry, merry cries
Of famous London town.

The Cries of London, c. 1680

In Georgian London there were three ways to buy the things you wanted: shops (or warehouses in some cases), markets or street traders.  The street traders had their own routes, but how were you supposed to know if your favourite pretty milkmaid, or the man with the best quality ink was in the square?  The answer is the Cries of London.  Much as the modern day market trader informs you of the quality of his bananas or apples, the street traders of Georgian London had their distinctive cries, to which they gave their own voice and often, a special twist.  The cries listed here were the standard rhymes, which were altered to each trader's stock and personality.  This is by no means a comprehensive list, but some of the other street traders will get their own posts.

The earliest of London's cries doesn't belong to a trader at all, but the nightwatchmen.  Besides policing the lighting of the streets, they were also a reliable nocturnal clock for Londoners.  Each half an hour, the watchman called out the time, and also the weather; indicating that the English obsession with what the weather is up to is no new invention.

Past one o'clock and a starlit night.

The other cries were daytime ones, and one of the most easily recognizable is the orange-seller, made famous by the darling Nelly Gwynne.  The girls pulled their stock in little wooden carts and the main types were China (grown here during the summer months, although it was Chinese in origin), or Spanish and Portuguese oranges. 

Fine Sevil oranges, fine lemon, fine;
Round, sound and tender, inside and rine,
One pin's prick their virtue show;
They've liquor by their weight, you may know.

The Penny Pieman is a London legend.  There are no figures for the Georgian period, but during the Victorian period, the City pie trade was reckoned in hundreds of thousands of pounds per year.  London's favourite pies were beef, eel, or kidney.  The pieman was able to sell hot pies because he had a base, with an oven, from which he sallied forth with his pies (also meat puddings in suet crusts) in a tin box with a fall front (which had been heated in the oven as well), encased in a leather harness, making him look like an ice-cream seller at the cinema.  After making your choice, the pie came in a piece of newspaper.  If you wanted gravy, you made a hole in the top with your finger and the pieman administered gravy or liquor from the bottles he carried with him (which you then devoured with the spoon you carried in your pocket).  When his stock or gravies began to cool, the good pieman returned to base for more pies, or more heat. 

Penny pies all hot hot hot!

Strawberry and soft fruit sellers were everywhere during the summer months, and had to cash in the on the brief window offered by the English climate.  This was a trade dominated by women, and pretty girls in particular, who spent a great deal of time making 'pottles', the 18thC version of a punnet: thin wicker cones with a loop handle, into which they packed their wares. 

Rare ripe strawberries and
Hautboys (a small, wild strawberry), ****pence a pottle.
Full to the bottom, hautboys.

The vegetable man and his donkey or 'little moke', its back laden with panniers, were a common sight.  There was no fixed cry for the vegetable seller, as his shouts varied with his stock, which would include collyflowers, asparagus, potatoes, carrots, beans, peas, parsnips, leeks and turnips, amongst other things.

Cabbages, O! Turnips!
Two bunches a penny, turnips, ho!

London's milkmaids are famous, and rightly so.  Most milkmaids came to London from the West Country or Wales with the breeding cattle brought to the London markets.  Enterprising families set up 'milking parlours' throughout the city, including the famous one in the Strand where the cows were lowered into a cellar where they were kept and milked for a time, before being sent back to the pastures to the north, and the next shift of 'girls' brought in.  One milkmaid recorded her daily route and the results are astonishing: 19 miles.  Milkmaids are famous for their pretty skin, and this was largely because many of them had acquired immunity to smallpox through milking duties.  As milk delivery was a daily occurence, many milkmaids ran slates for their customers, proving they were to some extent both literate and numerate, and also hard enough to call in a debt.  However, on May Day, the milkmaids of London claimed the equivalent of Christmas for other traders: they donned flowers and tied shiny objects to their clothes, and were entitled to 'knock-up' all their customers for a gift.  Their cry was short, presumeably because they said it so often during the day.  Some called out their name in addition.

