Armistice Day One Hundred Years Later

Welcome Home Our Gallant Boys

Loretta reports:

Sunday marks the 100th anniversary of the signing of the Armistice ending World War I—known as the Great War and the War to End War, until only a couple of decades later, when another great war broke out.

World War I was a horrendous war, even by war’s horrendous standards, as Wilfred Owen’s poetry makes more than clear. His war isn’t heroic or romantic. It’s ghastly and heartbreaking. For a time, his work fell out of favor for this reason. But only for a time.

An English professor introduced me to "Anthem for Doomed Youth" fifty or so years after it was written, at a time when it struck a chord with those protesting the Vietnam War. Owen’s and others’ poetry led me, some years later, to Robert Graves’s Good-Bye to All That, which offered insights into both the war and that generation of Englishmen. Unlike Owen, Graves survived.

For me, these works and others began an education that continues. Visits to English and Scottish churches, stately homes, and memorials have given me a powerful sense of the toll this particular war took on the other side of the Atlantic.

Anthem for Doomed Youth 1917

We keep hoping, but so far, no war has ended war. All we seem to be able to do is mourn and remember. The Tower of London remembers, beautifully and movingly, again this year, as you will discover if you search “Beyond the Deepening Shadow,” for images from the centenary commemoration.

Wilfred Owen

Images: Welcome Home Our Gallant Boys, 1918 poster, courtesy courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA; "Anthem for Doomed Youth" and photograph of Wilfred Owen from Poems by Wilfred Owen, 1920.

Clicking on the image will enlarge it.  Clicking on a caption link will take you to the source, where you can learn more and enlarge images as needed. And, just so you know, if you order a book through one of my posts, I might get a small share of the sale.

The Vision of Skulls—a Little Rowlandson for Halloween

Rowlandson, The Vision of Skulls

Loretta reports:

Halloween seems an appropriate time for an excerpt from The English Dance of Death. In this volume, Thomas Rowlandson takes on a popular artistic subject, focusing on his countrymen, with William Combe writing a narrative based on the pictures (the method they used in the Tour of Doctor Syntax). In this excerpt from “The Vision of Skulls,” Sir Thomas describes a dream to his wife.

—The Phantom gave three heads a stroke
With his fierce Torch, and thus they spoke.
—Said one, "I was a soldier brave,
Who found in war an early grave;
But, e'er in Honour's field I died—
I slew the Hero by my side."
The Hero, by his side, exclaim'd,
—" 'Twas my right arm your prowess tam'd:
It was my sabre's well-aim'd blow,
 That laid your glittering figure low."
"Ho," cried a third, "pray cease your pother,
I saw you both kill one another."—
—Thus, though no arms, or legs had they,
 I thought they threaten'd an affray;
And seem'd, without alarm or dread,
To long to play the Loggerhead.
I thought their clamour ne'er would cease:
But the Torch wav'd, and all was peace.
It seem'd most strange the sight I saw,
That heads should speak 'gainst Nature's law,
Without a Tongue,—nor move a Jaw.
'I humbly told the Guide, that I Was of the class of Chivalry.
But that I was a Civic Knight,
Who had much rather eat than fight.
—Turn and look up, methought he said,
At the huge Sculls above your head,
Which are so thick, they might defy
The balls of any musketry.
Those which there meet your curious ken,
Belong'd to Knights and Aldermen,
Who to the Sword's heroic work
Preferr'd the feats of Knife and Fork;
And, as they grin, the Jaws between,
Their well-us'd, worn-out teeth are seen.—
But all these mortal remnants stood,
In such exact similitude,
I could not see, with all my care,
If any of my friends were there.
—I then enquir'd, if no offence,
And hop'd 'twas not impertinence,
If he might tell whose fleshless face
Was to fill up an empty space,
Which seem'd so large, that I could swear,
It was preserv'd for some Lord Mayor.
He wav'd his Torch, and lost in smoke,
'Twas thus I thought the Spectre spoke.—
—That place, Sir Simon, is your due:
And shortly will be filled by you.—

Intro to English Dance of Death

—The English Dance of Death, From the Designs of Thomas Rowlandson with Metrical Illustrations, by the Author of “Doctor Syntax.” Vol 1 (1815)

Images: The Vision of Skulls
Excerpt from introduction to The English Dance of Death

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The Neckcloth Part 2

Loretta reports:

Last time, in tackling the immense subject of men’s neckwear, I focused on the material in the early 19th century neckcloth, and several readers were kind enough to explain further. The subject is daunting, and I’m taking Mark Hutter’s remark as my mantra: There is no “typical.”