Milk below.

The Old Clothes Man is another famous London character.  Dealers in old clothes were usually Jewish, and residing towards Whitechapel.  They offered ready money for clothing that was no longer wanted, or worn out, which they then sold onto others who could use it, for industrial or recycling purposes.  Samuel Taylor Coleridge had a curious story to relate about an Old Clo' Man he met in the street, showing how those who used street cries were adopting an accepted 'patter':

The other day I was what you call floored by a Jew.  He passed my several times calling out for old clothes in the most nasal and extraordinary tone I ever heard.  At last, I was so provoked, that I said to him, 'Pray, why can't you say "Old clothes", in as plain a way as I do now?'  The Jew stopped, and looking very gravely at me, said in a clear and even fine accent, 'Sir, I can say "old clothes" as well as you can; but if you had to say so ten times a minute, for an hour together, you would say Ogh Clo as I do now;' and so he marched off.  I was so confounded with the justice of his retort,  that I followed and gave him a shilling, the only one I had.

Other street traders included the mouse-trap man, the water-carriers, the knife grinder, the ink seller, the muffin man, the egg girls, and the earthenware sellers, but there is one class of street seller who sticks even in the modern mind: the fishwife.  Described even in Georgian London as 'boisterous', these 'crying, wandering, travelling creatures carry their shops on their heads, and their storehouse is ordinarily Byllingsgate or Ye Brydge Foot; and their habitation Turnagain Lane...They set up every morning their trade afresh.  They are easily furnished; get something and spend it jovially and merrily.  Five shillings a basket and a good cry are a large stock for them.'  These women were very specialized, selling either eels, herring, white fish, crabs or other small shellfish.  They had no particular cry, but would announce what their stock held on any day.  Of all the humble, grotesque images of London street-sellers available through prints and etchings, one image stands alone to represent these ordinary Londoners: Hogarth's shrimp girl.  Even unfinished, it is one of his finest works, her vivacity and beauty captured better than a photograph.  I can only imagine that whatever her cry, there were many who listened out for it.

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.

London Tradeswomen, Part 1

My love of old trade cards and bizarre classifieds is intensified by those belonging to tradeswomen.  Some are famous, like Eleanor Coade, and for some such as Elizabeth Hodnet it is the only proof they ever existed.  Some of them, such as Arabella Morris with her Strand-based garden centre, and Mrs Holt with her Italian warehouse will get a post of their own but for others there is little more to say.  

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'Brass money, broken or whole': The Counterfeiting Trade of Georgian London, Part 1

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In Georgian London, fake coin was a problem.  There were no banks willing to take in the fake brass shillings you had accidentally picked up in your change at the market.  The problem central to counterfeit money, and interference with the currency itself was to do with bullion, and the growth in international trade.  England minted coins in both gold and sterling standard silver.  These coins had a set value, but they stayed in circulation for a long time, and over the decades, the bullion prices changed, so the actual value of the metal was either lower, or higher than the face value of the coin.  If the value was lower, it was cheaper to 'buy' coins and make them into silver dishes, spoons and forks and so on, than it was to buy the bullion to make them.  So coins began to be taken out of circulation that way, and also, the price of bullion on the Continent rose, and clever merchants shipped English coin to Europe where it was purchased to make objects.  The English Civil War and the Commonwealth had not helped, and by the 1670s, John Evelyn recorded that there were not enough coins around to pay for simple household items and food.  This is unthinkable in modern times, but it provided the perfect opportunity for fakers.  As long as no one looked too closely, and simply continued to pass the money around the system, it was worth the face value.  A secondary trade in fake money sprang up along side the bullion trade, and both preyed upon English money.

Those further down the trade, and without resources or skill often turned to coin clipping.  The edges of Britain's modern 'silver' and 'gold' coins are milled to prevent this crafty exercise, but in the 1660s and 1670s, there were even Elizabethan coins swimming about in the system, their fine edges ripe for trimming and polishing back up.  Coin clipping allowed poor but daring people to build up enough shavings to take to a smelter and have changed for money.  This of course, meant that the smelter had to be in on the act as well, but he was just another component of a complicated network with one foot either side of the law.

'Coinage offences' were taken very seriously by the courts, and especially so during the coin shortage of the 1670s.  Women caught clipping were burnt, and men hanged.  The making of fake money was a skilled job: there were dies to carve, and striking coins from hard mixed metals was no easy job.  The fakers often clipped their forgeries to make them appear more convincing.  There are also notes from trials recording how fakers made rare dies of early coins, presumably to produce fake collectible coins, and probably from high quality metal.  

Shopkeepers were supposed to destroy any fake coin that came their way, but often passed it on.  The 'Broken Money Men' patrolled the streets, with their cry of, 'Brass money, broken or whole.'  They were supposed to pay a nominal sum and slice it with shears in front of you, but they paid a little extra for the good fakes and everyone saw what they wanted to see.

With so many fakes around, it was no wonder William IIIrd, in 1696, decided to give English money a makeover through recoinage.  Old money was taken in, and new, less-easy-to-fake money put into circulation.  Millions of pounds worth of money was put out between 1696 and 1698, effectively re-valuing the pound.  Silver continued to be variable as far as bullion was concerned, and even the raising to Britannia standard of all domestic and ornamental plate between 1696 and 1720 didn't stop coin clipping.  In 1816, it was decided the only way to stop the fakery and cheating was to make silver coins with far less silver, making them worth only their face value and this measure was relatively effective for the next century until the Great War pushed bullion prices into the stratosphere.  More on other fakery another time.  

p.s.  The slang for something fake, or fakery in Georgian London was spanish.  

'The Life, Spring and Motion of the Trading World': A Very Brief Account of Georgian London's Foreign Import and Export Trade

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London, like Venice was a trading hub, and throughout the documents of the 18thC, London is compared with her Italian counterpart in all things apart from our 'superior' manner of government (they let 'tradesmen' govern in Venice, can you imagine?).  I am inclined to think that our import and export business was slightly less glamorous than that of the Floating City's, but perhaps familiarity has bred contempt and a fine piece of cheddar was as highly valued in Venice as parmesan cheeses were in London.  

This blog post is a very brief overview of our import and export trade in the mid-18thC and reflects the abundance of foreign goods available in London, and thus throughout England.  I think it is hard to over-estimate the extent to which the ordinary people of London were involved in 'trade' and to the extent they identified themselves as 'tradesmen'.  The expansion of the Empire beneath the Tudor family's reign had opened up parts of the world formerly inaccessible to the English people, and the writers of the 18thC certainly looked back on their medieval forebears as ruder cousins, lacking sophistication and knowledge of the world.  Trade brought not only goods to England's shores, but new ideas, schools of thought and scientific developments; our own advances were also traded as part of the ongoing development of the civilized world.  This air of enthusiasm, excitement and potential is lost to modern London where we are little more than a hub for financial services, and an exporter of bad cars, worse actresses and Newcastle Brown Ale.

England was beaten only by the Dutch for international trade, 'a country not much bigger than Yorkshire, and with a soil naturally barren'.  However, the legacy of the Spanish was a superb navy, and they were 'mighty in traffic'.  The wealth of the Dutch merchants was thrown into sharp relief in 1747 when the government went to them in crisis: they put over six millions pounds (sterling) at the service of the government in less than four hours.  It is almost impossible to put a modern figure to this sum, but it's more than a billion pounds.  In cash.  With those sorts of amounts, it isn't hard to see how the Netherlands convinced the poorer countries of the world, possessed of valuable commodities, to trade with them over any other nation.  Britain had struggled with long and sapping wars, and the countries with which it traded were in decline.  They had one large advantage over the Dutch though: the plantations.  The tobacco, sugar and other byproducts of the American and Caribbean plantations were vital to keeping England, and London, wealthy.