For instance, stocks were old-fashioned, then they weren’t; “correct” colors and materials changed for both neckcloths and stocks, depending on the occasion and that capricious being, Fashion; and then, some people use the terms interchangeably.

What seems clear is that neckwear offered a way to express one’s individuality, especially after men’s clothing became more subdued in color and more uniform in style, thanks in great part to Beau Brummell.

Folding & tying the cravat

One important way of expressing oneself was in the way one tied that important length of fabric.

My neckcloth, of course, forms my principal care,
For by that we criterions of elegance swear,
And costs me each morning some hours of flurry,
To make it appear to be tied in a hurry.*

Cravats for travel

I don’t know the author of this verse. It appears here, there, and everywhere, referring to Beau Brummell. He didn’t write it, but everybody stole it without attribution, as often happened/happens. Still, a great deal was published anonymously or under whimsical names. One of these days I’ll pin down its first appearance. Meanwhile, let’s look at those hours of flurry.

Many readers are familiar with Cruikshank’s 1818 illustration from Neckclothitania (top left). Like many publications of the time about neckwear, it’s a combination of fact and satire.

However, it turns out that another book on neckcloths became an international bestseller. The Art of Tying the Cravat: demonstrated in sixteen lessons, including thirty-two different styles ... (the title’s longer than the book), appeared first in France, then Italy, then England, apparently by different authors. But the names seem to have been a joke: “Baron Emile de l’Empesé, Conte della Salda, and H. LeBlanc, which translate respectively as Baron Starch, Count Starched, and H. White or Starch,” as Sarah Gibbings points out in her fascinating tome, The Tie: Trends and Traditions 1990. Nonetheless, the Art of Tying the Cravat is charming. And informative. I recommend taking a look at it.

Advice to Julia excerpt

You can also find a number of Youtube videos, but none struck me as satisfactory. For a good visual, I suggest you take a look at MY Mr Knightley: Tying a Cravat, at the blog Tea in a Teacup.





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Regency Satire: The Triumph of the Whale

Cruikshank, The Prince of Whales 1812

Loretta reports:

On this date in 1812 the Examiner published Charles Lamb’s poem “The Triumph of the Whale,” which inspired this George Cruikshank satirical print of 1 May 1812. The image appeared in Cruikshank's satirical magazine, The Scourge.
 
The caricature and poem about the then Prince Regent (later King George IV) remind us all that mocking the great and powerful, in picture and print (and these days, in internet memes), is nothing new. Given the libel and sedition laws of the time, it’s amazing what Regency satirists got away with. And let’s not forget one of the Privileges of Peers I reported on a while back:

“3. To secure the honour of, and prevent the spreading of any scandal upon peers, or any great officer of the realm, by reports, there is an express law, called scandalum magnatum, by which any man convicted of making a scandalous report against a peer of the realm (though true) is condemned to an arbitrary fine, and to remain in custody till the same be paid.”

Scandalum magnatum notwithstanding, the faces in this caricature would have been familiar to the audience of the time, and everybody would understand the political implications. We, however, need a translation, which the Brighton Museums website provides succinctly:

“Portrayed as a whale in a ‘Sea of Politics’ George spouts the ‘Liquor of Oblivion’ on playwright and Whig supporter Richard Sheridan, and blows the ‘Dew of favour’ on Spencer Perceval the Tory Prime Minister. The prince ignores his former lover, Mrs Fitzherbert, and looks lovingly at his mistress Lady Hertford, who is shown next to her cuckold husband.”

The figures on the right—the Tories—viewed as the fat cats of the time, expect to profit further by the Regent’s decision to shun his Whig associates. The Marquess of Hertford is wearing cuckold horns. You can read a much more detailed description at the British Museum website (please click on "More" for the full description and check out the curator's comments as well). Clearly, this is pretty strong stuff, though not as strong, I think, as Lamb’s poem.

 
The 1812 blog offers a concise summary of Charles Lamb’s life and the poem. Most of the references are clear enough, although I haven't yet figured out why the muse Lamb summons is Io, one of Zeus’s many loves, who was transformed into a white heifer.

Update: As I hoped, a reader provided the following clarification—

"It's a song. 'Io' is an exclamation you find in Latin songs, and probably in Roman life as well, but spoken words don't survive. It means something like 'Hurray' or even 'Yay'.
In my country a Latin student song still survives. Its first line is 'Io vivat' which translates to 'Hurray, long live'. It dates to the days when all subjects at the universities were taught in Latin."

These pages are from The Poetical Works of Bowles, Lamb, and Hartley Coleridge Selected 1887

Image: George Cruikshank, The Prince of Whales, from the Scourge of 1 May 1812.
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The Odyssey in the 21st Century

Loretta reports:

Well into the 19th century (and later, in many places), a gentleman’s education—to the extent he had one—consisted mainly of studying Greek and Latin.* This is why, when we read 18th and 19th C books written by men, we come upon untranslated chunks of Greek and Latin. An educated gentleman, it was assumed, would easily understand material he’d learned by rote in school. In a number of my books, I mention this emphasis on Latin and Greek.

All the same, very few people, even in the 19th century, read Homer’s Odyssey in the original Greek. For centuries, scholars and poets have tackled the work, making that tricky ancient Greek accessible, not only to those without a classical education, but also educated persons who found Homer very hard going.

My epigraph for the Prologue of Dukes Prefer Blondes is the beginning of The Odyssey as translated by William Cowper in 1791:

Muse, make the man thy theme, for shrewdness famed
And genius versatile

These are the first lines of the Invocation of the Muse, which we later learn the hero is trying to construe from the Greek. As young Oliver Radford realizes, there’s more than one way to read the poem. Here’s how T.E. Lawrence (aka Lawrence of Arabia) began:

Odysseus and the Sirens 1829

Goddess-Daughter of Zeus
              Sustain for Me
This Song of the Various-Minded Man…

Wikipedia offers a very long list of English translations, beginning with  George Chapman’s of 1615:

The man, O Muse, inform, that many a way
Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay;

We go on to find Odysseus described as “that prudent Hero,” “The man for wisdom’s various arts renown’d,”  “the crafty man,” “the man full of resources,” and on and on. If you want a sense of how not easy it is to translate Homer’s epic, please do scroll down the Wikipedia page to the section on The Odyssey.

A short time ago, Susan sent me the opening of a a new translation of The Odyssey, by Emily Wilson, the first English translation by a woman.

Robbing the cattle of Helios

Tell me about a complicated man.
Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost
when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy;
and where he went, and who he met, the pain
he suffered in the storms at sea, and how
he worked to save his life and bring his men
back home. He failed to keep them safe; poor fools,
they ate the Sun God’s cattle, and the god
kept them from home.  Now goddess, child of Zeus,
tell the old story for our modern times.
Find the beginning.

After reading these lines, I ordered the book. Though I’m saving a full read for my late winter sojourn in the South, it’s been hard for this Nerdy History Girl to resist dipping into it. The introduction is an eye-opener, the perfect prelude to the new translation, which IMO is a knockout. As to the story itself, as translation after translation demonstrates, it never gets old.

Waterhouse, Circe Invidiosa 1892

*This isn’t to say that boys and men learnt nothing else. Indeed, a gentleman, not having a job to go to every day to support his family, had the leisure to investigate a wide variety of subjects. Many gentlemen were true polymaths. They were adept in multiple languages, performed agricultural and scientific experiments, attempted to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphs, developed early forms of photography, and so on.


Images: Book cover for The Odyssey by Emily Wilson; Pellegrino Tebaldi, The companions of Odysseus rob the cattle of Helios 1554-1556; Bruckmann, Alexander, Odysseus and the Sirens 1829;
J.M. Waterhouse, Circe Invidiosa 1892 from the collection of the Art Gallery of South Australia (this image via Wikimedia Commons).