Merchants tended not to deal in one commodity; it was too risky.  Instead, they would deal in the produce of one country, hence Virginia merchants (tobacco and wood), and French merchants (wine and foodstuffs).  England imported wine, sugar, flax, hemp, cotton, rums, copper and iron ore amongst other basic products such as indigo for dyes.  It also imported a large quantity of fish from America, but it was deemed fit only for the Levant.  England exported made-up clothing, furniture, cutlery, haberdashery, clocks, glassware, toys and all manner of 'fancy goods'.  The rule of thumb is that England imported raw products, but exported finished products of a relatively high standard.  The upper-classes of Ireland had a strong 18thC, and were buying heavily from the London markets, but the poor remained very poor, often arriving in England with little more than a strong back and a desire for gin.  Robert Campbell made an acid note of the English attitude to the Irish, 'The balance paid by Ireland in exchange of goods, and the money spent by their gentry and nobility in England, amount to at least one million sterling per annum, which is a greater advantage (relative profit) than we reap from all our other branches of commerce; yet we grudge these people the common privileges of subjects, despite their persons, and condemn their country, as if it was a crime to be born in that kingdom from when we derive the greatest part of our wealth'.

Exports of fancy goods to Denmark and Sweden are recorded, in exchange for woods and minerals, although this trade was apparently dying out by the late 18thC.  To Turkey we sent lead, tin and sugar, and received carpets, coffee, and silks.  Tin and wool were sent to Portugal, and wine, olive oil and ready money were received in return.  To the East Indies, we sent woollen clothes, hats, firearms and silver bullion, but imported gold, diamonds, spices, drugs, tea, porcelain, china, silk, cotton, salt-petre and various other goods.  It was judged a very profitable branch of England's trade, and no wonder.  The less savoury aspects of our history are also recorded in our exports of guns, swords and cutlasses to Guinea, 'in exchange for negroes to work on our plantations, gold dust, and elephants' teeth'.

This is a broad subject for a blog post and does not take into account the 'triangular' nature of the slave trade.  I will tackle it in more detail in future but until then, I quote Campbell again, in what has to be one of the greatest comments on the English relationship with France, ever:

We export to France scarce anything but lead and tin, some tobacco to Dunkirk and some salmon from Scotland but we import wine, brandy, silks of various sorts, cambrics, laces of thread and of gold and of silver, paper cards and an innumerable quantity of trifling jewels and toys; for all which we pay an annual balance of one million and a half.  In reckoning up the imports from France, I should have mentioned pride, vanity, luxury, and corruption; but as I could make no estimate by the custom-house books of the quantity of these goods entered, I chose to leave them out.

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 Green Canister: Mrs Phillips's Covent Garden Sex Shop

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Teresia Constantia Phillips's life is as extraordinary and outlandish as one can imagine of an 18thC courtesan.  She was born in 1709, the daughter of an army Captain who fell upon hard times and she came to London aged 13 to stay with family friends and to try and earn her living as a seamstress.  Lodging in the same buildings was the young Philip Stanhope, later the Earl of Chesterfield.  In her best-selling, and long-winded Apology in 1748, Con (as she became familiarly known) alleged that Stanhope became infatuated with her, and proclaimed himself her lover.  Far from claiming she put him off, Con admitted that she entertained any young girl's enjoyment of being adored, but later realised that Stanhope was fascinated with adolescent girls and virgins in particular.  She then alleged that Stanhope locked her in his room, tied her hands to a chair and raped her.  It was an allegation Chesterfield was to deny strenuously, but an odd one to make if there was no grain of truth in it.  He also admitted that he had kept her as a mistress for a few months when she was very young.  