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Bad Poets Society: William Topaz McGonagall

William McGonagall

Loretta reports:

A subplot in my third Dressmakers book, Vixen in Velvet, features a rather bad poet, who is the 1830s equivalent of a rock star, much as Byron was the 1810s version. But my fictional Lord Swanton was no Byron. I chose some typical, but what many of us would deem horrendous, poetry of 1835 to give readers a sense of what the young ladies were swooning over and why the gentlemen were scratching their heads.

Imagine my delight when I came upon William Topaz McGonagall, “widely hailed as the writer of the worst poetry in the English language,” according to the website McGonagall Online, which goes on to tell us,

“His audiences threw rotten fish at him, the authorities banned his performances, and he died a pauper over a century ago. But his books remain in print to this day, and he’s remembered and quoted long after more talented contemporaries have been forgotten.”

He started out as a handloom weaver and, before the poetry bug bit him, he was keen to be an actor. When he wanted to perform the title role of Macbeth, he apparently had to pay the theater to let him do it. Friends and colleagues turned up, expecting a laugh fest, which they got: Among other things, [spoiler alert] he refused to die at the end of the play.

His autobiography is a delight.

“I remember how I felt when I received the spirit of poetry. It was in the year of 1877 … all of a sudden my body got inflamed, and instantly I was seized with a strong desire to write poetry, so strong, in fact, that in imagination I thought I heard a voice crying in my ears- ‘Write! Write’”

And so he did. Oblivious to critics, laughter, and rotten food missiles, he wrote poems by the cartload. I offer a sample, but I think you have to read his work in quantity to get the full joy of it.

The Moon

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou seemest most charming to my sight;
As I gaze upon thee in the sky so high,
A tear of joy does moisten mine eye.

Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou cheerest the Esquimau in the night;
For thou lettest him see to harpoon the fish,
And with them he makes a dainty dish.

Turner, Fishermen at Sea 1796

Likewise, I think it’s well worth reading both the various offerings on the McGonagall site (don't miss the court case) and the Wikipedia entry for a sense of the man. The wonderful thing, I think, is that he continues to delight us. He didn’t make the literary contribution he intended, perhaps, but he certainly made one!

I am indebted for the bulk of this post, to the truly excellent website, McGonagall Online.

Images: William McGonagall, courtesy Wikipedia. J.M.W.Turner, Fishermen at Sea, 1796, collection of Tate Britain, via Wikipedia Google Art Project. 

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The Execution Bell at St. Sepulchre-Without-Newgate

Loretta reports:

Though my book Dukes Prefer Blondes, with its barrister hero, was published last year, my interest in the 19th C English criminal justice system has by no means diminished. During my stay in London, I’d planned to visit many of the sites mentioned in the story and look for inspiration for a future story. My husband and I started the investigation with a London Walk titled “Crime and Punishment.” Our guide on this occasion was Richard III (no, not that one: this was not a ghost walk).

Along with many other crime-associated sites, some of which I’ll write about eventually, Richard III took us to the Church of St. Sepulchre Without Newgate.

Standing so close to Newgate Prison and the Old Bailey, the church featured in public executions, and its bells tolled on the fatal day.

The night before was rather more macabre. Round about midnight, the St. Sephulchre’s clerk would travel across the street through a tunnel, to stand outside the condemned prisoner’s cell. There the clerk would ring the handbell pictured here, and recite to the prisoner the following comforting ditty:

All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near
That you before the Almighty must appear;
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent.
And when St. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls.
Past twelve o'clock!

St. Sepulchre Watch-House

There seems to be some disagreement about when this practice ended. The plaque in the church says it “died out in the early part of the 19th Century.” The London Encyclopedia tells us it ended in 1744.

The church was deemed to need a watch-house, to deter grave-robbing and, possibly, escapes. What we see today is a complete rebuild of the original 18th century structure, which was destroyed in WWII.

You can read more about the church here at the London Historians blog.

All images: Photo copyright © 2017 Walter M. Henritze III

Be My Valentine

Candy Sweethearts

Loretta reports:

Many centuries ago, when I was in elementary school, we exchanged Valentine’s Day cards in the classroom. We made them, too, but most of the exchanges involved cards that came in  packages of 25 or 100. We traded candy hearts, too.

The sending of cards, notes, and other tokens of friendship or affection goes back centuries. For today, I offer a few historical links.

The New and Complete Valentine Writer for the Year 1805 provides a variety of Valentine’s poetry, rather different sentiments from what we exchanged in school. (The image above left is typical of ours.)

And here and here you’ll find some history about commercial Valentine’s Day cards, much more elegant than those we traded. You can see larger samples of the Whitney cards here.

Images: To My Valentine, 1890, courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 

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Death of John Keats

John Keats

Loretta reports:

William Hone, the author of Hone’s Every-Day Book (which I frequently cite) wasn’t shy about giving his opinions, a trait that landed him in court more than once.

I was aware of Byron’s having joked that a bad review finished Keats off. This entry in the Every-Day Book, though, was rather more touching, and very much in Hone’s plain-spoken, pugnacious spirit. Any writer  who’s suffered a nasty review can testify to the unpleasantness of the experience. It has certainly aided and abetted writer’s block in some cases; aroused defiance in others. Has it ever hastened an author’s death? I don’t know. But I promise you that it has led to some writers' fantasizing about hastening the critic’s demise.

In fact, though it’s generally agreed that Keats died of consumption (tuberculosis), there is debate about the role mercury played in shortening his life. He has written that he took it, so that’s not disputed. But why is another question. Some believe he took it to treat a venereal infection; others point out that mercury was used to treat other ailments, and Mr. Keats's health issues were complex.

~~~

February 23.

Chronology.

1821. John Keats, the poet, died. Virulent and unmerited attacks upon his literary ability, by an unprincipled and malignant reviewer, injured his rising reputation, overwhelmed his spirits, and he sunk into consumption. In that state he fled for refuge to the climate of Italy, caught cold on the voyage, and perished in Rome, at the early age of 25. Specimens of his talents are in the former volume of this work. One of his last poems was in prospect of departure from his native shores. It is an

Ode to a Nightingale.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk; 

Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 

But being too happy in thine happiness,— 

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 

In some melodious plot 

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 

Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

 ... *

This ode was included with "Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems,” by John Keats, published by Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, who, in an advertisement at the beginning of the book, allude to the critical ferocity which hastened the poet's death. —Hone’s Every-Day Book Vol II (originally published 1827)

~~~

*Please click on above the link to the Every-Day Book for the full poem.

Image: Cover of May Clarissa Gillington Byron's A Day with Keats (1913) courtesy Project Gutenberg.

Rude Songs of the Regency: The Plenipotentiary (from the archives)

The Plenipotentiary

Loretta reports:

Thanks to Vic Gatrell’s, City of Laughter: Sex and Satire in Eighteenth-Century London,* I was aware that the Prince of Wales (later the Prince Regent, then King George IV) bought satirical prints in vast quantities.  Every day he got a batch, to keep him in touch with public opinion.

It’s a miracle this collection survived.  Other historical documents did not:  “In a fit of witless vandalism in 1913, George V, his queen and his secretary one evening sat in a parlour at Windsor and systematically burned the contents of thirty-seven boxes of George IV’s love letters . . . on the grounds that George was ‘the meanest and vilest of reprobates’.”  King George V later sold 9,900 of his ancestor’s prints to the Library of Congress—to pay for his stamp collection.

Recently I made another interesting discovery:  Our Prinny’s favorite bard was Captain Charles Morris (1744-1838), to whom he paid a £200 annuity. Morris’s poems and songs were famous, reprinted repeatedly in collections such as The Festival of Anacreon, Containing a Collection of Modern Songs, written for the Anacreontic Society,***the Beef-Steak and Humbug Clubs (8th ed. c. 1810); and many, many others, including a collection the poet Robert Burns published in 1799.

A sample of Morris’s lyric powers: 

THE PLENIPOTENTIARY

The Dey of Algiers, when afraid of his ears,
A messenger sent to the Court, sir,
As he knew in our state the women had weight,
He chose one well hung for the sport, sir.
He searched the Divan till he found out a man,
Whose b******s were heavy and hairy,
And he lately came, o'er from the Barbary shore,
As the great Plenipotentiary.