Con went on to become the mistress of too many men to mention without it sounding like a roll call.  She kept getting married illegally, made money, spent money, travelled and safe to say, did a lot of entertaining.  She died in Jamaica in 1765 on yet another adventure.  Some of her liaisons lasted years, and appear to have been exclusive, yet around 1732, she was at something of a loose end, having broken with her long-term lover so that he could make a good marriage (he settled money on her).  During her time as a courtesan, Con had learned a thing or two, and so she set up shop (or had someone do it for her) in Half Moon Street, which is now Bedford Street in Covent Garden, and had handbills printed to advertise her wares which were given out in the street by link boys earning a few extra pence.  

By far the most well-recorded item of merchandise were Con's 'preservatives' or condoms.  Condoms, or 'cundums' (even worse!) had been recorded in popular use since around 1500.  They were made from a sheep's intestine, and the standard length was between seven and eight inches, secured with a coloured ribbon about the base.  This might sound gross, not to mention unwieldy, but the treatment process to make them thin and flexible was extensive, and the end of the condom was stitched and sealed, then tested, by blowing them up to check for leaks.  It was recommended they were soaked in water, then squeezed out before use, to keep them elastic and comfortable.  Gut of any sort is porous, which means these condoms weren't infallible, but they were also subjected to various treatments which one imagines must have made them less permeable.  They certainly had some degree of efficacy, and they were popular.  Casanova swore by them and sought them by the box whenever he found a reliable source.  They were marketed as preventing both pregnancy and disease. 

Much is made of condoms being expensive, and hence whores not carrying them.  Rubbish, rubbish, all.  If you had enough money for a whore, you had enough money for a condom.  Furthermore, if you wanted to use a condom with a whore, why on earth would you let her provide one when you didn't know where it had been?  You don't care if she gets pregnant after all, that's why you are going to her in the first place.  Besides, condoms had more than one use in them well into the 20th century, and so men carried them more often than street-walkers.  However, any decent brothel boasted of its stock, and the goods did not just include the girls, but 'every Device to restore old men and debauched youths.'  Con sold condoms wholesale to the brothels and bagnios, so if you wanted to use one, all you had to do was ask.

In addition to condoms, Con probably also sold other methods of contraception.  One of the most common ones for women was a piece of natural sponge with a length of ribbon stitched into it.  The sponge was soaked in a dilute solution of lemon juice, or commonly vinegar and worn internally to prevent pregnancy.  This was not just a method used by prostitutes, but common amongst ordinary women who wanted a break from child-bearing, and Con's shop provided a decent, if not respectable place to buy them.  This brings me briefly onto the subject of clientele.  In many of the printed sources referring to the sex trade, there are mentions of 'lady-clients' (Lady Loveit being one of my personal favourites).  Whether they attended the brothels in a hetero, homosexual or fetishistic capacity isn't clear, but they were there nonetheless.  Most brothels were run by women, and most whores were women.  Therefore I conclude that a decent percentage of the customers to The Green Canister would have been women.  

The 'Devices' employed by the brothels had to be purchased somewhere, and it appears Con sold just about everything, whatever your particular 'caprice'.  'Widow's comforters' were available in leather, ivory and wood. Flagellation machines could be made to order, and various brothels specialized in different types.  Literature on the education of young ladies was prolific and often alarmingly well-illustrated.  Although there are no records as to her stock, I can't imagine it would have been any different to a modern sex shop, only fewer batteries.  

Retail Therapy: An overview of shopping in Georgian London

Shopping had a different structure during the Georgian period and this post is little more than an overview of a massive subject.  Food shopping was a daily routine and based mainly around the markets all over the City.  Coal was delivered to the house by men who built up rounds and rented storage space in cellars in each locality, then carried individual sacks (or small barrow-loads) to each house.  This was also the same with water, which was usually local and clean well water, but also came from as far away as Epsom, or even Buxton for the discerning palate.  Water was delivered in hods, hence the term 'hod-carrier', now used mainly in the building trade.  Milkmaids who worked for a dairyman or woman carried their milk about the streets using a yoke and shouting their wares.  Self-employed milkmaids (almost always Welsh) lead their cow on their rounds and milked it at the door, ringing a bell in each square or when she arrived in the street.  Babies and those with a cow's milk intolerance (yes, it was recognised then) could have milk from the asses who were also led around the streets.  Pretty girls were deployed from the market gardens to sell perishable foods and herbs such as cherries, asparagus and lavender, from baskets often carried on their heads (probably not in this weather though).