. . .
When to England he came, with his p***k in a flame,
He shewed it his Hostess on landing,
Who spread its renown thro' all parts of the town,
As a pintle past all understanding.
So much there was said of its snout and its head,
That they called it the great Janissary:
Not a lady could sleep till she got a sly peep
At the great Plenipotentiary.

These are some of the more delicate verses.  You can read one version of the full poem here on page 36, or choose a version from here. Longtime 2NHG readers may recall a similarly bawdy epic by Lord Rochester.

*My quotations are from the Gatrell book.
**See a recent post for an illustration of a society members' meeting.
Illustration: Cruikshank, A Peep at the Plenipo-!!! Courtesy of The Lewis Walpole Library, Yale University.

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Memorial Day Peace Day

The Colors

Loretta reports:

From The Stars and Stripes, a Memorial Day poem* inspired by Siegfried Sassoon’s “Together.”

~~~

Friday, May 30, 1919

Memorial Day

“I shall forget him in the morning light;
And while we gallop on he will not speak;
But at the stable door he’ll say good-night.”—Siegfried Sassoon, Counter-attack: And Other Poems

It isn’t quite the same as it used to be; the dark stallions, the pale faces, the black pomp of despair of civilian days. There’s a new feeling toward death, a better understanding. It is not longer strange and mysterious; it has moved among us; it has struck suddenly, mercifully, often.

We left him perhaps without a handshake when he piled into a camion and rolled away, or when we crawled out of the fox-hole he was just gone; or maybe we didn’t hear about it at all until long afterward because, Armywise, he had been transferred and we hadn’t.

And while we didn’t think about it then—things were happening mercifully fast and furious and we couldn’t think at all—now we have assembled our thoughts and decided what we were really fighting for, and so it all seems a part of the plan, loss as well as victory, death as sure as discharge.

So he will be with us, not in the busy rush of the life we’ll take up again, but quietly at the day’s end—living and real; for his going from us was unmarred by the harsh convention of civilian death, and quite cheerily, across the golden shadows, we’ll answer his good-night.
—The Stars and Stripes, Friday, May 30, 1919

*Author unknown—unless you have some info on this.

Image: The Colors, from Memorial Day Peace Day Circular (Illinois. Office of the Superintendent of Public Instruction), Department of Public Instruction, 1920

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Memorial Day Poem: The Volunteer

View at source here

Loretta reports:

Many U.S. holidays have become associated with long weekends, sales, and parties.  This is not necessarily a bad thing—in the case of Memorial Day, for instance. Men and women died fighting to keep the USA going.  As well as remembering the dead, we’re celebrating what they fought for, and the commercialism is part of who we are, warts & all.

However, the holiday commenced, originally not as an excuse for sales or barbecues or the date after which white shoes may be donned.  It started out as Decoration Day, a day of remembrance for the Civil War dead.

In 1920, when this poem was published, the Civil War was vividly within people’s direct experience as well as their memories.  The poetry in the book is of its time, and bound to be sentimental and sad, not so appealing to the ironic 21st century sensibility.

Read at source here

But our blog’s about offering insights into social history, and poetic recitations were still part of everyday life in the early 20th century.

This one’s more restrained than the average, and all the more moving, perhaps, for that reason.

Read at source here

You can read our other posts about Memorial Day here, here, here, here, and here.









The poems are from  
Holiday selections for readings and recitations, compiled by Sara Sigourney Rice, 1920

The Dandy's Perambulations

Read at Internet Archive

Loretta reports:

2NHG readers familiar with my books will have long ago discerned my infatuation with elegantly dressed men.  With rare exceptions—when I go to the other extreme—my heroes contrive to appear point-device, no matter what the circumstances.

This was why I responded to a frantic text from Isabella, who was at the Artist/ Rebel/ Dandy: Men of Fashion exhibition at the Rhode Island School of Design Museum last summer (see her post here), and made a mad dash to catch the show on the last day. 

My reward was a sublime experience, one of whose high points was a chance to see some of the Cruikshank dandies caricatures at full size, rather than on a computer screen or in a book.  The artistry and humor truly comes across, and I was so impressed that I used a caricature in a scene in my latest book.

Read at Internet Archive

So imagine my delight when I came across this little gem, Robert Cruikshank's The Dandy’s Perambulations (1819) at the Internet Archive.

It was hard to choose images to post, but I picked these because the dandies are riding the latest high tech vehicles, sometimes called perambulators, but more often velocipedes.  While bicycles are a great mode of transportation—exercise & energy efficiency—one doesn’t think of them as chic, necessarily.  But at the time of this little book, it’s quite a (dangerous) fad.  You can learn more about the vehicle here at Jane Austen's World.


Clicking on the captions will allow you to read at the source, where you can where you can learn more and enlarge images as needed.

Heroic Commander Ross

Wildman, Commander James Clark Ross, 1834

Loretta reports:

I noticed this poem for a couple of reasons.  First, Louisa Sheridan, the author, is one of the Sheridan sisters mentioned obliquely (in relation to the Sheridan-Grant Scandal) in Scandal Wears Satin.  Second, I had an idea who Captain Ross was:  We 2NHG pinned him to our Pinterest page under Hot Heroic Inspiration. (I am assuming this is the correct fellow, since all the info fits.)

Among other things, the poem displays the era’s love of puns.  What Commander Ross displays, I leave you to determine.  If you click on the link under the portrait, you’ll reach his Wikipedia page, where you can enlarge his portrait considerably, and take in every tiny detail.  Please click on the poem to enlarge it to readable size.

 

   

 —The Comic Offering; Or Ladies' Melange of Literary Mirth, Editor
Louisa Henrietta Sheridan, 1835

Men in poufy trousers

Metropolitan Museum of Art

Loretta reports:

Susan recently shared with me this image, whose description at the Met Museum site had me scratching my head.  I knew I’d seen this wasp-waist-&-full trousers-look earlier than the 1830s.  In fact, I had in mind an 1816 caricature—by Cruikshank, I think—of a dandy dressing.  His valet is helping him tighten his stays, and he’s wearing the full trousers.  Unable to put my hands on that caricature, I offer a group of 1818 fashion victims, with directions to the full-trouser wearers.

The Cruikshanks love making fun of this style, as in this excerpt from a poem in The Universal Songster, 1825:
 
Some folks, in the street, by the Lord, make me stare,
So comical droll is the dress that they wear;
For the gentlemen's waist is a top of their back,
And their large cossack trousers that fit like a sack.


Later, comparing to women's shortened skirts and huge hats, the poem continues:
 

Cruikshank

But, on the contrary, our very smart beaux,
Wear large cossack trousers quite down to their toes;
And a little brimmed hat, that wo’n’t cover their face,
Oh! Lunnun, this Lunnun’s a wonderful place!
Clearly it wasn’t the fashion, but a style that persisted alongside sleeker looks, according to the author of The whole art of dress,1830

But still the fashions, as may be remarked, are various, tight-kneed and full being worn almost indiscriminately. . .Nothing can more improve the look and fit of trousers than double straps; these, with very full cossack trowsers, are more indispensably requisite when the legs are particularly crooked or ill-formed.
The look never seems to die.  Decades ago I wore men’s vintage pleated wool trousers (with cuffs).  Susan thought the look was right for DeBarge.  I thought of M.C. Hammer.

Note straps

Photo info:
Date: ca. 1833; Culture: British; Medium: silk; Dimensions: Length at CB: 38 1/2 in. (97.8 cm); Credit Line: Catharine Breyer Van Bomel Foundation Fund, 1981'; Accession Number: 1981.210.4; www.metmuseum.org.
   
Cruikshank caricature courtesy  Courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

B&W illustration comes from a German collection whose record I've lost.

Valentine's Day in the early 19th century

From Cupid's Annual Charter

Loretta reports:

Mid February has been associated with some sort of mating ritual, going back, apparently, to ancient times.  By the early 19th century, Valentine’s Day was well established as a day for romance or at least romantic hopes.