Although most food was sold from roving basket carriers or market stalls, some foods with a longer shelf-life, such as cheeses and preserved meats were sold in large warehouses around the Strand, Covent Garden and Leadenhall in the City.  Many of these warehouses specialized according to nationality, and a few xenophobic pamphlets of the late 17thC complain of the stinking garlic sausages hung up to dry in the windows of the French warehouses.  Early shops, and particularly those trading before the fire of London were simply part of the house where the shopkeeper lived.  Beneath the front window was one large shutter on a hinge, which would be propped up in the morning, parallel with the window-sill.  The window were then opened and goods put out on the table, or arranged inside on shelving (typical of bakeries).  A visitor to London (Lorenzo Magalotti) remarked in his diary that these shops were 'mostly under the care of well-dressed women' who were aided by their young apprentices.  This seems an excellent system, appealing to almost all buyers.  It also sheds light on the employment of women in the 18thC (more in another post), who were not simply expected to stay at home, meek and mild, but to get involved in running the thousands of little family businesses throughout London.    

After the Fire, many shops, particularly those selling more expensive items were rebuilt with room inside to show goods, and the family moved upstairs.  The Royal Exchange was the model for these shops, which were fitted out in a commodious fashion and again, staffed mainly by women and the apprentices.  Fixed shop windows, where a permanent display of books, wallpapers, paintings, carving, silks and fabrics, gloves and lace could remain for longer than a day, became popular.  Many tailors' and dressmakers' shops doubled as places to drink tea and coffee and meet with the girls for a natter.  Most tailors and dressmakers sold clothes off the peg which could then be altered by seamstresses who often hung out wooden needles or signs from their lodgings when they were available to work.  It was a matter of knocking on the door, trying on the garments, discussing what needed to be done and picking them up later: an excellent arrangement (Samuel Pepys bizarre obsession with his 'little seamstress' makes interesting reading.  There were two garden centres selling everything from tools to seedlings to trees in the Strand for people with nothing better to do with their Sunday afternoon.  The pet-shops on the north side of Covent Garden sold everything from song-thrushes caught on Hampstead Heath to marmosets in little outfits.  There was a household emporium near Holborn specializing in domestic pewter for kitchens and taverns, but also buckets, spoons and other treen and there were plenty of opticians who tested the eyes and sold spectacles both made to measure and off the peg (plain green and blue lenses were also used to help with light sensitivity and quite possibly, dyslexia, by stabilizing the visual field).  

The largest and grandest shops were obviously those catering to the rich, including Thomas Chippendale's cabinet-making workshop and showroom, John Burroughs, the furniture-maker on Cornhill, Moxon's the scientific instrument maker in Warwick Lane, Paul de Lamerie, the goldsmith and jeweller in Soho.  These shops were beautifully fitted out and allowed customers to browse at their considerable stock accompanied by an apprentice to show them the merits of each piece.  This allowed the apprentices to learn about the stock, and about the nature of retailing.  It also helped them to build clientele which they could either take with them when they set up their own business, or for long-term relationships with whilst working for their master.  Customers were served with tea and coffee, shown pattern-books, entertained and generally spoiled.

Shops were dependent upon the rhythm of daylight hours.  Food shops opened at dawn and stayed open until they had sold out for the day, or until dark.  Most other shops opened at 8am and stayed open until nightfall, or 9pm in the summer.  It's also worth bearing in mind that as a nation of shopkeepers, there were no chain-stores and each shop traded as they saw fit; much more interesting than the modern high street.

Anyone interested in learning more would be advised to read Dorothy Davis's excellent History of Shopping.

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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