According to Hone’s Every-day Book, (1826), “Two hundred thousand letters beyond the usual daily average, annually pass through the twopenny post-office in London on St. Valentine's Day.”

The February 14 entry continues, quoting Charles Lamb:   " In other words, this is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other at every street and turning. The weary and all for-spent twopenny postman sinks beneath a load of delicate embarrassments, not his own. It is scarcely credible to what an extent this ephemeral courtship is carried on in this loving town, to the great detriment of knockers and bell-wires.”

You'll find a good deal more about Valentine's Day in Hone, including a large dose of poetry.

Cupid's Annual Charter; or, St. Valentine's Festival (1815), contains poetry for every possible state of mind and recipient, including valentines to misers and prudes.

Here’s a sample from its many offerings:
Valentine.
You are not handsome it is true,

From The Sentiment of Flowers

Yet you’ve many charms for me,
Believe me that my vows to you,
Is from deceitful falsehood free.
Tis not the feature of a face
I seek for in my future wife
Ah no! for other charms I seek
To sweeten my domestic life.
Say then my fair will you be mine,
And wed your faithful Valentine.

Answer.
Other charms I have 'tis plain,
You are a fortune hunting swain;
And for better, and for worse,
You'd have me for to hold my purse;
But this fine scheme it will not take,
You shall not cause my heart to ache;
My person's plain full well I know,
But you'd no need to tell me so;
So my ill manner'd Valentine.
Your sordid offer I decline.

The poetry might inspire you to create your own card.

The less verbal might decide to say it with flowers.  In that case, I recommend you first consult The Sentiment of Flowers: or, Language of Flora, (1840).  Clematis or madder, for instance, would not be the best choices.

Silver Gilt Extravagance for a Titled Bride, c.1680

Susan reporting:

Aristocratic marriages of the past were more often calculated unions of fortunes and political allies than affairs of the heart. Estates, great houses, incomes, and investments were the most valuable assets in pre-wedding negotiations, but an aristocratic bride could also bring more personal items of great value to the match. Her parents could generously launch her into marriage with a costly new wardrobe and jewels, plus furnishings for her private quarters.

This elaborate toilet service was likely made for a high-born English bride in the late 17th c. by master London silversmith William Fowle. The set is silver-gilt – silver plated with gold – richly engraved with Chinese-inspired designs, and includes a large looking-glass, candlesticks, boxes, caskets, salvers, a trimmer for candle-wicks, and a pin cushion. So lavish a set, with so many pieces, showed the bride was not only a lady of taste but of leisure as well, able to devote hours each day to herself and her appearance.

But silver pieces were not only for show. They were a tangible display of wealth, crafted from precious metal that could be easily liquidated in an emergency – which makes it especially noteworthy that this one has survived. A toilet service such as this would have been a valuable (and perhaps comforting) asset for any affluent bride.

Mary Evelyn (1665-1685) was the talented daughter of John Evelyn (1620-1706), a prominent scientist, writer, and courtier in 17th c. England (last seen on our blog promoting the consumption of salads here.) Mary's poem Mundus Muliebris, or The Woman's World was a satiric listing of all the things an extravagant young lady of fashion required before she could embark into "Marry-land." One section describes a toilet service much like this one:
   ...Implements,
   Of Toilet, Plate Gilt, and Emboss'd,
   And several other things of Cost:
   The Table Miroir, one Glue Pot,
   One for Pomatum, and what not?
   Of Washes, Unguents, and Cosmeticks,
   A pair of Silver Candlesticks;
   Snuffers, and Snuff-dish, Boxes more,
   For Powders, Patches, Waters store,
   In silver Flasks or Bottles, Cups
   Cover'd, or open to wash Chaps;
   Nor may Hungarian Queen's be wanting, 
   Nor store of Spirits against fainting:
   Of other waters rich, and sweet,
   To sprinkle Handkerchief is meet....

Here's the link to the entire poem, if you'd like to read all the expectations of a 17th c. Bridezilla, from chocolate pots and romances to a "Pompous Coach."

Above: Toilet Service by William Fowle, English (London), 1683-84, Metropolitan Museum of Art. Photography copyright 2011 Susan Holloway Scott.